Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  I cross my fingers and run. Sure enough, past some heavy brush, a path cuts across the lane. There’re streaks of blood on the crushed grass. Blood from Mr. Bakwanga, dragged home by his legs, his severed wrists smearing the trail. Did he have AIDS? What if I’m cut? Since Mama passed, I act like all blood’s infected. It’s the only way to stay safe. Safe? I’m following murderers, and I think about “safe”?

  I rattle some sense into my head. The blood’s been exposed for hours. Any virus will be dead.

  I step on the bloody trail. The farther I go, the slipperier it gets. I keep my eyes up, off the gore. Soon, a fresh path veers to my right, the tall blades packed down by dozens of pairs of feet. At the divide, there’s been a whirlwind of motion, as if people didn’t know where to move and tried to move everywhere at once.

  A rusty ring circles the edge of the trampled patch, turning a brackish red as it reaches the patch’s core. More blood. Blood sprayed far and wide. Dried brown on the outer stalks and bushes. Still thick and wet at the center, clotting on the inner grasses, puddling in the hardened groove of the footpath.

  The stench is overpowering: the vegetation alive, crawling with insects come to feed on the sticky sweet. Flies buzz around my eyes. I brush them away from my face, take the kerchief off my head, and cover my mouth and nose. The tea and biscuits lurch at the base of my throat. I swallow hard.

  So this is it—the place where Mr. Bakwanga was murdered. When I started my trek, Granny’s story was like a tale. But here, now, the shock of the killing is real.

  I imagine myself tied to that line of prisoners, pulled back and forth by family, neighbors—struggling to escape the hot blood, the horror, fearing for our lives and the lives of the children. Iris, Soly, Granny, Auntie Lizbet—I see them, shapes in the night, masks of terror, tripping over the body, pressing their cargo tight between wrists and bellies—can’t let it fall, or Mandiki’s machete will find them next.

  Yes, this is the place where Mr. Bakwanga was murdered. And this is the path the rebels took inland, like Granny said. The path that leads to where Auntie died. Where the mamas and papas were abused. Where the children—Iris, Soly, Pako, and the others—vanished.

  Where were they taken? To do what? To become what? I don’t want to know. All I want to know—do know—is this:

  This is the place where Mr. Bakwanga was murdered. And this is the path where the rebels went inland. Soly. Iris. Hang on.

  In a quarter mile, the landscape changes. The grasses thin, their stalks shorten, their color drains. The tips tickle my thighs. It’s dry here, not much for them to grow on, not much for them to drink, as the dirt grows spare, giving way to stone plates breaking through the earth’s surface.

  I have a sip of water from my thermos. It’s hot. Pretty soon, I’ll need to find some shade, or I’ll dry out like an old bone.

  As I walk, I think about Mama. Mama and me, when I was little. How she stood pounding maize with that heavy wooden mallet that was taller than her; or sat on her mat, legs to the side, rolling her wicker pan to separate the husks. The whole time, she sang songs, and I danced around her, clapping, and falling on my bum.

  I remember the first time Mama let me toss feed to the chickens, and how they came at me flapping and squawking. I was so scared. Even scareder than when I’d see their feet floating in the soup pot.

  And I remember how I’d go with her to the standpipe, and touch the sides of the bucket as she pumped it full of water, and listen as she’d tell the women behind her what a big help I was. They must’ve been winking at each other. Especially when Mama’d fill my little plastic cup and have me hold it on top of my head, like she did her bucket. When we’d get home, I’d pour my cup over a few bean plants in our garden, and Mama would say, “Well done, my little bee catcher. Because of you, we’ll have food.” She made me feel like the most important person in the world.

  Oh, and then, then there was the time I had that fever. I’d have been about Soly’s age. It’s mainly a fog, but I remember Mama sitting with me, telling me stories, patting my forehead with a damp rag, fanning my face with a piece of cardboard. They say I nearly died. But I didn’t. Mama wouldn’t let me.

  Mama. Mama.

