by Linda Ihle
No. She shook her head and asked Angela, who was eying her curiously, for the bottle of TCP.
“Excuse me?” Angela looked puzzled.
“The little bottle with the yellow liquid in it,” Devin explained, a hint of impatience in her tone.
Angela pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to Devin who used some to clean the tiny scrape. “Why are you cleaning that cut on your hand and you’ve never tended to the sores on your feet?” she asked.
“I dunno,” Devin muttered. To her, TCP had always had virtually talismanic powers over the ills and wounds inflicted just by living. “Just because.” She sighed as she handed the bottle back to Angela. “Let’s cover up the drag marks and the blood and vomit. We have to get going.”
“Are we walking downriver?” Angela asked as she covered with sand and dirt the pools of blood and her own vomit, sweeping it back and forth across the drag marks.
“Ja.”
“What about the crocodile?” Angela queried.
“Just keep your eyes peeled, that’s all. By the way,” Devin remarked as she began to lead the way, “do you know how to use that thing?” She pointed to the AK-47, slung over Angela’s right shoulder.
“No, but I think I get the general idea. It’s gosh-darn heavy!”
“Ja, tell me about it. Hell, I used to carry my dad’s .458 for short periods, and I thought that was bad. Imagine hauling these bloody things around all day.”
“I thought all you Rhodesians knew how to handle a gun?” Angela remarked as she clambered over a boulder. “Even the girls.”
“I dunno about that,” Devin responded. “Some kids were probably taught how to handle an Uzi or some other kind of automatic weapon. You know, I’ve never even handled an FN, like our guys carry. My father was a hunter and he hated handguns. We never had any of those in the house, but always lots of rifles, different calibers, and shotguns. My birthday present when I was four years old was a .22 rifle with telescopic sights.” She laughed and shook her head, the day flooding back into subconscious sight as if it had been only yesterday. A skinny, sunburned little girl, wispy blonde hair tied back in too-tight pigtails, clad only in a pair of red shorts, walked down that granite-strewn path of memory. The turquoise Buick station wagon had rumbled loudly into its parking area under the mopani. A man had emerged. Of medium height, rangy, though, and sinewy, he was handsome with his piercing green eyes, and his black hair combed a la Dirk Bogarde, but always hidden beneath the ubiquitous bush hat. He carried with him a parcel wrapped in the brown paper sometimes used by Mr. Mullah the butcher, tied with string.
Devin had known immediately what it was. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!” Her father had bent and kissed her on the lips and she had mumbled a thank you. “Come inside and let’s open this.” He coaxed her into the cool of the house, across the red-polished cement floors covered with green coconut matting and cured animal hides. The house was redolent with the aroma of the evening meal – her favourite – mutton, and the lingering scent of the coconut cake her mother had baked and iced that afternoon. She sat on the big red chair by the radio whose eye of green light held her transfixed in the evenings as she and Helen listened to the thriller radio show – No Place to Hide. Now that dull green glow seemed to watch her, throwing some feeble illumination in the gloom of the room.
She carefully removed the string, untying each knot and rolling up the ball of string (could come in useful one day, one never knew), and removed the brown paper. Inside was a cheap card with a basket of flowers depicted on the cover and the words Happy Birthday! emblazoned there. Even at that age the incongruity of it all had struck her. She opened the card and read the verse, and what her father had written. She could not remember it now. She had then turned her attention to the rifle and in the next half hour learned how to load it, where the safety was, how to adjust the lens. She already knew how to tear down a rifle, clean it and reassemble it. Each one was done at least once a week and definitely after having been fired, then polished and put back in the cabinet.
“But, I wouldn’t use it to kill buck,” Devin continued as the memories flooded her head, “and that made him mad; disappointed, I s’pose. He took it with him hunting in Botswana without declaring it or licensing it or something. They took it away from him in Francistown and I suppose it’s still in the copshop there.” She shifted the AK-47 on her shoulder where the strap was digging into the sunburn. “When he went out on patrols with the fuzz at night, right at the beginning of the war, when the terrs were out throwing petrol bombs and grenades, and when he and my mother were still together, we all stayed in the big bed with her and she slept with his old .410 under the pillows.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have,” Angela asked.
