Mainza came up from the rear and pointed his gun at the man, searched his pockets and sniffed at the bloody package.
"Jonesi," the young man said, beaming and pointing to himself. "Jonesi. Good evening."
"Good evening," however, turned out to be the only English that he knew. Mrs. Pollifax gathered that Nyanga was tried on him, as well as a few words of Luvale and Bemba, but these produced only excited nods from him and the words, "Jonesi. Good evening."
"Don't think he has all his wits about him," suggested Cyrus.
Mainza peeled back a corner of the bloody package and said accusingly, "He's been poaching, Simon. He's a poacher, his name is Jonesi, and what do we do with him?"
"I don't like him," Amy said suddenly in a cold flat voice.
Simon shot her a quick glance and without appearing to answer her said to Reuben, "He knows the land, he could help us find the burial ground."
"Ah," said Mrs. Pollifax, coming to life, "you don't know where the burial ground is?"
"Of course we know," snapped Simon, and then spoiled the effect by adding, "It's only that we've never traveled this way before."
"So you're lost?" said Amy sarcastically. "How thoughtful of you to tell us all about it, Simon."
"Don't see how this Jonesi's going to help if you can't even communicate with him," pointed out Cyrus.
But Mainza, having captured the poacher's attention, sat down cross-legged on the ground and began digging in the earth with a stick, forming a series of small mounds. When he had created half a dozen of these he placed a twig on one, a button on another, and a shred of cloth on a third. The poacher squatted beside him, watching doubtfully, until suddenly he nodded and burst out talking, pointing to the south and laughing. After more sign language Jonesi took the stick from Mainza and drew the rough outline of an animal, after which they made more sign language and Mainza stood up. "He knows the burial ground," he told Simon. "He'll take us there if we don't report his poaching. It's antelope meat in his sack."
Mrs. Pollifax thought about this carefully, aware of something there that she'd been too tired to catch. Antelope meat . . . She applied herself to this diligently: antelope meat, burial ground, poaching . . . but of course, she thought dizzily, Jonesi's meat was butchered meat, and if it had been butchered, then it had to have been cut from the carcass with a knife ... a knife.
Her tiredness fell away from her like an old coat that had been ready for the Salvation Army anyway. Hope was all that she'd needed, and now it began flowing through her bloodstream like adrenalin. A knife. With a knife they could assert themselves and get away. A knife would free their hands for all kinds of gloriously hostile purposes.
"You look," said Cyrus as they rose to go, "like someone who's just found the Holy Grail."
She gave him a dazzling smile, and in the brief moment before Simon separated them she whispered, "Cyrus ... the poacher has to be carrying a knife"
CHAPTER
12
Mrs. Pollifax reasoned that her first efforts, now that she was aroused, ought to go into establishing some kind of relationship with the poacher. Under the circumstances she felt she could at least extend to him a small but heartfelt welcome, and then slowly hope to impress on him the fact that she and Cyrus were captives. If sign language had succeeded once with him, she could see no reason why it shouldn't succeed again.
She began to walk faster, accelerating her pace until she drew abreast of him. When he turned his head to look at her she smiled at him and won a huge and vacant grin in return. He was certainly the tallest Zambian she'd seen, probably six feet tall if he stood up straight, and so thin that his ribs could be counted under his flesh. His face was long and bony, and, combined with his protruding teeth, his senseless wide grin and that absurd green-and-black plaid wool cap, it gave him the look of a man definitely lacking in intelligence. Nevertheless he was not one of them, she had just deduced that he must be carrying a knife, and he was their only hope.
After they had exchanged a number of eager smiles, she felt that she had paved the way for a subtler message. When he turned again to look at her she lifted her tied wrists to his gaze. She did this discreetly. His eyes dropped to her hands, his smile broadened, and then he startled her by throwing back his head and laughing.
This was certainly depressing. The laugh drew a backward glance from Simon, and she had to pretend that she was lifting her wrists to push back her hair. She decided that making a bid for Jonesi's friendship at this point could be dangerous, and she fell back behind him in line.
