Five Tribes

by Brian Nelson

  That meant high explosives.

  But she’d made a mistake with poor Avery. She’d thought blowing him up in his black Cadillac Escalade would be a nice poetic touch. You know, burned alive in the very fossil fuels he so vehemently claimed were not dangerous.

  She remembered that night so clearly. He left the fundraising dinner for Texas Senator Wyatt Mayfield in his black tuxedo, skipping down the steps of the Emerald Oaks Country Club, failing to tip the valet, and climbing into his gas-guzzling SUV. He was halfway between the first tee and the tennis courts when Riona had hit the detonator.

  That’s when she learned the hard way that an explosion did not necessarily cause a fire unless you added an incendiary element. While Avery was likely killed instantly, the fuel tank did not explode in a fireball like it does on TV. It did ignite, but the effects were . . . well, definitely not PG-13.

  The photo that went viral was of a very unevenly cooked Avery Reynolds, the skin on his cheeks blackened and peeling like pork rinds. One eye had been blown out by the explosion, the other looked enormous because both eyelids had been burned off. His mouth was open in a horrific yawn, the lips gone, exposing the teeth like the mouth of ancient mummy.

  To this day, this was the picture that Riona’s adversaries in the media used to denounce her as a violent radical, as a black widow, a merciless killer.

  Live and learn.

  And she had learned. It had been her first job, and looking back she was still proud she had pulled it off. Now she made it a point to obliterate her victims beyond recognition. Luckily, her expanding budget meant she could outsource this work. A former British Army sapper named Malcolm McPhie who had defected to the IRA now handled all her demolition work.

  Did she feel bad for her victims? Did she feel guilty? Only barely. Because she was a scientist out to solve a problem and these people were the problem. If you wanted to save the planet, they had to go. They epitomized her philosophy about people refusing to see the truth simply because it wasn’t convenient. It was inexcusable. After going to school from kindergarten through college, no one ever told them the planet was in trouble? Give me a break. They knew full well about mass extinction, pollution, and global warming and had not only decided to do nothing about it, but profit from it.

  On the highway below her, the westbound traffic had slowed to a crawl; a long backup of cars spread off into the distance.

  She reminded herself that things were going well. In many ways, they were better than she could have ever imagined. Yet she was still restless. Her movement was growing, but it still felt small. Was it small, or were her goals small?

  What was missing?

  An eighteen-wheeler gas truck sat stopped with all the other traffic, the name Morgan Petroleum emblazoned on its side. She stared at it. It was full of the fossil fuels that were causing climate change. I wonder where that truck is going, she thought. That’s when the epiphany hit her. She would later remember it as the third great epiphany of her life.

  The gas in the truck would be fed into a car, just like the coal sent to a power plant would feed a household appliance like a washing machine or computer. She saw another driver tapping on his cell phone, which was plugged into the dash, so it too was being fed by the gas in the engine. The realization made her head spin as her whole understanding of humankind’s destiny became clear.

  We were destroying the earth to feed machines. The amount of energy needed to keep humans alive was very small, but the amount of energy needed to feed our inventions was enormous. Now she understood her restlessness. She’d been wrong. All this time, the enemy had not been the oil companies or the logging companies or the corrupt lawyers. The enemy was technology.

  She sat there for a moment, stunned, watching blankly as the traffic inched forward. She had to sort this out, had to think it through. Technology was alive, and all of us were nourishing it like doting mothers, every day, all day, even while we slept.

  Our progress as a species was linked to it.

  She tried to think back to what invention had started it all. But she realized that was impossible, because you could not define technology as just electronic devices or the steam engine or even fire. Looking out, she saw the highway stretching out—both ways—into eternity, packed with cars and trucks, a seemingly endless ribbon of metal, oil, plastic, and rubber. Then she fixated on the road itself. The road. It was technology too. An amazing piece of technology, in fact. With roads the world had been conquered. Indigenous people slaughtered. Forests wiped out. Put a road in the Amazon rain forest, and it would bring settlers and development and slash and burn.

  Progress.

  “My God,” she thought, “how do you stop it?”

  She could see no answer. And now she saw her own folly. She had always been proud to call herself a liberal, but now she realized that politics were irrelevant. It made no difference if liberals or conservatives ruled the country because they would both demand economic progress. They would both want new roads, new factories, more jobs, more crops, better fertilizer.

  She brought her hands to her face and rocked back and forth. “What have we done?”

  She had thought that her actions would wake people up and cause lasting change. Now she wasn’t so sure. Now it felt that the only way to save the planet was to destroy all its technology.

  But one thing was for sure, she had to change her thinking . . . and her mission. To save the planet she had to slow down the growth of most of technology. The only technologies that should proliferate were those that helped the planet—reduced emissions, protected endangered species, conserved habitat. Everything else—including the scientists who invented the technology—was fair game. Yes, the scientists. They were the real enemy, for they created the machines that sucked up all the energy of the world.

  As she stared out at the thousands of vehicles rolling along the highway, she didn’t feel small anymore, because she had figured out what was missing. She felt the sense of hope, elation, almost ecstasy, that comes from clear thought. Now she knew what she had to do. The only thing she could.