“Two sisters and a brother,” Devin responded. “My brother will soon be the same age as the kids I used to teach. They made them go into the army right when they left high school, and they’re going to do the same thing to him.” She sighed and shook her head. “How about you?”
“I have a brother, but he and my folks had a falling-out and he left; went up to Georgia somewhere. We don’t hear from him.”
“That’s sad,” Devin commented, keeping her eye on the stream they were following and those last words of any meaning her mother had spoken to her came back to her…ashamed… embarrassment….trollop.
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Angela agreed.
They trudged on in silence through the sand and over shiny black pebbles, wading through scattered shallow, greenish ponds, eyes alert for crocodiles and snakes. The sides of the gorge loomed above them, sheltering them from the afternoon sun, throwing long shadows over the water. After about an hour they noted that the river seemed to be taking a distinctive curve westward, and Devin realized that they could end up walking in a long circle unless they extracted themselves from the gorge. She decided to rest for a few minutes, allow Angela to exchange the sock for a Tampax, and just generally get her bearings. She watched as Angela found a sheltered spot to take care of business, ensuring first that, this time, no-one was lurking in the shadows, before leaning back and lighting a cigarette.
Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment, then blew the smoke out with a deep sigh. Shading her eyes she gazed across at the far bank, noting the familiar slither spoor of the crocodiles. One was lying just north of her gaze, eyes closed, its chin resting flat on the sand in a small patch of sunlight. It was a good size adult, possibly about eight feet long and quite fat. Three smaller creatures lay nearby, basking in dappled sunlight. Devin scanned the surface of the water and saw no others, but she knew there would probably be more. Angela approached, carrying her emptied sock. “Can I wash it in the river?” she asked.
Devin shook her head. “It’s probably not a good idea,” she said, nodding toward the other bank. Angela looked in that direction and gasped. “Oh, dear God!” she whispered. “Can they see us?”
“I dunno,” Devin said with a shrug. “Anyway, let’s get about another hundred yards or so downstream and try washing it there. I think I can hear rapids, anyway, so they wouldn’t be too close to those, but there still might be hippo about, hey. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“OK,” Angela said with a quick nod. She followed Devin downstream, constantly glancing back over her shoulder at the crocodiles. As they walked, she began to hear what Devin had heard -- the rush of water over rocks. Ahead she could see where the water foamed and churned as it moved through a narrow section of the gorge, then apparently downward. They stopped at the rapids and Angela emptied the bloody sock, holding it under the cool water where it ballooned like a windsock. She lifted it out and rubbed it on a rock, then put it back into the river, and repeated the process. Finally, squeezing the water out of it, she shook it thoroughly, and hooked it into the waist band of her shorts. Devin offered her a cup of water and they shared some of the greasy rancid biltong while they decided the best way to get out of the gorge.
They scanned the cliffs on e
ither side and determined that the west one, unfortunately, looked the easiest to climb. That would mean crossing the rapids, though, and potentially getting stuck on the wrong side of the river and ultimately heading back the way they had come. They talked quietly as they walked slowly alongside the rapids, clambering carefully over water-slick black rocks, constantly looking over their shoulders and up the steep sides of the poort. Both were fully aware that the appearance of a lone soldier was an anomaly – what in fact had he been doing down there alone?
Hope he was AWOL, Devin thought. Hope no-one else is close enough that they would have heard the shots. Hope no-one is looking for him. Hope we never have to find out.
Her thoughts shifted briefly again to the strange guerilla who had known her name and left her with the loot – water, biltong, cigs. There had been only three of them. Maybe they moved about a lot on their own. I wonder if they get R&R like our guys do? And if they do, where do they go? “So many things are hidden from us by this damn government!” she muttered.
