by Chad Oliver
They were after something. Otherwise, they would not have been there.
They needed something. Not technology, certainly. They had plenty of that. They understood technology and respected it, but that was not enough. Endurance was the problem. Call it continuity.
They would know it when they found it. They would know what to do with it. They had a wisdom that went deeper than intelligence. They had other senses.
They were not beyond self-interest. They were driven by their own needs. Otherwise, they would not have been there.
But there was room for others. They knew they were not alone. They knew that it was all linked together.
The seeking was urgent. The journey had been long.
They were ready. They would not quit. They could not afford to miss.
They were coming.
Call it a hunt.
Jerry Hartshorn felt rotten. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a sand-streaked hand. He said, “So this is how it ends.”
Nobody heard him, of course. He was talking to himself again, which was not a particularly good sign.
He tugged his stained hat down more tightly over his damp hair and squinted into the African sun. It was the same old sun that rolled around the sky everywhere else. Nothing special. It wasn’t the sun that was getting to Jerry Hartshorn. It was a bug, despite all the pills and all the shots. He was sick. Not sick enough to go down. Just sick enough to be miserable.
He also did not like what he was seeing.
He swung up his camera, noting that the brown strap across his shoulder was fraying to the danger point. He checked the settings—always the same at this time of the day, but Jerry was a careful man—and snapped a couple of shots. He hated the photography angle; taking pictures made him feel like a tourist. It was a part of his job, but the plain truth was that he was always disappointed with his slides and prints. They were clear enough, barring a disaster here and there, but the magic eluded him. The pictures were flat and literal. The significance and the emotion never got through the camera lens; they stayed behind, locked up in his head and his gut.
In any case, how did you photograph the end of a world? It didn’t end with a bang and it didn’t end with a whimper. It just stopped.
“Chins up,” he said. “Duty and all that. Posterity and tenure.”
This is what he photographed:
There was a battered thick-trunked baobab tree that cut the glaring sunlight enough to provide a puddle of shade. There was the flat rust-red earth of southern Kenya, mottled by bedraggled flat-topped acacia, the cactus-caricature of euphorbia, and very ordinary dusty brush.
There was a lot of open country—plains, really—and an enormous bowl of blue sky. It was as though clouds hadn’t been invented yet.
And there were the people.
They did not seem to be doing anything dramatic. Small, brown, and leather-tough, they had gathered in the dubious shade of the baobab. It was the last day, and they were spending it as they had spent so many others. Waiting.
Most of them were there, clustered near the camp. Jerry did not have to count them. Fifteen people: old men, women that ran the gamut from ancient Klu to the young smooth-skinned Twee, a few children who were blissfully unaware both of what they were and what they were about to become.
Three men were not present. They had left before dawn, smearing poison on the foreshafts of their arrows and joking loudly. They were not likely to find anything, but their spirits were always good at the start of a hunt. Even the last one. George Ndambuki, Jerry’s African colleague, was with them.
Taking pictures, Jerry thought ruefully. Good ones.
He shut the protective case over his camera and adjusted the shoulder strap. He had photographed what there was to see.
Nothing much. Even the clothing would have discouraged the true devotee of the supposed romance of primitive life. For the most part, the people were dressed in what might politely be called contemporary fashion. Torn shorts and carefully washed undershirts for the men, long cotton dresses and bandana-turbans for the women. Only the youngest children had style. They wore nothing at all.
The People. That is what they called themselves, in common with God only knew how many human societies that had lived and died on this planet. In what was pompously referred to as the scientific literature, they were the Kwaruma. It was not the right name. In their own language, the word for People was Xhagit. The first sound was a click phoneme. However, they had been dubbed the Kwaruma by their Bantu-speaking neighbors, and they were stuck with it.
Tomorrow, the trucks would come. The Kwaruma were going to be “resettled” on farming plots in a development scheme. The television crews would be on hand, because this was no small matter.
As far as anyone knew, the Kwaruma were the last hunters and gatherers left on earth.
A jet smashed through the African sky. The symbolism was so pat that Jerry Hartshorn tried to ignore the racket. He had lived with these people for nearly a year. He did not need a jet aircraft to remind him of what was happening.
He still felt rocky. No matter; a couple of aspirins would get him through the remaining hours. Ah, wonder drugs! The true blessing of civilization….
He checked his field notebook and moved in closer to do what had to be done.
The last camp of the Kwaruma was like most of the camps that Jerry had seen. It had a slapdash quality to it and it had temporary written all over it. Compared to the camp, the scarred baobab tree looked eternal.
The structures weren’t houses. They were simple lean-tos made of crooked poles and brush. There was almost nothing in them: a few iron pots the Kwaruma had scrounged, some digging sticks, traditional ostrich eggs used as water containers, small cracked hide bundles of treasured heirlooms, a few trade knives and two old wood-pointed spears.
The People lived outside. In any case, when you have to move frequently and do it on foot you get down to essentials. The People did not even have dogs to help them.
Old Klu already had a small fire going. It was partly a sign of confidence and a show of respect for the departed hunters. But Jerry knew that there was another reason. Warm as it was in the African sun, Klu was thinking about the coming night. She suffered from the cold, and it took more than memories to sustain her.