This left her with her second challenge: where did a man who wore only sneakers, cap and shorts carry a knife? She guessed it would have to be in one of the pockets of his disreputable shorts until she remembered that Reuben had searched both of Jonesi's pockets and had seemed satisfied that he carried no weapons. If it wasn't in his trousers, she decided, then the knife would have to be concealed either in the rolled-up sweater around his waist or in his cap, and of the two she thought that she would vote for the cap: there was an elemental logic in this because the cap was obviously a prized possession, and the knife would be equally valued. She began to play with possibilities for getting the cap on his head and discovered that this happily removed all thoughts of hunger and thirst from her mind.
In midafternoon they came to the road. Simon signaled them to stop, and once they had straggled to a halt Mrs. Pollifax heard the unmistakable sound of a truck in the distance. It soon passed. Simon waited for them to form a circle around him, rather like a Boy Scout leader preparing to give instructions to his troop. "The road is just ahead," he explained. "We go two by two across it, and very quickly, you understand?" Pointing to Mrs. Pollifax he said, "You will go first, with Reuben and Mainza. Reuben, you will come back for the man, I will follow with the other woman. Listen before you cross, the wind blows from the west."
Mrs. Pollifax was led forward through a screen of trees until they came to the road, a two-lane macadam highway stretching from east to west. It was depressingly empty of traffic now. Reuben grasped one of her arms, and Mainza the other, and they hurried her across and into the shelter of trees on the opposite side. When Reuben went back for the others Mrs. Pollifax sat down, hoping it wasn't on an anthill, and tried not to think how near they must be to the burial ground now. How long before we kill her? Until Sikota comes, we meet at the burial ground across the Lusaka-Mumbwa road. It ran through her head like a macabre nursery jingle.
Seeing Reuben escort Cyrus to her through the trees, she thought now what an astonishing person Cyrus was and how comfortable he was just to look at, for nothing about him seemed changed. He might be tired but he remained completely unruffled, with the air of a solid man who knew exactly who and what he was even in the center of Zambia. It struck her suddenly that she would feel very lonely if she never saw him again.
"You look like a judge even here," she told him, smiling.
"Feeling very unjudgelike at the moment," he said, sitting down beside her. "I'd give each of these people six months in solitary. No bail, either. They walk too fast."
"I think," said Mrs. Pollifax in a rush of warmth, "that it's terribly selfish of me, but I'm awfully glad that you came, Cyrus. You are hard to overlook."
"Told you so," he said in a pleased voice.
"It was so—so very gallant," she explained. "Except that—if you should have to pay for it with—"
"No need to be tedious, my dear," he interrupted quietly. "Entirely my own choice, you know, didn't have to come. More to the point," he added lightly, "is the dinner I plan to buy you when we get back to Lusaka. Menu's been occupying me for hours."
She realized in a sudden spasm of perceptiveness that Cyrus was only too aware of how near they were to the burial ground. "I think it has to be in either his sweater or cap," she said in a lowered voice. "The knife, I mean —if he has a knife."
"Mmmm," murmured Cyrus. "Let's hope it gets cold then, and soon." He held up his wrists and scanned his watch. "Ne
arly four o'clock."
"Oh dear, and dark in two hours?"
"Must have walked about twenty miles. Saw a data bird, by the way. Pity I couldn't have pointed him out to you." He broke off as Simon strode toward them, apparently tireless, with Jonesi loping along beside him and Amy a pace behind.
"On your feet," said Simon, and that was the end of any further conversation.
It was perhaps ten minutes later that Jonesi called out sharply and pointed to the left, jabbering away in his language that no one understood. He appeared to know the terrain now because, once they veered off to the left, they encountered a narrow, hard-beaten path through the grass and soon came upon the ruins of several huts, their scaffolding lying in crazy patterns like jackstraws.
And then quite abruptly they reached the burial ground.
