The Death of the Mantis (8 page)

“That’s nonsense!” Lerako growled. “Rubbish!”

Khumanego ignored him.

“When a kudu dies after we have hunted it, we feel its pain, and
at the same time it knows it is providing for us. We have a shared
purpose. We never hunt for more than we can eat, because if we did,
we would be robbing the animal we had killed. Stealing its destiny.
The world would get out of balance. Bad things would happen.

“When we stop in the desert, we never eat all the food that is
available. Or drink all the water. We always leave some for those
who come after. We would rather take hunger and thirst with us than
leave it behind.

“We are all part of the same world. All connected. That is why
the men you have arrested did not kill the man who died. Bushmen
don’t kill other men. If they did, they would be killing
themselves.”

Lerako shook his head, but said nothing.

The Land Rover continued to bump and slide, and Kubu and Lerako
continued to sweat. The heat didn’t seem to affect Khumanego. They
drove in silence.

♦

They trudged to the edge of the
donga
where Monzo had
been found. Lerako pointed down. “That’s where the body was. And
the rock used to kill him was further up the
donga
. Up
there.” He waved towards the spot where he had found the
calcrete.

“Let’s take a look,” Kubu said, spotting a less precipitous way
into the
donga
. That was probably the route they’d used to
carry Monzo back to the vehicles. He clambered down and stopped
where Monzo had been found. He could have fallen, Kubu thought, or
been pushed.

There were footprints everywhere, mostly from heavy boots, but
occasionally of small bare feet. Kubu wondered if the Bushmen’s
feet had adapted over the years so that as little flesh as possible
touched the scorching sand. They had extraordinarily small hands as
well, he thought. Where did that come from?

He walked with Lerako to where the murder weapon had been found.
No footprints continued up the river bed.

“There were no footprints here before I walked up,” Lerako said,
reading Kubu’s mind.

Kubu could see why Lerako suspected the Bushmen. There was no
evidence to implicate anyone else. But what was their motive? It
didn’t make sense. He looked around for Khumanego, but he was still
standing at the top of the
donga
, watching Kubu and
Lerako.

“Okay,” Kubu said to Lerako. “Let’s go and talk to your
suspects’ friends.”

♦

“How did you find them?” Kubu gasped as the Land Rover slid down
a sandy slope into a dry river bed. Lerako gunned the engine to
maintain forward momentum. To stop would mean sinking into the
sand, and even though a winch was mounted on the front, there were
no trees to which a cable could be attached. We shouldn’t be here
alone, Kubu thought. We should have a second vehicle. That’s basic
survival procedure. On the other hand, Lerako must have made it
before, judging by the tyre tracks they were following.

“We have a Bushman tracker working for us,” Lerako said when he
had a moment.

Although they were moving slowly, avoiding rocks and holes, the
engine raced with the gears in low range. Kubu glanced at the
temperature gauge. The needle was moving towards the red. Even with
all the windows open, the heat from the engine was beginning to
overpower even the stifling heat from outside. Sweat poured off the
two black men. Khumanego wasn’t sweating, but even he looked
uncomfortable.

“For us, the desert is like a city is to you,” Khumanego said
suddenly. “I can tell a friend where to meet me in the middle of
this wilderness, and he’ll know how to get there. We have a name
for every feature that you see. This river bed has a name. That
bend in the river has a name. That unusual rock on the bank has a
name. They are all addresses to us.”

The Land Rover suddenly rocked violently from side to side. The
right front wheel had climbed a small boulder.

“Shit!” Lerako wrestled with the steering as the wheels jerked
to the right. Then there was a loud bang as the wheel descended,
dropping the chassis on to the rock.

“Go, you bitch!” He swung to the left, hoping he had enough
speed to get off the rock. Another screeching sound as the Land
Rover slid off and veered left. In the passenger seat, Kubu was
clinging for dear life to whatever was handy. My God, he thought.
No wonder the Bushmen walk through the desert.

The tracks turned towards what appeared to be a sheer wall of
sand. Lerako wrestled the wheel and shifted into the lowest gear.
Miraculously, the Land Rover climbed the steep slope and popped
back on to a flat area again.

