The Leopard Tree

by Tim Merriman

  “I swear I’m seeing you kids on that screen just like a movie show,” Lane said. He leaned forward to watch the changing pictures behind Rosa.

  “I wrote that number down,” Camp said. “We can call it right now.”

  “No, we must not!” Daudi said, very upset by the story on the television. “They will know we are here. If Miss Rosa finds us, she will take us back to Kenya. We must go on. Please do not turn us in,” he pleaded.

  Camp studied them for a moment and then spoke quietly. “We won’t do anything to hurt you, but I think you need someone like her to help you. You sure about this, son?”

  “Yes, I am certain. She is a friend of the orphanage in Kenya. They are good people, but we cannot go back. We do not have passports. We have no papers, and the police will surely send us back. We must finish this journey. Can you understand why we must do this?”

  Lane spoke for both brothers. “We’ve always believed good people make their own way. You seem to be doing just that. We’ll help you however we can.”

  “We must go now,” Daudi insisted.

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough, youngsters. It’ll all be easier in daylight.”

  The brothers turned off the TV, got out their instruments and played for two hours. The kids listened to the concert with intensity, wondering what tomorrow might bring.

  By bedtime they had settled on the couch with pillows and sheets, Ramla again wrapped tightly around the big yellow dog. The brothers tucked them in and found their own beds, quietly talking about how they might best help the kids.

  Chapter Nine

  Rosa had decided to spend two days at or near the public television office in hopes someone would call and report having seen the kids or that the children themselves might call in. She drove part of each day between Topeka and Kansas City, stopping at fast-food restaurants and gas stations, showing photos of the children and asking if anyone had seen them. She didn’t know how they might see the newscast if they weren’t staying in motels along the way, but couldn’t imagine how they would afford that luxury. She hoped they were finding shelter at night. Still, she realized that they were more resourceful than she had thought to get this far on their own.

  * * *

  Masozi awoke to the smell of sausages cooking and made his way into the kitchen. “That is a most wonderful smell, Mr. Camp,” Masozi commented, lifting his nose in the air like a hunting dog in search of a scent trail.

  “Now how’d you know it was me, Masozi?” Camp asked quizzically.

  “You do not fully lift your right foot when you walk and Mr. Lane does. It makes a shuffling sound,” Masozi explained.

  “You’re amazing. I had a cow step on my right foot when I was fixin’ to milk it. The cow, that is, not the foot. Never been quite the same. Settle down over here at the table and I’ll wake your friends. We’re about ready to jump on these vittles.”

  “Jump on a vittle. I do not know how to do that.” Masozi looked puzzled.

  “Sure you do. Just gobble these sausages. That’s jumpin’ on a vittle.”

  “That I can do.” Masozi smiled as he followed Camp’s instructions. Camp woke the other children and Lane came in from chores to join them for breakfast. As they ate Lane explained their plan.

  “After lunch, I’m gonna drive you east in the pickup while Camp stays here and feeds the critters. I’ll get you into Illinois maybe. It’s only about seven or eight hours. Then I’ll have to leave you on your own to fend for yourselves. Think you can do that?”

  Daudi thought for a moment and then said, “This is our journey to make. You have been most kind. We thank you very much for every kindness. But we will be just fine. Mr. Camp gave me a map and drew the path to New York City on it. I think we will be there in four or six or ten days, before the conference call.”

  Camp and Lane chuckled in stereo. “Four, six, or ten, huh?” Lane chortled. “That’s a plan. I figure you three can do it if you think you can.”

  While Lane packed the truck, Camp gave them each a little backpack filled with snacks and boxes of fruit juice. He had made the backpacks out of burlap feedsacks, but his skill on a sewing machine had turned them into sturdy carry-alls.

