Stalking Ivory

by Suzanne Arruda

  Jade squatted back down, measured the heel print with her hand, then compared it with her own bootheel. “About as large as my father’s,” she mused. “Probably not a particularly tall man, then. Dad is only five feet, eight inches, an inch taller than me.” She looked across to Chiumbo, hunkered down on the other side of the track. “Certainly not as tall as you. By the way, Chiumbo, thank you for stopping Mr. Vogelsanger yesterday when he tried to shoot Biscuit.”

  Chiumbo merely nodded without looking up.

  “Did you recognize any of those men?” she asked, remembering the fierce anger on Chiumbo’s face. Perhaps one of them had been involved in the wars with Chiumbo’s people. All she had was von Gretchmar’s word, which she doubted, that he hadn’t been in Africa before, and Vogelsanger hadn’t answered at all. “Did one of them kill your father?”

  “No. I only recognized their language.” Chiumbo stood and stalked softly to the outside of the downward trail, then backtracked and did the same for the upward trail. “I do not see which trail he followed, Simba Jike.”

  Jade nodded. Apparently her headman was in no mood to converse about the past. “Too much leaf litter on the trail to leave a distinct boot mark again.” She nodded up the hill. “I doubt they carried that heavy ivory too far in one day. We should find where they’re hiding it.”

  Chiumbo turned to follow the trail uphill. He’d walked several paces before he stopped and waited for Jade. “Do you not come, Simba Jike?”

  Jade shook her head, setting her bobbed black curls in motion. “I have an idea.” She took out a coil of rope. Her slowly spreading grin spoke volumes on that idea’s deviousness, and what her smile didn’t say, her flashing green eyes did.

  Chiumbo grinned back as he hastened towards her. “We will set a trap?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It would be good to take one prisoner, Simba Jike. I would make him tell us what you want to know.”

  “Patience, Chiumbo. I doubt these men ever travel alone, so chances are, even if we catch one, his comrades will cut him down. It’s possible all this will do is make them wary enough to go back to Abyssinia.” She sighed. It wasn’t exactly justice, but if it prevented more killing and poaching, it would have to serve.

  “I understand, Simba Jike. A man should not savor the meat in the cook pot before the game is killed.”

  Jade knew this saying was just an African version of not counting chickens, but something about Chiumbo’s tone sent shivers down her spine. He was on the hunt. Beyond what he had told her by the campfire, she knew very little about him or his tribe, only that he held the reputation as an excellent headman and as an experienced and brave tracker. Now it seemed he was another war casualty, injured in spirit more than body. Perhaps he led safaris for the same reason she wandered about so much: to escape bitter memories of gore and death. Or perhaps he searched for the men who had killed his father.

  “What kind of trap do you want, Simba Jike? Should we spear him?”

  “No. It might accidentally kill one of the King’s African Rifles. And whatever we set, I don’t want to catch a passing animal in the snare,” Jade said. “This looks like it’s also been a game trail.” She looked to Chiumbo for confirmation.

  He shrugged. “I did not see much fresh spoor, Simba Jike, except for one leopard print.”

  “Then we don’t want to catch a passing leopard. We’ll set the real snare off the game trail and put a false one on it.” She pointed to a spot just in front of a large tree braced with thick buttresses that protruded into the trail. “They will see it and have to step around it, only there’s just one way to step around.”

  “And that is where we put the real snare,” concluded Chiumbo. “And the animals?”

  “The animals will probably trot right over the false snare, but even if they step directly in it, nothing will happen. It will only look like a real snare to a human.” She looked off to the side. “Help me find a tree with a branch that will bend.”

  Together they found a suitable limb on a tree a few yards down the hill. Jade lassoed the tip, and together they heaved on the rope and hauled it down towards the ground. Chiumbo braced the tip with a log while Jade carved and set up a two-pin toggle trigger that would release the log when someone picked up her bait.

