The old man hurried down the hill and fell into the arms of the woman in white. She embraced him, smiling. “It is good to see you again, husband,” she said.
Epidapheles struggled to his feet, grumbling loudly. He was in the act of straightening his robes when he noticed his surroundings and froze. He turned in a small circle, surveying the empty wasteland about him.
"I seem to remember,” he said, presently, “there being a demonic realm here."
"There was,” said Door. “It's gone now."
"Ah.” Epidapheles looked at the endless chasm yawning down into forever at his feet. He looked at the woman in white, and the tiny lord in her arms. He snuck another peek at the barren wasteland. He looked at Door.
"Sometimes,” he said, in a confidential whisper, “I find the world entirely bewildering."
Door was looking at the empty space where the Square of Eternal Walking had been. He said nothing.
* * * *
Door and Habakkuka stood outside the manor of Lord Fuddlesworth, watching the sun set over a line of trees in the distance. The sounds of revelry came to them from within the manor: Lord Fuddlesworth and Epidapheles in their cups, singing bawdy songs, clattering from room to room, overturning flower pots, dancing on tables, terrorizing the house staff.
Habakkuka rested her hand on Door's back, and said: “I hope you know that you are welcome to stay for as long as you'd like."
"That'll change,” said Door. “The old man will probably insult your husband soon, in a profound and unforgivable way. There'll be an argument, and he'll cast some angry bit of magic that'll go awry and cause a priceless family heirloom to sprout legs and totter away, or a volcano to appear in an inconvenient place.” He paused. “Somewhere in the middle of all that, he's very likely to stagger out here and say something outrageously salacious, and then try to grope you."
"Oh dear,” said Habakkuka.
"I expect to be fleeing from armed men by evening. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
"But you can stay,” she said.
"No. I'm bound to him."
She was looking directly at Door now. She couldn't quite see him, but she could sense his presence, and he found that oddly comforting—to be known by someone other than the old mage. “I saw what you did for that poor soul in the Square of Eternal Walking,” she said. “It was very kind."
Door shrugged. “Moot now,” he said, and looked at her. “You seem tired."
She nodded. “I have spent most of the past ten years following that demon around his endless realm."
"You should get some sleep, milady."
"Yes, but not quite yet. I have not seen a sunset in a very long time."
Door looked up at her. “If you want,” he began, and stopped. “If it would please you,” he said, and stopped again. “I would be happy to be of assistance,” he said.
She smiled. “It would not be an imposition?"
"Not at all, milady."
"Thank you,” she said, and eased herself gracefully down. He felt her weight settle onto him, and the warmth ran through his frame again, stronger than before.
Together, they watched the sun sink into the night.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelet: THE LOST ELEPHANTS OF KENYISHA by Ken Altabef
Ken Altabef contributed “Pleased to Meetcha” to our Aug. 2006 issue. He says he's working on a fantasy novel trilogy right now. His new story takes us to East Africa, where conservationists face hard choices.
Merrian Aprilwood placed the photographs on the desk facing outward so Dr. Falconer could more easily see them. She wondered briefly how they might best be arranged for maximum impact, but it didn't matter. Any way you looked at it, the destruction was impressive. A wealthy Tanzanian estate, half the buildings ravaged by a tornado's fury, kraals shattered, thatch and beam scattered wide, farmland ripped up as if a berserk bulldozer crew had run amok.
"These were taken in Kenyisha,” she said, “a small Tanzanian province just south of the Park."
Dr. Falconer regarded the photographs carefully. He passed a slender, sharply pointed index finger along the surface as if to divine some deep significance perhaps hidden from the casual or untrained eye. The motion struck Merrian the wrong way, giving too much the impression of a sideshow charlatan. Falconer lifted one of the photos and held it up closely before his face, his careworn brow rumpling just above the wire-frame glasses.
