Too late. Nelson jumps on a stump, leaps like a wild cat, grabs my wrist. The rock flies loose. He falls on top of me, hard, my right arm wrenched behind my back. I hit him with my free hand. Punch him in the head. He grips my hand tight. Smothers it to my mouth.
“I’ll only say this once,” he pants. “Stay down. Shut up. Or you’re dead. We’ll both be dead.”
I stare up, terrified.
“Promise you won’t scream?” he asks. “Promise you’ll stay down?”
I nod as well as I can with my head pressed in the dirt.
He lets me go. “You were right.”
“About what? Nelson. Tell me!”
“Mandiki. He crossed the border days ago. The rebels have been at my cattle post. They could be anywhere. We have to stay still.” He takes a furtive glimpse over the grasses and falls back beside me, gulping air.
“After I saw the bodies in town,” he gasps, “I went to my cattle post to clear my head. Word’s been spreading south, post to post: Send your kids to Tiro, the rebels are all around. Our herd boys were scared. My brothers were drunk. They said it was a joke, that they’d whip any boy who left. I gave the kids a wink and started to pen the cattle early. A cow was missing. I climbed a tree to try and spot her. That’s when Pako showed up. Yes, Pako. He was leading a man with a necklace of bones.”
“Mandiki?”
Nelson nods. “My brothers were too drunk to know who he was. Runako gave Pako a swat and spat on the general’s boots. Samson demanded his name. ‘You don’t know me?’ Mandiki asked. Samson said the last time he’d seen a face like Mandiki’s, it was on the ass end of one of his cows. Mandiki tilted his jaw and a circle of men and children rose from the grasses outside our fence. Runako and Samson suddenly understood. They fell to their knees and blubbered. Mandiki put his gun in Pako’s hand. He planted the muzzle on Runako’s forehead. ‘Say goodbye to your brother,’ he said, and squeezed Pako’s finger. Runako flew backward. Then Mandiki aimed the gun at Samson. ‘Last time I saw a face like yours,’ he said, ‘it was exploding.’ He squeezed Pako’s finger again. And that was that.”
“Oh, Nelson.” I touch his hand. “How did you get away?”
“Luck.” He trembles. “Some of the rebels went to the main path. The rest tied the herd boys’ hands. While they were busy, I leapt from the tree and ran low through the grass. I made it to your uncles’ post—they’d already left—and now I’m here.”
My throat tightens. “Tiro. We have to get back to Tiro.”
“We can’t. It’s too late. We’ll have missed curfew. If the soldiers spot us, they’ll shoot us on sight. Worse, if we’re wandering through the brush, we could bump into Mandiki.”
“But Tiro’s in danger. Our families—”
“Tiro is safe,” Nelson says. “It’s guarded by soldiers. They control the highway. Why would Mandiki attack a place that’s protected when he can steal from the farms?”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing. We wait here till morning.”
Twenty minutes ago, an overnight in the bush seemed like an adventure. Now that it’s real, I feel sick. I bunch my knees under my chin and rock.
“You really are a city girl,” Nelson says. He’s not being mean this time, just honest. “Don’t worry.” He puts a hand on my foot to calm me. “I’ve camped around here since I was little. It’s nothing special.”
“But what if the rebels don’t stick to the paths? What if they come this way, cross-country like you did, to stay out of sight?”
“We hide in the grasses. They’re up to our waists, don’t forget. We just have to stay low. Make sure they don’t see any movement. We’ll be as hard to spot as buttons in a cotton field.”
“What about our trails?”
For a second, Nelson’s hand tightens on my foot. “Cows graze all over the bush. The rebels won’t give the trails a thought. Even if they did, it’s too dark for them to see prints.”
“Unless they use flashlights.”
“They won’t. In the bush, what lets you see, lets you be seen. Once the rebels set camp, they may light a fire; there’s campfires all over cattle country; that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. But traveling with lights? No. If they come through here, they’ll move by the stars, like me. Anyway, let’s not think about that. Let’s think about the morning. Mandiki will have passed through. It’ll be safe to go home.”
I get a chill. “What about Pako?”