  They hugged Camp and thanked him profusely. Daudi and Masozi climbed into the truck. “Where’s Ramla?” Masozi asked. Daudi looked out the window and spotted Ramla a few yards from the truck. She had the big yellow dog’s face in her hands, almost touching his nose with her face. Daudi saw Ramla’s lips moving, as though she was talking to the dog, but he thought that was unlikely. Still, the dog’s dark chocolate eyes never left hers as he appeared to listen intently. Finally, Ramla hugged him fiercely, and then climbed into the truck with the others. As they drove away, she stared after the dog and almost soundlessly whispered, “Goodbye, Toto” against the window. For the first time since he’d come to the orphanage, she allowed Daudi to put his arm around her in comfort. After a moment, he drew her attention to the hills covered in a solid blanket of blooming flowers.

  “Look, Ramla. Poppies. It is good we have a friend with this beautiful truck to carry us safely through them.” She wiped away a tear and offered a little smile and nod.

  * * *

  Camp had big tears welling in his eyes as they drove away. He admired what they were trying to do and wished he could go with them, but knew he could not. He had a job to do as soon as they left.

  When the truck rolled out of the gate, Camp heaved a sigh and turned to the phone. He punched in a number and listened, unsure about how long to let it ring or whether he should be calling at all. He didn’t have time to worry about it, as it was answered on the first ring.

  “Rosa Carson here.” He hesitated only a heartbeat before speaking.

  “Miz Carson. I know where your kids are,” Camp began.

  “Are they safe? Are they okay? Where are they?”

  “Well, I can’t rightly tell you yet. I need to know your intentions, if you don’t mind me asking. These kids don’t need another bad time. They’ve had plenty.”

  “You’re right, sir. You are so right. I would do nothing to harm any of them. I’ve seen where they come from. I met them in the orphanage in Kenya. As beautiful as the country is, their circumstances there are just impossible. I don’t blame them a bit for trying to find a better place. But they need help here. Daudi needs medicine soon or he will get sicker and sicker. Please help me help them.”

  Camp thought awhile without speaking. “Don’t know. Feel like I might be betraying them. You seem like a good person, but I believe they may need to do this on their own.”

  “Do what, exactly? You’ve seen them. They’re very young and Daudi will move into full blown AIDS soon without help.”

  “Yep, he said that. Little feller don’t seem afraid of much.”

  “He’s not, but he deserves a chance to be a child, to live without fear for his life. His grandmother took care of him and worked sixteen hours a day to get his medicine in very creative ways. She’s gone now and he’s left to fend for himself. You’ve obviously helped the three of them in some way. Now please, please let me help them, too,” she said quietly, praying he would.

  Reluctantly, Camp answered. “Okay. Here’s what they told us. They plan to go to New York City to talk to Kamau Akama. Do you know how they came up with that idea?”

  “Oh, my. Oh, boy. I was afraid of that. That may have sort of been my fault. I never dreamed they would try to do it. We were talking about The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and they asked who really had the power to set things right. I just never thought they would go through with it. Wow. I don’t know whether to be mad at them or just amazed at their ability to get this far on their own.” Camp smiled to himself as she wound down.

  “Yep, I know what you mean. If they were my young’uns, I’d be tanning their hides about now, but as it is, I think they know exactly what they’re up against, and may be on to something. Anyways, they’re doing okay, but they could use some help for sure. You need to know they’re con
cerned about your intentions. They seem to be under the impression that they’ll be in serious trouble if you catch up to them.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth. I love those kids. If we can figure out how to keep them here, I’m all for it. Where are they now?”

  “Well, they were here on our farm for a couple of days, but now my brother’s driving them east to Illinois. He’s gonna leave them on the road to New York somewheres and come back. He’s supposed to be calling me from St. Louie to tell me how it’s going. What do you think we should do now?”

  “Illinois? That’s perfect. I grew up in Illinois and I have family in Vandalia, right on Interstate 70. Could he take them there?”

  “Never heard of it. How far into Illinois is it? He was hoping to turn back just past St. Louie.”

  “It’s just one hour east of St. Louis. I own a cabin on a lake there. He can leave them in the cabin. It’s a safe place. I’ll join them there and help them, but probably better if your brother doesn’t tell them I’m coming. They may run without understanding that I just want to help.”