Jerry was working—taking notes—but he found the time to exchange small-talk with everyone. He speculated with the elder men about the possible success of the hunt. He joked with Twee, confining himself to acceptable brother-sister themes. He admired the roots the women had gathered. It made him feel somewhat better. The Kwaruma were a friendly people and they had more or less accepted him. He was proud of that. Who knew? Maybe they even liked him.
If he could help them, later—
Well, he would not forget. But this was not the time. There were so few hours left….
He walked over to Jane’s tent, which was pitched a short distance from the camp. He could hear the clicking of the portable typewriter inside.
Not for the first time, he reflected on the percentages. Eighteen Kwaruma and three anthropologists. It was a peculiar world.
The tent was open, of course. There was no breeze, and it was like an oven in there.
“It’s Tarzan,” he said. “Jane busy?”
Jane Schubauer went right on with her typing. “Come on in,” she said.
Jerry picked his way through the clutter and perched on a camp chair that had one slat missing. He removed his hat and used it to fan himself.
Jane finished a paragraph—she always typed up her notes with indecent speed—and turned to face him. Her eyes widened slightly. “You look like a walking corpse,” she said.
He shrugged. “Beastly tropical heat. The throb of native drums. You know.”
“You can’t die now. You’re cooking the feast tonight.”
“I will not falter. Two aspirins would help the ape-man.”
Jane rooted around and produced the aspirin bottle. She handed it to him with a c
anteen of water. The water was warm and tasted ominous but he got the pills down.
“Just wanted to check,” he said. “You go over the life-history with Klu, I measure the amounts of plant foods and meat after the hunters get in, and George writes up the last hunt. Then we eat and kick it around to see if we’ve forgotten anything. That cover it?”
She nodded. “Sounds okay to me. We’ve just run out of time, that’s all. Jerry, you do look awful.”
“I’ll make it.”
They eyed each other. There were other words to be said between them, but they might never be spoken. They were either beyond that or had never gotten there.
No computer would ever have put them in the same pile, Jerry thought. Jane—she loathed the name—was a tall raw-boned woman who could look attractive when she bothered. She was brilliant and she was difficult. When she laughed, Jerry chalked it up as a triumph.
Jerry was short, wiry, and thin. He had a brownish beard that itched, He had a bad habit of cracking jokes at the wrong times. Even those who knew him well had trouble telling when he was serious—which was all too often—and when he was kidding. He believed in what he was doing.
They were competitors, of course, Back at the University, they were on the Harvard system. Hire six, terminate five, keep one. They were also friends: they liked and respected each other. Once, they had even been lovers. It had been a mutual disaster.
“See you later,” Jerry said.
Jane went back to the typewriter. The clicking resumed. “Be careful, Tarzan,” she said.
The hunters returned in the late afternoon. Jerry could hear them coming, and knew that the hunt had been good. When the hunters had been successful, they made a lot of noise. When they failed, they came silently back to the camp and nobody ever asked them what had happened.
Jerry went to meet them.
They came out of the earth, shadows among shadows. Kwi, still walking lightly after a long day in the bush. Tuwa, who could be spotted at a distance because of his limp. Gsawa, taller than the others, walking a little apart, lost in his private world as usual.
George Ndambuki brought up the rear. Incredibly, he still had a tie on. He was visibly tired, but he had his camera out and ready. He was going to photograph the end of the hunt or perish in the attempt.
The women began to ululate. It was a haunting sound. It seemed as ancient as humanity itself.
Jerry stayed out of the way until George had his final pictures. Then he moved in to examine the kill.
Kwi, who was the nearest thing to a leader that the Kwaruma had, gave him a big smile. Kwi had an upper incisor tooth missing; he liked to tell the story of how he had lost it. He also had a safety pin in his ear. He was a delightful man, solid as a rock but with a consistent good humor that was contagious. Kwi had pulled Jerry through some difficult times, just as he had done for the rest of his people.
“See,” Kwi beamed. “Did I not tell you? It was Gsawa’s arrow that went home.”
The hunters had divided their kill for easier transport and they had not bothered to bring in the head and horns. Still, Jerry could identify the animal at a glance. Rather surprisingly, it was a Tommy. They were not common in this part of Kenya.
“Gazella thomsonii thomsonii,” Jerry said. He was not showing off; this was a little running joke he had with Kwi.
“Swala tomi,” Kwi agreed. He spoke Swahili when he was having fun with the anthropologist, which was frequently.
Jerry figured it up in his head; he would weigh the meat later. A Tommy was one of the smaller African antelopes. This one was a male. It might go sixty pounds, and that meant something like thirty pounds of edible meat. Close to two pounds of meat for every adult. Meat was always shared.
“We will provide,” Kwi said. He slapped his bow. “No more Spam.”
Jerry nodded gratefully. “No more Spam,” he agreed.
George Ndambuki could not stay out of the conversation. “I timed the poison,” he reported. “One hour less thirteen seconds.”
