Ivory Ghosts

by Caitlin O'Connell

  “Good eye,” he conceded.

  I let my eye compensate and aimed again. I took a breath and held it. I tensed up, and let my mind focus on a buffalo. I squeezed the trigger. A bottle exploded. I shot again and another exploded.

  “Impressive.” Jon went to the vehicle and grabbed more rounds. He reloaded with another three rounds. He pointed the tip of the rifle toward the elephant skull. “Let’s use a real target.”

  I took the rifle back. “I prefer bottles, myself.” I aimed and shot again. The bullet hit just in front of a bottle.

  “Pretty good.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Good enough for what?”

  I handed him the rifle, ignoring his question.

  “Takes practice to handle such a big caliber. You’re doing bloody well. How long were you in South Africa, anyway?” He lined up and aimed at the bottles.

  “Past two years.”

  He shot two bottles next to each other in rapid succession. “So, what is your biggest fear in the bush?”

  I hardened. “What do you fear?”

  “I asked first.”

  I hesitated. Catching myself in a faraway look, I quickly returned. “Being unprepared in that crucial moment.”

  Jon paused for a moment as he looked me in the eye and then smiled. “Brilliant! Keeps me up at night.” Jon aimed and shot a bottle, and a second, and then a third.

  “Sounds like you have plenty to keep you up at night.”

  “I’m used to it.” He reloaded and handed the rifle back to me. “Come.” He took my hand and lined me up in front of the elephant skull. He put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my opposite hip.

  Suppressing the unexpected jolt of electricity from the sensation of his touch, I allowed him to align my body. “You’re really going to make me do this?”

  He pointed to the top of the skull. “You know you can’t shoot up here in the honeycomb. Just goes right through and he’ll keep on coming. That’s how bad hunters make their mistakes. They aim too high, and then we’ve got to go out and clean up after them. Happened just last season, in fact. Gotta aim down.” He pointed to the middle of the skull, between where the eyes would be. “Down, right between the eyes.”

  “I don’t want to think about having to shoot an elephant.”

  “It’s the hardest thing out there to kill. Why not set your sights high?”

  “I’m not good at killing things.”

  He whispered into my ear, “That why you escaped Kruger?”

  “A fair assessment.” I wasn’t about to elaborate, as I was convinced he knew something about it. My face felt hot with the touch of his hands on me as I steadied myself and aimed. I squeezed the trigger, and the bullet hit the vegetation off to the right near the elephant skull.

  “If you shoot like that, you may kill a friendly by mistake.”

  I stepped away from him and aimed at the bottles again. “I’d prefer to go back to bottles.” I shot two more bottles.

  Jon shook his head with admiration. “What brings you to God’s country?”

  “Peace of mind.”

  “Caprivi’s not a place to find peace.”

  I touched his swollen arm. “I’ve heard it’s a good place to get malaria.”

  Jon looked at me uncertainly.

  I looked down wide-eyed at his arm.

  He followed my gaze to all the mosquito bites. “Ah, yes, a gift to my trackers. I attract them all away from them.”

  “I bet they like me more.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that your blood is sweet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Sensing my tone of surprise, he quickly defended his comment. “You know, the mosquitoes—they can smell the sugar in blood.” He gently brushed against my mosquito bites. “You must have pretty sweet blood like I do.” He smiled innocently.

  “Maybe.” I handed the rifle back. “I’m done. Stayed up too late reading last night.” I looked at the welts all down his legs. “Looks like your night didn’t go so smoothly, either.”

  He rubbed his arms. “They’ll be gone by lunchtime.”

  I bent down and inspected the welts more closely. “What are those?”

  “Bloody tsetses.”

  “Do they hurt?”

  “They’ll go away. It’s not a problem.”

  “You allergic?”

  “Mildly. Bloody little bastards.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Up at the Singalamwe border again.” Jon returned to his truck, leaned the rifle against it, fished out a canteen of water, and held it up. “Would you like some?”

  I shook my head. “Any sign of Ernest?”

  “Not even a shred of clothing.” Jon leaned against the truck and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and gasped. “Shame I will have to suspend a staff member over this.”

  “You mean Eli?”

  “I’m sure Ernest thought his chances of survival would be better with the crocs than with Eli.”

  “My dad told me that when faced with it in Vietnam, his buddies felt like death was more inviting than torture.”

  “I wouldn’t be that hard on ol’ Eli.”

  “Then why suspend him?”

  “I can’t afford to, of course. Best interrogator I have. But I’ll have to as a precautionary measure. The witch doctor has many friends this side of the border, and you never know what he might try to do to get back at us.” He took another swig and tossed his canteen back in the truck. “Bloody witch doctor’s always one step ahead of us. Despite the photos from WIA, we’ve got to get something else. We’ve got to nail the supplier.”

  I tensed up. Again, I wondered who Geldenhuis’s new accomplice was. I hoped that Craig would get the permission soon so that I could show Jon the pictures of this man. I changed the subject. “Won’t that come out in court?”

  “If the case goes to trial, you mean.”

  “Those photos aren’t enough for a trial?” Jon’s concern made me wonder about Craig’s fear that there would be questions as to how my photos were obtained.