  “Well, okay. Tell me what to tell him.” Camp said with some concern. He felt better after the conversation with Rosa, but still wondered if he was doing the right thing.

  Rosa gave explicit instructions on how his brother could find the cabin three miles north of Interstate 70. As she ended the connection to the camp, she weighed whether her best option was to drive to the airport, wait for a plane, then rent another car in St. Louis for the hour drive once she got there, or just start driving. The second option meant five hours in the car, but it might be less hassle and ultimately faster than flying. By her calculations, if she left now, she could probably reach the cabin within an hour of the kids’ arrival. She gathered her things, checked out of the hotel, and hit the highway. She cranked up the car radio, alternating between singing along and drifting mentally into projections of what might occur when she caught up with the children. By the time she noticed the light on her dashboard encouraging her to “check engine,” she had no idea how long it had been on. It occurred to her she should have been paying more attention to the ca-thunking sound she’d been trying to ignore for the last hour. The car lurched forward with a final ca-thunk that sounded like a deathbed cough, and then went completely silent as she coasted to a stop on the side of the road.

  “Terrific,” Rosa said under her breath. She pulled out her cell phone to call for roadside assistance from her insurance company. She punched in the number and listened, but there was no ringing on the other end. She dialed the number again with the same result. “What is wrong with this thing?” She spoke out loud in frustration, then realized the phone was displaying the “No Service Available” message. “Even better,” she muttered. She looked around, trying to determine what her options might be. She thought it had been about a twenty-minute drive since she had left the last sign of civilization. Up until then, there had seemed to be one town after another, each merging into the next. How hard could it be to get someone to stop and help? This was a heavily traveled highway.

  Rosa stepped out of the car and tried to flag the first passing motorist she saw. The driver honked, but didn’t stop. The next three didn’t even bother to honk. Fifteen minutes and twenty cars later, she decided she’d better start walking back to the previous town. She’d gone only half a mile when she found an emergency call box on the side of the highway. “Perfect,” she whispered. She grabbed the phone and made contact with a towing service, then went back to wait by her car. The first half-hour went quickly. The second half-hour dragged. After an hour and a half, she began to wonder if perhaps the towing service had misunderstood her position or her need for immediate assistance. She was just starting to head back to the emergency phone when the tow truck arrived.

  * * *

  As Lane drove through the hilly countryside, he pointed out some of the interesting features that could be seen from the interstate. The kids had to admit it was better to ride in the cab of the truck than in the back with a load of goats. Daudi found the landscape fascinating. Lane slowed the truck as they crossed a river wider than any Ramla and Daudi had seen.

  “That there’s the mighty Missouri. Riverboats used to try to navigate that river way up it toward the northwest, but it’s shallow all over the place. Not a good boatin’ river like the Mississippi. If you think this is big, wait until we see it. It’s a giant,” he remarked, chuckling.

  “Will we meet Huckleberry Finn?” Masozi asked.

  “Well, I’ll be. You know about Huck Finn?” Lane asked.

  “Oh yes, there were a few American books at the orphanage in Kenya. This is how we learn to speak English.”

  “You know Huck’s just a boy in a book, not a real person?”

  “Oh! I . . . I . . . No, I thought he lived on the river. He is not a live person?” Masozi asked in amazement.

  “I’m sorry, Masozi. I shoulda said that different. He’s a real boy in a book, a story, like that Oz book you kids read. I reckon he’s real forever, but you can’t exactly meet him. He’s kinda one of the spirits of the Mississippi River.”

  “A mythical character,” Daudi suggested. “Like the Wizard.”

  “Well, yeh. Everybody in this country reads about him. Mark Twain wrote the book. He lived in Hannibal, just north of where we’re going. He was a storyteller alright.”

  “When I smell the Mississippi, I will send greetings to Huckleberry in my thoughts.”

