Man and Beast

An arrow in flight, stone head landing. The flesh, prone to compromise, letting go at near-silence. The beast falls, arrested, blood growing fast around the shaft, and after that, pooling down. Drip, drip, drip. The creature at four knees, four tracks digging in the earth, born of momentum. The animal dying, eyes open, staring at the sun for the first real time. Its eyes stay open, and within a minute, the first fly lands, gripping at the wet.

These are a collection of wrong thoughts to ponder at the pivotal time, but they happen. They come about like the sweat, which is neither asked for nor needed, but collects at the temple, as the boy pulls back the bow. It won’t sting the eyes because he won’t let it. The boy adjusts his mind, but this doesn’t help. His thoughts jump to his breathing, which loudens at the notice. Now a river flows through his ears, and a drum beats behind the eyes. He un-focuses hisgaze, a last resort, for the beast will soon move, and a moving target is more difficult.

The blur does the trick. The boy creates for himself a goal which consciousness cannot address in its nature. The body must work alone again. The eyes refocus, and within that second, the boy releases. The arrow flies. When his reason recovers, he is but a witness. Colors, then shapes, then consciousness.As his mind puts the pieces together, agency is assigned.I shot that, he thinks, but not for long. A soft thump of resigned flesh, and the lion is felled through the neck. Forward it falls to its knees, and dies.

The boy has turned fifteen that day. The lion is the biggest he has seen.

“Splendid, Daniel, splendid” the father says. The father had taken a knee when they spotted the beast, and stood up after the shot. He brushed some dead grass from his khakis, and adjusted his safari hat.

Daniel has been coached to be humble, and so says nothing and doesn’t smile. But Daniel is proud, and the beast is dead. Anyone can see that. The arrow went straight through, missing the vertebrae. Daniel keeps a stiff upper lip. They still approach slowly, the boy with another arrow at the ready, and the father with his Springfield. Zinato, their guide, carries a spear but this is mostly for show. Zinato has hunted on the South African plains for more than forty years, and he knows when he has watched something die. Zinato knows that lion will never get up again, but shifts manufactured fear to his face, just in case the white people look back at him. Zinato is selling a show, and business is booming.

The year is 1937.

Chapter 2

It was an uncomfortable three weeks at sea for Daniel and his father. They came from the northeast. The father, who most often was addressed as Mr. Rogan, owned a band saw company. It was revolutionary technology, as band saws were needed to create the machines which made other machines, which made some rich. But because they were tied to production, their sales wavered in the Depression. New factories didn’t open frequently. When they did, Mr. Rogan usually got the contract.

The fat of the company kept them afloat throughout, and at a tide high enough that Daniel was kept in private school in Pennsylvania. Rarely was it that he saw his father. When he did, it was a competitive affair. To win a game, or to kill a beast, was to bask in a receding pocket of praise.

“How many can you kill, Daniel?” his dad asked aboard the USS Delilah, sipping at a coffee with plenty of foam. The foam settled in Mr. Rogan’s pencil mustache, giving it comic girth.

“Depends on how many we come across,” the boy said.

“Indeed it does. Good lad,” Mr. Rogan said, wiping at the foam with a beige handkerchief. In the past few years, Daniel had noticed that his father’s accent came close to the border of British, without quite crossing over. His vocabulary, however, had completely jumped the Atlantic.

They finished their lunch with idle conversation much the same. During the lulls, they looked out to sea. It was a bit choppy, but grew in calm out to the horizon. For the longer silences they both looked there, and pretended they were studying something. When silence grew fat, they could hear the water lapping against the side of the ship.

Algoa Bay was the main point of entry into Port Elizabeth. When father and son arrived, there was a welcoming committee. A new Ford plant had opened the previous winter, and so Mr. Rogan now had a financial reason for coming, in addition to his annual retreat. The locals had lauded over him before, knowing how he spent. But they looked forward to his arrival this time with even more excitement. Perhaps philanthropy would ensue. Barring that, they hoped at least for an expensive safari. Mr. Rogan had come for six straight years, and each time he spent more than the last.

Red and white bunting was prepared, and a three-horn band played as they arrived on the dinghy. Three tribesmen held spears and were decked-out in full regalia, beaming smiles. Mr. Ellis, the Crown of the Inn proprietor, took the rope himself and secured it to the dock.

