by Linda Ihle
Angela, having changed her sock, came skidding down the side and flopped down on the rock next to her, sending a tiny avalanche of sharp red rocks tumbling into gorge. She shaded her eyes and gazed up into the sky. “I thought I just heard planes,” she remarked.
“Uh, huh - fighter jets,” Devin murmured. “They must be on their way to hit something or on their way back from hitting something. Who knows.” She shrugged. “I hope they found those bastards who shot us down.” She broke the cherry-bright tip of burning ash from her cigarette, spat on it to kill the fire, clipped the end off with grimy fingernails, and stashed the stompie in the box. She was running out. Time to find a store. She grinned and shook her head.
“What’s the matter?” Angela asked, having watched this ritual, distaste pulling down the corners of her mouth.
“Did you ever smoke?” Devin asked her.
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t understand. Come on, let’s get down there and start following the spruit.”
“Spruit?”
“Yeah, that’s about all that’s left of the river. I guess you would call it a creek. Keats might’ve called it a rill.”
“Oh, you like Keats?” Angela asked.
“Uh, huh. Keats, Yeats, Eliot – my favourites.” She looked back at Angela. “You like Keats?”
“Oh, yes. My favourite poem is Ode on a Grecian Urn.”
“Mine is Ode to Autumn. But, because I love faeries, I am very fond of La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” She grinned and quoted:
‘I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
“And, that ‘pale kings and princes too…’ is so Dylanesque. I mean Bob Dylanesque. Do you like him?”
“Absolutely, the people’s troubadour!”
They beamed at each other, having finally discovered some common ground, as they continued their slow, cautious descent to the river bed, clinging to tree limbs and roots jutting from the rocks, slipping here and there, sliding part of the way, until they reached the bottom. Devin stopped once she reached the shaded sand and buried her aching toes in its cool comfort. She put her hand out to prevent Angela going any farther, and raised her finger to her lips. Angela obeyed immediately, but felt the hair rise on the back of her neck as she watched her companion survey the area, cocking her head to and fro like a dog, her eyes sweeping the vicinity. Devin noted everything within a fifty-yard radius -- the rocky bottom of the stream, the pace of the water moving across the rocks, the possible depth in the middle of the stream, and the banks. No telltale grooves in the sand. Good; no crocs. Well, at least, not here.
“Alright,” she said, finally, looking up at the sky above the top of the gorge, gauging time and direction. She pointed eastward. “Let’s follow the stream, see where it takes us. Now, here you have to be a bit more careful. If trees are hanging over the edge, check the branches before you walk under them. Keep a close eye on the water also for crocs, and....”
“Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus!” Angela squealed.
“What?”
“Look!” she cried, pointing back upstream, where she had been gazing as she had listened to the instructions. “What’s that?”
Devin saw it before she heard it come snorting, huffing and puffing out of an obviously deeper pocket of the stream, its grey-black hide shimmering like glass, followed by its silly porcine ears, then its massive snout. She froze, watching it surface, then looked behind and around it for these were not solitary creatures. Sure enough, it was followed in quick succession by at least three more of its relatives and/or friends. “Hippo,” she breathed, slowly reaching out and taking Angela’s arm, pulling her closer so she could speak quietly into her ear. “I need you to turn very slowly and follow me. No sudden movements; no noise. If they start coming out of the water, we need to get up the side of the gorge. They’re fast and they’re bloody cheeky. OK?”
“OK,” Angela whispered, nodding, her eyes wide.
Devin walked ahead, keeping a deliberate, slow pace, casting occasional glances over her shoulder at the small pod still wallowing in the water, snorting and playing. So far, so good. Once they had covered at least a hundred yards downstream, she stopped and turned. The hippo pool was barely visible at this distance and nothing appeared to be following them. She glanced around, checking for crocodile spoor and the usual hazards and, finding none, sat down on a sunwarm boulder and dipped her feet into the cold water throwing fear of bilharzia to the winds. Angela walked off to the privacy of a large rock just off the river bank to relieve herself and check her sock.
After a few minutes of lolly-gagging and relaxing, Devin called over her shoulder, “I’m gonna have a quick dip.” Angela did not respond. Devin stiffened, then rose casually, as if about to carry out her most recently voiced intent, slowly swinging the AK-47 off her left shoulder. She brought it into firing position, her right forefinger resting on the trigger, and swung around, jumping to the right off the slippery rock. Before her, in the shadow thrown by the rock walls, stood Angela, her shorts and filthy panties around her ankles, a newly filled sock dangling in her left hand. His arm around her throat, a knife at her side, a young black man leered maniacally over her shoulder. Devin noted the strap of the rifle slung over his right shoulder and the brand of weapon: This was no friend. His clothing was tattered camouflage, the worn trousers ballooning around his skinny shanks, tucked into scuffed boots. A khaki Castro-style cap covered part of his thick hair which appeared not to have been groomed in some time, allowing part of it to mat into embryonic, haphazard dreadlocks. She locked eyes with him, perceiving that his eyeballs were the color of the sunset and, therefore, trusting that he was at least a little stoned.
