The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (21 page)

Their first stop was Rubondo Island. The minute the ferry dropped anchor, dozens of dugout canoes with furled lateen sails rafted up. One Luo fisherman tried to peddle a Nile perch; the fish was longer than a man. A spindly native tried to sell them a dead monkey. When he became too persistent, Johnston yelled at him. Reassured by the distance between them, the old man swung the monkey over his head and cursed him.

Lynn Allison turned to Seth Johnston. “Is this what they mean when they talk about bush meat?”

“Bush meat includes everything from porcupines to chimpanzees— anything that runs or crawls. In the Congo basin it might include an occasional Pigmy, albeit a slow one.” Seth's laughter was met with unbelieving stares. His answer was an obvious shot fired across Jesse's bow.

“Tell me he's kidding.” Jesse's expression revealed discomfort at being ancestrally linked to cannibals.

“Let's have another drink before dinner,” Johnston suggested.

“I think I'll pass on dinner,” said Jesse.

“Me too,” the two women added in unison.

“Seriously Rigby,” said Jesse, “do you think it's safe to eat? Whatever they're cooking smells terrible.”

“Why would you ask such a question? Of course it's not safe to eat. No telling what, or rather who, these buggers are cooking. Dutchy, would you eat this shit?”

“I'd rather make love to one of those hippos.” Dutchy pointed at some hippos waddling down the bank.

“Spooner, I told you everything on this bloody continent was trying to kill you. I can't have one of you down with dysentery. If it all goes well, you can enjoy the cuisine on our return trip. There's no quarantine on Captain Johnston's booze. Cheers.”

***

Two days later, they drove up the ramp and onto the Entebbe wharf.

It was a short ride from Entebbe to Kampala. The road follows the papyrus-lined lakeshore. Bahima boys herded Ankola cows onto the road's shoulder, giving them room to pass.

Under colonial rule, Kampala was a clean and tidy city, but now it gave off the citified stink of automobile flatulence and human waste. Snowy-white cattle egrets in the city's botanical gardens were replaced by dirty-faced Marabou storks feeding on the uncollected garbage. Without stop signs and streetlights, the downtown traffic was woven as tightly as Irish linen. The noise was intolerable: A deafening blend of horn blowers and whining motorbikes.

By prior arrangement, Connelly and Laycock met Rigby at the Blue Mango restaurant in the center of the city. The parking lot was fenced in by a concrete wall topped in razor wire. The lone Land Cruiser sitting under a mango tree was too new not to be owned by a foreign government official. The two Brits were waiting at the outside bar. After introductions, Jesse and Rigby followed them to a table next to the swimming pool.

“I was wondering, didn't I see mosques on the drive in?” Jesse asked.

“Fifty percent of the population in Uganda is Muslim. It's about the same for the rest of central Africa. The number of converts is growing by leaps and bounds. In the old days, the Arabs were strict followers of the Quran. That is to say, no Muslim shall hold another Muslim in slavery. Africans became Muslims as a protection against ending up on a slave ship headed to the New World.”

Laycock's answer was a little too matteroffactly to suit Jesse. “I'm glad that part of history's behind us,” said Jesse.

“Slavery's a big business in this part of Africa. Women from Somalia and Chad are purchased for Arab concubines everyday.” An unnecessary smile sneaked into Laycock's expression. “Don't blame the Arabs. This is Africans selling Africans,” Laycock added.

“Gentlemen,” said Rigby, “I'm afraid we'll need to resume the African history lesson another time. Now, what can you tell me about my chances of getting in and out of the Sudan?”

“I'd say your odds are pretty good. You did survive Johnston's ferry. Did he tell you about the accident?”

“What accident?”

“Captain Johnston's last ferry was the
Bokoba
. Ring a bell?”

He thought for a moment and then replied. “The
Bokoba
sank six years ago. Eight hundred passengers drowned.”

“That's the one. If Johnston hadn't lost his wife, he'd be up on charges. Poor bugger.”

Rigby listened to the Englishman without really hearing him. In his mind, he was checking and rechecking the logistics of the rescue. The satellite telephone was essential, as was the global positioning device he would carry. When and if he found Arthur Turner, he would call in the aircraft and have Turner flown out of the country. If things got too dicey, he could get on the same plane himself. The airplane was his ace in the hole. The weak link was his age: At fifty, Rigby knew he was a step slower. One mistake, one failure to see something coming, could put the rescue at risk. The meeting ended with the usual best wishes, but Rigby sensed Connelly and Laycock were happy he was leaving Uganda.