“Jolly good to see you,” Mr. Ellis said. The proprietor always wore the same thing – boots and socks; khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and buttoned back; a safari hat. He also was never caught without a perfectly-manicured handlebar mustache.

“And you, ole’ chap,” Mr. Rogan said. Daniel let go a visible wince that none saw.

“August already,” Mr. Ellis said, handing over two safari hats to the new arrivals. “We’ve made ready for you. We’ve a new wing at the Crown, and we’ve kept it clear just for you. We do hope you’ll tell us how you like it.”

“I’m sure it’ll be splendid,” Mr. Rogan said, donning one hat and fitting the other on his boy. “Better than we used to have it I’m sure.”

This was meant to be an inside reference, but Daniel caught it. Both men had served in the Great War. But the thing of it was both of them had passed the period in relative safety and ease, simple bureaucrats in the rolling death machine. Mr. Rogan had been a clerk, stationed in London. Mr. Ellis had worked at a makeshift armory in France.

“We’ve even got new guides,” Mr. Ellis continued. “This one’s name is Zinato,” the Englishman said, patting the African on the shoulder. Zinato was well over six feet, and Mr. Ellis had to raise his hand to do the patting. “He is a full-blooded Zulu warrior. Some of his kin fought in all the great wars in all the great books about this place, but he is a fine gentleman in this time. Even speaks a bit of English. Don’t you, Zinato?”

“I do,” Zinato said, smiling enough to let his teeth show. A little, more than a lot, always impressed these white men. Zinato knew that if he put together a longer sentence, they would somehow think less of him.

“Jolly good,” said Mr. Rogan. “Let’s get to the hotel and prepare for a hunt. I’d like to be at it tomorrow, if at all possible, Sir.” Chapter 3 The tribesman hoisted the lion on his shoulder. It was a good kill, even Zinato had to admit. He heard the white men talking and understood that they thought it was the biggest lion in Africa. That made him smile. It was a full-grown male, probably about 5 years old, but not even close to the biggest. He was amused by the banter, but he did have to give the kid credit. Daniel had killed a beast with a bow. Nearly all of them that came through here used the big rifles. It was best to kill with a spear, but killing with an arrow was not so bad. “Have you ever seen one so big, Mr. Zinato?” the father asked. The people that came to hunt loved to attach the Mr. to names, Zinato thought.

“Not in many years,” the tribesman lied.

“And have you ever seen anything more sporting than using an arrow to bring down such a beast?”

“Yes,” Zinato said smiling, “spear.” He held that weapon to the heavens as he said so, and let spin its tip against the sun. Even money had its limits, and that came up flush against the spear.

The group dispersed after taking a Jeep back into Port Elizabeth. Daniel and Mr. Rogan returned to the ceiling fans and cool drinks of the Crown of the Inn. Zinato, finding a hierarchy within his own rung, dropped the lion at a skinner’s. They would keep half the meat for labor, and turn the head over to the taxidermist. After it was preserved and mounted on a plaque, it would be delivered to the hotel. No money would change hands there, however. Safaris were the main driver of the tourism industry, and were sold as a package up front. Mr. Ellis stood beneath the grand entrance of his hotel as the pair was dropped off. He appeared calm by design, twirling at his facial hair. “We hear you brought down quite the beast,” he said as the father and son walked up. “Might be a record for a first day in the bush.”

“Man alive,” said Mr. Rogan. “How did the news beat us back here then?”

“We are quite modern, Mr. Rogan. We have telephones here at the hotel as well as posted all over the Eastern Cape. News of your imminent arrival preceded you well in advance,” Mr. Ellis said. Better to lay it on too thick than to spread it thin. The money moved that way. “And would you like to head out again tomorrow?”

“If it could be arranged,” Mr. Rogan said, and then threw in, “that would be splendid.”

“Most certainly. Not a problem, Mr. Rogan. We hope that you can enjoy your time to the utmost. Shall I make the arrangements then?”

“Most definitely,” Daniel’s father shot back. “How’s that sound to you, Danny Boy?”

