by Amber Hart
I wonder if they are all replaceable to him. Simply bodies to fill gaps as needed.
“They can be happy alone. Less distractions,” he replies.
“Will it always be like this?” I’m feeling gutsy. Speaking my mind. “Are they married to this business?”
I’ve seen other women. Not all the men are single. Mr. Tondjii himself has a wife.
“If they have proven themselves, then they can choose a mate,” he says.
“Has Clovis not proven himself over the years? He fights for you. Kills for you. And what about me? Didn’t I bring you a wild?”
I manage to say it without my voice shaking, which I am proud of. It still hurts to think about it, the man who died because of me. But I know in Mr. Tondjii’s eyes, it means something.
“Watch it.” Mr. Tondjii’s voice turns sharp. “You, Raven, need to be very careful when choosing your words. I do, despite what you might think about me, care about my pack. And I especially want to see that they are not being played by pretty American girls that I do not trust.”
I stare at Mr. Tondjii’s hand, at the gold ring on his finger. Proof that he has more privileges than he allows his pack members. He will win this round.
“Fine. To prove you can trust me, I will give you some information,” I offer. “The habitat knows about you and your poaching empire. They would like to save every ape you injure. After you go on kills, they sometimes scour the forest for the gorillas that escape and run into the woods. They treat the gorillas’ wounds and keep them in a sanctuary. They feed them and make sure they are strong before rereleasing them into the wild. Saving gorillas is their life.”
Mr. Tondjii is unimpressed. “All things I know. Do better.”
“Habitat workers will risk their lives to save the apes,” I resume. And because I don’t want Mr. Tondjii to think of the workers as weak, I tell him, “They have a room of weaponry that rivals your own.”
“You mean handguns? I already figured they must have those; they are an unguarded outpost in the jungle, after all,” he replies casually.
“They have much more than handguns. They have bows and arrows, machetes, grenades, and even machine guns.”
At this, Mr. Tondjii is shocked. “They have what?” he asks, eyes narrow.
It sounds like a lie, but it’s true. I was as shocked as he is when I discovered it.
—
I’m about to go to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day, though I don’t know it yet. Tomorrow, Jospin will be banished and I will choose to live at a compound with poachers. But tonight is an ordinary night. Sky a murky black, like soot on tree roots. I’m making my way to my room when a noise stops me. Footsteps down the hall.
I stand still and wait until the footsteps reach the point in the hallway where a beam of moonlight shines through the window and pierces the darkness. I see Chloe looking around before continuing on. As if she’s up to something.
I want to know what.
I follow from a distance. Keep my footfalls silent. Slip past the moonlight quickly. Chloe stops at the storage-room door. Dad always told me that the storage room was for old equipment, items they have no use for but hold on to anyway. Because you just never know in the jungle. I have never seen anyone go in.
Chloe looks around one more time. She doesn’t spot me hidden against the wall in shadows. She pulls out a key and unlocks the door. She pushes it open and flips on the dim light.
My breath catches suddenly. I blink. I actually rub my eyes, convinced that what I’m seeing isn’t true. But it is true: guns on the walls, grenades, knives hanging from hooks.
The habitat has a weapons room.
And now I’m convinced: Dad knew he was starting a war, so he prepared for one.
—
“They have a stockpile of weapons,” I repeat. “I only saw the door open for a brief minute, but it was long enough to know that their guns and knives are numerous, and perhaps even better than yours.”
I’m not sure if that’s true, but from Mr. Tondjii’s look, I know I’ve delivered valuable information.
I never got to ask Chloe questions about the weapons room. I’ve told no one that I know about it until now.
“That’s enough information for tonight,” I say, already feeling like I’ve betrayed the habitat. Of course Mr. Tondjii will expect me to tell him more, but maybe I can put it off a bit longer.
“Yes. Well, a deal is a deal, Raven,” he says. “You may have one day next week to yourself. We’ll talk more about the habitat soon.”