  I freeze. Without realizing it, I’ve stepped out of the grasses. I’ve reached the stretch of rock where the children were taken away.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting when Granny talked about “a stretch of rock.” Something about the size of my yard, maybe. But this is as big as the soccer field beside my old high school. It tilts up to a low ridge at the far end. Cracks rut the gray surface like wrinkles. Sow thistles have taken root in the deep seams.

  Where did the rebels go from here? A little dirt’s been kicked onto the rock from where they left the grasses, and a couple of the weeds have been stomped on, but the stone floor hides its secrets. Under the midday sun, it’s hot to walk on, even in my shoes. I decide to go around the outside of it. The rebels had to step off somewhere. I just have to find the spot.

  About twenty yards up the left side, I spot a cluster of stones on the rock. They must be the ones that pelted Auntie Lizbet. When they hit her, they dropped to her feet. Beyond the cluster, on either side, there’s a stone starburst: the ones thrown wide.

  In my mind, I hear Auntie Lizbet singing the harvest song. Her song will live in these rocks forever. Poor Auntie. She was a demon to Mama, a saint to Iris. How can one person be so different? I’m sorry I hated her. I pray she forgives me. And I pray that somewhere, she and Mama have made peace. They loved my little sister. Love can heal a lot. I hope Auntie has some left over for me.

  I reach the end of the stretch of stone. The ridge is about eight feet high. The rise drops back to the ground. The slope is shaded. Cool to the touch. I scramble up to the top to get a better view.

  Yellow grasses flow from the rock to a broken wall of thornbushes. But when I look for Mandiki’s trail, my stomach seizes. The rebels have split up. Instead of one path, more than a dozen lead from the stone. Soly and Iris could’ve gone down any of them.

  What do I do? Which path do I take? Think. Why? It’s hopeless. They could be anywhere.

  I sink to the ground, too hot and tired to cry. Waves of heat ripple the air. The paths vibrate. My forehead tingles. I shade my eyes with my hands and count them.

  It doesn’t make sense. There are fifteen paths. But I saw fewer than twenty adult rebels. That’s barely one adult for each path. How can one adult and a few kids attack a village? They can’t. Besides, this isn’t Ngala. The rebels don’t know our land or our people. Alone, they’d be easy to pick off, and the children hard to control.

  Mandiki knows that. He may be insane, but he’s not stupid. Ergo, as Mr. Selalame would say, Mandiki hasn’t divided his men. These paths are a trick to confuse people. Maybe to make it look like there’re more rebels than there really are. Or maybe to make people like me give up.

  Well, whatever the trick is, it won’t work! If the rebels haven’t split up, I can choose whichever path I want. Sooner or later, they’ll all come together.

  A voice in my head says, “What if you’re wrong?” I tell it to shut up.

  I pick the farthest path on my far left. It takes me out deep, then arcs wide, spiraling off through the bushes. It loops around one jackalberry after another, before returning to the ridge, where it divides in two. I take the right fork.

  It’s hot, but I’m not sweating. I’m too dry. My lips. They’re parched. I should drink some more water. Not yet. I don’t want to run out. Still, I should get some shade. I will. Once I get somewhere.

  My trail zigzags like a drunk on shake-shake. I stare at the ground so I won’t lose my way. Suddenly it dawns on me—I’m wandering around in large figure eights. Mandiki’s trails are a trick all right. They’re a giant maze. I stagger off the path. Where is the path? It’s so bright. So hard to see. There’s so much light. So many prints. So much…so many…

  What am I thinking? What am I trying to think?

>   The air is smothering. I see dots. Is it the sun? The heat? A vision?

  Yes, I’m having a vision. On top of the ridge, I think I see Nelson. He’s waving. Calling my name. “Chanda! Chanda, over here!” I go to call back. I can’t. My throat’s too dry. I need some shade. I need some—

  “Chanda!”

  The air rolls up in hot waves. Everything blurs.

  “Chanda!”

  My vision swims through the air.

  I think I’m smiling.