“What?” Angela asked, startled by the sudden outburst.
“Nothing. Just thinking aloud. I’m really concerned that we might run into more terrs,” she added. “It just seems so odd that he was alone. Did he say anything to you before he grabbed you?”
“No, I didn’t even see him and he was on me so fast…” She shuddered violently at the recollection.
They were walking now on slippery rocks and pebbles at the very edge of the shallow rapids. A black shelf of rock jutted out above them. On top of that, green and rust moss grew in a thick mat. Devin kept a sharp eye on her left side making sure they didn’t run up on a cave or niche that might harbor more perils. We need to get out of here, onto high ground, above the ground, now! They passed a deep cleft in the rocky wall, noting the abundance of cobwebs hanging in there, including the dusty tangled mess normally weaved by button spiders. High above them, a fish eagle circled lazily. Except for the water rushing over the rocks, the world was quiet and the stark light of midday was making way for the gentler afternoon gold.
The poort began to narrow even farther, leaving little room for negotiation between the water and the rocky sides. Both women looked up constantly seeking a way out, finding none. The remains of the river snaked to the left ahead and they slowed their pace even further, being unable to see around that bend, hoping that it would lead to an exit, hoping that no more danger lurked beyond the walls. Devin looked back at Angela and motioned for her to stay where she was and be quiet. She put the kerosene can and knife down and walked slowly and carefully over the slimy rocks to the bend. Even before she got there, she could hear voices.
Devin looked back at Angela and gestured for her to get down and keep quiet. Angela obeyed immediately. Devin crept forward as quietly as she could, stubbing her long-suffering right big toe on a hidden rock. Suppressing a curse, she spat on a grimy finger and applied it to the oozing sore there, before dropping silently to her knees and crawling toward the bend in the river. As she approached the area where she felt sure anyone to the immediate southwest would be able to see her, she fell to her belly and snaked her way there, as far as possible hugging the east wall of the poort. An algae-clad boulder half in the rushing water and half out on the sand jutted from the wall of the poort, impeding her progress and her view. She would have to either get into the water, bloody toe and all, and continue that way or just boldly clamber over the boulder. She did not want to get the rifle wet, or get blood in the water, so she opted for the high road, however, without the bold aspect of the maneuvre. She placed the rifle down in the sand close to her right hand, and slowly pulled her way, inch by inch, up until she could see over and beyond the boulder. Still she could see nothing of what was going on behind the bend. What if they’re heading this way? she thought with a shudder. Too late now. Shit!
She slid down, grabbed the rifle, and clambered quickly over the rock and into a shallow pool of cool water isolated from the rapids by the surrounding boulders. She looked about quickly to ensure she was alone in there then waded slowly out, toe stinging, and onto a narrow ledge of water-worn rock stretching along the bottom of the poort. As she crept along the ledge to the bend, the voices grew louder. She could now also hear laughter and a woman singing. Devin stopped, waiting motionless for the sound of a baby’s cry or the shouts of youngsters. Neither came. How odd! She again assumed a crawl, crept to the jutting rock parapet of the poort, and peered around.
A small group of women milled about on the rocky bank, collecting water in large white basins or in the ubiquitous kerosene cans. The singing woman was kneeling on a flat rock at the water’s edge, downstream of the water gatherers. She was dressed in a yellow doek, long, threadbare skirt, with a string of colorful beads around her neck swaying in synchronicity with her pendulous breasts as she vigorously scrubbed at the laundry, her cracked pink and brown bare heels turned up to the sun.
