I Am Marcus Fox, page 5
I didn’t believe it. He was putting me on. Had to be. There was nothing in a person’s blood that could attract a lion. Was there?
“So you see, Marcus,” Shumbuto said, “the lion has always hunted us. We, as a people, have always known this. It wasn’t until our elders ventured further inland that the reason for the lion’s hunt was identified.
“The Shakasantie are bound together by special blood. It is our bond. When my father was very young, his father gathered as many Shakasantie as he could before the government could take them away, for once they got their hands on them, they were never heard from again. My grandfather and my father — who was about your age at the time, Marcus — returned to the village with 300 like-blooded men, women, and children, for it is better to face the predictable, bloodthirsty beast you know than the terrible whimsy of man.”
Everyone nodded.
“The government allowed our people to leave the cities. There was no massacre. They vacated of their own free will. They left to save the non-tainted Zambians from senseless slaughter. They left to save themselves from the unconscionable government. They were heroes, Marcus. They were heroes and they were outcasts. Do you understand?”
I could not find the word yes, so I nodded. I did the math in my head. If this all happened when Shumbuto’s father was around my age — if 300 people left the city during that exodus and there were only 68 adults left today, what unimaginable horrors had they survived in the past eighty or so years? Shumbuto understood my realization and spoke to it.
“The lion hunts us, always. I am saddened to say he is winning this long war by leaps and bounds. We are the last of our people.”
A few of the women began to weep. I looked to Shandra-Namba. She was struggling with her own tears. I had to search the ground for another place to look. I could not bear witness to her pain.
“Now you know our story and understand, Marcus. There is much more to be recounted. The Shakasantie are an extremely complicated people. But I think you will agree that we have had enough sadness for one evening.”
Before I could think of a response, Nuhari spoke up and the melancholy mood was miraculously lifted. “Tell us of your kill, Shumbuto!”
The tribe raised an enthusiastic, unanimous agreement and Shumbuto, though surely parched from the telling of his first tale, stood up tall and began yet another.
CHAPTER
4
Perhaps you’re wondering, “Marcus, how can you recall such vivid details of your early childhood?” To that I would answer: I had no childhood to speak of. Given my incredible circumstances, I was wired to be older and wiser than I had any right to be. When it came to the Shakasantie, I knew, even when I first arrived, that I needed to pay close attention to all that was happening. I can’t explain it, but I understood that every moment was a gift, and I filed them all away in the most accessible part of my brain. And here we are now. Turns out, I was right to hold on to all those precious memories.
Much like all else, I remember Shumbuto’s story of the lion hunt well. It was full of danger and intrigue and told by a masterful orator. In a nutshell, my father tracked the lion to an area near his hunting shack. He proceeded to spoon feed the beast a heaping serving of grim death, thereby claiming revenge for his murdered friend’s family. The intimate details of this righteous kill are his and his alone to share. But worry not, if it is gore-speckled adventure you seek, it will come. Don’t fly away just yet.
Eight months fell away. When times were good and there was nothing to fear, life was rich and full. I was taught to savor the peaceful spirit of those days and make the love last because, as it was explained to me repeatedly, the overabundance of joy would not remain.
The Shakasantie had formed a fairly accurate, albeit gruesomely named, “Blood Calendar.” They enjoyed their time of placidity immensely, though they always knew that, with each new dawn, the cyclical season was spinning ever closer to the “shadow days.” To be sure, the prospect of being mauled in their sleep was appalling, but they always did as much as they could to prepare. When the weather turned cool and dry, the doomed would hone their skills and ready themselves for war.
My father, as it turned out, was more than the village’s greatest hunter; he was also a top-notch instructor. Three times a week, he held class for all the village children to attend. Though I often requested private tutoring sessions, he never gave them. When it came to learning how to kill, I was regarded as just another pupil. The fact that I was his magic angel boy who had fallen from the sky didn’t grant me preferential treatment. In fact, he was harder on me than the rest. On a number of his small game hunts, I was ordered to stay behind and help Shandra-Namba with some menial task or other. The first time he slighted me, I was hurt. The second time, I was mad. When it happened a third time, I exploded.
“Father!” I confronted him, my face red with fury. “Why do you force me to stay behind?”
“You are not the only one, Marcus. Do you remember last week when I asked Ruply-dee to stay behind and help with village chores?”
It was true. Ruply-dee had missed the previous week’s hunt at Shumbuto’s command, while I and the rest of the children had gone. It was a great adventure, in fact. I bested my first beast — a lamb Shumbuto had set loose the previous day. It was a good kill. A child’s first always is.
“But I have been left behind more times than anyone, Father! Let me come today. Some other child can stay behind.”