“It sounds fine, Father,” Daniel said. This wasn’t the way people talked in Pennsylvania, nor was it even the way his father talked while he was back in the States. Daniel remained in a constant state of embarrassment by the language, just below the threshold of blushing. Chapter 4

The truck picked them up at 7, and they were back on the hunt by 8. A cruel sun promised brutal heat. Looking around, the three could see the dryness in the leaves and branches. Zinato walked ten meters ahead. Always the white men made too much noise, but at least they had only one gun. Oftentimes, there was a cavalcade of noise coming from the jangling metal of a parcel of guns.

It was a crapshoot finding prey. Most started the day wanting lions, but settled by noon for antelope. Zinato’s glare shot wide. He could spot a rabbit at a kilometer, even with just a paw showing. For a second, that’s what he thought it was. There was a hint of movement, as if a small animal had ducked behind a bush. Then it at all went black, and Zinato entered a dream.

He is five years old again, standing at his mother’s knee. He gazes at the horizon and she twirls a finger in his hair, laughing in a whisper. She speaks. He can’t make out the words, so he looks up, hoping to understand. When his eyes meet her face, he is surprised at her shock. Her smile straightens, and then the corners turn down. She screams. A spear hits her in the chest and he knows she is dead on her feet, his mother like an animal. Zinato runs.

Next come the hooves. Dozens of them, attached to horses taller than men. He does not look up long, even though he knows that avenues of death emit from there also. He runs all out. Two spears thunk into the ground on his left. Four horses close in on his right. Straight he runs, into a thick patch of brush. Down on his belly he crawls for three full minutes, and it is enough to make good his escape.

When the tribesman awoke, he thought that he was back in that brush. A similar growth was in front of him, but he realized he was not in it, just at its edge. He rolled over quickly, and saw Mr. Rogan in bad shape. His safari hat had been cracked in two, split right down the middle. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and one nostril. At first the tribesman took Mr. Rogan for dead, for his eyes were open and he was not moving. But after seeing his chest still heaving, Zinato knew that he was alive.

“Rogan Mr., you can hear?” asked Zinato. No response.

“Mr. Rogan,” Zinato said three more times, and the last one got a response. The eyes focused, and Zinato could see recognition as the parts of the eyes changed.

“Where’s my boy?” Mr. Rogan asked, sitting up finally and rotating his head around. “Where is Danny?”

“They took him,” Zinato told the father. “I saw this before.”

“You saw what before?”

“I saw the horses,” Zinato said, leaning on his spear to gain his footing.“Your spear is broken,” he said, pointing to Mr. Rogan’s rifle, “and your son is gone. If you want him back, come along.”

“You saw the horses?” Mr. Rogan asked in disbelief. “Who gives a shit about horses? What in the hell are you talking about?”

Even with his limited English, Zinato knew the change in Mr. Rogan’s words, and his way of talking. “The Rushuka,” Zinato answered, “they take children.”

It took them half a day to reach the edge of the Cape on foot. Zinato had noticed that the white people usually talked far more than was necessary. It seemed that banter put them at ease. He was ready for talk because Zinato had seen families lose their children before. It was a shock to the system regardless of background, and people fell back on the peculiarities of whichever culture molded them. When the questions didn’t come, he began to change his opinion of this white man in particular.

The most surprising statement of all was saved for the last. Just before the truck came to take him away, Mr. Rogan leaned close. Into Zinato’s ear, he whispered: “Tomorrow morning I’m bringing two of the biggest heaters on the planet. I’m going to leave this cursed place a rich man one way or another, but if you want to be rich, you’ll be here. We are going to get those fuckers, wherever they are, and they are going to pay.”

Heaters had to mean weapons. Zinato had no idea what a ‘fucker’ was, but he figured that they were probably going to end up on the wrong end of the heaters.

Chapter 5

The Crown of the Inn was ready when Mr. Rogan returned. Mr. Ellis waited under the arched doors, arms crossed, picking at the buttons that held his sleeves up. He had called in the British attaché, a Sir Lloyd, immediately after getting the news of Daniel’s disappearance on the phone. A British representative was the best that could be done. The American ambassador could not be reached.

When the car pulled up, Mr. Rogan wasted no time. “Get me the elephant guns,” he said, waving off the formalities.

“But Mr. Rogan,” Mr. Ellis, said, trying his hand at politics. “There is a way to go about this, and there is a bad way as well.”

“Horse shit,” Mr. Rogan said. “There is one way to go about this, and that’s right at the damn thing.”

