The Cinnamon Tree

by Aubrey Flegg

  ‘Mighty boy, there are those who still have power over you.’

  ‘There are none!’ he crowed.

  What nonsense had he been fed? His voice was certain now, arrogant even, but she persisted.

  ‘Those whose lives you have saved have power over you.’

  ‘You are a girl, you have no power over me. I have saved no other life.’

  Yola tingled – was there the tiniest hint of uncertainty when he said ‘… no other life?’ She thrust for home.

  ‘Yes, there is. There is another one here. It is your godfather, Banda.’

  ‘He can’t be, he is dead! I killed him!’ Gabbin’s voice was rising to a scream. Then, above her, Yola heard her uncle’s voice boom out.

  ‘Gabbin, I am your godfather. My name is Banda. I am the other whose life you saved. You aimed to miss me, you know that. Because of you, I live.’

  Silence. Yola prayed that no one would move. Gabbin would need time to absorb this. But suddenly there was movement above her. Pebbles bounced and cascaded past. Banda was, even now, coming down the slope. She looked up: there he was, in stark relief against the white of the washout. This was folly. Yola knew how Gabbin’s mind worked and she saw the movement as he swung his weapon to cover the new target.

  ‘You are a ghost, Banda.’ The voice was hysterical now. ‘My bullets will pass through you. Look!’

  ‘Look at the gravel, Gabbin,’ Yola screamed, but her voice was shattered by a burst of gunfire. She could see the spurts of the striking bullets as they swept towards the figure above her. The muzzle flashes burned the corners of her eyes. She was next in the line of fire, but something heavy landed on top of her and swept and slid her down to the gully bottom; it was Fintan. The firing stopped. She looked up to where her uncle lay, a black crucifixion on the gravel slope. Irrational fury filled her; the boy had not let her finish her sentence.

  ‘Look at the gravel, Gabbin, no ghost would leave footprints like these!’ she shouted.

  The gouged prints stood out, shadowed in the moonlight. Sand trickled from them. Yola moved to sit and an arm closed about her from behind. The silence stretched and stretched.

  ‘Don’t move, he’s coming!’ Fintan whispered.

  The boy appeared, side-stepping down the slope, his gun at the ready. He reached the bottom and looked up. They heard a whimper. The barrel was dipping. He was looking at the cruciform figure above him. It stirred.

  ‘Banda?’ he called.

  ‘Are you going to shoot me, Gabbin?’

  ‘Oh Banda!’ gasped the boy. His rifle fell from his hands. ‘Oh Banda!’ He was scrambling up the slope. As he climbed they could see the man turn to sit. He reached down to the climbing boy and pulled him to him. Gabbin fell on him, touching, feeling and eventually believing that he was real.

  Yola sat looking up at them and relief flooded into her. She leant back against Fintan, who was holding her from behind, his arms locked, his chin resting on her head.

  ‘So this is Gabbin, your fiancé, the six-foot warrior with a spear?’

  ‘It was only his spear that was six-foot long! And he’s my cousin, we could never have married.’

  Once again her memory conjured up a smell – not cinnamon this time, but mint. She was back in the clinic in Dublin. Catherine was squeezing toothpaste on to her brush and Yola was telling her about Gabbin’s proposal. ‘She’ll tell him, you know,’ Brigid had said. She’d forgotten, she couldn’t believe it. All this time, Fintan had thought she was engaged. She started to chuckle. Then she decided to postpone it. She’d take Fintan to see Shimima and Kimba – that would be the time for laughing. She leant back.

  ‘Fintan,’ she said, ‘I’d like you to go on holding me like this.’

  ‘For how long?’ asked Fintan gently.

  ‘Forever?’

  ‘No problem.’

  But it was.

  24

  Before the Dawn can Come

  A whistle shrilled in the distance; the four figures in the washout froze. The other boys! Of course, they would have heard the shots. Yola could see Banda and Gabbin talking, then Gabbin put his fingers in his mouth and a piercing whistle rang out through the gully. Fintan’s grip on Yola tightened. There was a clatter above them, but it was just Sailor surfing down to them on a small crest of gravel; he must have thought that Fintan had whistled to him. Yola hugged him and he settled down between her knees. She wondered at her sensations. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps euphoria, but her mind was electric, moving so fast that everything else about her seemed slowed down. When Gabbin skidded down the slope, picked up his rifle and scrambled up through the sand towards his observation post, it was an urgent scrabble, but what Yola saw was every graceful move of his young body. Uncle Banda came down to tell them what was happening, and Yola knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  ‘It is dangerous for me to appear until the boys are prepared. Gabbin will explain to them that I am not a ghost, that they must look at the sand and see my footprints. He says that things have been very bad since I left, so the boys are jumpy and trigger-happy.’ He climbed back out of the gully, the way they had come in.

