It was heavier than two guinea fowl! She could smokecure most of it for later, and still have a banquet tonight. Her salt was finished, but she had made a substitute some time ago.
Mutsangidza plants were common on the island. They were bushy herbs with purple, daisylike flowers, growing as high as her knee. Nhamo had soaked and then burned them. She mixed the ashes with water. She poked holes in a calabash and padded it with dry grass to make a sieve, because unfiltered mutsangidza ashes were slightly poisonous. The juice that dripped through was collected in a pot and boiled until only a white residue was left. The result didn’t taste as good as salt, but it was better than nothing, and the same residue could be used to tenderize tough leaves or meat.
Nhamo felt elated as she feasted on the roasted dassie. She sang:
“I had mambas for breakfast
To put me in a bad mood.
Now I am ready for anything.
Run, dassies, hide in your holes!
I crunch up bones like a mother hyena
And hit flies on the wing with my spear.”
She would make more weapons. She would make spears, throwing sticks, a bow and arrows, a sling. She would be chief of the island (my island, Nhamo thought happily as she licked the grease from her fingers).
And, she thought later as she snuggled up to the grass-stuffed grain sack, I’ve solved the mystery of Rumpy’s tail. A caracal is exactly the kind of creature that would try to catch a skinny baboon.
27
As the dry season progressed, the grass shriveled and many trees lost their leaves. The lake, which was receding gradually anyhow, experienced another sudden drop. Now there was dry land all the way to the little island, except for the final, deep channel. Nhamo worried that something might be tempted to invade from the large island.
Her bathing pool dried up. Collecting water was hazardous again, and she had to wash hurriedly, with one eye watching for the crocodile. She couldn’t make soap with ashes and fat as Aunt Chipo had done in the village—every morsel of fat went down her throat—but she made a reasonable substitute from the boiled roots of ruredzo plants. The vines grew everywhere, their green and silver-white leaves contrasting attractively with rose-pink flowers. The leaves were edible, too, but they left a slimy feel in Nhamo’s mouth. She didn’t eat them unless she was starving.
“It’s so hot,” Nhamo sighed, brushing away mopane flies as she worked on the boat. “I wish I could sit at the bottom of a nice, cool lake like you,” she told Crocodile Guts.
You have to be dead to do it, Crocodile Guts reminded her. He was puffing on a pipe made from a long-stemmed calabash with a clay tobacco bowl inserted in the round bulb of the plant. It was so much like Grandmother’s pipe, Nhamo suddenly felt her throat constrict.
“How do you keep a fire lit underwater?” she asked to keep the lonely-sickness away.
Anything’s possible in the country of the njuzu, the boatman said enigmatically.
“Don’t you get homesick?”
I won’t be here forever, little Disaster.
“What do you mean?” cried Nhamo.
You know the custom. My brothers have already divided up my things. If Anna was still alive, one of them would have been forced to marry her. I’d have liked to see that argument! Crocodile Guts laughed so hard he almost fell off his stool.
Nhamo nodded. She remembered the boatman’s wife screaming insults at her husband.
She was a good person. Just a little noisy, Crocodile Guts said. Everyone was annoyed when they found the boat missing, by the way.
“How do you know all this?” asked Nhamo.
The njuzu told me.
Of course, thought Nhamo. Snakes went everywhere. She saw them rustling through the leaves, watching the affairs of the village from their dark lairs.
Anyhow, my family’s going to have the coming-home ceremony at the end of the dry season. They’ve sent out all the invitations.
“And then?” said Nhamo.
And then I go home.
“But…what about me?”
You’ll be on your way by then.
“What if I’m not?” Nhamo wailed. “You can’t leave me!”
You’ll have to work faster, little Disaster. You haven’t been paying attention. The njuzu can give you plenty of advice, but you have to pay attention. Crocodile Guts knocked the ashes out of his pipe and packed it again with tobacco. An njuzu girl picked up a live coal from her cook-fire and carried it to him in her delicate fingers.
The underwater scene rippled and vanished. Nhamo was alone next to the mukwa log. She hurled the scraping stone as hard as she could against a rock.