Nelson sucks in his breath. “Pako is gone,” he says, voice flat. “He’s gone and he’s never coming back.” He chokes. “How do I tell Mama? How do I tell her about Pako, Runako, Samson? How do I tell her I watched and did nothing?”
Nelson’s face turns into a scream, but no sound comes out. He rolls away, body heaving, cut by thorns, slick with sweat. I take my kerchief and wipe his back. He winces. A few thorns are stuck in his flesh. I pick them out. It’s hard to see. While we’ve been talking, the sun’s gone down behind the brush. Slivers of sunset blaze through the branches. Shadows melt into the grass.
A branch snaps behind the nearby thornbushes.
A man’s voice cuts through the air: “You said there was a clearing. Is my little scout telling tales?”
Mandiki.
23
WE PRESS OURSELVES against the ground.
“The clearing’s just ahead. I promise.” It’s Pako. His voice is hoarse and frightened. “There’s an old ruins in the center. Nobody’s ever there. Not ever.”
The high grass rustles. We cower like ground swallows hiding from hunters. I have a desperate urge to run. Nelson knows it. He grips my shoulder. I close my eyes and pray to disappear. To vanish into the air.
“There it is! The dead land,” Pako says. “Straight ahead. See?”
They’re on top of us now, so near we could trip them. Boots crunch a few feet to my right. I look up. Out of the heavy dusk, a line of men rises above the stalks. As it forges forward, the thick blades bend over us.
Mixed in with the men, I see the bobbing heads and shoulders of children, some with automatic rifles, others loaded down with sacks and crates. They focus ahead, faces hard. After them comes a man yanking a line of boys tied to a length of rope. Burlap bags hang over their heads. As they pass, Nelson shudders like he knows them. His herd boys? Another man brings up the rear, shoving the last one forward with the muzzle of his automatic rifle.
They move into the compound ahead. I peek through the row of bent stalks beside my head, and up the newly trampled path. I can’t see to the sides, but I have a view straight in front of me. My heart flutters, but not like before; buried in deep grass, we’re far enough back not to be seen, so long as we don’t move.
In the deepening gloom, I see the men, maybe fifteen or twenty, toting machine guns and rifles. Twice as many children—girls and boys both—setting down their burdens. Directly ahead, Nelson’s herd boys huddled together in front of a man with a little boy: Mandiki and Pako.
Bird whistles echo from all sides of the compound. At the sound of the all-clear, Mandiki claps his hands. “Build me a fire. Make an altar beside it.” He points to my family’s old resting place at the back of the compound. “Use that waste of rocks.”
“No, don’t take those,” Pako cries out. “They’re Thela burial stones. They’ve been there since forever. Since before the village cemetery even. They belong to the ancestors. We’ll be haunted.”
“You’ll be haunted, little scout, not me.” Mandiki laughs. “I own the dead.”
A handful of rebels yank the hooded line of herd boys over to my family’s graves. They hoist the rocks into the boys’ arms, destroying the resting place of my Auntie Amanthe, my great-grandparents, and generations of Thelas before them. I struggle to see.
Nelson touches my shoulder. I keep down and watch as the boys stagger back with their load, suffocating under the burlap hoods. They heave my family’s burial stones into a pile. The men drag them back to the graves for a second load, a third, while other men sha
pe the pile into a pyramid.
Meanwhile, children Pako’s age, weapons hanging from their waists, collect sticks, kindling, and broken mopane poles from the edges of the compound. They stack them beside the altar of burial stones, next to Mandiki. The fire is lit. In the flickering glow, shadows float over the ruins like spirits.
The rebels open their sacks and crates. Liquor bottles are pulled from the crates; from the sacks, slabs of freshly slaughtered meat. Nelson’s lost cow, I’ll bet. The raw stench of it fills the air. The rebels feed. It’s like they haven’t eaten in days. Some cook skewers of beef over the fire; others swallow strips raw. The blood on their hands glistens in the firelight.
What time is it? I don’t know. Minutes could be hours; hours, minutes. I’ve stepped out of time. Hypnotized by fear, like a mouse in front of a snake.
Every so often, children with machetes add new wood to the fire. Their eyes are sunken, as if peering from tiny caves. Their hair is matted with mud and straw. Mostly, they’re dressed in rags, some of the girls in burlap maize sacks, seams split for arms and heads. Only a few have shoes. Others have sandals made of rubber tires, tied to their feet I’m not sure how. By sapling strips? Nylon cord? The rest are barefoot. A lot of them hobble about on swollen feet.
