It was an awkward boat, a terribly slow ark. But it would suffice. It would have to suffice.
The children watched, calling excitedly as she formed the baobab vessel for them. Some of them were even laughing, as if this were a new game. They seemed to sense how close they were to safety. “Okay,” she told Cesar. “Tell them to get aboard. Anyone who can swim, get on those longer branches so you can kick and push us. Hurry!”
She waded into the water-colder than she remembered, as if there was nothing on her body to keep away the chill-and helped them as much as she could with her injured and crudely bandaged arm, watching each of them clamber into the water-slick trunk, helping those who the wild card had rendered less mobile.
Finally, she pushed with what little strength she had left and pulled herself up. Cesar and several of the children were kicking, white water splashing around their legs, but their improvised craft was making little headway, and the water was now too deep for Jerusha to stand in.
“Bibbi Jerusha.” She heard the calclass="underline" Eason, still in his stretcher. His fish tail flapped on the canvas. “You carried me,” he said in halting French, “now it’s my turn…”
Jerusha nodded to Cesar, to Gamila. They lifted the stretcher, let Eason tumble into the water.
Eason swam, his tail churning the water white behind him. He went to the rear of the baobab, grabbing the largest root with his hand, and his tail kicked.
Their baobab raft began to move steadily out into the deeper water.
Kisangani, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
“Those fuckers,” Joey muttered. “Those fuckers.”
Michelle didn’t reply. She’d stopped talking to Joey earlier in the day. Nothing she said helped. The closer they got to Kisangani, the angrier Hoodoo Mama became.
It had started with the first grave.
“They’re here,” Joey said. “They’re down there in the dark. The fuckers just left them there.”
“Show me where.”
Joey plunged through the forest. Michelle followed. They came upon a small clearing. To one side there was a large boxy trailer. In the center of the clearing was a large mound of newly turned dirt. Michelle stared at it, her stomach doing nauseated flip-flops. Then a strange coldness came over her. “Are they in there?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“A lot. I want whoever did this,” Joey said in a calm, soft voice.
“I do, too,” Michelle replied.
“I’m going to raise them.”
“No,” Michelle said. “Do you want to find whoever did this? Fast? We have to keep going.”
“God damn it!” Joey screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. “You’re just going to leave them down there in the dark? You fucking bitch.”
Michelle didn’t answer, but went to the trailer and carefully opened the door. She poked her head in, but the trailer was empty except for an old desk and a couple of stainless-steel medical tables. There was a medicinal odor inside. In the trash can in the corner she found empty bottles of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol.
Frustrated, she threw the empties back into the can. The disinfectant would have helped some with Joey’s leg, which was swollen and angry-looking. She looked around again, and noticed for the first time the colorful cutout pictures on the walls. Pictures from children’s books. They were full of smiling happy animals and smiling happy children.
Slowly, she made her way around the trailer. With the exception of the bottles in the trash and the pictures on the walls, it seemed to have been stripped clean. She sat at the desk and started opening drawers. They were empty except for paper clips. She felt under the desk, but there was nothing there.
Then she pulled the desk away from the wall, and she heard a snick as a file slid down to the floor. She reached behind the desk and grabbed it.
Unfortunately, it was written in French. Michelle’s French wasn’t good enough for her to translate it all, but she did see Alicia Nshombo’s name more than once as she paged through the paperwork. But in the bottom of the file there were photos.
The pictures were of dead children, each with a series of notes clipped to the photo. Most looked like jokers and had been shot in the head. The rest were black queens. Some hardly looked human anymore. Michelle thought she might throw up.
“What’s that?”
Michelle looked up. Joey was standing in the doorway. “I’m not sure. I don’t read French.”
“You talked to Gaetan and Kengo just fine.”
“That was simple conversation. This is reading. And it has all sorts of stuff that I just don’t understand.”
“Let me see.”
Michelle closed the file. “There’s nothing here.”
“Let me see the cocksucking file, Bubbles.” Her voice was smaller than usual.
Reluctantly, Michelle handed the file over. Joey opened it and glanced at the papers inside. She looked puzzled, then she saw the photos.
“I’ll kill them all,” she said, but there was little strength in her voice.
“I’ll help you,” Michelle said. “But first we need to find them.”
“I can do that. We’ll just follow the trail of dead.” Joey glowered at Michelle; her eyes were glassy and she was swaying a little. “Hoodoo Mama is handy.”
Lake Tanganyika
Tanzania
The Baobab Raft was spotted when they were halfway across, and Denys Finch was on the Tanzanian patrol boat that responded. “Hey!” The rhinoceros horn on his snouted face gleamed in the sun. He looked at the baobab boat, at the children filling its branches like dark human fruit. His eyebrows raised. “Need a ride?”
Jerusha hugged the joker as the crew brought her and the children aboard. “How…?” she asked, too exhausted to say more, her belly rumbling with hunger. She was famished; she burned with it.
“Been taking the plane up looking for you two since you left, couple times a day. Was about to give up on it, too, if you didn’t show in a day or two. I saw the baobab and radioed to these blokes. Where’s your metal fellow?”
“He’s not here.”
“Oh.” Finch looked as if he wanted to ask more, then evidently changed his mind. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week or eaten anything in a month.”
“We could all use food,” she told him. “It seems like so long since…” She stopped. Shook her head to rid it of the images of food rising in her. “Is there a satellite phone on this boat? One that works?”
Finch called out to one of the uniformed men. A few moments later, he was handing her a largish rectangle of black plastic. “All yours,” he said.
Jerusha peered at the phone. She entered in the number she’d wanted to call for days now. There was a crackle of static, a hiss, then a distant, clear ring she could hear through the steady churning of the patrol boat’s twin engines.
“United Nations,” someone said on the other end. “Committee for Extraordinary Interventions.”
“This is Jerusha Carter,” she said. “Gardener. I need to speak to either Lohengrin or Babel. It’s extremely urgent. No, I’m sorry, it can’t take hours. I don’t have hours…”
Bahr al-Ghazal Base
The Sudd, South Sudan
The Caliphate of Arabia
Tom stood beside the mess tent and watched as the sun fell into the endless sea of washed-out green reeds, turning them to dark thin shadows that made intricate patterns as they slow-danced to the music of a sluggish breeze. Somewhere to the north a battle murmured, rattled, occasionally boomed with a flash that lit the orange and indigo sky a startling yellow-white.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the swollen red sun. It felt as if the inside of his eyelids were lined with sandpaper. His arms and legs felt like cloth bags filled with powdered lead. His brain felt as if his skull were stuffed with cotton balls. He couldn’t remember when he’d had his last decent night’s sleep.