  She had to tell her followers. She had to teach the world what she had discovered. This was the biggest news in years.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Hunt

  November 20, 2026

  Namibia

  They stayed at the watering hole until almost sunset. That was when the rhinoceroses came and frightened all the other animals away.

  Karuma had yelled at them. “You are a bunch of bullies!”

  Khamko laughed. “Rhinoceroses are very territorial, and when they come, everyone else has to go.”

  That night they camped under a high cliff of red stone. A line of shepherd trees thrived in the shade of the rocks. Suspecting that there might be underground water, they dug and discovered half a dozen tubers thick with water.

  As the tribe enjoyed the food, they talked excitedly about all they had seen that day and what they should do tomorrow. It was a surprisingly democratic affair. Khamko sat in silence listening to the others. That was when Eric realized that Khamko was not their leader, yet he could not tell who was. Perhaps no one was, but it seemed that most deferred to Kebbi-an, who was the oldest woman that Eric had ever seen, with a face like a withered apple and bright cunning eyes.

  Some wanted to go where the hunting was good, others wanted to go find honey. He kept hearing those two words danis (honey) and //gan-i (meat).

  Suddenly, the conversation came to a close, but he could not tell what they had decided. The adults called for the younger children, some nestled in close, while the restless ones played. Someone began to clap, then more people joined. Soon all the older women were clapping out a rhythm and singing. Simultaneously, the others began to dance. Gǃkau produced an odd instrument, a single string on a bow, and the man blew on it while he plucked it. It made an aboriginal, haunting sound that Eric had hea
rd before.

  So that’s what makes that noise, he thought.

  Then Karuma joined in. While the others had been shuffling together in their version of a conga line, Karuma began to move to his own rhythm. He was so quick and agile that he was a pleasure to watch. The older women began to clap faster and faster, cheering him on. Karuma matched the quickening pace effortlessly. He was twisting and darting, flipping, cartwheeling. One second he was twirling in the dirt, the next he was jumping three feet off the ground, an invisible spear raised above his head. Eric found himself laughing at the sight of him.

  It was at that moment he understood what had been decided. And he wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

  He barely slept that night because he didn’t want to risk them leaving without him. He lay awake in his lean-to, looking up at the stars. He couldn’t recall ever seeing so many; the Milky Way was like a canyon of light running vertically across the sky. He savored the return of his sight, but also felt his other senses were still ultra-acute. Far off, a strange bird called and was answered by another. The wind whispered through the acacia trees and all around a low light filtered through the air. It was perhaps an hour before dawn when he heard the roar of a lion not far from camp. It was a sound that made him shiver, but he took it as a good sign. Soon he heard the others stirring and he got up.

  The camp was still in darkness, but the sun was beginning to blush the clouds overhead. He found Khamko, Naru, and Karuma near the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire. Khamko and Karuma both had bows and quivers strapped across their backs while Naru held a spear in each hand. Several of the older women were attending them, preparing them for the day ahead.

  “So you heard us last night, did you?” Khamko said.

  Eric nodded.

  “All right.”

  Naru protested.

  “I won’t slow you down,” Eric countered.

  Khamko laughed his kind-hearted laugh. “Oh, yes, you will. But that’s okay. If I recall correctly, Naru slowed us down on her first hunt, too.”

  Naru scowled and protested in Sān.

  “He may not be one of us,” Khamko said, “but if he wants to learn, I will teach him. That is what a leader does.”

  Khamko then said something to Kebbi-an, and the old woman stuck out her chin in a show of skepticism but then shrugged. She began walking around Eric slowly, inspecting him, then she began to chant. Eric realized that he was being blessed for the hunt. She produced a small curved stone: a primitive hand knife. While she chanted her prayer to the gods, she began to make small slits in the backs of his legs, each one no more than half an inch long. Eric tried to make no sign that it hurt. In a few minutes, she had made over forty slits down the back of his right leg, then she started on the left leg. Each cut only produced a few drops of blood, and when she had finished, she smeared the blood with charcoal, which filled up each of the wounds, making a distinct tattoo from his buttocks to his heels.

  He saw now that the others had the same bloodlines.

  Next, Khamko presented him with a spear. Its tip was in the shape of a leaf. It was one-third metal and two-thirds wood, which gave it a pleasing weight in his hand.

  “Now listen closely to everything I say. Remember every detail. The hunt—and our survival—depends on it.

  “The arrows are poisoned,” he said. “It is a toxin made from the larvae of the leaf beetle. It will kill any animal. A giraffe, a water buffalo, even an elephant. But the bigger the animal, the longer it takes to kill. A giraffe, for example, can live for days after being hit. This means we must pursue the animal after we shoot, which is why we must be swift and why we must be excellent trackers. Now look closely,” he removed one of the arrows. “Never put your poison on the tip. If you do that and you accidently cut yourself, you will die. Instead, put the poison on the shaft just behind the tip, then it will only poison the animal it hits. The poison interacts immediately with the animal’s blood, and even fifteen minutes after being shot, you can smell the poison in the animal’s scat. That’s a quick way of knowing if the scat is from the animal you shot or a different one.