“There are channels we can go through. Sir Lloyd here,” Mr. Ellis said, lowering his left hand and pointing by way of gesture, “can figure out who took your boy. We can get him back.”

“Shit, I know who took ‘im,” Mr. Rogan said.

“But how could you know, Mr. Rogan? You are upon a massive continent, without knowing the lay.”

“Your Zulu told me.”

“My Zulu?” Mr. Ellis said. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The one who was showing us around.That big bastard.”

Mr. Ellis raised an eyebrow, one part shock of language and the other part suspicion, and said, “How could he bloody well know?”

“You said it yourself,” Mr. Rogan said, walking right on by, “his blood’s been around a long while.”

Mr. Rogan did not sleep that night. As per request, the elephant guns were delivered at just after 8 pm. They were massive. Mr. Rogan had first come across one in London during the war, but then it had been nothing more than a curiosity. Rumors of the weapon had preceded it, but even they were an understatement. It was delivered only because a rear-guard general had taken an interest. It hit the observer as a double-barreled behemoth, overkill. Although they had all seen heavy weaponry before, none had ever seen something so savage that was made to be personal. War was business, and although this weapon was intended for the hunt, there was a private veneer about it.

He oiled the barrels by running a drenched cloth through the bores. When they dried, he oiled them. Although he had never fired his Springfield in the Great War, he had cleaned it aplenty. The problem with that one was getting a cloth through the bore. Mr. Rogan had taken to straightening out a hanger to clean his issued rifle, but on this elephant gun he was allowed wider berth. Fetching a pool cue from the lobby, he found the lower third a snug fit.

The two elephant guns were delivered with ten rounds each. This made financial sense for the supplier. The customer reckoned that if you couldn’t kill big prey in ten rounds, it probably wasn’t going to happen, but the customer was a fool. If you couldn’t kill a beast with the first shot, any experienced hunter knew that you had better pull that second trigger as soon as you recovered from the kick. The sound was so overwhelming that any living thing, including other men, would probably be in flight when the boom came.

The supplier in this case was a young German with a thick accent and the demand of a high deposit. The German smiled when Mr. Rogan asked for forty extra rounds, and Mr. Rogan knew why. It didn’t matter. After loading four shells, and checking his gear, he laid down on the bed, and waited.

Thoughts of the boy lit up his head. The father caught first sight of him in a hospital in Newark, in 1922. The child was strangely serene. As the nurse held the baby, Mr. Rogan was enough overwhelmed that he forgot to ask the sex. It was a moment of pure happiness, enough that there was little point in the details. The mother died the next day.

The boy learned to walk exceptionally early. It was enough to worry the nanny, which worried Mr. Rogan all the more. “His legs will bow,” she had told him, and he half-believed it. Until he saw the boy walk and laugh at nine months, and understood that life could take its own course, no matter who said what.

And that was why, when the boy came old enough to put a thought into decent language, Mr. Rogan had listened. Danny wanted to go to a school far away. The father knew that it was because a couple of his friends went there, but admired the ten year old courage.

Five years had passed, punctuated by American holidays, a melancholy mixed festive. Stills of memories bubbled up: There was the boy at Christmas, 1928, opening a toy gun and holding it to his shoulder on instinct. There was Easter 1935, the boy finding a globe in his basket, and pointing to Africa. “That’s where you go to hunt, right Father?” he had asked.

Mr. Rogan had concocted the idea of the trip the following week. They took vacations when time allowed, but those forays never seemed to twine together a common interest. They were well-funded endeavors to be sure - a trip to New York City to see their first talkie, Scrooge, imported from Britain; the Kentucky Derby – but the grandeur seemed to rest external.

The father figured they would have to leave the States together. Too much of a common culture in the backdrop subtracted from a chance at the bond. What they both knew seemed noisy in how it drew their attention outward, so that no one had much to say to each other, but about things. The grassy plains which bordered Cape Town would undo this, Mr. Rogan figured, but now found that this immense space, and the circumstances it allowed, had swallowed his boy.

Chapter 6

Zinato was ready at dawn with war paint. Three red stripes were painted beneath the eyes. A gaggle of bright yellow feathers adorned his right arm, just above the triceps. Mr. Rogan was surprised to see the striations in that same forearm, considering that Zinato, in his middle-age, had acquired some port around his middle. It was as if that forearm had held the youth in its vigor of concern, and would not let go until the ghost was given up.

