by Chad Oliver
The animal showed no instant effects from the sernyl, but he gradually slowed his desperate lunging. Within minutes, his eyes turned glassy and he began to stagger. The snarl on his face relaxed into what closely resembled a bemused smile. He hauled himself up onto the platform, wobbled on rubber legs for a moment, and fell in a heap to the floor of the cage.
Royce gave him another minute, then opened the cage. He dragged the inert body by the legs to the Land Rover and dumped the baboon into the back of the vehicle. The animal would be out cold for several hours, and they could give him another shot if necessary. Occasionally, they miscalculated and a baboon revived ahead of schedule. Royce had fond memories of the day when a big animal had come to in the market at Mitaboni and had staggered out on a tour of inspection. It had been great fun for awhile, but it was not really dangerous. The baboons had a bit of a hangover when they first revived, and they were slow and easy to catch.
They checked all of the traps in the clearing, and when they were through they had four baboons sleeping the good sleep in the back of the Land Rover. They released eleven animals, all of them females or immature specimens. They repaired and reset the traps. Next time, Royce knew, they would be less successful. Most of the baboons would be wary now and stay clear of the traps. Soon, Royce would have to bring in a crew and shift the traps to a new location. That was a hard job and he was not looking forward to it.
The two men climbed back in the Land Rover and Royce continued along the trail to Mitaboni. He saw nothing that was in any way unusual but the nagging sense of unease persisted. Royce knew that he was driving too fast; the limp baboons were bouncing in the back.
There was something very funny going on, something he could not understand. The unknown was always a potential threat. Whatever it was, it could be dangerous.
It would not just go away.
He wanted to talk to Bob Russell.
If anyone could help him, it would be Russell.
3
He drove through Mitaboni without stopping, a process that took less than thirty seconds. Mitaboni didn’t amount to much, and the first time Royce had seen it he had reacted with something close to despair. With time, however, Mitaboni took on a certain charm.
Mitaboni was like a lot of the little towns that had grown up in Africa during the past fifty years. It was a shipping point for the railroad, with a series of large cattle pens strung out along the track on the northern end of the settlement. It was a minor stopping place on the main road from Nairobi to Mombasa, boasting two petrol stations. One was Shell and the other was Ozo, and both of them ran a kind of general store on the side. There were no Europeans in Mitaboni, and most of the shops were still run by Asians. The ubiquitous Patel boys controlled the Shell station, and one Dalip Singh was the Ozo impresario. The buses used Mitaboni as a watering stop, pulling in several times a day to disgorge loads of sweating and irritable passengers in search of soft drinks. There was a small open-air African market, a shack called the Corner Bar which did a fair business in Tusker beer, a rather pretty old mosque, and a shed that served as a post office. It was one of the miracles of the ages that a letter mailed in that post office eventually reached the United States; Royce had never lost any mail, coming or going. There was a grim-looking hotel that had been patronized mainly by Asians whose cars had broken down on the punishing road; now that the road had been paved after a fashion it had lost most of its business. Europeans who wanted to stop on the road between Nairobi and Mombasa always stopped at the oasis of Hunter’s Lodge, some twenty miles away on the Nairobi side, or at Mac’s Inn, about thirty miles distant toward Mombasa. Mitaboni also boasted a tiny whitewashed police station, staffed with three African members of the Kenya Police who spent most of their time cruising about with great dignity on bicycles.
Royce relaxed a little when he had cleared Mitaboni and was out on the main road. It was a genuine pleasure to get away from the thick dust and the jarring jolts. He could hit sixty with safety now that he knew where the worst holes were.
He drove eight miles toward Mombasa—and also toward the Baboonery—and then turned off to the left down the well-kept dirt road that led to Russell’s house. One nice thing about the main road was that you always knew exactly where you were. There were stake markers placed every mile along the way. On one side they gave the mileage to Mombasa, and on the other the mileage to Nairobi. Russell’s turnoff was at mile 140 on the Mombasa side.