  “You’d be surprised at what gets thrown out of court.” Jon listened as a branch cracked in the distance. The forest came alive with elephants around us. “Counted two hundred elephant as I came in. With a fresh crop of babies. You don’t have big game like that outside Alaska, I expect.”

  “We’ve got bison and grizzlies in Yellowstone,” I offered.

  “I heard your California big five consists of bighorn sheep, Yogi the picnic-basket-stealing and Pringles-loving brown bear, the odd feral mountain lion, the endangered tired tule elk, and—what?—the pathetic lone bison owned by Chief Tiny Toes?”

  “You are pretty good at entertaining yourself, aren’t you?”

  “We try our best out here in the bush. Only way to keep sane.”

  “Yellowstone has some pretty decent big game, but it can’t compare to this.”

  “Elephant, lion, leopard, buffalo, and rhino—most dangerous game in Africa. The big five. All occur here, minus the last rhino that was helicoptered out by SADF for fear of its getting pinched. Bloody Garden of Eden otherwise. Ironic that this place has the highest density of game in the country, and it was almost turned into cornfields after the war with Angola. Fortunately, Bwabwata National Park was gazetted before they could get the tractors in.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “The South African Defense Force was based here during the war so the place couldn’t be designated as a park. Bloody three-legged elephants, with all the land mines.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve seen that?”

  “You can’t even think about it. Just got a report of another up near the border. Goin’ up to put him out of his misery this afternoon.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Any sign of poaching up over the border?”

  “The politics are crippling.”

  “What politics?”

  “Of who’s su
pposed to be monitoring the border.”

  “Gidean mentioned something about that.”

  “We’ll be sitting ducks if they decide to come to the station.”

  Jon was quick to change the subject. “Hey, you’re coming in on Monday, right? Got a fine leg of lamb to roast. Was hoping you and Nigel could stop by for dinner. Talk census plans?”

  “I’m trying to avoid driving that road at night. Hard to navigate the cattle.”

  “Know what you mean. Listen.” He hesitated. “Nigel’s had his bedroll on my living room floor all month. I’ve got a spare room. You’re welcome as well. Gotta bring a net, though, the mosquitoes are killer in Katima. And I can’t promise the dogs won’t keep you up all night. Hell of a place for rapid-eye movement, but it beats driving back in the dark. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good, thanks.” As I walked toward my car, I wondered whether he was staying at Susuwe for the weekend. I was tempted to ask what he was up to later, but I felt embarrassed. Then I realized how much I could accomplish by accompanying him up north. “Are you really going out to track that wounded elephant you mentioned earlier?”

  “Looking for more target practice?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Yes. Two o’clock sharp. I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  I should have hesitated but didn’t. “Okay.”

  Chapter 23

  Jon pulled up to my barracks at five minutes to two, with Natembo standing on the back of the truck and Gidean inside. I was sitting on my porch with my backpack, ready to go.

  I jumped down the stairs and nodded to Natembo as I got in. Gidean moved over and I nodded to both him and Jon, as well, and we drove off.

  “Hello, Gidean.”

  Seeing Natembo made me think about Bernie. “Any word about Bernie?”

  Jon shook his head and drew a line across his throat. “He didn’t pull through.”

  “Oh no! I am so sorry.”

  Gidean nodded back stoically.

  Given the solemn mood, I regretted my decision to join them.

  Jon handed me an open package of sticky gummy candies.

  I declined with a hand up.

  He shrugged and emptied the package into his mouth. “By the way, your target practice has changed species. How do you feel about buffalo?”

  I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently, our wounded elephant is on a suicide mission. He went back into Angola. Can’t take the pain and knows where to go to get relief. Instead, our afternoon’s entertainment is a wounded buffalo. Savimbi’s men clearly haven’t done a good job of training their soldiers how to aim. Now we’ve got to clean up after them. Where is the humanity in letting a poor animal walk around three-legged out there? It’s like one of those ‘Weeble’ deals. Did you have those when you were little? This will be the second one in a week. Of course you know what happened to the first one. The impact of that old Mercedes snapped its leg like a bloody chopstick. But this Weeble’s genesis was a gunshot wound.”

  I looked at him nervously, afraid of where this would lead.

  “I suppose all good little Americans had Weebles. I know I said that the elephant was the most formidable thing to shoot in the bush, but I was wrong. It’s the wounded buffalo. What do you think?”

  I had lost track of all the talk since the mention of a wounded buffalo, wondering whether there was some way I could finesse myself out of this little adventure, but when Jon asked what I thought, I froze, wondering if he was playing a cruel trick on me.

  I had to keep my cool. Maybe he had heard what had happened to Sean, and he was playing me. But he couldn’t possibly have known how I had performed under those circumstances. But, then again, conservation circles in southern Africa ran small. I braced myself. “I’m sure Natembo or Gidean are a much better shot than I am.”

  “Yes, I expect they are.”

  That was easier than I thought. And in my relief, I didn’t feel much like conversation. Jon seemed to sense this, and we drove in silence for some time.

  Finally, we came upon the baobab tree that I had noticed the day I arrived, and, although only a week had passed, it looked as if it had been considerably further gnawed through the middle. “Elephants seem hungry.”