“Glad that you made it,” Mr. Rogan said. He carried the two elephant guns slung across his back, so that the straps and barrels, aimed at the heavens, made an X.

“Do you want to use those on men?” Zinato asked.

“I do,” Mr. Rogan said, unslinging them and placing them in the back of the truck. “And I suppose you do, too. Else you wouldn’t be here. You’ll be paid if you do.”

“The money is not so important,” said Zinato, with guarded honesty. Perhaps less was more with the truth just as language. “Your son was taken, so I must help you get him back. Or at least I try.”

This stopped Mr. Rogan. “That so?” he asked, and then realized Zinato didn’t understand. He tried a different track. “Do you have children?” Mr. Rogan asked, more aware of the simplicity of the words he chose.

“Many,” Zinato said, laying his spear down alongside the elephant guns. “They are grown now. If someone wants to take them , then they must take men. They are not the men to be taken.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Rogan asked.

“Because they are fuckers, Mr. Rogan, but they go the other way.”

When they made the plains it was dawn, and there were two horses waiting. The German held them by the reins, grinning from ear to ear. He had made more from Mr. Rogan in the last twelve hours than he had in the preceding six months. He was hoping that his merchandise was returned, but wasn’t too worried about it. The deposits covered more than double his investment.

“These horses better be as strong as you said,” Mr. Rogan said, nudging his head to his partner. “This man might kill your horse in an hour’s ride if not.”

The German understood little, but did make out the words ‘strong’ and ‘horse.’ He nodded and staid the smile, and repeated the words he understood. “Strong horse.”

The two men mounted. Zinato had little experience, but enough to keep him up. He looked to his counterpart, who appeared adept. They set out.

“Where should we go? How do we find Daniel?” he asked.

“They will find us,” Zinato answered. “There is no need to go. They see us now.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you are white,” Zinato answered. “They know you have money. Maybe they would like this,” he said, pointing a finger down at the horse, “or they might want this,” he said, reaching his arm around and pointing at the elephant gun.

“And maybe you’re with them,” Mr. Rogan said, bringing both horses to a halt by stopping his. “How do I know you’re not?”

“Because you rode in my front,” Zinatosaid, matter of factly. “And you still breathe.”

Without harrumph, Mr. Rogan looked back to the horizon. “So how should we do this?”

“Look for rabbits,” Zinato said. “Don’t believe your eyes.”

It was unnatural. Before Mr. Rogan could turn his head back to the plains, Zinato had shouldered the weapon. Before Mr. Rogan could register shock, or make protest, it was already in motion. And before Mr. Rogan could inquire as to motive, a double volley was in the books.

The noise was unreal. Although he had heard artillery being fired before, Mr. Rogan could not have, in his time on earth, been prepared for this metric of volume. If a an arty round could shake your bones at a hundred meters, the elephant gun could erase your soul at two. The sheer volume of the volume was enough to ward off any sense of impending doom, or danger.

A fifty caliber round in flight cannot be seen. In its supersonic trajectory, even the audible will have to wait, usually until the round has found a home. The sun is shining on it, and if you could slow down time or speed up sight, you might well be able to catch the rays faithfully settled atop. A mind knows they must. But the mix of the metal cares nothing. These are parts slammed together by man, and then stored, and then blown forward through space.

A head awaits. The eyes are not square on the horizon from where the bullet comes, but focused on a sound to the east. This slight is negligible. The round’s alloys are born of the gods of thunder, mashed in the hands of man. In their size and haste, they are as unforgiving as both. They find the right temple of the man’s head and put it into a million pieces. A red mist rises. One shard of the skull, emanating from the spine, hangs on, a recalcitrant tree against the flood. The body stays perpendicular for a long moment, defying reason. The man's friend turns to him just as the sound is about to close the gap. He hears no report. What he sees makes him want to laugh at the absurdity, but he doesn't get that chance.

The second barrel of the elephant gun has already let go, squinty eye behind it. A new arc of metal begins, its proud sheen pushing out rays of un-seeable light. It is silent quick, and just a little faster, for it was packed with abit more powder, but finds its home the same. And so two bodies lie spent to history, crimson footnotes.

“What in the hell did you just shoot?” Mr. Rogan yelled when he partially recovered his hearing. Their horses were already in a dead run, and he wondered if Zinato could have heard him even while not in motion.