  I think I’m—

  I think—

  I—

  30

  I’M ON MY back in the shade of the ridge, my feet raised on a rock. There’s a wet bandanna on my forehead. Nelson has my head in his lap. He’s pouring water down my throat. I wave the canteen away, gulp for air.

  “What’s your name?” he says.

  I blink. “You know my name.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Chanda Kabelo.”

  He puts a hand in front of my face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the stretch of rock where Auntie died.”

  “Good. You’re not as far gone as I thought.” He takes his bandanna from my forehead, presses it under my neck, and rests my head in his palm. The cool damp of the cloth feels good. “What were you thinking, trekking at midday?” he mutters. “You’re not even wearing a kerchief.”

  “I am too.” I reach up. My hand grazes hair. He’s right. Where did it go? I suddenly remember using it to cover my nose from the smell of Mr. Bakwanga’s blood. With all the shock, I must have let it drop. How stupid. How careless. How—

  I roll off Nelson’s lap, wobble to my knees. My stomach feels like it’s full of bad soup.

  “Lie down,” he snaps. “Feet back up on the rock, higher than your head.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re dehydrated. If I hadn’t come along, you’d be passed out in the sun, frying. By day’s end, you could’ve been dying.”

  “Hah!” Determined to look strong, I toss my chin like Iris. My head explodes with pain. I crumple back to the ground. Nelson doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. “You’ve come to bring me home, haven’t you?”

  “Who says I’m here for you at all?”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No,” he snorts. “The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

  That shuts me up. I look off at one of the thornbushes, clear my throat. “If you’re not here for me, then why are you here?”

  “Pako.”

  “I don’t believe you. Yesterday when you found me at the ruin on my family’s post, you acted like he was already dead. You wouldn’t follow him, and he was right there.”

  Nelson’s eyes narrow. “Things have changed.”

  “How?”

  “You ask too many questions.” He rips a blade of grass, shoves it between his teeth, and sprints over the top of the ridge. There’s a strange sound, as if he’s struggling for air. At last he comes back down. He sits on his haunches and stares at the horizon, idly fiddling with the chewed stalk like nothing’s happened. A silence grows so big I can’t stand it.

  “If you find him…Pako…what are you going to do?” I say.

  Nelson gives me a funny look. “Bring him home. What else?”

  I choose my words carefully. “Mandiki’s threatened to attack Tiro if any of the kids are seen again.”

  Nelson shrugs. “I’ll hide him on the post till things cool down. But who says Mandiki can come back? He can pull those threats in Ngala. He knows his country’s villages and posts like the back of his hand. Here is different. This time, he got us by surprise. Next time, our army will be ready.”

  “In case it’s not,” I say quietly, “you could come with us to Bonang. It’s an eight-hour drive away. No one would ever find you.”

  “What would I do in Bonang? Who’d look after my family’s cattle?”

  “I just thought…”

  “Yeah, well, it’s an idea,” he says, his voice all cramped up. “Thanks. But no.”

  A hum of bush crickets rises and falls. I wrestle myself onto my elbows. “So…what do we do now?”

  He stretches. “Nothing. Not in this heat. In a few hours, when the sun’s lower and it’s cooled down, I’ll take up the hunt. Your uncles said they’d tend my herd while I’m gone. Mama and the others will be at the morgue for three days, to let folks from away have time to come to the funerals, what with the highway delay. By then, I’ll either have Pako, or be dead myself.”

  “What about me?”

  Nelson tosses the stalk aside. “In a few hours, you’ll be cooled down enough to return to the village. You know the route. You’ll be there by sundown.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not going back.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Nelson pauses. “Chanda, if you go home, I’ll save your brother and sister too.”

  “No. If I give up and you fail, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Nelson leaps to his feet. He twists in a circle, kicking at the dirt. “I don’t have time for babysitting,” he yells. “You got this far. Great. But you’re not a tracker. You’ll slow me down.”

  “I won’t. If I do, leave me behind.”

  “In the middle of nowhere?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “Because you’re a girl, that’s why not.”

  “Look, Nelson, if you want to get Pako on your own, fine. But we could help each other. You decide. Either way, I’m going after Soly and Iris.”