It lay in the sun at the edge of a broad savannah, and if Jonesi had not led them it was difficult to see how it could have been found. It was not large. Perhaps it marked the site of some ancient battle, or it was where chiefs or medicine men of this village were buried, for Mrs. Pollifax counted only twelve low mounds. There had once been the village, and people had lived here and guarded the graves, and then the villages had been moved when the land became a game park, but in the people's minds the burial ground still existed, still mattered, for the stakes at either end of each grave stood erect and undisturbed, and no one had touched the round earthenware pots that had been broken at death and lay scattered between the sticks. She liked that touch, thought Mrs. Pollifax, it seemed so much more personal than flowers. A pot would be something of one's own, used every day of one's life, and what better symbolism than to end its existence along with the life of the man who had carried it, drunk from it, cooked in it and eaten from it.
Cyrus interrupted her trancelike musings with a nudge. She turned and, following his gaze, saw that Jonesi had sat down and was removing the sweater from around his waist. She watched with Cyrus as the man carefully unrolled the sweater, picked a dried leaf from it, blew on it, smoothed it out and then pulled it over his head and shoulders. There was no knife, which left only his cap as a possibility.
"We wait for Sikota now, he will come within the hour," Simon said, and turning to Mrs. Pollifax, with a triumphant note in his voice, "No one has ever held out against Sikota. He knows many tricks, I promise you." The menace of this unpleasant statement was only slightly undermined when he added, "You are now extended bathroom privileges."
"Please," said Amy, and jumped to her feet and followed Simon in among the trees.
When the two of them were out of sight, Mrs. Pollifax looked down at Jonesi, seated cross-legged on the ground, and then at Cyrus, sitting with his back to the tree. Not far away Mainza and Reuben sat talking earnestly together, their rifles beside them. She thought, It's now or never for the cap, and meeting Cyrus' glance she said aloud, "It's now or never."
"Oh?" he said, puzzled.
She walked around Jonesi, and when she was behind him she pretended to stumble. She thrust forward her bound wrists, fell against him and shoved his cap from his head. It dropped to the ground in front of him, and just as she recovered her balance a second object fell with it, making a solid plunk as it met the earth.
It was his jackknife, stained with blood.
Both Jonesi and Cyrus reached for the knife at the same time. "Hope you don't mind," Cyrus said courteously, picking it up with one hand, and with the other handing Jonesi his cap. "There's a little matter of ropes, if you'll bear with us for a moment. Emily?"
She sat down next to the poacher and held out her wrists to Cyrus. With his hands bound together it was slow work—"like sawing through a redwood tree with a handsaw," he said grimly—but presently her bonds fell from her wrists and for the first time in twenty-four hours her hands were free. She flexed them with a sense of wonder and then took the knife from Cyrus and went to work.
"Of course they're going to notice our hands when they come out of the woods," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, hacking at his ropes. "We've not much time, you know."
"Jonesi is shielding us beautifully from the other two, but I wish he'd stop grinning at me," complained Cyrus. "What do you suggest I do, my dear, take on Simon?"
"Oh no," gasped Mrs. Pollifax. "Amy, please. Just move her out of the way somehow. Oh dear, they're coming back now. Cyrus—"
"Yes, m'dear?"
"Good luck or goodbye, I don't know which, but—"
"Steady there," he said gravely, and climbed to his feet, keeping his wrists together as if they were still bound.
Mrs. Pollifax, too, arose, and stood beside the tree, her heart beating tumultuously.
"Who's next?" asked Amy, walking toward them with Simon close behind her. She came to a stop and smiled up at Cyrus.
Casually Cyrus leaned over and encircled her with his freed hands, turned her around to face Simon and held her in front of him with a viselike grip. "Well, Simon?" he said.
Simon's eyes dropped to Cyrus' wrists and one hand moved toward his gun. Before he reached it Mrs. Pollifax stepped out from behind the tree and delivered her very best horizontal slash to the side of his throat. A look of utter astonishment passed over Simon's face, he lifted a hand toward his throat and then sank to the ground like a crumpled paper bag.
"Incredible," said Cyrus.
Amy said, "My God, what do you think you're doing?" and then she looked toward Reuben and Mainza, who had seen none of this, and began screaming.