  The bait! That took a moment of thought, but only a moment. It had to be something that a human, but not an animal, would pick up. Jade reached deep into a side pocket and pulled out a leather coin purse. Normally she would never have bothered to waste pocket space with money out in the wilderness, but ever since yesterday a plan had been forming in her head. She unraveled a thin strand from part of her rope and tied the purse to the toggle using that strand. To encourage someone’s greed, she left the purse partially open and set one coin in the mouth. The illusion was a fallen money bag with coins spilling out. A sprinkling of forest litter over the ropes finished the job.

  “That ought to attract one of the greedy bastards,” she announced. “And that limb is strong enough to fling a smaller man up into the air. With any luck, his bow will go flying off for me to find later.”

  Chiumbo grunted his approval. “And the false snare to drive them here—where they will see this?”

  “I’ll take care of that, Chiumbo. All I need to do is half conceal a coil of rope and another toggle that won’t lead to anything.” She looked back up the trail. “See if you can find where they took the ivory. Whistle if you do find it.” When she saw Chiumbo hesitate, she faced him. “What’s wrong? Why don’t you follow the trail?” She wondered if she’d just asked him to do something menial, a task beneath his dignity.

  The tall African took a deep breath before he replied, “I have never worked for a woman before, Simba Jike. When Bwana Avery hired me, I thought I worked for him.”

  “And so you do, Chiumbo.”

  He shook his head. “I work for you both by my own choice. You asked me why I said yes to your money. I have heard the stories of you, how you killed a witch, but I did not believe it at first. Women in my tribe would not do such a thing. But I have since learned that white women are sometimes different. When I learned Bwana Avery was your friend, I took his money so I could learn about you. Yesterday, I saw your bravery. And I saw your honor. You would not risk the boy. You waited for him to climb first.”

  “He is in my care, Chiumbo,” she said softly.

  “And you are in mine, Simba Jike. It is not safe for you alone in the forest. These men are bad. These men who take ivory also take slaves to sell far north.”

  Jade nodded. “Your concern touches me. I’ll be careful.”

  Chiumbo grunted softly and muttered to himself, “A lioness is not afraid to be alone.” Then in a louder voice he added, “I will come back if you do not follow soon, Simba Jike.”

  “Thank you, Chiumbo, but you must also be careful, my friend. These same men would kill you.”

  He grinned, exposing a row of filed teeth. “Let them try.” Chiumbo raised a hand in salute and followed the trail uphill, while Jade returned to making her false snare. The trick here was to make it visible without its looking like an obvious deception. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that these men would just step over a simple snare. Then they wouldn’t see the bait. No, she needed to drive them off the trail to the right. But how?

  She scanned the area for another log and found one about three feet long, and one stout branch three inches in diameter. She whittled the branch to a point and lashed it to the end of the log. Then she threw her second coil of rope over an overhanging branch, tied it around the log, and hoisted it to chest height off the ground. She pushed the log over to the nearby tree trunk and tied it to look as if it could be quickly released. Finally, she set the false snare and trigger. The snare wasn’t really attached to the deadfall, but the illusion held that this was a mangle trap that should be avoided at all cost.

  Jade stood up and rubbed her left knee, which had started to ache from her squatting so long in one spot. At least, she
hoped that was why it ached. Previously, she’d shrugged off Beverly’s statement that it hurt just before something attacked her. Now she wasn’t so sure. Chiumbo’s statement about the slave trading made her nervous. She wondered if he was right. Perhaps this was a dangerous place to be alone. Perhaps she should find him. She turned and nearly collided with a man standing right behind her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Perhaps the most haunting parts of the forest are the brilliant butterflies clustered like gems on the bushes and draped along the thick, silvery Spanish moss.

  —The Traveler

  JADE STUMBLED BACKWARD onto her own false snare, her right hand grabbing for her knife as she struggled to master her shock and fear. She felt her heart pound in her chest, the pulse drumming through her ears. How had this man crept up on her? Hell’s blazes! He hadn’t made a sound. As she pulled her knife from its sheath, the man held up his right hand, palm facing her, in a sign of peace. Jade took a wider stance to steady herself and kept her hand on the knife in case it was a ruse.