I get up, ready to leave, but Mr. Tondjii stops me.
“First, tell me how you met Clovis,” he requests.
Clovis and I have prepared a story, have repeated it back and forth, tweaking details until I am able to tell it as if it actually belongs to me.
“I like to think trees delivered him to me.” I smile softly, as if I am remembering. “Just a regular day. Clovis came along, and when he saw me, he looked at me like I had something he wanted. I’d slipped away from the habitat as usual, feeling lonely and angry. He introduced himself. He wondered about my reasons for being in the jungle, and I wondered about his way of life here, how it was possible to survive in a place so different from the home I was accustomed to. I don’t know why—perhaps because I felt isolated—but I told him about Michigan, about all the coffee shops and stores within walking distance and the people I had left behind that I missed. Clovis was amazed. I suppose city life sounds quite different from the jungle he’s used to.” I laugh as if I’m thinking about Clovis being bewildered by life in Michigan.
“We had a good time together that day and in the days afterward. I finally admitted to Clovis that he was the only good thing about this jungle, that I usually hated it here, that I would leave if I had enough money for a ticket out. Clovis said he could make the jungle worth my while. He asked me to spy on the habitat in exchange for a departure ticket. What could I say?” I give a little laugh. “I agreed as long as it would eventually get me out of here and back to America.”
“Yet you’re still here,” Mr. Tondjii says, pressing out his cigarette.
“I’m still here,” I agree.
—
When Mr. Tondjii dismisses me, I’m surprised to see Mrs. Tondjii outside his door. I’m even more amazed to learn that she is there for me.
“Are you okay, Raven?” she asks in a soft voice.
Did Mr. Tondjii tell her to wait for me?
“Yes,” I answer, looking around for Clovis.
“He’s not here,” she says. “They sent him on a run.”
“Well,” I say, “I’d better get to the room, then.”
Clovis already warned me that it was dangerous to be around the other men without him, and surely not all of them went on the run.
“I’ll walk you,” Mrs. Tondjii offers.
Just then Mr. Tondjii emerges from his study. He glances from me to Mrs. Tondjii. “What exactly is happening here?” he asks. Simon stops behind him.
“I’m walking Raven to her room,” Mrs. Tondjii answers.
“I’m sure she can walk to her room alone.” He makes to step toward her.
“Don’t,” she says in a hushed tone.
For a moment, he looks almost hurt.
“I cannot help the outcome, you know that,” he says to her.
“What I know,” she answers, voice rising, “is that you banished our son!”
Feeling like this is my chance to escape, I slip off down the hall, leaving them to their personal conversation. But I peek over my shoulder just in time to see a backward glance from Mrs. Tondjii, a tear falling down her face.
Chapter 20
Jospin
Raven’s father’s study is as hot as the sun and as muggy as the forest after it rains. I don’t know where to look first. It’s a disaster, a sad shock. I guess I thought Raven’s father would be organized. That he’d have neat shelves topped with books on the science of animals. Maybe a computer that wasn’t overrun with a
million sticky notes. A floor that was clear of debris. This room looks as if someone searched it hastily and carelessly and didn’t bother trying to clean it up. I’m not sure how he ever worked like this.
There is a narrow path of floor cleared, leading to the computer desk. I nudge a few things aside with my boot as I pass. I move a pencil off Raven’s father’s chair and sit.
I pause a minute to take everything in.
The back wall of the office is completely lined with shelves, but the books aren’t stacked in any particular order or even stacked straight. Some lie like fallen trees. Some tilt. Others do stand straight, but they’re upside down. I cock my head to the side to read them.
This is the place where I will get to know the person Raven’s father used to be. Now I will know who Raven is talking about when she mentions him. I will be able to picture him in my mind, and I will agree when she says he was messy, or little things like that, because I will learn them firsthand.
I will be there for her in a way I haven’t been yet. That makes me happy.