  “But if the poison is so deadly, how can you eat the meat?”

  “Diamphotoxin is only dangerous if it gets in your bloodstream because it ruptures blood cells. Eating it is harmless. Come, it is time.”

  They started off at a trot, which Eric had quickly learned was the Sān’s version of walking. They moved quietly through the half-light of dawn, under a brightening sky, savoring the shade. But Eric could feel that it was going to be a scorcher and suspected it was already close to ninety degrees. He hoped he could keep up. Before the mission to Africa he had made sure that he was in excellent shape, doing morning runs with Sawyer and Jane and lifting weights. He’d gotten up to nine miles in preparation for a marathon with Jane, but that was before his accident and three weeks of being sedentary. Unfortunately, he suspected that nine miles was only a fraction of the distance they might cover today.

  Khamko fell back to talk to him, his breathing as normal as if he were sitting by the fire.

  “Now your education begins, Doctor Hill. Everything I tell you must be remembered. Everything you need to be a successful hunter is here”—he touched his head—“and here”—he touched his heart—“and here”—he motioned to the world around him. “These three things are all that you need. First the basics: run on the pads of your forefeet, that will make you quiet. Second, always approach your prey with the wind on your face. Third, the hunt must be done right. If you do it wrong, the gods will not give us any meat.”

  They passed beneath an umbrella tree filled with four huge weaver bird nests that filled the canopy like bulbous tree houses. Eric was amazed the trees could hold such large objects. A dozen birds sounded the alarm as the hunters approached.

  “The birds are the sentinels of the bush, if you are not careful, they will give you away. But if you become their friend, they will help you hunt.”

  Just then the sun broke the horizon, a curve of distant red fire framed by the stretching canopies of the umbrella acacia. Almost instantly, it felt like the dim world around them was revealed. Khamko stopped and knelt down.

  “Here is your first track,” he pointed at a footprint similar to a big dog’s. “It is the spoor of a lion. Can you tell how old it is?”

  Eric shrugged, “Three days?”

  “Close. This track is two days old. There are many clues that tell us how much time has passed. Do you see how the wind has softened the edges?” Khamko turned to his right and pointed to a series of small dots in the sandy soil. “Now this track is newer. It was made yesterday afternoon by an armored bush cricket. They grow to be the size of your hand and love to raid the weaver bird nests and steal their young. And these tracks,” he gestured to the overlapping track of a bird, “are made by the drongo. It picked at the locust, but the locust can spray predators like a skunk. When drongo got sprayed, he gave up and took off here. You can see the two light indentations where the wingtips touched the ground. It headed . . .” Here he lifted his eyes to a banyan tree about a hundred yards off. “There! Drongo always flies in a straight line when he alights.”

  Eric looked at Khamko in amazement. How could so much information be gleaned from such a small patch of earth?

  “But come,” Khamko said, “this is not the trail we want. Our trail has yet to be found.”

  They continued along at a steady trot.

  “There are many ways to hunt, so everyone has a job to do,” Khamko said. “Naru is my runner. Karuma is my trickster. I am the archer.

  “Today it will be very hot but that is good for us. The sun is our friend. It will boil the animal’s blood.

  “Now remember, hunting is everything to us. It defines us as a people. You may think that we could do things better, but it is best this way. We only catch what we need. We have no way to store food, therefore we n
ever over hunt. That keeps us in the balance.

  “Most importantly, we do not use any technology. No guns and especially no dogs. Dogs are horrible creatures. It was because of dogs that man lost his connection to nature. Men and animals used to talk to one another but not anymore. Dogs made him dumb. With dogs, man could hunt and kill too easily. A hunt that should take a day suddenly took twenty minutes. So man put his mind to other things. That was the beginning of the end. Today, when we see a dog we always kill it. It does not belong on this earth.”

  Eric guessed they had covered four miles when Naru found something. She made a gesture with her hand, her index finger tucked down. Instantly, the three hunters dashed toward a wide swath of high grass that had been matted down in several places. They were very excited, and Naru and her son began to laugh and play in the grass.

  “This is where twelve or thirteen gemsbok spent the night,” Khamko said, reaching down, touching the grass, and sniffing the air. I think there were three males, seven females, and three young.”

  Eric tried to picture the gemsbok in his mind. He had seen a herd of them at the watering hole and he’d been impressed. They were as big as elk, with long straight horns that made a perfect V atop their heads. They were proud and watchful, and so big that he suspected that few predators messed with them.

  Eric turned to watch Karuma and Naru playing in the grass, and it seemed like they were reenacting the gemsbok motions—the play of the young, the testing of their horns. The sight of them made him laugh; they seemed so happy, so joyful that the hunt was about to begin.

  “It is play,” Khamko explained, “but it is important play. To catch an animal you must become that animal. You must understand its character. And I don’t mean the character of the species, I mean the character of the specific animal you are hunting. Naru and Karuma are getting to know the gemsbok. If we are to catch one, then our hearts must beat like that animal’s heart, our lungs must breathe like that animal’s, and our minds must think like that animal’s. Only then will you gain the right to kill him. Go on, try it.”