“How can he go off and leave me! Selfish man! He’s living like a king at the bottom of the lake. He doesn’t care what happens to me. All he has to do is let his pipe go out, and one of those creepy snake-girls lights it again!”
The image of the njuzu lifting the coal came to her mind. What a strange thing to do. What was it about that coal? Nhamo saw it glowing in her mind as she gazed at the mukwa log.
Of course!
Why was she spending so much time chipping away at the wretched boat when she could burn a hole into it?
“You’re right. I haven’t been paying attention,” she apologized to Crocodile Guts. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I’m an ungrateful child and I’m lucky you speak to me at all. I don’t really think you’re creepy, Va-njuzu,” she added. “You just take a little getting used to.”
That afternoon, Nhamo sacrificed her best calabash to the water spirits. She had decorated it with black-and-red designs from crushed berries. She filled it with lucky beans to make up for the lack of proper beads, and hurled it far into the lake. She poured marula juice into the water for Crocodile Guts because she didn’t have any beer.
In spite of her new weapons, Nhamo’s food supply grew smaller as the dry season struck with full force. Plants she could count on earlier were ravaged by baboons. Her traps were destroyed by jackals, honey badgers, and the caracal—she was certain of its identity now. Not only had she heard it meowing in the dark, but she also saw it make an absolutely stunning leap early one morning. It had spotted a dassie on the cliff. With breathtaking accuracy it sprang straight into the air—twice the height of a person—and plucked the hapless creature off its perch. After that, Nhamo reinforced the thorn-bush barrier around her trees and added a coat of birdlime to the bark.
She still managed to bring down the occasional hare or dassie, but she had to spend a long time hunting them. It took time away from her work on the boat. It was taking shape more rapidly now that she used burning coals to hollow it out.
One day, as Nhamo watched the baboon troop pass beneath her platform, she realized that they had many more sources of food than she. She had only explored a fraction of the island. Surrounded by an ever vigilant crowd of baboons, she could hardly be safer finding new hunting grounds.
Nhamo climbed down the ladder, hooked it out of harm’s way, and, greeted by only one or two outraged oo-AA-hoos, trailed after the creatures. At first the animals moved rapidly—they obviously had a goal in mind. She kept her distance. After a while, the baboons fanned out and began digging earnestly in the soil. They hauled up thick, juicy grass roots, knocked them against their arms to dislodge dirt, and proceeded to feed. The babies clustered around to snatch unguarded morsels. Nhamo dug, too, using a sharpened stick. She stored the roots in a carrying basket.
The animals turned over logs, ripped off bark, plunged their paws down holes (and sometimes withdrew them hurriedly), and picked over cassia trees for pods. Nhamo copied everything, with the exception of sticking her hand down holes. She wasn’t that desperate yet. The baboons devoured beetles, grubs, maggots, grasshoppers, mice, and even scorpions. Nhamo shuddered when they nipped off the stingers. One of them uncovered a snake and sent the whole troop into a screaming panic. Nhamo went up the nearest tree, scratching herself badly.
“Stupid animals,” she muttered, climbing down. S
till, it was pleasant foraging with company. The baboons appeared to accept her presence. They allowed her to sit almost within arm’s reach.
She collected grasshoppers and grubs, cassia pods, the black fruit of the buffalo thorn, donkeyberries, and sowthistle leaves. In the heat of the day, the troop rested in the shade of a musasa grove. The remains of a stream meandered through the rocks, and here and there were small pools of water at which the baboons—and Nhamo—could refresh themselves.
“This was an excellent idea,” Nhamo told Mother. “I have enough food for several days, so I can stay by the boat for a while. The work is going quickly now that I’m using hot coals.”
All at once she felt a tickling sensation on her back. She had tied rabbit skins around her hips to save the precious cloth for her eventual arrival in Zimbabwe, so everything from her waist up was bare. Nhamo felt horribly vulnerable. Something was inching its way across her skin.