A few minutes later, Lerako stopped the vehicle on a piece of
hard ground near some trees. He and Kubu opened their doors and
staggered out, exhausted from the trip. Khumanego seemed unfazed.
They walked to the edge of the trees. Kubu looked around. Surely
this was the wrong place? There was nothing here. No huts, no signs
of life, no people.

“You still can’t see, can you, David?” Khumanego exclaimed. “I
thought you’d learnt all those years ago when I taught you about
the desert.” He shook his head. “You think nobody is here, that
we’re in the wrong place, don’t you?”

Kubu nodded.

“Open your eyes, black man! See that clump of grass over there?
Look carefully. See the
scherm
, the little grass hut? And
there’s another one a bit to the left.” Kubu stared, and eventually
saw what Khumanego was pointing at. It wasn’t a hut in any
traditional sense. A few reeds were bent to form an arch. Below
them the sand had been shaped to form a small depression. “That’s
where they sleep.”

“What’s that?” Lerako pointed towards a tree where two sticks
were stuck in the ground on either side of another small
depression.

“One of the group has marked his area. That’s where he sleeps.
The others will respect that space and not walk over it.”

“Where are they?” Kubu asked.

Khumanego shouted – a series of clicks and other sounds foreign
to Kubu’s ears. Their language is so difficult, he thought. I’ve
forgotten everything he taught me. As if by magic, seven figures
emerged from the reeds and huddled together thirty or forty metres
away. Two men, one very old, three women and two children.

“Where are the rest?” Kubu asked.

“This is everyone except for the three in Tsabong.” Khumanego
said. “The desert can’t sustain big groups.” He walked over to the
group and squatted on his haunches. The others did likewise. They
talked for about ten minutes, sometimes all the adults at once.
Eventually Khumanego returned.

“They are very upset. They don’t know what has happened to the
men. Don’t know if they are dead, or if they have been stolen to
watch cattle on a farm.” He glared at Lerako. “It’s been very
difficult for them to find enough food with only one hunter.”

He walked to the Land Rover and pulled out a plastic bag he’d
brought from Tsabong. He opened it and pulled out dried fruit,
biltong
and a large plastic bottle of water.

“They are very hungry. The men you have in Tsabong are the main
hunters. These people haven’t eaten meat since you arrested
them.”

Khumanego handed them the provisions. The younger man carefully
divided the fruit and meat into portions of different sizes and
handed them out, keeping the largest for himself. The smallest
portion went to the old man. Kubu wondered how the division worked,
but everyone seemed satisfied with their share. The man opened the
bottle, took a long drink and passed it to the old man, who sipped
sparingly. Then the women took the bottle, and finally the
children. Kubu noticed that more than half of the water was left
after all had drunk. The future was always in mind.

“Please ask them if they have had any problems with the rangers
from the park.”

After a brief consultation, Khumanego reported that Monzo often
used to come and shout at them. He would point to the north and
tell them to leave. They couldn’t hunt in this area, so they should
go elsewhere. But he had never harmed any of them.

“The last time that happened was when the sun last chased the
moon away. That’s new moon to you. About three weeks ago. That’s
about two weeks before he died.” He paused and turned to Kubu.
“They want to ask you a question.” Kubu nodded. “They want to know
why you are holding their brothers and not looking for the man with
big feet.”

“The man with big feet? Who’s that?” Kubu was perplexed.

“The man who left his mark near where Monzo was found.”

“They’ve found some footprints? Why didn’t they tell us?”

“They found them yesterday. And how would they tell you?”

Kubu turned to a frowning Lerako.

“Did you check the whole area around where Monzo was found?”

“We looked at the top of the
donga
and up and down the
river bed for about a hundred metres. If someone other than the
Bushmen was close to Monzo, he would have had to be flying,” Lerako
said defensively.

“Where are these footprints, Khumanego?”

“I am not sure. I’ve not seen them. They say they are on the
ridge above the river bed.”

“Please ask if one of them will show us where they are.”