  Yola was reluctant to move, but they were very conspicuous where they sat on the gully floor. Fintan helped her to her feet and they struggled up the slope on Gabbin’s side. They found Gabbin’s out-post shelter and watched from its shadow.

  The boys began to arrive, wary silhouettes against the white gravel. Yola, her awareness still tuned to the highest pitch, saw aggression, incredulity and fear in their approaches, and, to her immense surprise, a girl.

  Gabbin talked to them in Kasembi. Yola had to smile, recognising in the young boy Father’s formal manner of speech.

  ‘Comrades, a great joy has come to me and my joy will be yours if you see me. Do you see me?’

  ‘We see you.’ The reply was wary.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ Gabbin was determined.

  ‘We hear you.’

  He talked of their grief when he had been made to shoot at the instructor that had been good to them, his own godfather, Banda. But he now had news … good news …

  ‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Fintan. ‘It takes so long.’

  ‘Shh, this is Africa, Fintan, certain things must be done slowly. She took his hand. After a while she said, ‘Look, look, they are putting down their guns.’

  ‘Captain Banda,’ Gabbin called, ‘we see you’.

  There was a pause, then Uncle Banda’s voice boomed out across the gully. ‘I see you boys. I see you! I have come.’ One of the smaller boys turned to run, but another grabbed and held him. Banda stepped warily down onto the gravel. ‘Do not shoot me boys, I am no ghost. Watch how my feet break the gravel.’ Yola heard the small gasp as his feet dug firmly into the soft surface. Then Uncle Banda chuckled, ‘Come boys, have you lost your tongues?’

  ‘Captain Banda, we see you?’ The response was ragged at first. Then all together in obvious joy, ‘Banda, we see you!’ Yola thought they were going to run to him, but their discipline was too good. She watched, fascinated, as a thousand microscopic moments – disbelief, wonder, joy, relief – flickered through the group. She heard their combined whispered ‘Waaah’ when Banda struggled up and stood in front of them and she realised, at that moment, that they loved him.

  He called them into a semicircle about him and told them that the minefield had been penetrated and that soon the government troops would arrive. He thanked them for saving his life by tying his legs loosely, and he thanked Gabbin for shooting wide. But he said that being thrown to the crocodiles by his own comrades had made him understand the stupidity of fighting. Tonight they had one more mission under his command, and that was to help him capture their evil instructors and to destroy the ammunition dump in the Noose, because once that was gone, the soldiers would go too.

  ‘There is to be no more fighting. The Noose lands do not belong to Kasemba or to Murabende or to the KLA. They belong to the farmers who are waiting, wit
h their cattle, to come back in. You will not be punished. I have made arrangements for you stay with families who will look after you. I will still be your leader, but now it will be to help you to go to school, perhaps even to find jobs. I have spoken!’

  Yola realised it was time for her to move. Holding Fintan with one hand and Sailor with the other, she walked out onto the little rise above the gathering. The drama of the moment appealed to her – a ghost returned, a black girl with a stiff leg, a white boy and a black-and-white dog sitting to her command – but not one of the kids stirred. Eyes moved perhaps, but they would not turn until Captain Banda released them. She watched them individually and wondered what histories they had and what futures were in store for them. Then she realised they were all looking at her and Fintan because Uncle Banda was talking about them. There was a soft ‘Waaah!’ of appreciation.

  As Uncle Banda issued instructions, Yola remembered her aerial view of the Noose from the aeroplane. She saw again the threads of smoke, the tracks, even the landing stage where she now guessed the troops from Murabende landed. Then Gabbin was talking; there were boys in outposts to be called in. He seemed to be particularly worried about one boy, Ukebu, who was watching at the landing stage.