“Two men,” Zinato yelled. Mr. Rogan was surprised to see the Zulu ride so well. “They are dead.”

“Dead? Why’d you kill ‘em? How do you know if they are even in on this?” Mr. Rogan said.

“They were waiting for you.” Zinato yelled over the gallop, and he had enough confidence in his voice that Mr. Rogan trusted not to ask more questions until they had reached the tree line.

When they got there they dismounted. Zinato had already re-fitted the elephant gun across the back of the horse, and he held his spear, tip down. Mr. Rogan took his heater from the horse. They approached the corpses with caution, which was unnecessary. Neither had a head left.

“Rushuka,” Zinato finally said, running the tip of his spear along a green feather tied around one of the dead warrior’s thigh. “They were waiting for us.”

“Waiting for us?” Mr. Rogan asked. It seemed enough unreal to him but even he noticed that he had formed the annoying habit of only speaking in questions.

Zinato was none perturbed. Instead of answering the question, he rolled one corpse over. A child’s safari hat lay beneath.

“They could have taken him anywhere. We are in the middle of nowhere,” Mr. Rogan said, glad to quit the interrogative.

“Middle of nowhere?”Zinato said aloud, trying to understand the meaning.

“I mean that we don’t know where the hell Daniel is.”

Zinato looked to Mr. Rogan in the way that people do to check if someone might be joking with them. “They want your money. The boy is not far.”

“I can’t believe that they just want some money. Have they done this before?”

“Not to white men,” Zinato answered, “but they have done it to others for very long.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Mr. Rogan said.

“Not out here,” Zinato answered, and an arrow lodged in his shoulder.

Both fell flat to the ground on instinct. Mr. Rogan watched Zinato roll onto his back and pull the arrow straight out without wincing. Had the American not been terrified, he would have been amazed.

“From there,” Zinato said, pointing to another tree line, blood on his finger. “Stay down here and cannot hit you,” the tribesman said. Then he thought, and said, “probably.”

“Damn all to hell. Somebody’s getting hit,” Mr. Rogan said, repositioning himself. He stayed low but came up on his elbows and swung his heater out in front. With a thumb, he brought the rear sight up, lined it with the front, and waited.

It happened in under a minute. A new warrior rose up. The tip of his arrow broke the brush line, followed by the headdress. Mr. Rogan barely had to realign. As the warrior pulled back the arrow, the old soldier in him remembered. For many hours in Basic Training, they had practiced shooting by resting a penny atop a rifle. Their goal was to pull the trigger without the penny falling off. Perfect breathing did not mean holding one’s breath at the pivotal moment; it meant breathing that next breath the same as the last, even though excitement shot through the veins. The memory executed itself perfectly, and the strangest thing happened to the Rushuka. The top part of his chest disappeared, as well as the lower half of his head. The scalp tumbled forward in a spiral.

It registered in the shooter’s mind, but again there was no time to marvel. A newer emergency was off to the right. Someone had a long rifle. Even from a hundred meters the straight-on hole in the barrel was unmistakable. This was the devil in a headlight, Mr. Rogan thought, staring you square in the eye. Then he saw it flash.

Sure he was dead, his teeth grinded and his sphincter puckered. For a long second he waited for the sound of his impending doom, but it didn’t arrive. He heard Zinato exhale a disappointed sigh, but didn’t understand. Was the tribesman suddenly bored? No. The bullet had caught Zinato in his collarbone. This sound of laziness to most ears was a Zulu warrior’s cry of pain.

Mr. Rogan waited until just after his own exhaling, and it was hell to do so, but the results were perfect. The army had ingrained upon him the imperative of shooting a target at center mass, but this was personal now. The American, all in an instant, felt that he was now dealing with three lives – his own, his son’s, and the Zulu warrior who most likely lie bleeding to death beside him – and he wanted to hurt. He adjusted a centimeter up, based on his last calculatory error, and let the elephant gun go.

Perfect. It was as if someone had carved out, in the target’s head, a watermelon, and placed a bomb in the middle. Absolutely nothing but a mist was allowed to be conjoined.

Mr. Rogan hoisted Zinato on a shoulder. It made Mr. Rogan weak in the knees to do so, but he got the wounded onto a horse. Zinato bled on the stead’s haunch, and asked for his spear. Mr. Rogan gave it to him.