***

The next day, they drove down a winding dirt road to the Masindi airfield. A Cessna 185 stood ready at the end of the grass runway. The pilot and two Africans waited in the shade under a wing.

“I don't know if you remember me,” the pilot said, offering his hand. “I'm Otto Bern. I flew you into Mozambique during the Rhodesian War.”

“Good God, Otto. It's been a long time. That operation into Moz was a pisser. Somebody on the inside gave us up. The ambush was a nightmare.”

“I remember you lost a good mate. I believe his name was Willie something?”

“Willie van Piet.”

“The other Selous Scout was black. Whatever became of him?”

“He was killed by a lion in Mozambique.”

“Poor bugger. I guess we'll all be dead soon enough.”

“I'd like my death to be from natural causes.” Changing the subject, Rigby turned his attention to the task at hand. “I'll need you standing by ready to take off at a moment's notice. Getting in there as fast as possible for the extraction is important. I hope we're both on the same page.”

“We're most definitely on the same page. Mr. Turner's paying me to stand by for as long as this takes.” Otto stroked his airplane's propeller like it was a woman. “Look, Croxford, this plane's everything I own. I can't afford to have it blown out from under me. I'd like to keep the shooting to a minimum.”

“No shooting? My God, we're fussy! Why, Otto, I think you've become a nervous Nelly in your old age.”

“You're damn right, I'm nervous. Not too many of us old bush pilots left in this part of Africa.”

Otto motioned for them to climb onboard and spoke to the group. “Folks, I believe my boys have got your kit loaded. If you'll kindly climb onboard, I'll have you at your hunting camp in two hours.”

“Otto, are you serving tea or coffee?” asked Rigby, grinning.

“I've got water, just in case we… No need to go there.” Bern had difficulty bending his prosthetic leg as he climbed into the pilot's seat. “Wish another part of my anatomy was as stiff as my buggered leg,” he whispered to Rigby.

“Say, how
did
you lose the wheel?” Rigby asked.

“Stepped on a landmine at the end of the war. Bloody wogs. Better fasten your seatbelts.”

T
he children of the Sudan found themselves between a hammer and an anvil. The hammer was the Janjaweed who wanted to exterminate them. The anvil was the Sudanese People's Liberation Army who wanted to use them as cannon fodder.

It was a miracle that Abel Deng wasn't killed by the Arabs during the attack on the refugee camp. Shortly after his capture he managed to slip away. After wandering in the desert, he sought the help of a band of Murle tribesmen. The Murle traded him to the SPLA for four sacks of corn meal.

***

Abel tried to roll over, but the shackles on his ankles prevented him from moving. He used his body as a windbreak to block the cold wind from the young Nuer girl lying next to him. The girl had been taken by a soldier into the bushes that night. When the man returned the girl, she was crying. He came for her every night. There was nothing Abel could do to stop him. When her sobbing subsided, he rolled over and pulled the girl next to him. She placed her hand on top of his.

Even though Deng was only fourteen, his medical training made him invaluable. He had dreamed about killing the man who raped the young girl sleeping next to him. He prayed the man would come to him for medical attention.

Abel woke up to the sound of a bellowing camel. A soldier rousted the children with kicks. The young girls, having fulfilled their nightly duties, were in charge of the cooking. The boys gathered up camel dung to fuel the campfires. Deng was charged with redressing the bandages of a wounded soldier. Ashe was cleaning the soldier's wound, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. It was their self-appointed leader, Captain Bol. “Medic, come with me. My brother's ill. His groaning is robbing me of my sleep.”

They walked up behind a man straining to urinate. When the man turned around Abel was stunned. He was the rapist. “This medic will help you,” Bol said to his brother. Abel instructed the man to peel back his foreskin and milk it. A yellow bead of pus appeared.

“The sickness can be easily cured. You need one injection now and one more tonight. By tomorrow, the symptoms will have vanished.” Deng proceeded to pump a syringe of worthless saline solution into the man's buttocks.

“The Nuer whore who gave me this will die a slow death.” He gasped from the needle prick.

“I doubt you contracted the sickness from a Nuer girl. Maybe you caught the disease in one of the brothels in Khartoum.” The man hit Abel with the back of his hand; it knocked him to the ground. He got to his feet, but fell from the dizziness. “Do you want me to come back?” Abel asked, feeling the side of his face.