  “Yes, Angolan elephants haven’t been going home after their wet season holidays for some time. The place is taking a beating.”

  Having seen exactly why elephants might not have wanted to cross the border, I still asked, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s still not safe for elephants to wander in southern Angola.”

  “Even after the war?”

  “Worse—no subsidies after the war,” Jon explained. “Savimbi’s boys are eating them for breakfast. It’s Namibian takeaway or former UNITA soldiers starve.”

  “That bad?” It was hard for me not to be sarcastic after what I had seen on my first flight, but I refrained. “But if this is known, why isn’t something being done about it?”

  “We have no jurisdiction over the border. The boys in gray are seeking exile in the Caprivi—and they are hungry exiles. And the guys with automatic weapons with little sense of consequence are starting to follow them south. But this is nothing. There’s a site down by Horseshoe that looks like an elephant lumberyard still standing. I’ll take you to Lagoon sometime. The knobthorn trees are all naked. The bark must taste like gummy bears.”

  “Sounds good.” Now that Jon was warming up, the day was looking better. But a dark cloud still lingered with the news of Bernie’s death.

  A giraffe loped off the edge of the grassy plain and into the acacia forest. It’s always so surprising to see how such a long-necked animal is able to run so gracefully. Always made me wish that I could throw on a saddle and go for a ride.

  There was a bang on the roof and Jon stopped and stuck his head out the window. “See something, Natembo?”

  We all got out.

  Natembo pointed to buffalo tracks in the sand. He could see from the pattern that one animal was dragging a back leg. He touched some low leaves on a bush and pointed out some blood. “It’s with the herd still.”

  I looked at the tracks as the others got their rifles. There must have been about fifty buffalo, judging by the number of tracks. Once again I regretted that I hadn’t turned down the wounded buffalo hunt. You’d think one mad buffalo would be enough for a lifetime. But I was already committed. There was no way I could ask to wait in the truck at this point.

  We all walked through the tall grass of the open teak woodland. The clear visibility was comforting. I could see way ahead of us and to the sides. It would be hard for a buffalo to sneak up on us in this environment.

  Dappled sunlight hit the cool green leaves in patterns that looked like the patches on a giraffe. Since elephants didn’t much care for Rhodesian teak, the place was intact. I felt as if I had walked back in time into a virgin teak forest, untouched by logging—with only a few fire scars here and there.

  Knowing we were well behind the large herd, we followed the tracks through the grass between the trees until the teak petered out and we entered a dense acacia forest. This place had a distinctly different feel; the dark canopy was unnerving, and my breath shortened.

  Dancing shadows to the left and right caused my head to spin. Phantom lone buffalo popped up in the black patches behind trees, gnarled bosses and curled horns. Every time I was sure that there was something there, I froze.

  Natembo sensed my fear and caught my eye. He nodded to indicate that everything was going to be okay. That made me feel a little better.

  As we got closer to the river, we passed more and more trees that were either knocked over or heavily damaged. The camel thorn and knobthorn were hit the hardest. I saw what Jon was referring to. The saplings were chewed down to nubbins, and most of the adult trees were almost completely debarked.

  “This place is trashed.” I hadn’t seen anything quite like it in Kruger.

  “Wait till you see what they’ve do
ne with Horseshoe. Hell, they’ve hammered it. These trees won’t recover.”

  It didn’t take long to stumble upon a small elephant family group under a shady grove. The older females were fanned out, watching for trouble, while cooling themselves with slow flaps of their ears. Others dozed on their feet. One held her trunk up and rested it against her head, sampling the air for anything unusual. A few youngsters lay down within the circle of protection. There were two other larger groups arranged in the same configuration, one resting to the left, another to the right. We were surrounded on all sides by silent elephants.

  An unwitting sentry practically tiptoed from one group to another, heading directly toward us. Jon waved for us to get down as the large cow approached without even a twig snap.

  Gidean had his firearm ready. The elephant was almost upon us when she caught our scent. She waved her upturned trunk high, smelling the air. The huge gray mass loomed above us on tiptoes, frozen midstride, as we huddled under the brush. Her ears were held straight out as she looked down at us, eyes wild and jaw open wide with fear.

  Three rifles were cocked, aiming for the sky.

  The elephant emitted a low rumbling sound, like a distant truck changing gears. And suddenly the herds were alert. In an instant, they melted silently into the bush.

  The sentry eyed us for another second, then turned tail and ran.

  The men relaxed their shoulders and put down their arms when suddenly the noise of gunfire rang out to the north, only a few hundred meters away, followed by the deep bellow of an elephant. There was a screaming roar and a trumpet to the west of the gunfire.

  The men all looked at one another, and Jon signaled for me to follow as we advanced carefully from tree to tree, Natembo and Gidean running ahead. As we got closer we heard more gunfire, most probably from a low-caliber automatic weapon, given the rapid-fire frequency of shots and their pitch, followed by what was probably the last low rumbles of a dying elephant. There was silence for a few minutes as we made our way closer, then another bellow and scream, as if the elephant had gotten a second wind. Either that or there was more than one elephant under attack.