Merrian repressed a snicker. She had to admit, she thought rather poorly of this man so far. It might have been different had his first words in her office not been, “Good Lord, I'd forgotten how much I hate Africa.” His principal objection, it turned out, was to the number and variety of annoying insects, coupled with an overblown fear of contracting some ghastly but unnamed disease from them. How was she supposed to take that, she who had spent the better part of her life on the continent and knew it to be one of the most beautiful, graceful places on Earth?
A native Californian, she had come to Kenya as a curious biologist whose casual safari led to an attachment to the Kenya Wildlife Service to study lions, and then eventually, elephants. Twenty years later, she was director of the Amboseli Elephant Project. Her return ticket to L.A., now as withered and yellow as any ancient parchment, hung among the photos pinned to the wall behind her desk, right between the hippo and the lion cub.
"Elephants caused all this?” Falconer asked. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a tall, thin man. A substantial amount of gray peeked through his close-cropped hair, appearing in a random haphazard fashion instead of a determined march up toward his temples. His eyes were sharp, making the creases and wrinkles at their edges seem as if they didn't quite belong, all of this giving the impression of a relatively young man aged prematurely rather than an old man with a twinkle still in his eye.
"The damage is consistent with a herd rampage, yes, but with no reliable witnesses—"
"You can't be sure,” said Falconer, “and you consider it unlikely."
"Merrian likes to think of the Park's pachyderms as her friends; I guess she's hard-pressed to admit any of her charges might be misbehaving.” This came from Ian Hartwick-Corning, a senior research associate at Amboseli National Park, a very handsome and congenial man, and a world authority on elephants. Up until now, Merrian had found his help indispensable. However, this whole ludicrous scene was entirely his fault. It had been Ian who suggested bringing in Dr. Falconer, an old acquaintance from his Oxford days. “I feel the same way, I suppose,” Ian continued. “After living with these elephants for so many years, studying them, interacting with them on a daily basis, you can't help but form an emotional attachment. They're very gentle beasts, actually."
Falconer paused to scan the cramped interior of Merrian's office. An overstuffed file cabinet and cluttered bookcase; the Save the Elephants calendar tacked on the back of the door; the photos, framed and unframed, forming a haphazard mosaic of wildlife on the wall behind her little desk; the pair of worn rattan chairs in which Falconer and Hartwick-Corning were seated.
Merrian watched his gray-green eyes run their gaze over all the things that encompassed her life, and wondered what he saw when they rested once again upon her. She knew what she looked like—a pudgy middle-aged woman, skin tanned by an outdoor lifestyle, her hair a rough-cut pageboy bleached blond by the African sun and streaked unabashedly with gray. Which Merrian Aprilwood did he see? Was it the strong, self-fulfilled woman she believed she had become, or a misplaced Californian who had sacrificed her entire life in an effort to preserve a dying species?
"Right. Let's assume there is a herd of bull elephants ripping up the countryside south of the Park,” suggested Falconer. “Aside from the property damage, has anyone actually been hurt?"
"Luckily not,” answered Ian. “It seems the villa's owners were on holiday and the house staff all put up in the servants’ lodge.” He gestured idly at one of the undamaged buildings in the photo.
"They didn't hear anything suspicious?
"
Ian grunted softly. “Oh, they heard it all right. Sounded like the Hand of God thundering down from On High. But that kind of racket doesn't necessarily make you want to stroll outside for a look-see."
"The damage to the estates and farmland is apparent,” Merrian explained, “but what you can't see in the photos is the damage to the political situation here. Amboseli National Park borders on Tanzania to the south. For a long time, the hunting of elephants for sport was allowed in Tanzania. I've fought long and hard, backed by the Kenya Wildlife Service, to get the Tanzanian government to impose a moratorium on hunting, but now with these...incidents...the killing has begun again. Any bulls that stray outside the Park, as they often do—we're only talking about a five-mile variance here—are in mortal danger."
"And not just the bulls,” added Ian, his congenial features taking on a serious cast. “Cows too. Last week we lost two long-time friends—Big Ben and Feather Head."