“If you don't come back, I'll kill you.” Abel turned away. “As you wish,” Abel said. That evening Abel watched the Nuer girl carry some pots down to the waterhole. He kept the tethered camels between him and the soldier on guard-duty. He knelt next to the girl washing the pots and scooped up a handful of water.

“Listen carefully and don't look up,” he whispered, hiding his mouth with his hat. “Tonight we run. The soldier has given you a sickness. I'm going to give you the cure by injection. You cannot cry out. Do you understand me?”

“When the soldier comes for me and learns we've runaway, he'll hunt us down. You go. Let me keep him occupied.”

“We go together. I'm treating the soldier for the disease he's given you. I will inject him with a poison. He'll never use you again.”

“My life's over. The soldier has soiled me. Give me the same poison.” “Such childish talk. Who will cook for me and wash my clothes?”

“We have no food, and you're wearing rags.”

“Woman, if you don't stop talking I promise you'll have your wish. Ready yourself, the needle will sting.”

***

Abel found the soldier lying on the ground with his head resting on his saddle. He had a dirty rag draped over his face.

“You,” he hissed, looking up. “Your cure is worthless. I've never felt such pain. I'm thirsty, but I'm afraid to drink. Passing water will kill me.”

“I've only given you half of the cure. This will bring you relief,” he said, holding up the syringe to clear it of bubbles.

“If I'm not cured by tomorrow, I'll slit you open like a ripe pumpkin.”

“You must lie still. Let the drug work through your veins. I'll come back in one hour.”

One hour later, Abel checked on the soldier. When he removed the rag from the man's face, he was surprised to find him still breathing. The man couldn't move. He stared at Abel. His mouth was locked open. A steady stream of saliva ran down his chin.

“The Nuer girl you violated wanted me to give you this,” he whispered, sticking a camel turd in the man's mouth. Abel covered the soldier's face with his hat, stood up and walked away.

***

Under the cover of darkness, they slipped into the shadows and disappeared into the night. Their pace was deliberate and steady throughout the night. Abel was surprised by the girl's stamina. She would not accept water, and when he asked her if she needed to rest, she refused. They arrived at the edge of the Kangen Marshes just as the first light of dawn peeked over the Sudd.

Abel's heart slammed against his ribs. A thin wisp of dust rose skyward on the horizon. By now, Captain Bol would have discovered his brother's body. Abel imagined the soldiers trotting beside the captain's camel following their spoor. There was only one way to lose their pursuers. They would have to use the swamp to hide their tracks.

“Woman, if we are to die together, I'd like to know your name.”

“My name's Tabitha. Abel, can you swim?”

“Of course I can't swim. The Dinka are cattle herders, not lowly fishermen like your Nuer tribe.”

“I'm told the Dinka burn cattle dung and mix it with urine to make tooth powder,” she said, holding her nose.

“What you say is true. We use the same mixture to drive insects away. Tonight you'll wish we had some of that powder. That's if we're alive tonight.”

“The Dinka have strange customs,” she said, wading into the water. “Hold on to me and don't thrash about. If we don't move, the crocodiles will leave us alone.”

Abel studied Tabitha from behind. She was in the full bloom of puberty. Her breasts were hard and proud and showed no evidence of sagging. Her silky brown skin beaded water like beeswax. Her ribs showed, but her buttocks were round and plump. Decorative patterns of ritual scarring adorned her back.

Instead of drifting with the current Tabitha forged against it. The channel they crossed was shallow, giving her good footing on the sandy bottom. Abel held onto her shoulders, letting his body float as the current pushed his legs out from underneath him. Without warning, he felt her body sink as the water deepened. He let his hands slide down her back until they hooked in the leather band of her apron. His concern turned into panic, but he fought off the impulse to grab her. A minute later, she regained her footing. She parted the papyrus reeds and pushed him into some bulrushes.

“The soldiers will be here in a few minutes. You need to practice what I'm about to show you.” She laid her head back until just her nostrils were exposed above the water. When Abel laid his head back, his nose filled with water. He came up sputtering.

“Try again.” This time, she supported the back of his neck. The third time, he was able to stay under until she pulled him to the surface.