Mandiki downs the end of a bottle. A boy takes it away, while a girl wipes his mouth with a cloth. He gives her bottom a slap, rises, and claps his hands. The group falls silent. Mandiki takes a cattle brand and sticks it in the fire. He grins through his mouth of dead men’s teeth. “It’s time to meet the new recruits.”
The rebels, both adults and child soldiers, force the bound herd boys onto their knees in front of the flames. The child soldiers pull off the hoods, while the adults plant the barrels of their automatic rifles at the base of the herd boys’ heads. The herd boys’ faces are frozen in terror. Pako is thrown down beside them.
Mandiki stares into their eyes. “Don’t think you can escape,” he says quietly. “Don’t think you can run home to your mama and papa. You have no home. I am your home. If you ever try to leave my protection, you will be caught. And do you know what will happen then? You’ll be held to the ground and chopped into bits. Your families, too.”
Silence except for the crackling of the burning wood.
An older child soldier drops on one knee in front of Mandiki. He holds up an ebony box. Mandiki reaches inside and takes out a skull wrapped in a monkey skin. The skull is missing its lower jaw. Is it one of the jaws in the necklace around Mandiki’s neck? Are some of its teeth imbedded in his mouth?
Mandiki puts his right hand into the cavity of the skull, letting the monkey skin hang from his wrist as if it was the skull’s shawl. “These are my new recruits,” he whispers into the skull’s ear hole, his voice as dead and dry as maize husks. He looks at the boys. “This is my special friend. Once, he was the most powerful spirit doctor in Mozambique. Now he guides me, stealing the spirits of my enemies while they sleep.”
Mandiki extends his arm and parades the boney hand puppet in front of his captives. “My friend knows who you are,” he continues. “He knows what you think. What you dream.” The skull nods, gleefully twisting its gaze from one to the other. It nuzzles into Pako’s neck.
Nelson stiffens as Pako recoils. Mandiki smiles and kisses the skull’s forehead. He drapes the monkey skin over the altar of burial stones, places the skull on top, and falls facedown on the ground before it. In the flashes of light cast by the flames, the skull glares, mocks, and threatens.
The rebels chant, the children among them beating their chests, while their elders rhythmically strop their machetes. As they chant, Mandiki prays words I’ve never heard. He growls and grunts sounds I imagine might come from the animals in the park, or from somewhere deep inside the earth.
He rises. Rolls back his head. Splays his arms wide. His eyes and cheeks have disappeared. His face is like the skull. He moves as if its spirit lives in his body. He lifts the branding iron from the fire. The brand glows red-hot from the blaze. Mandiki stabs it into a metal pot and pulls it out, a wad of flaming batten twisted on its tip. He raises the iron above his head and lowers the burning end into his mouth. A jet of fire shoots from his lips.
The herd boys wail. A good thing too, or the rebels would’ve heard Nelson yelp. This time, I’m the one who calms us down. “It’s an old fire-eater’s trick,” I whisper. “My teacher told me how it’s done.” I pray that Mr. Selalame’s right. Here, at night in the dead land, I can believe that demons rule the earth.
Mandiki enjoys the herd boys’ fear. He juts his jaw and winks at his troops. Taking their cue, the older child soldiers drop behind Pako and the herd boys, rip open their shirts, and pin them tight. Mandiki steps up to the first in line. He holds up the glowing brand. “With this brand, the world will know you are mine. No one—not even your mama or papa—will ever take you back. If they try to, they will die.”
The child whimpers.
“My soldiers don’t cry,” Mandiki warns. “Cry, and I’ll burn a hole down your throat.” He raises the brand. I turn my head. I hear the hiss as it sears into flesh, the sound of feet kicking against the ground. But no screams.
When it’s over, I look back. The skull is grinning.
“Well done,” Mandiki says. “My friend approves.”
As the boys nurse their blistered chests, Mandiki throws aside the brand and steps beside Pako. He squats on his haunches, his boney legs folded up like a giant locust’s. Without flinching, he reaches into the flames and takes out a glowing shard of mopane pole. He holds it out to Pako. “Now then, my little scout, draw me your town.”