  “Who are you?” she demanded first in English, then in Swahili. As she spoke, she studied the man. He was a native African—that much was clear—but from where? He certainly didn’t look like the Abyssinians, nor did he resemble the members of any of the tribes bordering the mountain. Whoever he was, he was ancient, if the parchmentlike skin on his face gave any indication. Innumerable wrinkles, resembling the myriad dry ravines running through a barren landscape, showed under the layer of light ash rubbed into his skin, and his sparse hair curled out in white wisps like the mountain’s morning vapors, thinning in the sunshine. He wore a frayed gray blanket draped over one shoulder in the manner of many Africans and his feet were bare. The overall effect combined with his silent approach was spectral. Jade suspected it served as camouflage and wondered how long he had stood undetected watching her.

  “You are in danger, Simba Jike,” he said. His voice, though cracked with age, held power and strength. “You must follow me.” He turned and threaded his way past the false snare and down the hill.

  “Be careful!” Jade called after him in English. “I’ve set a trap there.”

  The old man nodded and passed by the coin purse that baited the hidden snare. He didn’t turn to see if she followed. Jade gripped her knife more tightly and headed down the hill after him. The thought that he could be leading her into a trap flitted across her mind, but she dismissed it. If he’d meant to harm her, he could have easily struck her down earlier. Besides, something about this man fascinated her. He turned off the visible trail and struck out into the forest, disturbing a cluster of iridescent blue butterflies as they sipped dew off the shrubs.

  Her guide maintained a straight track for a few minutes before he paused by a stately tree over one hundred feet tall. Jade recognized it as one that Jelani had called mukinduri, claiming it held an excellent remedy for stomach ailments. Since Jade’s guts felt as though those butterflies had taken up residence inside her, she thought she could use a cure right about now. The man seemed to recognize the tree, examining its bark, which bore the scars and polish of innumerable elephant rubbings. He turned, put a finger to his thin lips to signal for absolute silence, then proceeded on his way.

  While she followed, she scanned the ground for signs. Gradually she began to recognize the marks of an ancient trail, long abandoned. Her main clue was the difference in the age of the trees along their route. These trees were younger ones, which had taken advantage of a bit of open ground to get a roothold. She wanted to ask him where they were going, but the ache in her knee had increased. This time, she paid attention to it because the sound of walking men drifted down the mountainside to her from the upper trail. Jade turned and peered through the timber. She could just barely make out two Abyssinians.

  Her pulse quickened as she realized they might also be able to see her, and she followed the old man’s example and melted backward into the forest. Her guide beckoned with a hand motion before leading her to a massive fig tree another fifty yards away. Strangler figs were rare on this mountain, but this one dated back centuries, whatever tree the fig initially used for its anchor long choked of life and rotted away. Only a hollow core remained amid a tangled orgy of thickened vines.

  The old African nodded towards a gap in the tree’s base and then pointed up. Jade ducked inside the dark interior and began climbing, hoping nothing else had sought refuge in the twisted trunk. About ten feet up, the tangle narrowed, making further progress impossible. Something sharp scratched at her cheek and a trickle of blood seeped down to her chin. She felt for a stable perch, and settled herself in. The dead supporting tree’s remaining bark sloughed off under pressure, so standing upright was not an option. Jade leaned back against the wall and braced herself with her feet in front of her on nearly opposite sides of the tree. In the dead silence, she detected a muted whoosh punctuated by a distant scream. Success! Angry voices followed the outcry, and Jade imagined those on the ground worked to release the one whipped up by the bent limb’s recoil.

  Suddenly the shouts stopped, and the forest again became as still as the grave. Jade tried to imagine the scene outside. The men would have remembered the coin purse and realized the snare was deliberately set, not to catch an animal, but a human. They would be more wary now and a lot angrier. Would they move on and report the incident to their chief? Would he assume the trap was set by rival poachers? Or would these men comb the area for the perpetrator? A sick feeling welled up in her stomach at the thought of Chiumbo. Had they already found him?