"These elephants were senselessly slaughtered, brought down by machine-gun fire in Longido,” fumed Merrian. “That's more than fifty miles from the site of this supposed rampage. Feather Head was a lovely female, sixteen years old. I'd known Big Ben for twenty years. He was fifty, and in his breeding prime.” Her voice quavered embarrassingly at the last, betraying the depth of her sorrow at the recent loss of a friend. “We don't have many breeding males left here. We can't afford to lose them."
"I see,” said Falconer. He brushed his hand dismissively over the photos on the desk without actually touching them. “Well, what steps have you taken to control the errant herd?"
Merrian practically jumped up from behind the desk. “None, because there is no errant herd! We keep strict tabs on all our major players. They're tagged and tracked. We know their whereabouts within a mile or so at all times. That's a big part of what we do here—we study their movements. There simply haven't been any elephants in that area."
"You think this kind of damage could have been faked? Perhaps the government—"
"We're dealing with two different governments here,” said Merrian. “Kenya's backing me all the way; they realize the scientific value of these elephants. But Tanzania is a different story. With this as evidence, they've lifted the ban.” The pain had crept back into her voice. Her research was in jeopardy, her animal friends in danger, the hard-fought political victories of the past few years fading quickly before her eyes. The situation was disastrous, and as much as she didn't want to appear desperate to him, she was desperate. She must have been, to allow Ian to convince her that someone like Falconer could possibly help.
"The Tanzanians can be difficult at times,” explained Ian. “The ivory trade is still quite important to them. It's far too easy for opportunists to use this ‘Mad Bulls on the Loose’ story as a convenient excuse to make more kills."
"I sympathize,” said Falconer, rather unconvincingly, “but I feel constrained to point out that I've come quite a long way on your say-so, Ian. After a sixteen-hour flight, half a dozen vaccinations, not to mention a particularly grabby pair of immigration officials at Jomo Kenyatta, both of whom seemed eager to prove that courtesy is as near to the verge of extinction as your elephants, all capped off by a three-hour combination sauna and cab ride from Nairobi, this had better not be all you have. You said there was an eyewitness."
Merrian felt competing pangs of pity and a guilty sort of glee as Falconer turned his annoyed, incising gaze toward Hartwick-Corning.
"Yes, of course. An eyewitness...of sorts. A man called Parsitau, a bushman, drives a minibus for us, doubles as tour guide. He knows this land as well as anyone, I guess. He was camped out nearby, and heard all the ruckus when the lodge got hit—"
"Sleeping it off in the bush, you mean,” added Merrian. “The man's an inveterate drunk."
"Not the most reliable of sources, I take it,” commented Falconer dryly. “Did he see any elephants?"
"No, he may have gotten there too late for that. The remarkable thing was what he didn't find. He insists there were no elephant footfalls. He couldn't possibly be mistaken—elephant tracks are large and quite distinctive, as you can imagine."
"How about signs of heavy machinery?"
"None. He also says he could smell something ... well, elephants of course, but also something else. Vodun jusu bota. Angry spirits, to be more precise."
Merrian snickered. “Are you sure that isn't just the Tutai expression for hangover?"
"Is he a sensitive?” asked Falconer.
Ian nodded vigorously. “Quite possible. He claims to have come across more than a few strange happenings in the wild, including vengeful spirits. I know him well. He's reliable, at least on this point."
"They are a deeply superstitious people,” added Merrian. “Spirits and ghosts are in some ways more real to them than, say, California. While they will probably never see America, they personally know many people who claim to have had encounters with spirits."
"You seem rather unconvinced, Ms. Aprilwood,” said Falconer.
Merrian appreciated the serious manner with which Falconer was treating the situation, but the expression of that same seriousness, etched into the already grim lines of his face, made her uneasy.
"Look,” she said, “I don't know what pretense Ian used to draw you into this, Professor, but I assure you there are no ghosts in Kenyisha. There's a certain sound in the jungle at night. An eerie high-pitched wail, very much like a tortured screaming. Locals say it's the tormented soul of an old shaman, his bloody ghost paying penance for the tribesmen he'd cursed. But you know what? It's just the mating call of a night bird, the Spotted Dikkop. Genus and species, Burhinus capensis. I don't believe in ghosts, Dr. Falconer."