It took him several minutes to reach the house and he could hear the dogs barking long before he got there. Russell’s land was mostly planted in sisal; it was too dry to grow most of the profitable cash crops. It was not lush and green like the farms in the highlands—those that were left—but Russell made up the difference in quantity. He had thousands of acres and he used them well.
The house was a substantial one, a low rambling structure of white stone and stained wood. A great porch lined one whole side of the building, and Russell had screened it in against the bugs.
Royce stopped the Land Rover and before he could get out, Russell had come outside to greet him. Royce asked Mutisya to check the baboons and give them another shot if they started to come around. Then he went on alone to talk to Russell. He could have taken Mutisya with him, but it would have been awkward with an old settler. Russell’s men would see to it that Mutisya got something to eat and drink. The system was changing, but it still made Royce uncomfortable. While he was Russell’s guest he would have to play it Russell’s way.
Bob Russell was a short, chunky man, but he was not fat. He was as hard as though he had been cast from iron. His broad face was very red, partly from sunburn and partly from many years of close attention to a gin bottle. His hair was long and straight and jet black, and he brushed it back without a part. His eyes, under bushy black brows, were shrewd and very dark. He was dressed in the standard Kenya uniform: white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, khaki shorts that were baggy by American standards, sturdy black shoes with tan socks that came almost up to his knobby knees.
He stuck out his broad, hard hand and Royce took it. “Well, Crawford,” he said. “Good timing, if I may say so. I was just about to have tea. Hope you can join me?”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it very much.”
“Not at all. Always glad to see you. Gets a bit lonely out here, you know. Come in, come in.”
Royce followed him across the porch and into the main sitting room. It was wonderfully cool in the house and spotlessly clean. The room was big and comfortable. It had no frills, but it was as solid and pleasant a room as Royce had ever been in. There were worn zebra-skin rugs on the red tile floor and a very fine kudu head was hung on the wall over the great fireplace. The couches and chairs were faded but substantial; they looked like they were good for another fifty years. There were only three pictures in the room, photographs that stood in matching frames on a long side table. One was of Russell’s wife, who had died nine years ago. The others were of his sons, both of whom were in England. Shelves lined two walls and they were filled with books. The books were a wild assortment ranging from British paperbacks to large leatherbound works on African exploration in the old days. Most of the Kenya settlers had been great readers, there being very little else to do on the remote farms when the day’s work was done, but Russell was exceptional. He read omnivorously and he could discuss anyone from Shakespeare to Sartre. There was an ancient grandfather clock in one corner, taller than a man, and its unhurried ticking filled the room with the measured beats of eternity.
Russell’s houseboy, a lanky African dressed in the traditional kanzu that looked like a cotton nightshirt, padded in on bare feet and waited for instructions. He knew perfectly well what the order would be, but that was part of the ritual.
“Chai kwa mbili,” Russell said. “Upesi!”
Royce stifled a smile. He had a vision of a couple of straw-hatted soft-shoe men dancing out on a stage while the band struck up that old favorite, “Chai kwa Mbili”—better known in
some quarters as “Tea for Two.”
The two men made small talk until the tea arrived, and Royce found it heavy going. Unlike most of the Englishmen he had known, Russell made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. The man was cordial enough in a superficial sort of way, but he had a trick of keeping his distance. Royce had a notion that Russell resented him, resented his presence in Kenya. The feeling was understandable enough. Bob Russell had been here, on this farm, for thirty-five years. He had built this house. He had carved his sisal plantation out of the bush, and he had fought rhinos and elephants and malaria and God knew what to do it. He had lived through the time of the Mau Mau and the difficulties that had come with independence. He had lost his wife to this land. His future was uncertain. And now an American breezed in on a jet, took a cushy job trapping baboons, and made more money than he did. It gave a man food for thought.