Nhamo didn’t scream. She didn’t jump. Months in the wild had taught her the wisdom of sitting perfectly still until she found out what was happening. None of the animals were reacting, so the danger had to be small. It’s probably a scorpion, she thought bitterly. The baboons are probably envious of my good luck.
Flicker, flicker. She felt a pinch, the scrape of a tiny nail. Very slowly, she turned her head. Her heart was pounding.
It was Tag. He looked up briefly and went back to his examination of her skin. He was grooming her!
Nhamo’s emotions underwent a rapid change. She was relieved of course, and then pleased that the tiny creature had trusted her. And then—and then—she began to shiver. From some unknown depth, sobs rolled out of her. Tag jumped back, his mouth open in alarm. Nhamo wept until she thought she was wrung dry. All those nights she lay on the platform hugging the grain bag came back to her. What she wanted, what she desperately needed, was touch. Now she understood the hours the baboons spent combing one another’s fur. Now she knew why they wore such blissful expressions and why Rumpy would put up with any mistreatment in order to lure someone into grooming his hide.
Donkeyberry and the other animals seemed to recognize her agony. They didn’t move nearer, but neither did they flee. They watched her nervously. Tag was clinging to his mother’s stomach. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected to get for being friendly.
“I’m sorry, Tag,” Nhamo said, hugging herself tightly. “I like you. I really do.” She made lip-smacking noises, aware of how ridiculous she must appear. I’m just like Fat Cheeks, she thought. Well, it didn’t matter. No one was going to laugh at her here.
After a while, Tag untangled himself and began a wrestling game with another baby. The troop went back to dozing. Nhamo felt weak with emotion. It’s probably my period coming. I seem to cry more easily then, she thought. In the afternoon she harvested wild cotton plants to use in her pads.
It made sense to work on the boat—but Tag’s offer of friendship had made a deep impression on Nhamo. He was really like a naughty little boy. Perhaps Aunt Shuvai’s baby was toddling by now, getting into mischief, making Masvita laugh. Nhamo didn’t need to forage for a few days, but she found herself following the troop anyhow the next morning. At midday she rested with them, tensely waiting to see if the baby would approach her again.
He did. He picked through the rabbit skins, explored Nhamo’s back, and then scrambled onto her head. She held herself tightly to keep from screaming. Tag found her head enormously entertaining. Her fur wasn’t at all like anything he was used to. He pulled and prodded, chuckling to himself. Then he bounced off and scampered over to Donkeyberry, who was watching the scene anxiously.
“See, I didn’t once try to eat him,” said Nhamo. She felt her head ruefully. Tag was anything but gentle.
She grunted softly, the way the baboons did when they wanted to be friendly. Donkeyberry yawned. Nhamo had learned this meant the old creature was uneasy. “I don’t blame you,” Nhamo told her. “I can imagine Masvita’s reaction if Aunt Shuvai’s baby tried to pull out your hair.”
Every day the troop traveled farther. Nhamo discovered hills and valleys she never knew existed. She passed an enormous fallen log that swarmed with bees, but she didn’t dare try to get the honey. Only men did that, and sometimes they got more than they bargained for.
She found a shallow pool filled with water lilies: The bulbs would make acceptable food when other things ran out. She found a chocolate-berry tree loaded with juicy black fruit. The taste was pleasant enough, but the smell was disgusting. Masvita often said chocolate berries reminded her of bedbugs. Nhamo knew it was foolish to ignore any source of food, though, so she held her nose and ate.
The baboons, she discovered, were not above eating baby birds and mice. Fat Cheeks even killed a hare and snarled at anyone who tried to get a share. She wondered if he had been one of the culprits who had destroyed her traps.
One afternoon the troop didn’t return to the sleeping cliff at all. Nhamo realized with horror that they intended to spend the night in the trees. It was too late for her to return alone. She climbed a tree with the rest and sat there miserably all night, with her legs aching and her body chilled. She jumped every time she heard a noise. In the morning she returned to her platform alone and spent the day in bed with her arms around the grain sack.
You really have to stop following baboons around and work on the boat, said Mother as Nhamo buried her nose in the comforting bag.