“Great,” Jerry said. “I know it wasn’t easy.” He found it awkward to talk to George; he felt much closer to Kwi. George Ndambuki was so impressed with his own Ph.D. that he sometimes forgot to be human. it was understandable—George had sacrificed a great deal for the degree that had come fairly easily for Jerry and Jane—but his everlasting dignity got on Jerry’s nerves.
“I will cook,” Jerry said to Kwi. “That was the agreement.”
Kwi laughed. “The women will cook,” he predicted. “You get the beer.”
Jerry fell back on a Kwaruma saying. “Friends do not argue.”
Kwi laughed again and Tuwa and Gsawa joined in. It paralyzed them to hear Jerry’s Kwaruma accent.
“You have much to learn,” Kwi said. It was a statement without malice. “I must teach you while I can.”
It was a scene not quite as old as time.
The fires were orange and cheerful. There were good smells and the shadows danced. The camp was an island of brightness. The air had cooled and the stars were near.
Jerry Hartshorn chewed on the tough but tasty meat. His head was throbbing but he was strangely content.
He was a part of something.
How many times over how many millions of years had this small ritual been enacted? Fire and food, hunters who had returned and women who had waited, collected, and prepared. Children who watched and listened and dreamed.
It was ancient, it stretched back unbroken to a world older than humanity. Australopithecines and those who had preceded them must have known nights like this.
It was only ten thousand years ago that the human animal had begun the flirtation with agriculture and domesticated animals. Two cheers for the Neolithic! It was only five thousand years since the first cities had stained the earth.
Always, the hunting and gathering peoples had continued. Their numbers had dwindled and they had retreated into remote areas that the manswarm did not covet. But they had survived.
Until now.
The Kwaruma were distant relatives of the San of Botswana and the Kalahari Desert. Once, these people had been dominant throughout Eastern Africa. They were called the Bushmen by those who never bothered to learn their proper name.
The San were finished. They had not been exterminated physically; there were still plenty of them around. But in terms of their traditional culture they were extinct. The San were gold-miners, hired herders, servants, squatters in city slums. They had adapted.
Only this tiny remnant group of Kwaruma were left. Anywhere. They were anachronisms.
Kwi had been right, or nearly right. The antelope meat had been broiled by the Kwaruma women; they had allowed Jerry to weigh it, but they were adamant about the cooking. Jerry had done his best. He had promised the people a feast and he delivered after a fashion. He heated up canned corn. He passed around tins of pineapple. He opened cans of pork and beans; the Kwaruma preferred it cold. He made coffee and dumped in cups of sugar.
And he supplied the beer.
He felt at home with the Kwaruma but he did not delude himself. He was an intruder, along with Jane and George. He had come from a distant land on his own kind of hunt. When he had his quarry—information, knowledge—he would go away again. And then—
Ah yes, that was the question.
Well, save it for tomorrow. Save it for all the tomorrows.
The three of them managed to squeeze into Jane’s tent together. It wasn’t much of a conference. George Ndambuki was out on his feet; he had walked far with the hunters. Jane Schubauer was having trouble with the wick on her lamp and she still had notes to type. Jerry Hartshorn was discovering that the mixture of beer, meat, and fever verged on the lethal.
The camp was anything but festive. They could hear subdued voices and an occasional rattling of pots and cans around the dwindling fires. That was all. The Kwaruma had no drums—just wooden whistles and bows that they tapped with sticks—and they were not in a mood for dancing. Basically, like all the
world that was beyond the reach of electricity, the Kwaruma were a daylight people. The night was for sleeping,
“Well.” Jerry spoke because somebody had to do it. “Last chance and all that. Have we forgotten anything?”
“Probably” Jane said. She did not sound unduly worried. She wanted to get back to her notes.
“I think we have done extremely well,” George offered. “We have all that there is to get.” George’s opinion of the Kwaruma was not high. Having made something of a transition himself—his own parents had lived in a thatched hut and sacrificed goats to the ancestors in Ukambani—he viewed primitive lifeways with a slightly jaundiced eye.
“So we have it all.” Jerry could not allow himself the luxury of laughter and he didn’t feel up to it anyway. “Okay. Meeting is adjourned. See you in the morning.”
He ducked out of the tent. The night was chilly and he had to wait a long minute to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The little fires were not much help now. He shivered and tried to decide what to do.
He went to his own tent and fished out a warm jacket. He retrieved his last bottle of Scotch from under a pile of dirty clothing. He had not exactly been hiding it, but he had been saving it. Scotch was still relatively inexpensive in Kenya—unlike the rare imported bourbons—but it nevertheless put a dent in the budget.
He supplied himself with a tin cup and went outside to sit on a stump.
Jerry had no more questions to ask. This was not because he knew everything there was to know about the Kwaruma. That was George’s fantasy. It was because he had gone as far as his educated ignorance would take him.
He looked up at the stars. They were very close and there were lots of them.
He waited.
Jerry was feeling better. The Scotch had something to do with that, of course. But much more than whisky was involved. Jerry was young. Even with the bug in him, he could handle the Scotch.
He felt like this sometimes. Open, receptive, expectant. Once in a while, you had to relax and get out of your own way. You had to let things happen.