Mrs. Pollifax snatched up Simon's rifle and called to Reuben and Mainza, "Don't touch your guns or we'll shoot!"
The two men gaped at her across the clearing, too surprised to move. Amy stopped screaming. Holding her tightly in front of him, Cyrus slowly advanced across the clearing toward the two men. Mrs. Pollifax followed with the rifle and Jonesi danced along beside her laughing.
"Feel like Jack Armstrong the ail-American boy," growled Cyrus halfway across the clearing. "Damned if it isn't working too. Pick up their rifles, my dear."
"Gladly."
Amy, struggling in Cyrus' grasp, cried, "You're fiends, both of you, they could have shot me."
"Oh stop," said Mrs. Pollifax crossly, "you know very well they'd never have shot you, Amy. I've known it since last night when you thought I was asleep."
"Oh," gasped Amy. "Oh!" and a string of expletives poured out of her, followed by a number of references to barnyard animals which Mrs. Pollifax thought showed a great paucity of imagination on Amy's part.
"Amy's wrists are still tied," said Cyrus, ignoring the stream of obscenity. "Need rope now for Reuben and Mainza, and as soon as possible, I think." Looking beyond them he called out, "Jonesi, be careful with that rifle."
Jonesi had picked up Mainza's gun before Mrs. Pollifax could reach it, and was cradling it lovingly in his arms. Hearing his name spoken, he backed away and sat down on the ground, the rifle across his knees, his face defiant.
"So long as he doesn't accidentally pull the trigger . . ."
"Let him play with it for a few minutes, we can get it later," Mrs. Pollifax told him. "We need that rope most of all."
This problem occupied them for some moments, because there was no alternative but to knot together the sections of rope they'd cut from their own wrists. It was tedious work. When Reuben and Mainza had been rendered inactive Cyrus stepped back and said in a pleased voice, "Very, very good," and then he asked, "Now what, my dear?"
Mrs. Pollifax looked at him in dismay. "Now what?" she faltered. She realized that his question exposed a dilemma that seemed too distant an hour ago to ever become real. She was confronted with the fact that Sikota was still to be anticipated, they were lost in the bush, and the sun was already very low on the horizon and withdrawing light from the savannah. It would soon be dark. "Now what?" she repeated.
"I can answer that for you, madam," said a voice behind them. "You will please drop the guns and lift your hands in the air."
They spun around in astonishment. "Jonesi?" gasped Mrs. Pollifax
.
"Yes, madam," said Jonesi the poacher in excellent English. "You have been most helpful to me, I thank you." Bringing a small object out of his pocket he put it to his lips and blew. A piercing whistle filled the air, and from the copse of trees several hundred yards away a number of men came running. In the growing dusk it was difficult to count heads but she thought there were six or seven of them, all carrying rifles. "Police?" gasped Mrs. Pollifax.
"Not police, no madam," said Jonesi, looking amused. "The police are in Lusaka far, far away. You are our captives now."
"Oh no," protested Mrs. Pollifax. "I thought—I hoped—"
"This," said Cyrus, blinking, "is exactly like being swallowed by a shark, who's then swallowed by a whale, who's then swallowed by a—my dear, what is the matter?"
"I'm not sure," whispered Mrs. Pollifax, staring at the men who had emerged out of the dusk and were fanning out to encircle them. One in particular among them had caught her eye, a man taller than the others, in khaki shorts, puttees, a thick sweater and a felt cavalry hat that heavily shadowed his face. Something about the way he moved. ... He strode toward them now with a rifle slung across his shoulder, stopped to give Amy Lovecraft a long hard look, and then continued on to Jonesi.
Deep inside of her Mrs. Pollifax began to smile. The smile surfaced slowly, arriving on her lips at the same moment that the man saw her. He stopped in his tracks,
appalled. "My God I'm hallucinating," he said.
"Absolutely not," she told him, tears coming to her eyes.
"But—Duchess?" he said incredulously. "Emily Pollifax from New Brunswick, New Jersey? Here?"
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