Still, most of the English were not like that, not the ones Royce had met. Whoever had dreamed up the stereotype of the cold reserved Englishman had not spent much time in Kenya—or in England either, for that matter. Perhaps he was not being fair to Russell. The man had had a tough time of it. In any event, he was the only settler who lived anywhere near the Baboonery. If Russell couldn’t tell him what he needed to know, then he was not likely to get the information anywhere else.
Tea time was a ceremony, of course, and it could not be rushed. The African brought out a silver tray with two small pots of tea, two fine china cups and saucers, sugar, a pitcher of milk, cakes, cookies, and a variety of tiny rectangular sandwiches—cheese, cucumber, and lettuce. It took Royce half an hour to do justice to the ritual. He pulled out his pipe and lit it. Russell fished out a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He smoked Rex, a local brand of filter-tips.
Royce could now come to the point.
“I’ve run into something strange at the Baboonery,” he said. “I’d appreciate getting your advice on it.”
“Ah. Well, lets have a crack at it.”
Royce told him what had happened. The story seemed overly familiar now; it was the second time he had gone through it that day. It was difficult to communicate a sense of urgency.
Russell lit another cigarette, watching Royce intently.
“That’s all there is? You have left nothing out?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, now. You have two problems, it seems, or maybe three. What was it that you saw in the sky? What could kill a baboon like that? And what would want to steal a baboon? It sounds rather like something out of Conan Doyle.”
“You know this country. Does any of this ring a bell?”
Russell thought it over carefully. “It is strange. It’s a big sky we have here, you know. I’ve seen things in my time. Meteorites, fireballs—something of the sort most likely. As for the baboons, I haven’t a clue. Fifteen years or so ago, yes. You weren’t here during the Emergency, of course. That sort of thing wasn’t at all uncommon then. Dogs skewered on gateposts, cattle with their heads cut off, all that sort of rot. But there aren’t any Mau Mau these days—they’re all in the bloody government.” His voice was edged with bitterness, the helpless anger of a man left behind by the retreat of empire. He paused a moment and went on more calmly. “That’s all over and done with. Things have worked out better than I thought they would, I’ll give Kenyatta that. Doesn’t help with your problem, though. Almost has to be a man. What else could it be?”
“How could a man tear a baboon apart that way? And why bother? Why not just shoot an arrow into him?”
“I’ve no idea. Why do Africans do anything? I’ll tell you this, Crawford. This is an old country, Africa. Birthplace of man and all that, if old Leakey is right about those skeletons of his. Empires rose and fell on this continent when England was just a pack of wild men. There are ancient currents here, currents that you and I will never understand. You take our Kamba friends. They look harmless enough now, and some idiots even find them comical. But these people fought the Masai to a standstill, and they once had a trading network that controlled a territory all the way from the Indian Ocean to Lake Victoria. People don’t change completely overnight, Crawford. I know all about the schools and the ministers and the judges. I give them their due. But I know all about the witchcraft and the killing oaths and the poisoned arrows, too. These people have one foot in another world. You can’t figure them out. Don’t try.”
“But look, Bob. You don’t rip a baboon apart with witchcraft. Maybe the Kamba were responsible. There’s some resentment toward the Baboonery. It probably won’t be many years before the government has to chop it up into farms. But what kind of a Kamba is it who can do that to a baboon with his bare hands?”
“A drunk one,” Russell suggested.
“I just can’t believe it,” Royce said reluctantly. “I wish I could.”
Russell shrugged. “You haven’t been harmed yet. Stay out of it. Keep your eyes open. Look out for your own business, do your own job. You asked for my opinion. I’m afraid that’s it. Not very helpful, I suppose. You don’t have to go out of your way looking for trouble in this country. It will find you if it’s headed your way.”
Royce stood up. “I appreciate your advice. I’ll think on it. I’d better be getting back now.”
“Care for a quick one before you go? Dusty road ahead of you, you know.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to leave Kathy there after dark alone. Another time, if I may. You must drop in and see us soon. Donaldson should be in with a safari shortly. Drive over and we’ll break out a fifth.”