  ‘What about the instructors, Uncle Banda, why haven’t they come?’ Yola asked. ‘They must have heard Gabbin’s shots. What sort of men are they?’

  ‘They are Kasemban rebels, the one to watch out for is the tallest, he is called Juvimba. It is as I had guessed, they have been drinking hard. The boys will deal with them.’

  Yola had been looking at the boys, guessing that there were potential killers among them. She raised her voice. ‘Boys!’ she called. ‘You will take no guns!’ There was a stunned silence.

  ‘Yola, you’ll never! They are trained …’ Banda was worried.

  ‘Boys, and the secret girl among you,’ she said smiling, ‘you have won freedom tonight. Free people do not need guns. I have walked through your minefield with a friend, a dog and just one leg. There are other ways of doing things. I want these men captured but not hurt. No guns.’

  The pause seemed to last for minutes, in fact it was just seconds. A figure moved and came forward – tattered combats, a baggy shirt – and laid its rifle at Yola’s feet. Then it looked up at Yola with bright, clear eyes. Yes, she was a girl!

  The pile of guns grew. As each one came, Yola felt them searching her face as if to understand her. Gabbin was talking and she realised how good he must have been as a soldier. He knew where everyone was and who should be sent to bring them in. He issued orders but they didn’t seem to be orders, so even older boys obeyed. He was lucky, she thought, he had a real home to go to, but what about the others? Fintan was getting restless and asked Uncle Banda to translate while he talked to Gabbin about the missing mines. In a little time, Gabbin called another boy over. The four of them had their heads together. She saw Fintan hold up three fingers; surely that meant three mines. She calculated: of the six mines left in Murabende, two had exploded, injuring the government deminers. If the boys knew of three that meant that there was one mine left unaccounted for. She thought of Hans: ‘Until the last one is found our work is crippled!’ Fintan would not stop till he found that mine. A chill – a premonition, perhaps – ran down her back like the first shiver of a coming fever. The night’s work was not over.

  They arrived at the training camp; the boys had gone ahead and had done their work efficiently, and without guns. Three men were leaning against the wall, trussed up like chickens. Two on each side sagged drunkenly, but the one in the middle was staring at her. Uncle Banda sent a boy running down the path towards the jetty to tell Ukebu and to warn them if the rebel troops landed. A ghetto blaster roared out from inside a hut. Yola asked one of the boys to turn it off. She wanted to see what these instructors were like. As she approached, the one in the middle worked his mouth and then spat at her, his gob rolling in the dust.

  ‘Yola Abonda,’ he said.

  Could he know her? She was startled; she’d never seen him before.

  ‘Oh yes, I know you, and I know your rich family. May you, like your ancestors before you, rot!’ He was tall, and he twisted against the cords binding him. ‘You are going to let them kill us, aren’t you? You’ve taken their guns so they can do it by hand – we’ve taught them that too!’ He laughed. ‘Go on flinch, bitch! But you are a thief, and your father’s a thief!’

  Suddenly he sagged, and Yola guessed he was still drunk. When he went on it was in low, bitter voice, almost a whisper.

  ‘You owe me a favour, daughter of Abonda. Your family stole someone from me. I want you take her a message.’

  At last images began to click into focus in Yola’s mind: Sindu pleading ‘But Juvimba?’ and a man’s broken watch spilled on the floor. Feelings of revulsion and guilt rose up in her. She wanted to walk away, but she couldn’t.

  ‘Yes, Juvimba. I will give Sindu your message.’ Then she added with sudden inspiration, ‘And you will give me a piece of information that I need.’

  ‘Why should I?’ he sneered.

  ‘Because I could tell Sindu about your cruelty to the children here and the evil things you have done. She’s lazy, but she likes children for all that. She would not love you for what you have done here. Give me your message. Then, if you answer my question, I will see no need to tell her the truth about you.’

  Yola listened like a priest at confession – bewildered – trying to reconcile words of love with knowing that this was the man who had ordered Gabbin to shoot his own godfather. When he’d finished, she asked her question. She doubted that she would get a useful answer, but she tried.

  ‘Now my question to you. You received six special landmines from Murabende. We know where all but one of these are. Where is the remaining mine?’ She watched his bloodshot eyes flicking, looking for escape, but there was none.