“I know,” Nhamo sighed. “It’s just…it’s so nice to have company.”
They’re animals. You belong with people.
“I know.”
You don’t have much time, little Disaster, said Crocodile Guts. When the rains start, you’re going to have elephant-sized waves on that lake.
Nhamo covered her head with the dress-cloth.
You can’t play “let’s pretend” now. This isn’t the deserted village, Mother insisted.
Nhamo saw Crocodile Guts packing a string bag: He put in a pipe, fishing lines, and a reed flute she remembered him playing as he waited for fish to blunder into his net. The njuzu girls rose to the surface of the water and looked expectantly to the east, from where the storm clouds would come.
28
Nhamo grudgingly went back to work on the boat. Now and then she doused the coals and carved away the blackened bits with Uncle Kufa’s knife. The mukwa tree was beginning to look like a real boat, or at least like a log with a very large hole in it. Nhamo labored for several days, but one morning the lonely-sickness struck her with such force, her spirit felt like it was being circled by hyenas. “It wouldn’t hurt to gather supplies,” she explained to Mother, to keep from being scolded. She armed herself with the panga and spear, and set off after the troop.
This time they went up a hill near the other end of the island. The territory was new, and Nhamo realized she would have to stay with the baboons because she wasn’t sure of the way back. The animals located a rich stand of wild grapes in a dell partway up the hill. They fell on them ravenously. They didn’t seem at ease, though, and she wondered why they had left such a good supply of food untouched before.
Fat Cheeks and the other large males kept looking around. Rumpy dropped his fruit whenever anyone made a sudden movement. Nhamo found their nervousness contagious.
During the noontime rest, everyone sat much closer together than usual. Tag tried to pull off the bag Nhamo wore around her neck, and she had to push him away. He hurled himself to the ground. Ik-ik-ik-ik, he scolded, thrashing around in the dirt. He looked just like a toddler having a temper tantrum. Nhamo refused to look at him, and after a moment Tag scuttled off to play with someone else.
Rumpy went from female to female, trying to get himself groomed. He smacked his lips seductively, but it did him no good. One and all, the females turned their backs. “Some days are like that,” remarked Nhamo.
She immediately regretted speaking aloud. Rumpy noticed her and halted in his tracks. He was trying to put a thought together in his mind, and she had an
awful suspicion what it was: This strange animal has been following us for days. Tag likes it. Tag grooms it, so it must be available to groom someone else.
“Oh, no!” cried Nhamo as the scruffy baboon shuffled toward her, smacking his lips. She turned her back. Rumpy trotted in front of her again. Oo-er, he coaxed. “No!” shouted Nhamo. The other baboons flinched, but Rumpy wasn’t discouraged. Everyone shouted at him. He was used to it. “Go away!” Nhamo yelled.
Rumpy fluffed out his fur. I am a male and it is the duty of all females to obey me, he seemed to say. Nhamo jumped up and grabbed a rock. The baboon instantly understood. Oo-AA-hoo, he barked angrily.
Fat Cheeks, who was lounging nearby, rose to his feet and roared a counter threat: I am the chief here! No one else is allowed to push people around! Suddenly, all the baboons were aroused. Their nervousness flared into rage. The males screamed at one another, tore off branches, and slapped the ground. The females gathered up their shrieking young. The whole dell erupted with wild cries.
Nhamo realized she was in danger. She dashed farther up the hill to put distance between her and the excited animals. Soon she couldn’t see them, although she could hear their cries. “I’ll stay away until they stop fighting,” she decided.
The shouts were already dying down, but she didn’t go back yet. She climbed higher. She had spotted an unusual tree* at the top of the hill. It had hand-shaped leaves and purple berries like the ones found on bramble vines. All around, the rocks were stained with purple splotches. The birds clearly fed on the tree, but that didn’t mean the fruit was safe. Birds sometimes ate things that poisoned people. On the other hand, most of the things they ate were perfectly good. Nhamo cautiously tasted a berry: It was delicious.
She stored some in her carrying basket. She would try the new fruit on Rumpy before she ate any more. If he got a bellyache, it was no great loss.