  At this height, the fig’s vines had formed a thin but solid wall, so she couldn’t see a blasted thing from inside the tree. I’ll just have to trust the old man to give the all clear. Then it dawned on her: the old man hadn’t joined her inside the tree. Where had he gone? Sweet Millard Fillmore on a broomstick. How long do I stay in here?

  Her answer came in the sound of snapping twigs followed by the softer brush of carefully placed footfalls that carried down the hill in the cool morning air and echoed lightly in the hollow tree. The men might have thought they were being stealthy, but she’d tuned her senses as sharp as any prey hiding from a predator. To her, the men might have been a charging elephant or a snorting rhino. Besides that, her blasted knee hurt like the blazes. She had received the shrapnel wound in the same bombing raid that had killed her David, and at times she bore it as proudly as her Croix de Guerre medal. At other times, it was just another grim reminder of all she’d lost. Right now it acted as a signal for absolute silence. She didn’t want to believe the confounded thing had the ability to alert her to impending danger, but at this point, she was ready to heed its warning.

  Jade struggled to control her breathing lest any gasp give away her position. Her thigh muscles cramped as she tensed to brace herself. A chunk of bark pushed against her shirt and gouged her back. She tried to focus on anything else to take her mind off the pain. Unfortunately, what drew her attention from the leg and back pain was some multilegged creature making its way into her open shirt collar and down her chest.

  Finally, Jade resorted to her old mantra that she had recited when she’d driven an ambulance along the front lines in France. I only occupy one tiny space. The shells have all the rest of France to hit. It didn’t help. The vermin in her shirt continued to search out new territory whether she occupied it or not.

  The subdued padding of sandaled feet came closer. Had they followed her trail? A twig snapped just outside the hole at the tree’s bottom. Jade tipped her head ever so slowly in order to peer down through the gloom. She glimpsed a head poking inside, then pulling back out after a cursory glance. Two voices argued in what sounded like confused conversation. Obviously they had followed her trail, but couldn’t figure out where she’d gone after this point. Right now darkness was her ally. Saints in heaven, don’t let them have any kind of light.

  Jade listened carefully, but the men spoke a language she didn’t know. Finally she heard one man cut loose in what could only be
a vulgar oath, followed by the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt clacking. She mentally recited a prayer and steeled herself for the bullet.

  The rifle blast roared inside the hollow tree, and she instinctively slammed her hands over her ears. Smoke, black powder, and scorched tree bark welled upward. She held her breath, fearing to cough. They didn’t know she was in here. Whoever had fired had done so in a fit of anger. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that anger. This bullet had passed beneath her upraised legs; the next one wouldn’t. At least the shock of the rifle blast startled the creature in her shirt to curl up in defense.

  She stayed perched in the tree for a quarter of an hour after the shot, her ears still ringing from the confined blast. That was when the old man poked his head back inside and whispered for her to descend.

  “Where were you?” she asked as she landed on the ground, then untucked her shirt and shook out a large millipede.

  The old man gave an enigmatic answer. “I cannot climb.”

  “You saved my life, I’m sure,” Jade said. “Thank you. What is your name, please?”

  He pursed his thin, dry lips as though he had to search his memory for a name. “I am Boguli,” he replied after a time.

  Jade looked around and nodded to the hollow fig. “It is lucky you found this tree. I don’t know where else I could have hidden.”

  Boguli rocked gently from one foot to the other, a slow metronome-like movement. “This is an old elephant trail, long unused. I remembered this tree and the trail from my youth.”

  “You have tracked elephants?” she asked. She wondered if he had hunted them for their ivory. Probably a family business.

  “I have followed the elephants for a long time,” he said. “I am like a”—he paused and searched for the right word again, as though isolation had made him rusty—“brother to the elephants.”

  Jade didn’t quite understand, but then many African tribes held certain animals in high esteem. If his people had revered elephants, even while hunting them, then they might in fact consider them ancestral spirits or other kindred. Suddenly she remembered that Boguli had called her by her Swahili name, Simba Jike, or “lioness.”