“What do you want?” she asked, deliberately using English, trying to keep her voice steady, the tone insolent, contemptuous, her eyes trained on Angela’s.
“What do you think I want?” he leered, his accent immediately confirming her original impression. He had been educated out of country.
“Why don’t you let her go? She’s an American. She’s sympathetic to your cause. If you kill her, you won’t be doing Joshua any good.” She maintained her gaze, avoiding eye contact with the guerilla.
“Pela msindo ufazi umukiwa![15]” he shouted. “His name is Mister Nkomo, umukiwa bitch!” Then, as if to himself, “Ufazi umukiwa inja![16]”
He turned his head to spit his disdain into the sand and Devin seized the opportunity. She flicked her head almost imperceptibly to the left. Angela nodded. She pulled swiftly away from the knife that had been pricking her ribs, and lunged to the side, catching this soldier of ill-fortune completely by surprise even as she tripped over the shorts around her ankles, and landed face first in the sand. Devin pulled the trigger and watched the bullets smack into his upper chest and throat. His hands flew up and he was thrown backward by the impact, coming to rest with a mighty thud against the toilet rock at the bottom of the cliff. Devin didn’t give him a chance to get up. She ran and snatched the knife up off the sand and squatted behind him. Almost tenderly, she raised his chin by pulling up on his hair (the cap had gone flying) and slit his throat.
Angela now up on hands and knees, vomited into the sand, and fainted, falling face first into the mess.
The hot blood sprayed out of his arteries, quickly drenching his pants and blouse, and she could smell that his sphincter had given up the ghost. She gagged, but forced the bile back into her throat. Rolling him onto his side, she pulled the rifle off his shoulder and checked the clip. It seemed to have about as many rounds as she had left in hers. She leaned the weapon against the rock, rolled him all the way over, and began to search his pockets. This comrade was a packrat! In the small pocket down by his left calf she found a miniature English version of Marx’s Communist Manifesto, accompanied by a tiny English-Portuguese dictionary. The pocket on his right calf held three or four, dried, ill-p
reserved, purplish-black pinkie fingers, obviously trophies of kills. She grimaced, tossed them into the stream and wiped her hands on her panties.
Moving up to the bigger pockets she found a stick of beef biltong rolled in waxpaper, along with a 10-pack of Rothman’s cigarettes, unopened. Shit, I hit the mother lode! she thought as she relieved him of the cigarettes, stuffing them under her left bra strap. In his upper right pocket she found three, wrapped Tampax tampons, a small plastic bottle containing a yellowish liquid, a small bottle of ice-blue methylated spirits, and a tightly-rolled cotton bandage. She opened the bottle of yellow liquid and sniffed it: TCP, an antiseptic. She took that, the tampons, meths, and the bandage, then moved on up to the big thigh-side pockets. The right one held a full clip of ammunition and a wallet. She took those out and set them aside on a flat, mossy rock. The left pocket appeared empty, but digging deeper she uncovered something twisted in a piece of newspaper. She spread the paper open and found that it contained a dry, greenish substance, apparently a crushed or dried plant, pocked here and there with red and gold. She sniffed it. Ah, yes, dagga. She relieved him of that, putting it down next to the ammo clip and wallet, before going on to check the pockets in his blouse, grimacing as her fingers contacted the sticky gore which had soaked into the material.
The blouse pockets held little if anything worth keeping, so she rose and stretched her aching hamstrings, then bent and began to drag the body back behind the toilet rock. I wonder if I should take his clothes? No, they’re all bloody and the pants have kak in them now. No thanks. And the boots are way too big-they’ll give me blisters. It took her a good five minutes to stow him back there, out of sight. That done, she walked over to the river and washed the blood and filth from her hands. Squatting there, she noted a swift, grey-black flash of movement upstream and turned her full attention to that. A rolling ripple in the water there attested to the fact that a crocodile had just entered the water. Sure enough, within seconds she could see its forehead and eyes protruding above the water as it swam downstream. Devin filled her cupped hands with the cool water and splashed Angela’s face. “C’mon, wake up,” she hissed, as Angela’s eyes opened and she peered blankly up at Devin. “Get up. We have company,” Devin urged. Angela’s eyes widened as she pulled herself to a sitting position. “Are there more of them?” she asked, looking as if she was about to scream. “Shhh, no,” said Devin. “We have a croc heading this way and you need to wash this puke off yourself. We have to get going, man!”
“OK, OK, I’m up!” Angela exclaimed jumping to her feet and heading quickly to the water. She knelt there and was about to dip her hands into the water, when she turned and asked, “Where is it?”
“About 50 yards upstream,” Devin said pointing to the area. “Hurry up.”
Angela nodded and, while Devin kept an eye on the croc, she washed her face hurriedly, then dipped her whole head into the water, holding her nose, but opening her eyes. The sandy bottom was clearly visible less than two feet from the surface, the ripples of the water reflected in green swirls at the periphery of her vision. She popped her head out of the water, gasping and spitting, and ran her hand over her hair where the droplets glistened like diamonds. Devin took her hand and pulled her away from the shoreline. Angela, startled, looked back upriver. The crocodile was no longer in the water. It had climbed out and now strut-waddled unerringly toward them, its massive snout held high, testing the breeze. Devin shivered as she watched it pull its 10-foot-long, armored body across the sand and rocks. She pulled Angela up the rock where the soldier had hidden. “Grab that branch there,” she told her, “and pull yourself up into the tree.” Angela did as she was told, and Devin quickly followed her up.