  ‘It is here, but you won’t get it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is in the weapon store over there.’ He raised his chin towards a low building on the opposite side of the clearing. ‘But you will never open it. It is behind thirty centimetres of reinforced concrete and a two-inch thick steel door.’

  ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘In Murabende, with the white commander.’

  ‘When are they due back?’

  ‘Now!’

  Juvimba had achieved his aim. Yola gave up. Her sound leg was tired beyond belief; her stump felt raw. They couldn’t get into the ammunition store and the KLA troops were coming. Thanks to her, they hadn’t even a rifle to stop them. There was a folding chair outside the tent, she flopped into it and put her head in her hands. All the KLA had to do was open the store and they would have enough guns to drive them, and everyone else, back out of the Noose. She’d even cleared a road through the mines for them – they could be in Nopani by daybreak! She’d probably started a war, not stopped one. She became aware of Fintan squatting beside her, stroking her shoulders, asking her questions, but what was the point.

  ‘You were asking him about the missing mine, weren’t you? Does he know?’ he asked. ‘The boys know where the other three are, that leaves one, just one! We’ve got to find it.’

  Yola buried her face deeper. She needed to think; they should be trying to get out of here, not talking mines. But he was pressing her. ‘Where is it, Yola?’ She had seen this obstinate streak in his father. She started to cry, but then knew it was no use.

  ‘It’s in the weapon store, over there, look, where Uncle Banda’s going. But Fintan, it is reinforced concrete and he says the door is steel.’

  If Yola had had any control over Fintan before, she had none now. He was possessed. It was as if the guilt and shame that had built up over his father’s involvement in the mines were erupting uncontrollably inside him. Yola straightened up. Her sharpened perception returned and she felt she was watching the whole scene from a great height but with absolute clarity.

  At Fintan’s orders, Gabbin
cleared the child soldiers away from the area of the ammunition store. Her mind centred on a point, in the centre of which was the steel door, on this her whole being was focussed. Fintan and Uncle Banda were labouring in turn. They had found a sledge-hammer and were hammering, first at the lock, then at the hinges, anywhere to find a point of weakness. The hammer blows fell silently, a fraction of a second later the clang arrived, and Yola was back in class in Ireland listening to the teacher explaining what a laggard sound was compared to light. She saw Fintan peel off his shirt; his white torso gleamed in the pale light. She looked anxiously at the moon, it was dipping towards the trees again. How long had they? Where were the rebel soldiers?

  Fintan stood in front of her. The sweat ran off him in rivers. Uncle Banda glistened, his chest was heaving.

  ‘There’s no way. We can’t do it,’ Fintan said. ‘They’ve welded chunks of metal around the lock and hinges. We can’t get a swipe at anything. Damn and blast them!’ He threw his sodden shirt on the ground. ‘Where are those soldiers? We’d better go.’

  ‘A boy has gone down to the jetty. He will give us warning,’ said Uncle Banda, squatting down, head between his knees. Juvimba’s voice cut in abrasively.

  ‘Stay here. Ask them for the key. Even better, why don’t you take a mine detector to it and blow the bloody lot of you up in the process.’

  Both Fintan and Yola froze for a moment … of course. The mine was programmed to explode on hearing a mine detector – but they didn’t have one, there wasn’t one within miles. Anyway, the sound would be too weak to penetrate the concrete of the bunker.

  ‘Come on,’ Yola said, ‘we must get the boys out of here before the soldiers come … Fintan?’

  But Fintan wasn’t listening. ‘My shirt?’ he muttered. Yola was holding out her hand for a lift out of the chair. ‘Where is my shirt!’ Yola was shocked, he’d never ever raised his voice before, least of all at her. Gabbin picked up the shirt and handed it to him; it hung like something dead. ‘Gabbin, quick, quick, ghetto blaster, radio, you know … in the hut … quick!’ Uncle Banda translated, but Gabbin had already gone. Fintan was searching frantically through the pockets in his shirt. ‘Got it,’ he muttered and pulled a tape cassette from his pocket. ‘Clear the area!’ he yelled. ‘Where’s Gabbin?’ But Gabbin was there, holding a huge two-speaker recorder. Fintan was fumbling to get the cassette out of its box. At last, Yola realised what he was at. This was the special programme tape containing the recorded sounds of all the different mine detectors – he’d put it in his pocket after talking to Hans!