A Girl Named Disaster

26

Nhamo was afraid to climb down the ladder for two days. Her body wouldn’t obey her: It jerked when she tried to remain still and went limp when she tried to move. The first day she was so drowsy, she didn’t care. Then thirst drove her to pull herself up and hunt for the calabashes of water she had stored. She had laid in a good supply, fortunately, along with dried grasshoppers, fish, and fruit.

She fouled her bedding during the first day. That was unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as falling off the platform from sheer weakness would have been.

On the third morning, Nhamo threw the bedding out and ventured down the swaying rope ladder. She found the baboon troop still lingering by the stream. The water had subsided and would probably disappear by the end of the dry season. The animals no longer screamed when they saw her. They watched her with suspicion, but accepted her as part of the scenery much as they accepted the impalas and vervet monkeys.

She dabbled her feet in the stream. The baboons groomed one another in tranquil groups. Even Rumpy had maneuvered a half-grown female into combing his scruffy fur. It was nice having them around, Nhamo realized. She had come to depend on the cooing sounds, the lip-smacking, the sudden shrieking panics. They were—almost—people.

An older female whom she called Donkeyberry, because of the creature’s fondness for the fruit, sat surrounded by a respectful gathering of younger females and babies. The animal most certainly dominated her group—or was it her family? Nhamo didn’t know. Donkeyberry got first choice of food, and she was the one who decided when the others would move. She was—almost—like a grandmother.

Except that she had a young child. A mischievous baby, who had just changed from the black fur of the newborn to brown, climbed over the respectable old baboon’s head. Nhamo called the baby Chisveru, or Tag, after a game she had played in the village. Tag scampered everywhere. He and the other youngsters held endless running, jumping, and wrestling matches with much shouting and even noises that sounded very much like laughter.

No matter how gloomy Nhamo felt, her spirit lifted when she watched Tag. His favorite game was to climb out to the thinnest branch on a tree, dangle by one skinny arm, and drop to the ground. Sometimes three or four youngsters went up the same tree, and then they followed one another off the branch, trying to land on the one who went before.

Tag fearlessly climbed over Fat Cheeks, ignoring the rumbles a foot in the eye caused. Fat Cheeks hardly ever lost his temper, although occasionally he did and sent Tag shrieking to Donkeyberry’s arms. The large male wasn’t as gentle with brown babies as he was with the tinier black ones.

“I wonder if you tell each other stories,” said Nhamo to the elderly baboon, who was dozing with her paws tucked under her knees. Donkeyberry blinked at Nhamo and went back to her nap. “You certainly seem to talk. I wonder if you have relatives in other villages. Did a witch put a curse on Rumpy’s foot? What do you do when someone gets sick? Do you have ngangas?” But Donkeyberry paid no more attention to Nhamo’s questions than she would to a chattering bird.

Nhamo made her way to a stand of thatching grass to fetch more bedding. As usual, she scanned the dirt for prints. She knew that the island (“My island,” she said to herself) had once been part of the mainland. Before the Zambezi rose, the animals had drifted here and there as they pleased. Now they were trapped. Whatever had scrambled to this higher ground when the lake formed was here forever. By merest chance the most dangerous creatures had been excluded.

Nhamo had found no evidence of lions or hyenas, buffalo or rhinoceroses. Hippos came ashore at night, but only in the marshes. They ignored the garden island and anyhow, to be on the safe side, Nhamo had planted everything out of reach. She had seen no wildebeests or zebras. She knew there were a few jackals, bushpigs, honey badgers, and porcupines. She had seen the gaping holes anteaters carved into the sides of termite mounds, although she hadn’t seen the creatures themselves. She had seen many kinds of antelope: waterbuck, duikers, bushbuck, reedbuck, and a few large kudu, whose harsh bark sometimes rang through the forest.

As far as the small animals went, there was a wealth of squirrels, cane rats, and hares, as well as the irritable dassies, the tiny bush babies who squealed as they jumped from tree to tree after dark, and mongooses who slithered into holes as she approached. These were all, as far as Nhamo knew, that inhabited her island.

And of course whatever had chopped off half of Rumpy’s tail.

Nhamo found nothing alarming in the dirt around the thatching grass. She quickly got out of breath slicing off new bedding with the panga. She rested under a musasa tree and idly snaked a long piece of grass into a termite hole. It came up with several angry soldiers attached, and Nhamo expertly twisted off the abdomens and ate them.

“I really ought to water the garden, but I’m too tired,” she said. “I suppose it can wait another day. Ow!” One of the termite soldiers had transferred its mandibles from the grass to her finger. “I should check the traps. There’s still food in the lucky-bean tree, though.” The thought of walking anywhere was unappealing. She had a fit of dizziness whenever she stood up.

Nhamo wearily hoisted the bedding up to the platform. She burned the old grass, rekindling the dead fire with one of her precious matches. I mustn’t let it go out again, she thought. She dragged a large green log over the flames. It smoldered and hissed—a thick smoke drifted over her platform—but it would burn slowly. As a bonus, the smoke would drive away mosquitoes.

Nhamo spent the rest of the day idling by the stream. In the afternoon the baboons returned, and she lay on a conveniently flat rock to watch Tag. He had discovered it was more comfortable to land on something softer than the ground. Nhamo held her breath as the baby dashed up a small tree and hurled himself onto the unsuspecting Fat Cheeks.