Devin tried to make out any words she might recognize in the song, but identified none. She turned her attention to the rest of the group. All were barefoot, dressed similarly, skirts, beads, doeks. They appeared ready to start making their way back to wherever they had come from. If they came from a keep then surely a soldier or two would be guarding them? Devin wondered. She did not have a clue how these things were supposed to work, only what the government had allowed to be printed in the newspapers and, knowing that government, that would involve a lot of self-serving half-truths, a smattering of bold untruths, and the usual innuendo of propaganda. On the other hand, maybe not all the kraals in the area had been emptied. She had no way of knowing. She gazed to the south and southwest, seeking any signs of men and found none.
She crept back a little of the way she had come, turned and looked back at Angela. She was crouched against the rock wall of the poort looking as if she wished she could melt into it. Devin gestured for her to approach and bring the knife too. Angela seemed not to understand at first until Devin pointed down to the sand then made the cut-throat sign across her neck. Angela picked up the weapon, slung the AK-47 over her shoulder, and proceeded forward, but hesitated. She had forgotten the kerosene can. As Angela went back for that, Devin noted that the singing had stopped. The chatter of the women seemed farther away. She beckoned for Angela to hurry up and the woman obliged, nearly falling into the rapids in her haste.
As soon as Angela was within whispering distance, Devin told her of the scene around the corner. “Now, I don’t know how they will respond to us. I think the terrs have a lot of sympathizers and whether they’re reluctant or not makes no difference at this stage,” she said.
“What do we do?” Angela asked. She was dying to look around the corner, not really sure that Devin should be as cautious. These are, after all, women! she thought.
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking we could maybe follow them. But, you know, when they shot down the Viscount Hunyani, the mu…uh…PV people wouldn’t let them in or even help the survivors.” She scrubbed roughly at her forehead as she pondered their dilemma. The thought of sleeping in a warm hut behind a big fence was very tempting, but there might not even be a PV there, just a small kraal. The people there might or might not be harboring terrorists. Finally, “Listen,” she said with a sigh, “when the lady washing her clothes is finished, we should see if we can get out of here and find our own shelter for the night. I am really scared about relying on those women or even asking them for help. Besides, they’re speaking a language I don’t know. Couldn’t make it out at all. Could be Bvatonka. Could be Shangaan. I dunno.”
Angela sighed too. “Are you sure we can’t trust them?” she asked.
“I don’t know, that’s the thing,” Devin responded. “Come, let’s take a look around the bend and see if they’re gone.”
Angela followed her to the jutting wall where the river took its southwest turn. They both crouched down and slowly, cautiously, peered at the area where Devin had observed the women. It was as if they had never been there. Now the only sounds w
ere of the birds and the water flowing over the rocks as it rushed toward where the women had been. The poort opened out into a broader area with lower sandier banks than they had most recently negotiated. The river appeared to zig-zag just beyond the flat laundry rocks, heading southwest again, and then due west into yet another narrow gorge. Just east of that turn, Devin could make out a footpath up the bank and into the thick bush. She touched Angela on the shoulder and pointed out the path. “I think that’s the way they went,” she whispered. “Let’s go toward that path and then head off like at an angle into the bush.” She twisted her left hand to the east. “Try to walk in their footprints in the sand until we can branch off. Move fast, hey.”
As the two scuttled like motley crabs across the heated sand toward the bank, a kill zone was under silent, scrupulous creation less than a mile to the southeast.
23.
The women mounted the crumbling river bank and stopped at Devin’s command on the stony path, crouching, surveying, listening for anything, everything. The splayed-toe, barefoot prints of the last woman passing this way were still clear in the islands of dirt among the stones. Immediately ahead of them, the path forked. The right-hand fork was broader, more heavily traversed; that to the left, the road less traveled. Devin gestured behind herself at Angela, instructing her to stay there, before venturing forward the 10 yards or so to the fork. Crazily, a song about someone taking the high road and someone else taking the low road wormed into her consciousness and a fleeting glimpse of her grandmother swayed through her memory. She shook her head and knelt to examine the path heading west. The footprints continued in that direction. She rose to her full height and as she did she heard the unmistakable sound of someone, probably a man, hawking a wad of phlegm into his throat and then spitting it out.