“Where are they?” I asked.
“They crossed and went into the forest. I could hear them. The old bull and his askari.”
“Good,” I said.
“Listen,” he whispered. “Faro.” He pointed toward the thick forest on the right. I had heard nothing. “Mzuri motocah,” he said, meaning, in shorthand, “Better get into the car.”
“Get Miss Mary.”
I turned toward where Ngui had pointed. I could see only the silvery shrubs, the green grass and the line of tall trees with vines and creepers hanging from them. Then I heard the noise like a sharp deep purr. It was the noise you would make if you held your tongue against the roof of your mouth and blew out strong so your tongue vibrated as a reed. It came from where Ngui had pointed. But I could see nothing. I slipped the safety catch forward on the .577 and turned my head to the left. Miss Mary was coming at an angle to get behind where I stood. Ngui was holding her by the arm to guide her and she was walking as though she were treading on eggs. Charo was following her. Then I heard the sharp rough purr again and I saw Ngui fall back with the Springfield ready and Charo move forward and take Miss Mary’s arm. They were even with me now and were working toward where the car must be. I knew the driver, Mthuka, was deaf and would not hear the rhino. But when he saw them he would know what was happening. I did not want to look around. But I did and saw Charo urging Miss Mary toward the hunting car. Ngui was moving fast with them carrying the Springfield and watching over his shoulder. It was my duty not to kill the rhino. But I would have to if he or she charged and there was no way out. I planned to shoot the first barrel into the ground to turn the rhino. If it did not turn I would kill it with the second barrel. Thank you very much I said to myself. It is easy.
Just then I heard the motor of the hunting car start and heard the car coming fast in low gear. I started to fall back figuring a yard was a yard and feeling better with each yard gained. The hunting car swung alongside in a tight turn and I pushed the safety and jumped for the handhold by the front seat as the rhino came smashing out through the vines and creepers. It was the big cow and she came galloping. From the car she looked ridiculous with her small calf galloping behind her.
She gained on us for a moment but the car pulled away. There was a good open space ahead and Mthuka swung the car sharply to the left. The rhino went straight on galloping then slowed to a trot and the calf trotted too.
“Did you get any pictures?” I asked Miss Mary.
“I couldn’t. She was right behind us.”
“Didn’t you get her when she came out?”
“No.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I picked out the Christmas tree though.”
“You see why I wanted to cover you,” I said unnecessarily and stupidly.
“You didn’t know she was in there.”
“She lives around here and she goes to the stream at the edge of the swamp for water.”
“Everybody was so serious,” Miss Mary said. “I never saw all of you joke people get so serious.”
“Honey, it would have been awful if I had had to kill her. And I was worried about you.”
“Everybody so serious,” she said. “And everybody holding on to my arm. I knew how to get back to the car. Nobody had to hold on to my arm.”
“Honey,” I said, “they were only holding your arm so that you wouldn’t step in a hole or trip on something. They were watching the ground all the time. The rhino was very close and might charge anytime and we’re not allowed to kill her.”
“How did you know it was a female with a calf?”
“It stood to reason. She’s been around here for four months.”
“I wish she wasn’t right in the place where the Christmas trees grow.”
“We’ll get the tree all right.”
“You always promise things,” she said. “But things are much simpler and better when Mr. P. is here.”
“They certainly are,” I said. “And they are much easier when G.C. is here. But there is nobody here but us now and please let’s not fight in Africa. Please not.”
“I don’t want to fight,” she said. “I’m not fighting. I simply don’t like to see all you private joke people get so serious and so righteous.”
“Have you ever seen anybody killed by a rhino?”
“No,” she said. “And neither have you.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And I don’t intend to. Pop’s never seen it either.”
“I didn’t like it when you all got so serious.”
“It was because I couldn’t kill the rhino. If you can kill it there’s no problem. Then I had to think about you.”
“Well, stop thinking about me,” she said. “Think about us getting the Christmas tree.”
I was beginning to feel somewhat righteous and I wished that Pop was with us to make a diversion. But Pop was not with us anymore.
“We are going back through the gerenuk country at least aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I said. “We turn to the right at those big stones up ahead across the mud flat at the edge of the high tree bush those baboons are crossing into now and we proceed across the flat to the east until we come to that other rhino drop. Then we go southeast to the old Manyatta and we are in the gerenuk country.”
“It will be nice to be there,” she said. “But I certainly miss Pop.”
“So do I,” I said.
There are always mystical countries that are a part of one’s childhood. Those we remember and visit sometimes when we are asleep and dreaming. They are as lovely at night as they were when we were children. If you ever go back to see them they are not there. But they are as fine in the night as they ever were if you have the luck to dream of them.
In Africa when we lived on the small plain in the shade of the big thorn trees near the river at the edge of the swamp at the foot of the great mountain we had such countries. We were no longer, technically, children although in many ways I am quite sure that we were. Childish has become a term of contempt.
“Don’t be childish, darling.”
“I hope to Christ I am. Don’t be childish yourself.”
It is possible to be grateful that no one that you would willingly associate with would say, “Be mature. Be well-balanced, be well-adjusted.”
Africa, being as old as it is, makes all people except the professional invaders and spoilers into children. No one says to anyone in Africa, “Why don’t you grow up?” All men and animals acquire a year more of age each year and some acquire a year more of knowledge. The animals that die the soonest learn the fastest. A young gazelle is mature, well-balanced and well-adjusted at the age of two years. He is well-balanced and well-adjusted at the age of four weeks. Men know that they are children in relation to the country and, as in armies, seniority and senility ride close together. But to have the heart of a child is not a disgrace. It is an honor. A man must comport himself as a man. He must fight always preferably and soundly with the odds in his favor but on necessity against any sort of odds and with no thought of the outcome. He should follow his tribal laws and customs insofar as he can and accept the tribal discipline when he cannot. But it is never a reproach that he has kept a child’s heart, a child’s honesty and a child’s freshness and nobility.
No one knew why Mary needed to kill a gerenuk. They were a strange long-necked gazelle and the bucks had heavy short curved horns set far forward on their heads. They were excellent to eat in this particular country. But Tommy and impala were better to eat. The boys thought that it had something to do with Mary’s religion.