Pako cringes.
“Draw me a map of your town now,” Mandiki says, “or I’ll hunt down your mama. When I find her, I’ll make you do to her what you did to your brothers.”
Pako shakes. He grips the smoking pole-end with both hands and drags it back and forth, up and down, over the dry earth. When he’s done, he drops the shard and cradles his burned hands to his mouth. “Where’s the general dealer’s?” Mandiki says.
“Here,” Pako says softly.
“And the clinic?”
Pako points at the dirt drawing.
“Across the street from each other. Good,” Mandiki says. “That’s where the soldiers will be, controlling the highway, gas tanks, and medicine…And what’s that mark, away from the highway, back of the town?”
Pako pauses. “The Tiro cemetery.”
“Is that so?” Mandiki laughs. “We’ll make sure it gets some new business.” He claps his hands. “Hyenas, load up. Take everything. We won’t be back.”
The child soldiers pack. Mandiki stands in profile, Pako and the herd boys cowering at his feet, the men in a double line in front of him. “Micah’s in position for the diversion,” he says. “He’ll rocket the Shawshe gas tanks within the quarter hour. My cousin’s scouting in the reeds by the Tiro cutoff. He’ll radio when the Tiro squad pulls out to reinforce Shawshe. We’ll wait half an hour till the army’s far off. Then attack at will.”
The men nod. “Where do we cache our gear?”
Mandiki taps his toe on the map. “Here, out of sight, in the cemetery. I’ll wait there with the patrol till you’re done.” He points to the men on his right. “You three, take the kids from Ngala. Shoot a smoke bomb into the clinic to clear any troops left behind. Load up the boys with guns and ammo. Load the girls with the clinic’s drugs.”
He nods to the rebels on his left. “These herd boys are your new pack mules. Weigh them with goods from the general dealer’s. The rest of you, storm the village outskirts with my little scout. He’ll show you where the children live. Bind as many as you can, their families, too. They can carry our cemetery cache till we’re far away in new brush.”
Pako covers his face.
Mandiki kicks him. “Stay alert, boy. You’ve already betrayed your village. There’s no turning back.”
24
SOON THE REBELS are packed and ready. As they wait for the
order to move out, some guard the herd boys, kicking them at random. Others bunch in small circles and smoke. Their chatter rises and falls. Mandiki wraps the skull in its monkey skin and puts it back in the ebony box. He sits on the altar of burial stones, stroking the box, his dead eyes lost in the coals.
My joints are as stiff as Granny’s. How long have we been stuck here? I don’t know. But we have to escape. We have to warn Tiro—we have to save Soly, Iris, our families.
The fire is dying. Ash drifts through the air. No one’s paying attention. I tap Nelson’s elbow. “Now’s our chance. Let’s go.”
He shakes his head.
I ignore him, and inch back alongside the trampled path.
“Stop.” His eyes widen in panic. “You’ll make a noise. We’ll get caught.”
The rebels fall silent. Did they hear us? A crackle of embers from the fire. A log collapses. The talk bubbles back. We’re safe.
“Do what you want,” I say softly. “I’m off.” Where, I don’t know. Once out of this place, I’ll be lost in the night. But I have to do something. Anything.
I wriggle back a bit more. Nelson sees I’m serious. He hesitates, then follows. We slide back slowly, slowly. Freeze. Slide back slowly, slowly. Freeze.
My legs rub over coarse sand. Something tickles. Ants. I’ve backed beside the anthill. They’re crawling all over.
Out of the blue, a loud stream of water hits the grass at the top of the trail. One of the rebels is peeing into the dirt at the edge of the compound. It’s so dark we didn’t see him coming. He inhales. His face glows from the end of a lit cigarette.
The ants start biting my legs. The itch is driving me crazy. I want to scratch, to roll around, to get up and run.
The rebel finishes his business. Leave, leave. But he doesn’t. He stands stock still, staring down the trampled path in our direction. He turns to the group and snaps his fingers. A man in one of the circles gets up and comes over. A few other rebels rouse to join him. Mandiki looks up.
Chanda's Wars Page 12