"They probably don't believe in you either."
"That's very amusing, I'm sure. But I am not amused. I've invested eighteen years in this project, trying to save these dear animals, to pull them back from extinction. And every single thing I've accomplished, through sweat and strain and tears, can all be whisked away in a heartbeat. It won't take much, it won't take much at all. Just when we've begun to see an increase in the herd, I can't watch it all go down in flames. So I'm willing to suspend my disbelief for now. I'll do anything to get this situation under control."
"Do you really mean that?” challenged Falconer.
Merrian didn't answer. No, of course she didn't. Hers was a world of statistics and logic and natural law. The jungle was dangerous enough as it was; there was no place in it for ghosts and goblins. In Africa, there was no Halloween.
Merrian bit back her anger. It hadn't taken long for Falconer's abrasive personality to worm its way under her skin, but there was little reason, outside of her own frustration, for snapping at him like a hyena. Her current predicament was not his fault. Ian had said he was a man who knew about “this sort of thing,” although what credentials there could be in “this sort of thing” she had no idea. He said Nicholas Falconer held a Ph.D. from Oxford, a doctorate in Psychical Studies. Upon hearing that, Merrian had remarked that she wasn't aware Oxford had a Department of Paranormal Studies. Ian chuckled softly, saying, “You're not supposed to know."
Was he kidding?
Falconer went on, “This fellow Parsitau, I'll need to speak with him. But you haven't convinced me there's anything out of the ordinary at work here, Ian. I certainly hope this isn't all just a waste of my time."
* * * *
Just so it wasn't all a waste of his precious time, Merrian suggested she take Dr. Falconer on an aerial tour of the Park and its inhabitants. Having spent the past three days in meetings with Tanzanian Wildlife officials in a futile attempt to stall the spate of renewed hunting, she couldn't bear the thought of passing the afternoon cooped up in her office. Besides, she never missed an opportunity to show off her animals.
She took an exquisite relief in piloting her Cessna 185 up into the clear afternoon sky. The long rains of spring had infused the grasslands with much-needed moisture, sparking the scintillating splendor of renewal.
The patchwork mosaic of open plains, woodlands, and swamp that is southern Kenya draped out below them as a giant crazy quilt. Merrian made for the southwest, where the rich swamp land was best for viewing wild game. They were soon rewarded with a splendid view of a zebra herd on the move, fifty strong, rippling gracefully across the plain as one against a verdant backdrop of long green grasses.
Not long after, they sighted a multitude of grouse and bushbucks, a few wayward giraffe, and a small family grouping of elephants. From the air, the elephants looked characteristically unimpressive—gray, slow-moving masses easily mistaken for lumps of lifeless rock. Merrian guided the small plane toward the west, buzzing low over a group of Maasai herders illegally grazing their cattle on the fertile Park savannah.
She set the Cessna down on a makeshift airstrip just outside Tortabolis Camp, a cluster of huts and a long house the Project used as a monitoring base. No one came out to meet the plane. Merrian guided Falconer into one of a pair of battered Land Rovers waiting on a small circular driveway. The drive connected with a long, long dirt road stretching out to the endless east, but Merrian took them off-road in pursuit of the elephants they had seen. It would be easy to find them.
Lapsing into a casual but well-practiced speech usually reserved for fundraisers, Merrian tried to impress upon her guest the highly intelligent nature of elephants. They were, after all, among the world's most perceptive animals. The number of similarities between the giant pachyderms and humans was striking, including a similar life span, close-knit familial groupings, and complex social interactions. Her efforts to interest the professor in her most intriguing topic, the ceremonies and rituals she had discovered among the wild elephants, had little effect on Falconer. He nodded often but said little.
"I've found them to have very subtle, individual personalities,” she continued.
Falconer offered a probing stare. “Do they have souls?"
"What?"
FSF, July-August 2010 Page 22