Letting the rifle hang at a low angle now, but not letting go, Mr. Rogan led the two horses across the empty stretch. His mind reeled back to the newspapers, and of written reports that which had never touched him but that he always remembered. No man’s land. This was it. Where anyone could be picked off at any time, if the will of destruction were let go in another.

None let go. He found Daniel too scared to speak, directly in between the corpses just put to the heavens. His son’s look was familiar. Mr. Rogan had seen such on the men who had come back from the front only to recuperate in the mental wards. The stare long, the eyes vacant. It was as if they had all seen eternity, known its ward, and were afraid to announce the tale back.

The father wet his thumb and coursed his son’s eyebrow back. It was a trick from babyhood, and still worked the same, some fourteen years later. The boy’s eyes caught track, and locked onto the father’s.

“Hush now,” Mr. Rogan said, not feeling the least bit awkward saying this to an adolescent. The words were part and parcel. Daniel’s eyes focused after the words caught his ear.

“Hush now,” Mr. Rogan said again, “we’re going to get you home.”

Taking stock of the new reality, the father turned around to check on Zinato. The tribesman had dismounted, and was packing earth into his wounds. Mr. Rogan at first wandered at the hygiene of the act, but soon saw the point. The bleeding was ebbed considerably. It seemed as if Zinato was going through some morning ritual, the way a man might get ready for work, the way he went about it. There was no concern or fear on the brow.

“Can you ride?” Mr. Rogan said.

“I can,” Zinato answered, not bothering to look up. “But I cannot wait until the car comes for us.”

“We are not waiting for the car,” Mr. Rogan said, mounting his boy on the front part of a saddle, “we have a boat waiting. I will get you back to the Cape, and then we will leave.”

Zinato nodded, for there wasn’t much else to say, in any language. Escape was a high fruit for the careful picking.

Chapter 7

It was a new journey then. Battered but alive, they set out. Mr. Rogan had hoisted one elephant gun across his back and kept the other on his lap, between himself and his son. He let it rest there, and used one hand to hold the reins. With his other, he held the boy’s chest, patting it at regular intervals. It was the most physical contact that could be remembered.

The dryness of the African plains took on new significance. Before it had been bothersome, but now it seemed welcome. A crack in a twig could spell forbearance, which could spell their salvation.

The dirt did the trick. Zinato’s blood flow had ebbed and then stopped. He rode beside the pair, the spear with tip pointing up, and seemed alert enough. Mr. Rogan scanned the plains in front for the most part, only breaking concentration with a quick check on his counterpart. Life had come before then for them both, in essential moments aplenty, but the American couldn’t remember someone more crucial than this man he barely knew. Mr. Rogan made up in his mind that Zinato would never work again.

“Just a little further,” he said to the tribesman, attempting to stay him. “There is a dock not far, and a big ship is waiting.”

“How do you know this land?” Zinato asked. “Don’t you think we are in the middle of nowhere?”

The father smiled at the repeated reference and held up his compass. “I never learned too much from being a soldier,” he said, re-pocketing the device and grabbing his boy round the chest once more, “but they did teach us a little.” After he had finished his words, he went back to scanning ahead, but he quickly realized that he was looking the wrong way.

“You were a….” Zinato started, but he didn’t finish.

The boom was back. This time it was from far away, but its arrival was just as unwelcome. As Mr. Rogan turned to warn Zinato, he noticed that the Zulu had been shot through the head. Still upright in the saddle, his left eye was completely obliterated. The tribesman still held the spear.

“Heeya, heeya,” Mr. Rogan yelled out, kicking the horse in the side. Itresponded well, breaking to the right in a full gallop. More shots rang out, but didn’t land. The father looked to the right, and saw the source. Two Rushuka were closing the gap, both mounted. The one with the rifle was reloading. Mr. Rogan brought up the first gun. Center mass his mind said again, for there was no call for finesse anymore. Also, the horse made a steady shot impossible, so his mind made another suggestion – shoot the approaching horse.