  He waves his arms, stomps his foot, and puffs his cheeks like a blowfish. Despite myself, I burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” he glares.

  “You’re like Soly having a tantrum.” I mean Iris, but that would really make him mad. “Come, sit, save your energy. The air will be cool in no time.”

  31

  NELSON STAYS UPSET till I offer him lunch. A little of my chicken and maize bread and he settles down. I think he’s even impressed when I tell him how I figure the trails from the rock will eventually hook up. At least he doesn’t roll his eyes.

  I watch him eat. I’ve never seen anyone do it like him before. I’m glad. He’s kind of disgusting. He holds his food to his mouth with both hands and nibbles away like a rodent. Crumbs stick to the down over his lip. Every so often he flicks his tongue up to lasso them. He practically licks his nose. Not that I care. I’m too busy staring at his eyelashes. And the dimple in his chin.

  I have to admit, he’s pretty good looking. Smart, too. He’s right about not trekking in the heat. Still, the longer we wait, the more I fidget.

  Nelson watches me wriggle. “What’s the matter?” he says. “You got fleas?”

  “Very funny. I’m thinking about Mandiki. Every minute we’re here, he’s getting farther away.”

  “I doubt it.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s been on the move since yesterday afternoon. Attacked a town. Escaped with kids and loot. He’ll be resting.”

  “Then now’s the time to catch up.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll catch up easy.”

  “How?”

  A chicken fiber’s stuck between his molars. He tries to suck it loose while he talks. “What’s the key to Mandiki’s success? He’s traveling with a small raiding party. That gives him speed and surprise. He can move faster than an army, because his unit is small. It can attack and escape at will. Come out of nowhere, like a gang of cattle thieves.”

  The fiber’s still stuck. He covers his mouth and turns away. I watch his elbow move up and down as he pries at it with a fingernail. “Mandiki’s advantage against the army is our advantage against him,” he continues, mouth full of finger. “He’s slowed by kids carrying weapons and crates, traveling by night. All we’ve got is our knapsacks, and we travel by day. As for surprise? He doesn’t expect to be followed: the army’s off-g
uard, the people are scared. So he’s in no rush. He’ll take his time, save his strength till he needs it.”

  The thread of chicken pulls loose. I watch from behind as he inspects it. “When I was little, our post got robbed by cattle thieves,” he says casually. “Papa tracked ’em down. Killed ’em with his slingshot. Stones to the temple. They never knew what hit ’em.”

  “You’re planning to kill Mandiki with a slingshot?”

  Nelson turns back to me, popping the chicken bit in his mouth. “Who knows?” he chews thoughtfully. “But I brought one with me.” He fishes it out of his knapsack. “Made it myself. Like it?” I nod. He’s stitched a leather pouch around a strip of inner tube, and tied the tube’s rubber ends to a forked piece of mopane wood. “If we run out of food, I can pick off a bird or a lizard, like I do at the post. If we run into the General, well…”

  I search his face. He said things had changed. But more than “things” have changed. He’s changed too. This isn’t the Nelson who ran terrified across the dead land. The one afraid to follow the rebels to Tiro. This Nelson is fearless. Reckless even. What’s happened? What’s he hiding?

  A few hours later, my nausea’s gone. My body’s cooled. So has the air. Before we leave, I look for a head cover. Nelson needs his bandanna for himself. I take Iris’s swath of mosquito net, fold it four times, and tie it under my chin.

  Nelson laughs. “Some kerchief. Is mosquito net the new fashion in Bonang?”

  “What do you suggest?” I joke back. “My underwear?”

  We skip up the ridge to get a better view of things. I sweep my hand across the trails. “How do we solve the maze?”

  “Same way I do when a cow wanders off in a field full of spoor.”

  “Spoor?”

  “Spoor are tracks,” he sighs. “Anyway, if a cow wanders off, I walk in a wide circle beyond the grazing field. If my cow’s truly gone, somewhere her spoor will cross my arc. That’s where I pick up the hunt.”