Wah! shouted Fat Cheeks as Tag bounced off his stomach. The baby ran for all he was worth to Donkeyberry, who gathered him into her arms and turned him over for a quick grooming session. When Tag was sure the large male had fallen asleep again, he repeated the performance. Nhamo was impressed with Fat Cheeks’s patience. In spite of the creature’s fearsome appearance, he was soft as potting clay where the baby was concerned. Tag was far less confident about jumping on other males, though. Once he blundered into Rumpy, who bared his fangs and sent him into hysterics.

Was Fat Cheeks patient because he was the chief and too dignified to react? Or was he, in fact, Tag’s father? And if he was Tag’s father, was he married to Donkeyberry? Nhamo found it all extremely interesting.

She felt better the next morning, but she got a nasty surprise when she made a tour of the animal traps. Every single one had been broken. She found fragments of bone and hair with the shredded twine. Of course a struggling animal would attract predators—she had been foolish to put off checking the snares. She studied the ground. Jackals had been present, and a honey badger—and a catlike creature as well.

It was too small for a leopard, too large for a wildcat. Nhamo had never been taught hunting, but her restless spirit had seized upon any information she overheard at the men’s dare. She knew, therefore, that the only animals who could have made the prints were the serval or the caracal. The serval was a spotted animal about the size of a jackal. Uncle Kufa had given two serval skins to the nganga in return for headache medicine, and the nganga had made himself a ceremonial hat. Servals sometimes raided chicken pens, but generally they avoided people.

The caracal was half again as large—the height of a goat—and was a much bolder creature. Servals lived on mice, but a caracal could bring down an impala.

Nhamo had not heard of caracals attacking people, but their size and strength made it possible. She found droppings clotted with bone and hair. They could have belonged to either animal.

The fish traps were empty, which wasn’t surprising. The streams were almost dry. The birdlime had entangled a few queleas and a mouse that had been attracted by their fluttering. The garden on the little island was beginning to wither. The plants were stunted anyhow, with few flowers and less fruit. Nhamo didn’t know whether the soil was bad or whether she had simply planted too late. She watered them morosely and returned to the mukwa log.

It was as big as ever, with hardly a dent to show for all her scraping.

Nhamo poked around the edge with a stick, but even after she had satisfied herself that no scorpions were lurking, she couldn’t bring herself to carve. Instead, she cut down spotted aloe plants to make new traps. They were easier to prepare than musasa bark, although the twine they provided wasn’t as strong.

As she pounded the long, tough leaves with a club and rolled the fiber into string, she thought about the dry season. The wind off the lake grew hotter every day. Food was going to get scarce soon. “I thought I’d be off this island by now,” she grumbled.

Well, if she couldn’t leave, she would have to learn to hunt. Nhamo went over the weapons she had observed in the village. The boys were trained to use bows and arrows, slings, clubs, throwing sticks, and spears. Girls, of course, didn’t need such skills.

Nhamo examined the branches she had trimmed off the mukwa tree. When she had found one long and straight enough, she whittled an end with the panga. “I wish I had metal for a spear point,” she said. She remembered, though, that when Uncle Kufa made training spears for boys, he didn’t waste precious iron. He hardened the tips with fire. He held the wood just so over the flame, turning it carefully so it wouldn’t char. The results weren’t as strong as a proper, man’s weapon, but the boys could still bring in small game.

Nhamo gathered up her supplies and went back to the fire. She sharpened and fire-hardened and balanced the mukwa spear until it felt good to her hand.

She practiced throwing it at a rabbit skin. It bounced off and clattered to the ground. After many attempts, she decided her arm simply wasn’t strong enough. She would have to thrust with the spear, using her weight to add force.

“Now what shall I hunt?” she mused. A kudu? Ah! That would be a prize! Nhamo’s mouth watered at the thought, but she knew such a large antelope was beyond her strength. An impala? Nhamo considered her thin arms and lowered her expectations.

She had often observed the dassies as they foraged for grass. They hated sunlight but were too timid to venture out after dark, except during the full moon. This limited them to very short feeding periods at dusk. The rest of the time they crowded into crevices that were easily found by the streaks of dried urine staining the rocks.

Nhamo waited by a little cul-de-sac on the way out of one of these crevices. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the dassies muttered among themselves and eventually clustered at the entrance to their den. A large male edged forward to check for enemies. Nhamo sat perfectly still.

I’m just another rock, she told the dassie as he suspiciously sniffed the air. He crept out farther; the huddled group inched behind him, scuttle, scuttle, freeze; scuttle, scuttle, freeze.

He came down the path by the cul-de-sac. Nhamo lunged. His instinct was to race back, but she stood between him and the others. He leaped into the cul-de-sac. She had already aimed the spear there, guessing that his panic would send him into the nearest gap. She impaled him against the rock. He screamed and gnashed his teeth.

The other dassies fled with shrieks, but Nhamo barely heard them. She was too terrified of being bitten. The dassie flopped wildly, snapping his sharp tusks. She didn’t dare let go! With her free hand, she felt around for a stone and smashed him on the head. She struck him repeatedly until he stopped moving. Nhamo sat down and burst into tears.

“I don’t like hunting,” she sobbed.

You did it very well, said Mother.

“I didn’t! It was even w-worse than dropping a r-rock on a guinea fowl.”

But you did it. And on your very first try.

“That’s true,” Nhamo admitted. She wiped her eyes and looked at the dead animal. Its body was sleekly fat. Its meat would make a welcome change from mice and termites. Nhamo willed the trembling in her hands to go away. She got the panga and expertly prepared the carcass. Soon she had it roasting over the fire.

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.