“Stay here. I will confuse them with a false spoor.” She ran back and placed her footprints on the bank. She returned as the soldiers appeared on the crest of the bank. She locked her legs around the reeds, gathered a clump of water hyacinthine and gently pulled him under.

Abel felt her glossy skin brush against him. Her powerful yet gentle arms held him like his mother used to cradle him. At that moment, he knew Tabitha was destined to be a part of his life forever. He felt a strange calmness.

Captain Bol was so piqued by the time he reached the marsh he was unable to control his rage. When his trackers seemed confused by the spoor, he fired a warning shot at one of his men. They stopped to water the camels, but abruptly raced away. One of the trackers had found Tabitha's footprint and was fooled into thinking they were headed downstream.

She raised her head until her eyes were above the water. When she was sure it was safe, she helped Abel to the surface. He pulled her shivering body against his. For a split second, they were spellbound in each other's gaze. They both sensed a flicker of affection between them, but seemed confused by the intimacy.

“Those Nuba devils won't be fooled forever. We need to put some ground between us and them,” she said, helping him up.

“Yes, but when we get out of this smelly swamp, I'll be giving the orders.”

Tabitha acted like she didn't hear him. She averted her eyes and smiled.

They walked all day, stopping to eat the grasshoppers and water-bugs she caught clinging to the papyrus reeds. Abel discovered a malachite kingfisher's nest. The male's wing feathers were metallic-blue colored, and his chest plumage was brilliant red. The less attractive female hovered motionlessly over a school of minnows. As Abel and Tabitha approached, both birds darted back to defend their nest but it was too late. They gobbled-up the tiny eggs like ravenous mongooses.

Before dark, Abel gathered elephant droppings for a fire. Tabitha roasted a small leather-back tortoise she captured earlier that day on a sandbank. The elephant dung helped repel the insects that had tormented them earlier. After their skimpy dinner, they listened to the swamp serenade. Smaller frogs produced a continuous high-pitched whine and larger bullfrogs erupted with thunderous croaks.  He teased her by saying the turtle was tough and rank as cowhide.  She retaliated by telling him maybe he would have liked it better if it had been soaked in cow urine. After all, the Dinka use cattle urine for everything.

“Tell me more about the
Khawadja.
I think you love this white man more than you loved your own father. What's his Christian name?”

“His name's Arthur, Arthur Turner.” She's right, I do love him, he thought. Before he could explain, he fell asleep and started to snore. She sighed and snuggled next to him.

***

Abel was awakened by something strange. An old woman had stumbled onto their hiding place. She tickled his nose with the hairy plume of a papyrus reed. When he opened his eyes and saw the woman, he jumped to his feet screaming, which startled Tabitha. The woman cackled hysterically and slapped her leg. Her bald head was crisscrossed with a network of bulging veins. She was naked except for a loosefitting loincloth.

She tugged at a crocodile tooth on her necklace before speaking. “My children, you're lucky I'm not the Janjaweed. It would be their swords you would feel and not my reed. Restart your fire so I can roast these plump catfish. You both look like you have not eaten in weeks,” she said, tossing the stringer of fish on the ground.

The old woman watched them suck the fish bones clean. She giggled and cocked her head. “I've seen you before,” she said to Abel. “You work with the
Khawadja.
You were with him when he treated me at my village. The minute I saw you, I knew.”

“What's happened to your family? Where are your children?” Tabitha asked.

“All killed by the Janjaweed. They stole my goats. I have nothing left, not even my clothes. Tell me, what's become of your families?”

“Our families were also murdered. When was the last time you saw the
Khawadja
?”

The old woman told them about meeting Arthur Turner at the burned out village. She also told them about the militia attack on Turner's refugee camp. When she spoke about the French nuns getting killed, Abel got up and walked away. When he returned, his face was puffy and his eyes were swollen. They both knew he had been crying.

The old woman stayed with them for four days. She showed them her boat made from a hippo's hide stretched over tree branches. She taught them how to catch catfish in woven papyrus reed traps and how to steal eggs from the crocodile nests.

***

Abel and Tabitha were sleeping soundly the night she shook them. She placed her finger to her lips and motioned for them to follow her into the blackness.

“My children, you must leave this island. The soldiers who hunt for you have camped on the far shore. The Arabs are camped on the other shore. We are in the middle of the killing ground. In the morning, the Arabs will attack. Take my boat and leave.”

“You're coming with us,” Abel whispered.

“We're not leaving without you,” added Tabitha.