My eyes land on the table to my right. There’s a microscope with dust covering it. There are papers everywhere. Pens and pencils and notebooks spill over onto the floor, where there’s a small clearing too. I picture what the clearing is for. Maybe Raven’s father sat there and wrote in the notebooks. Maybe he brought the microscope down to the floor and examined samples under a beam of light. I’ll never know.
A chest, complete with ten drawers, stands upright on my left side; a small table with a lamp atop it is beside the chest. I wonder what’s in the drawers. They, at least, are shut. Nothing poking out. Nothing toppling over the sides. But the top of the chest is littered with junk.
Then there’s the desk. I don’t know where to begin. Maybe by peeling layers of notes off the computer. I could try to start it up. See what I find, if anything. As I scan the room again, I spot a phone pressed between two books on a shelf. I step over things on the floor to get to it. I hope for the best as I hit the power button, but it’s dead. I have no idea where to look for a charger, so I push books out of the way, coughing as dust rises up in a cloud around my face. I hold my breath as I continue. I find an electrical outlet but no charger.
It could be anywhere in this mess; my best chance of finding it is to try to insert order into this chaos. I decide to start by organizing the desk. After that I’ll make my way around the room.
I open one drawer and make space to empty it onto the desktop. Start piling all the office supplies—pencils, erasers, sharpeners, pens, paper clips, staples—together. I line them back up in the drawer. Shut that one. Move on to the next. It’s filled with notebooks that look like they’ve been shoved in. I stack them nicely. Gather up the others lying around the room and put them in there too. I think about the journal in my room. I started reading already: Its pages are filled with Raven’s father’s thoughts on the gorillas and his hatred for poachers. His love for Raven and his love for his wife.
It’ll take me days to go through the whole office. Maybe weeks. But I will, I decide. I will go through every last notebook. I will read each loose paper. I will find answers and I will get the hell out of here the moment I do.
I open another drawer and miraculously find two chargers. The first must be for some other phone—it doesn’t fit the one in my hand. But the other fits perfectly. I try not to feel too excited as I plug it in. It might be a dead end. While I wait for it to charge, I sift through more of the clutter.
I can only hope that somewhere along the way I’ll catch a break.
—
Nearly an hour of cleaning and I still can’t see the whole floor. But the phone has charged enough to ping on, so I open it. What waits is a wealth of pictures. I flip through them. Most are of Raven, beautiful Raven, texted from a contact labeled GALE.
Raven is laughing in one, with a smile so wide that I see all her teeth. In another, her expression is blank as she gazes somewhere offscreen. A forced grin in one, as if the person behind the camera asked her to smile but Raven didn’t really want to. There’s one of her eating spaghetti, a small smear of sauce on her cheek.
They go on.
Some of the pictures are of apes—eating, grooming; one has its hands up and its arms open. I skip through those quickly, wanting to see more pictures of Raven.
Instead, I find pictures of an older woman, one who slightly resembles Raven. And now I feel wrong, peering at something so personal that doesn’t belong to me. It makes me wonder.
Am I any different from the spy at the compound? From Clovis?
What if they think they’re doing something good too? What if they believe in getting answers, like I do? Does that make them evil?
This woman in the pictures must be Gale, Raven’s mother. A dead man’s wife. At that, I close the phone.
I slowly peel sticky notes off the computer, careful to not rip any. I stack them, knowing I’ll read them later. I boot up the computer and search vainly through files that I can’t access, because I need a password and I don’t have one. Maybe I can ask Chloe later if she knows what it is.
Then I spot a folder labeled RAVEN. I open it. There are five selections—each one containing a video of Raven that doesn’t need an access code. Just a click and the videos are rolling.
The first one lasts thirty-one seconds. Raven is a baby in the arms of a much younger version of the woman I saw on the phone. Her eyes are open and she’s smiling.
Next video is twenty seconds of Raven as a toddler, walking around. Well, falling mostly. But laughing and blabbing nonsense.