Khumanego took the younger man aside, and a long exchange
followed, with gestures and discussion. Lerako fumed, and Kubu
wondered why his simple request was taking so long to resolve. At
last Khumanego returned.

“Ihey will describe to me exactly where to go. But they want you
to release their brothers.”

Kubu turned to Lerako. “I don’t think the men you are holding
murdered Monzo. Do you still think they did it?”

Lerako nodded. “Yes. I do. There’s no indication that anyone
else was nearby. My intuition tells me they’re guilty, and I’m
usually right. Let’s go and see these so-called footprints.”

“If the prints are real, will you release them when you
return?”

“Maybe.” Kubu heard the reluctance in his voice. “But I doubt
some footprints by themselves will change my mind. There’ll have to
be something else.”

Kubu put his hand on Khumanego’s shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll
release the men as soon as we get back to Tsabong. We’ll drop them
off as close to here as possible.”

Lerako glared at him but said nothing.

“Thank you,” Khumanego murmured. “Before we leave, the old man
wants to pay his respects.”

Lerako shook his head. “I’m not going to waste any more time.”
But Kubu was intrigued.

“What’s his name?”

“He is Gobiwasi. He remembers you. You were two weeks’ walk from
here, three years ago, looking for a big bird. He means an
aeroplane. What was that about?”

Kubu recalled meeting Gobiwasi and his group in the desert near
Maboane.

“He helped me solve a difficult case. Provided some very useful
information. Please apologise that I don’t have a gift for
him.”

Khumanego translated, and then turned back to Kubu.

“He trusts you. He wonders why you think his sons would kill a
man.”

“Tell him that we saw no other footprints near the body, so we
wondered who else could be responsible. Tell him also that we now
don’t think they killed anybody.”

Gobiwasi spoke at length at Kubu, ending his speech with a burst
of laughter and a wide smile of toothless gums.

Kubu looked at Khumanego quizzically.

“He says he respects you. He says you have always been fair to
his people. He also says you have the mind of a Bushman, but not
the body!”

Kubu laughed and turned to Gobiwasi, one hand over his
heart.

“I will think of myself as an honorary Bushman.”

Gobiwasi struggled to his feet and held out his hand to Kubu. He
spoke again, quietly.

“He says you will not meet again. He is old and getting ready to
move on – to meet his ancestors.”

Kubu bowed his head. “Tell him that he looks well, not sick, and
should live for many more years.”

Khumanego passed on the message.

“He says he is now a burden on his family because he cannot
hunt. He is an extra mouth they cannot afford to feed. It is time
to leave.” He walked over to Gobiwasi and gently took him by the
elbow. “Please give me a few minutes alone with him.” Without
waiting, he led the old man away.

Kubu shook his head and wondered whether he would ever
understand these little people. Lerako looked as if he were about
to explode.

♦

Khumanego and the old man squatted under a tree with few leaves.
Khumanego addressed him respectfully in the IGwi dialect.

“Gobiwasi, old man. You are wise. You have seen many things. I
fear for the future. For our people.”

Gobiwasi nodded sadly. “It may be so.”

“I can talk for only a short time. So I must be direct. I wish
to talk of The Place.”

Gobiwasi looked at him at length with rheumy eyes. “What is this
place?”

“Please, old man. I need to talk about The Place. I am sure that
you know about it. I have questions that I must ask.”

Gobiwasi rocked backwards and forwards and closed his eyes.

“It was soon after I killed for the first time,” he whispered.
Khumanego had to lean forward to hear. “I shot a springbok and ran
after it for many hours, waiting for the poison to work. My father
followed me. I remember that the animal smiled as I pushed my spear
into its heart. My father watched and said I had become a man.”

Gobiwasi paused for a long while, dragging memories from deep
within.

“We skinned the animal and cut it into pieces. When we had
finished, my father took hold of my right hand. He told me he had a
great honour to give me. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He told me of a place near where the sun sets; a hill where the
spirits live. The spirits who guide our lives, who look after our
people, who provide food and water for us. He said they are the
spirits who rule the world, who control our destiny. It is they who
judge each of our lives, whether we have lived well or not. He said
that this place is known only to a few.”