“Sounds good. I might do that.” Russell extended his hard, blunt hand. “Be careful. And keep me informed, will you?”
“Right. Thanks again.”
Royce hurried out to the Land Rover. “Okay, Mutisya?”
“Okay, Mr. Royce.”
Royce drove back to the main road and pushed the vehicle as fast as he dared toward the little trail that angled off to the Baboonery. He covered the nine miles in eight minutes, which was pretty good. He turned off to the right where the old white sign was nailed to the baobab tree: Kikumbuliu Station. There was no mention of the Baboonery, which was beyond the station on the other side of the railroad track.
He had to slow down to a crawl. It was ten miles to the Baboonery and the road was nothing more than a rough dirt track hacked through the bush.
The sun was low in the red-tinged sky. The desiccated bush was hot and still. The gritty red dust was everywhere, like the patina of ages covering a landscape of the dead. There was no sign of life except for a single dik-dik, no larger than a dog, that sprang up in the middle of the road and ran away at the sound of the Land Rover’s approach.
He passed the deserted loading shed that marked the station and bounced across the railroad track, those incongruous strips of battered metal that lanced an improbable hole through the African wilderness. It had taken more than a few lives to lay those tracks. The so-called maneaters of Tsavo sounded rather melodramatic by today’s standards, but the big cats had been real enough. He pushed on toward the Baboonery. The road was even worse now, if possible. It had taken him nearly an hour to cover the ten miles from the main road.
He saw them as soon as he reached the edge of the clearing.
Kathy was sitting on the wooden steps outside the main sitting room, watching Susan and Barbara playing in the dirt.
She waved to him.
Royce felt a sudden stab of relief and noticed that his hands were trembling on the wheel.
It had been a long day.
4
The next morning started out like a repeat of the day before. One of the cages had been broken open and another baboon was gone.
At first, Royce was more angry than worried. The theft seemed a calculated affront, an insult rather than a threat. He had set up a watch during the night and the loss of another baboon was galling.
“Well, Elijah,” he said to his headman. “This was your responsibility. Who was on duty last night?”
“Kil
atya, Mr. Royce.” Elijah’s eyes were invisible behind his tinted glasses.
“And where is Kilatya? What does he have to say?”
“Kilatya, he says nothing. He is not here.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“I do not know. He is not here.”
Royce put his hands on his hips. “That’s just great.”
He knew that there was no point in questioning the other men. Even if they knew where Kilatya was they would not tell him. It was not unusual for a man to disappear for a day or two and then show up again with some unlikely but immensely detailed explanation. Royce had learned to accept the stories with good grace and simply dock the man a day’s wages. The alternative was to have no crew at all. Kilatya was a fine tracker; Royce needed him.
In this case, it was not difficult to figure out what had happened. Kilatya had been standing guard and he had lost a baboon. Rather than face the music, he had gone home to hide. He would probably be back eventually.
The fact remained that another baboon had been taken. Royce spent the morning checking for signs. He found one place with some broken brush and a sharp-edged depression that looked as though it had been made by a heavy object—the sort of mark that might be made by a man taking a large post and ramming it hard against the earth. That was all. There was no trail that he could follow and he was no nearer an explanation than he had been before.
Something was after his baboons. That was the only solid fact that he had, and it made no sense.
Royce had just finished lunch when he heard the trucks coming. He pushed back his plate, which contained the remnants of one of Wathome’s favorite concoctions, a grisly mixture of bacon and spaghetti.
“Here comes the great white hunter,” he said to Kathy. “Two cheers.”
They walked outside and stood on the steps. The trucks were very close. He could see the billows of red dust that marked their passage. The sun hammered down on the land as though it had a grudge against it. It was hot and still and Royce’s shirt was sticking to his back. Nothing green showed anywhere. There was not a cloud in the vast blue sky. The great dry leaves of the banana trees rustled very faintly, reminding him mockingly of the rain that would not come.