The third one is of Raven as a young teenager, swimming in the pool.
I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching the armrest until my fingers begin to ache. This is my Raven. Versions of her I’ve never seen before.
The fourth video is of teenage Raven, a little older than she was in the pool clip, turning to the camera and saying, “Mama, are you filming me again?” A laugh, and the film cuts short. Just a few seconds.
The last one is of Raven, maybe ten, looking into the camera with wide eyes and saying, “Miss you, Dad. Don’t forget to remember all your stories. I want to hear each one. Then one day, when I grow up and join you in the jungle, I will know how to save apes too.”
It’s the last video that kills me. It’s hard to witness these intimate moments, this history of Raven—her love for life and for her father too. I feel as if I’ve been caught stealing. I’ve taken these memories that were never meant to be mine.
I wish Raven would give up on the pack and come back to me. I wish I could march over there and grab her and never let her go. I just want to know she is safe. Protected.
Leaves brush the glass pane of the small window. As I watch the wind bend branches, I think about freedom. For me, freedom would be a quiet place to live with Raven. No poaching—that would upset her. Just hunting for what we need to survive. No threats of violence.
I wonder if Raven’s definition of freedom would fit my own.
Chapter 21
Raven
I lift myself up with the strength earned through working out hard with Clovis. I’m doing sit-ups on the floor of the forest. Ants sometimes pinch my body, forcing me to stop and swat them off and then keep going. The mosquitoes are relentless, stinging my skin every chance possible despite a repellent cream Clovis gave me.
“Mosquitoes,” I complain, shaking my head.
“The repellent is working, Raven,” Clovis replies. “Imagine how bad it’d be if you had none.”
It’s moments like this when I wish I were back home. In America, I could simply go inside. I could drive down to the store for repellent and walk down streets without getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.
“Stop complaining and do fifteen more,” Clovis says.
I don’t want to do more. I sip my water, savoring the taste.
“Fine,” I say.
I lie back and do fifteen more sit-ups.
Clovis doesn’t say things like
nice job. He doesn’t baby me out here, and I know it’s for a reason. He wants me to have strength in case a time comes when we have to fight. Clovis expects me to take care of myself, and I admire him for that. I need to know what it’s like to be strong enough on my own.
“Push-ups,” Clovis says.
Today is endurance. Tomorrow is fighting. Six days a week we switch on and off between the two. The workouts started two weeks ago, right after we saw Jospin. If we want to take the risk of meeting him again, we need to be prepared in case someone catches us.
Push-ups are the worst. I have to use my injured arm, and it’s agony.
“They’ll use your injury to their advantage. Your injury will be the first place they’ll attack,” he whispers. We know that one of Mr. Tondjii’s men is watching us from somewhere in the trees. This isn’t our free day. But to him it just looks like we’re working out. “It’s about letting them think you’re injured and having more strength than they realize. That is how you will defeat them.”
“How many?” I ask.
“Ten,” Clovis says.
Five more than our previous workout.
Clovis has been patient with my complaints about how it’s too hot, about how there are too many hungry insects, about how tired I am. He says as I build my physical strength, mental strength will come, that eventually I’ll quit complaining and start doing.
I’m trying.
I drop and begin push-ups. Five, and my injured arm trembles. By eight, it’s shaking violently and I have to stop.
“Quitting isn’t going to help you get stronger,” Clovis says.
“I can’t do any more,” I admit between huffs.
“Can’t gets you nowhere,” he says.
I finish my set and collapse to the ground. Don’t care that my face is pressed into dirt. Don’t care that I’m a sweaty mess. Clovis is killing me.
“Need water,” I say.
“Stretch your arm,” he replies.
“Water first,” I say.
“Arm first,” he demands.
I relent because I’ll do anything at this point for a sip of water. I sit up and rotate my injured arm. Bite down on my lip so I don’t let out the groan of agony that climbs up my throat.