  Lane laughed and snorted. “You do that, Masozi. I think it’s a good idea.”

  Daudi became very serious and asked, “Do you think we are foolish, Mr. Lane?”

  “Uh, well, I, uh, no,” he stammered. “I don’t think you’re foolish. You’re just kinda young to be doing what you’re doing.”

  “Perhaps we are too young to know what we are doing cannot be done, Mr. Lane.”

  “You are, uh, yes, I guess you are too young to know.”

  “When we are older we may not wish to do such foolish things, so we must do them now. We must tell our stories, like Mr. Twain, before it is too late. Except our stories are all true.”

  “I reckon that’s right. You are most likely right. You’re smart to do this while you’re young. You know, me and Camp didn’t play music until we was near fifty-five years old. We always thought we were too old to learn or even try. Camp bought a guitar at a garage sale and I laughed at him, told him he’d never learn to play. He said, I’ll show you, you old coot. In a year he was playing Malagueña and I couldn’t hardly keep a chord, so I practiced in the barn by myself until I was better than him. Then he got better. Now we play about the same and playing together is one of our favorite things. I reckon we forgot we were too old to learn as soon as we started trying to show each other up. So I reckon it’s okay to be too young to know what you’re doing may not work. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  Lane began to wonder if they had done the right thing in calling Rosa Carson. After talking with Camp, he thought she would try to help these kids, but did they really need help? He was not sure about any of it, but he would take them to the cabin and decide what to do next once they got there.

  In the late afternoon they took I-70 through the heart of downtown St. Louis. Lane wanted to show the kids the St. Louis Gateway Arch and the waterfront area.

  “I smell the river, Mr. Lane. It is most beautiful,” Masozi exclaimed. Ramla leaned over him to smell the thick summer air hovering along the riverbanks.

  “You see that big arch? There’s a museum under the ground there. Tells stories ’bout the Indians who lived here, the mountain men, the explorers, and even farmers. I been there a couple of times. Maybe sometime I can take you there after you finish your job.” It comforted the children to know they had a friend in America, even as they realized it was unlikely they’d ever see Lane or Camp again. Lane drove as slowly as possible through the city and then turned up through East St. Louis toward the flat mesa of the Illinois tallgrass prairie.

>   “This was once a great ocean of grass like your Mara in Kenya, but the grass was three or four times taller than you. An elephant could have walked through here with just the tips of his ears and back showing above it.” Lane interpreted the landscape as they drove past the communities of Highland and Pocahontas. A series of wood frame houses dotted the streamside valleys.

  “These little bitty farms grow a lot of corn and soybeans, but the prairies are gone, just like in Kansas where me and Camp live.”

  “You said we are going to a cabin, Mr. Lane? A small house?” Daudi asked.

  “Yep, I reckon so, Daudi. Camp told me about it when I talked to him at our last stop. I don’t know much more than what he said. Supposed to be empty and a friend of Camp’s said you can stay there.”

  “That is very kind. We will not stay long, just tonight, I think,” Daudi said. “We must keep moving.”

  They drove on in silence the last thirty miles to Vandalia. Lane found his way north to Vandalia Lake and then onto a small blacktop road through thee woods. He found the street name Rosa had given Camp and saw the cabin nestled among the trees. It overlooked the small man-made lake. It was early evening and the lake shimmered with the golden light of a setting sun. Camp found the key and let them into the cabin.

  Daudi’s mouth fell open when they entered. “It is like a mansion, Mr. Lane. It is a bit fancier than our farmhouse, gotta admit.” The rustic exterior of the cabin hid an interior that looked like it had been decorated by a professional, a blend of contemporary and country that offered a casual, homey feeling from the minute they stepped across the threshold.

  “I am smelling the lake,” Masozi said, heading to the deck beyond the kitchen door. “It smells very good, like fish, I think.”

  “Yep, I reckon it does at that. I’ll rustle us up some grub before I go. You go outside and check out the water and boathouse. I’ll have some food on the table when you come back in.”