Both women watched in silence as the creature approached. It stopped briefly where the man’s blood had soaked into the sand, then turned slowly and followed the path where Devin had dragged the body, disappearing behind the huge boulder. Looking down, neither woman could see the proceedings, their vision blocked by the lower foliage of the tree and the slope of the bank. Within minutes, the crocodile reappeared, dragging with it the still-bleeding corpse of the guerrilla. Its jaws clamped around the upper shoulder area of the corpse, the crocodile halted as one of the boots caught on a jutting piece of rock. Turning and tugging almost effortlessly, the creature managed to overcome the hurdle, and continue its trek back to the water. The head of the corpse lolled obscenely above the gaping slice in the throat, bouncing undignified over rock and pebble. As the crocodile dragged the body the last few feet and into the water, both Devin and Angela heard the horrifying sound of the skin splitting and tearing as the head snagged on a rock. The crocodile, oblivious to all but its impending meal, gave the body a good yank, and the head bounced over the rock and into the river, followed by the remains. Holding the corpse trophy-like in its mouth, the crocodile swam swiftly back upstream, rounded a curve and disappeared.
“It probably has a den somewhere down there,” Devin muttered. “It’ll stash the body in there until it rots, then eat it. Oooh, god, they’re so disgusting!” She shuddered.
“Devin,” Angela whispered, “where did that soldier come from? Why was he alone?”
“I have no idea,” Devin said with a shrug, feigning indifference. “Maybe that wallet down there will give us some answers. Oh, and I now have a rifle for you and a surprise, and some other stuff to carry in your pockets, and we have a knife.” Her eyes glittered with excitement. “Come, let’s have a look at that wallet, then we have to get moving before it gets dark.”
They climbed down onto the rock and slid down it to the sand below. Devin handed Angela the AK-47 and had her pocket the extra clip, the bandage, the Tampax, methylated spirits, and the TCP, along with the biltong. While Angela gaped at the Tampax as if it were manna from heaven, Devin buried the small books in the sand, along with the empty shell casings, before picking up the wallet and opening it. “Oh, well,” she said, “guess what? This arsehole likes to murder old German men and rape their wives.” She showed the picture identification inside the wallet to Angela, who paled. “Yes,” she whispered, “that’s him.” Devin searched further in the wallet finding only old photos of women and children, two R$2.00 bills, a R$20.00 bill and three fives. The rest of the currency was German. She handed the wallet to Angela. “Keep that too,” she said. “We might need the money.”
Why is he here? she asked herself. How did he get here ahead of us? Have we been walking in circles?
“Devin, why would this man have been carrying tampons?” Angela asked.
“They use them for bullet wounds, I think. I heard our guys do, anyway. I s’pose that’s why he had them. Here,” she added, handing Angela the bag of marijuana, “put that in your pocket too. I’ll carry the knife. Hell, if he hadn’t shat his pants and bled all over his goddamn shirt, I would’ve had some clothes to wear.”
Angela reached hesitantly for the bag of pot, then blurted, “Don’t you feel the least bit bad?”
“About what? Killing that bastard?”
“Uh huh.” She shrank back as she said it as if expecting a similar fate.
“No. Would you prefer I sat down and had a smoke while he raped you then cut your throat?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I thank you for saving me. I guess...I don’t know....I’m just not used to this constant threat of death. It’s just horrifying, is all.”
“Ja, well, that’s the way it goes, hey. Like I said, war is hell. C’mon now, let’s find some food and a place to sleep tonight.” It’ll hit me later, Devin thought. “Will you wear his cap?” Angela stared at her. “You need to keep the sun off the top of your head,” Devin persisted, pointing to the cap lying in the shade of the toilet boulder.
“Um, no, I don’t think I want to put that on,” Angela demurred, shaking her head for emphasis.
“Well then, we need to get rid of it,” Devin said. She picked it up gingerly by tips of thumb and forefinger and looked around for somewhere to dispose of it. Fi
nding nothing of any obvious use, she went back behind the rock where she had stashed the man she had just killed. The drag marks were still clearly visible in the sand, along with the blood. Between the back of the rock and the gorge wall was an area of sand and pebbles. Just above her sight line, in the rock rampart, was a small dirt and rocky niche, home to a messy, dusty spider web and the sucked-dry carcasses of the spider’s prey. Devin peered at it for a few seconds to see if anything moved in there. It appeared to be a button spider’s nest so she moved very slowly and cautiously, then shoved the cap into the niche and snatched her hand away. A small ooze of blood rose and trickled on a knuckle of her right hand. “Agh, no!” she whimpered. She trotted out of the twilight behind the rock and into the sun to get a better view of wound. It appeared to be just a scrape from the edge of the rock surrounding the spider’s den, but still she debated as to whether or not she should suck at it.