With only a couple of miles to go, speed was more important than vengeance, even if he had a head for both. Holding the rein with his right, he leveled the elephant gun across his right forearm, and took the best aim he could. The first shot exploded out of his heater but missed low. No time for disappointment, nor room. Mr. Rogan adjusted, and his next shot took the horse’s head off. The body went straight to ground, and its rider was toppled over. If a man could live through such a thing, a book would be written about it. The other rider, armed with just a spear, saw how precarious the situation was and retreated.

Mr. Rogan could see the shore, and the boat at its edge. It was ready to go, smoke stacks letting forth.

He kept at the horse with three more kicks. The American would ride this thing to death if that’s what it took. Sure that the right flank was safe, he scanned the other, just in case. That’s when he saw them.

The first volley must have been a scouting party. Now on the left, six mounted men approached. No doubt they had been alerted to the position by the noise, for there was no hiding the thunder brought down by an elephant gun. Three carried long rifles, three spears.

At once Mr. Rogan realized he was holding an unloaded weapon that he had no way of reloading. Throwing it down, he got the other one off of his back. It was now an essentially one handed affair, for there was no way to aim off to the left and let go. Due to its weight, it was impossible to hold the rifle straight out and fire, so he adjusted. Raising it up a little above the target, he was able to control its descent. When the heater came level, he let go bullet number one. It missed, again low, but the intended target, again a horse, was so petrified that it toppled. Five were left at four hundred meters.

At the same time one of the Rushuka fired. It hit Mr. Rogan’s horse square in the left haunch. It didn’t knock the horse right down, given its inertia, but buckled its gait. Knowing that the horse was now useless, he re-grabbed the reins and pulled it to a stop. They dismounted on the right, using it for cover.

“Listen, Danny” Mr. Rogan said, conjuring up the calmest manner he could muster. Sweat beaded heavily, and the father couldn’t stop the heavy breaths from coming, but the tone of voice was his to choose. Calmly, he said, “That boat there is gonna get you out here and safe. When I give you the word, you make a break for it, like a bat out of hell.”

No answer from the boy. Was he still catatonic?

“Danny, are you listening to me?” Mr. Rogan asked, upping the volume. The Rushuka were at three hundred meters. There was no time to argue about it.

“OK. Dad,” Daniel said, appearing serene. “I like the way you talk.”

Even the impending doom couldn’t prevent a smile for Mr. Rogan. There was a wisdom in the boy’s words that was greater than time or place. “Me too,” Mr. Rogan said.

The father loaded the empty chambers of the elephant gun and pulled up the rear site. These shots would have to count.

When he had the first warrior with a gun in his sights, he yelled to the boy. “Run like hell, Danny. Run for all you’re god damned worth.”

Danny did, but his father didn’t watch him go. He fired at the nearest man with a gun, figuring it was the wisest. The man’s chest disintegrated. In the red mist, two arms and a head fought for the title of most ridiculous trajectory. No time for glory. Two hundred meters, and the lead charger was pointing an arrow straight at Mr. Rogan. In haste, Mr. Rogan swung past the target while scanning. On his way to correct the error, an arrow slipped straight through the shoulder.

Mr. Rogan felt no pain. In a split second he even banished from his repertoire the ability to feel disappointed. There simply wasn’t time. There also wasn’t any way to hold the weapon with two hands, so he sat on the ground. Leaning back as best he could, he rested the elephant gun atop his knee and killed the the lead man.

Mr. Rogan was killed immediately afterwards, this with a headshot from a rifle, but Daniel had a chance.

The remaining horsemen knew Mr. Rogan was dead, for they watched the whole top of his head come off. They immediately directed their ire on the boy. Any money the father might have had would still be there when they got to it, but this quest had become personal. This meddling had cost the lives of their tribesmen, hand they demanded payment from this spoiled child.

The plank is fifteen meters long and the slats stand ready every three. A boy’s feet take them on, toes curling at the grip. The spears come. Here they are airborne, and there they slam against the hull, tinging their surrender. And now there is a gun’s boom, and its dumb metal bangs against the side of the ship. The ship is unimpressed, and discards the lumps into the soft peat beneath. The air in the boy’s lungs is excitement and fear and hope and regret, and all are peaked.

Halfway up the plank.

The door is closing upward, and two sailors are inside. They speak with only their hands, and give conflicting entreaties. One has his turned upwards, waving inwards, and roots for the boy. The other does the opposite in every way. Their faces match their gestures. Both wear blue hats.

At the fifth rung it is over.

There is a new kind of silence.