“I have my reasons.”
I stood there, dumbfounded, and watched him lead fifteen Shakasantie children into the forest. I stormed back to our family hut and slammed myself in. Shandra-Namba was down at the river washing clothes, and it was my duty to go to her, but I was fuming and needed to release my anger first. I looked around for something to smash, but of course there was nothing. Just dirt on the ground, a few sheets, and a water pitcher. It was all any humble Shakasantie hut contained. All our possessions — our pots, our pans, our clothes, our gardening tools, our few weapons — were kept in the communal hut three doors down.
And that’s another thing! I thought, not ready to put my mind at ease. Why, if we’re in such danger from the lion, do we barely have enough weapons to protect ourselves? It’s maddening! The whole community is flawed! It’s no wonder our numbers have dwindled to nearly nothing these past 100 years! We’ll be extinct in no time!
I was pacing like a madman. I had to break something, but there was nothing to destroy. In a desperate act that probably would have seemed comical had anyone seen it, I picked up the water jug and flung it outside. This paltry show of anger did nothing to alleviate my rage, and that only made me angrier. I clutched my hair in fists and screamed at the thatched roof. How long I yelled, I don’t know. What I yelled, I don’t know. However, when I was finished with this futile act, I looked to the door and saw Shandra-Namba’s displeased face.
“Your father has his reasons, Marcus,” she said. “Now come to the river and help me wring the village clothes dry.”
I complied, embarrassed for having been discovered in the throes of such an infantile temper tantrum, and followed her to do the menial task of the day.
And so it went. Some days I learned the intricacies and nuances of hunting, but more often, I did women’s work. I wish I could report that after that third snubbing which prompted my hissy fit, I managed to compose myself, have a man-to-man talk with Shumbuto, and be allowed on all subsequent hunting trips. But that was not the way of it. I was quite a dutiful son and, somehow, I managed to respect his wishes and do as I was bid. In retrospect, it was pretty wishy-washy to wholly submit to his rule. But what were my options? I was just a kid.
When the season changed and the air turned sharp and biting, the Shakasantie people also became cold. They traveled in packs back and forth to the river, even more so than before. No one left the village alone. No one ventured into the forest, not even in pairs or groups. Fear was on the underside of every smile, though no one would unveil it.
In Zambia, the seasonal shifts are subtle. Winter begins in May and lasts until August. The wind, when it picks up, is not brisk, but gentle. It blows through you like a sweet friend whispering hello. It is the most refreshing time to be alive — which makes the knowledge of the coming terror all the more unlikely.
No longer were we enjoying our happy communal dinners. The village was on high alert. We knew an attack was imminent; it happened again and again, year after year. It was only a matter of when and who would fall victim to a bloody, terrifying end.
The children told tales of horrors they had known, seen, survived. They were preparing me for the worst. Every night I counted my blessings. Being the sole person in the village without Shakasantie blood, I was the safest. Regardless, I prayed the lion would not take me.
I would have been scared beyond every wit had Shumbuto not been by my side. He and Shandra-Namba never let me out of their sight. It was a nice gesture, sure, but pointless. Because when the lions come, even the best-laid defenses are not guaranteed to protect you. In the end, as always, the beasts are brutal and unapologetic.
There were three of them that first year, stalking us in the most impossible realm of uninhabitable night. All male. They made quick work of our own three — night watchmen on the eastern post. Three thin blood trails leading off into the forest were all that was left of those men. Those heroes. Three widows wept. Despite our loss, we considered ourselves lucky that first year. The guards were all the lions took.
And then, peacetime.
The next year — the year of the invisible lion — those three widows were eaten. No one could figure how the beasts penetrated our line of defense or how they singled out the wives of the men they’d destroyed the year prior. But it happened. As sure as I stand before you, it happened. There were rumors that the women banded together to sacrifice themselves for the good of the village. Nobody knew for sure.
And then, peacetime.
When I was eight years old, four families were murdered in full. Nineteen lives. Gone. And then, peacetime.
When I was nine, we lost half a dozen great men to the jaws of the beasts. And then, peacetime.
When I was ten, it was considered a fortunate year as only one was taken: a newborn. How is it fortunate to lose a baby? I wondered. How?!
We trudged on through peacetime.
Every year, it continued. Like a recurring nightmare you can never shake.
At thirteen, I had a growth spurt and my voice changed. I was told this was the onset of manhood (though I had secretly considered myself a man since I bested the lamb, years before).
When the crackling sound from my throat cleared and I could speak with deep, tonal authority from my gut, I made up my mind. Enough was enough. I was going to be a goddamned lion hunter and I was going to be the best. I would go into the forest with my bare skin and hands and I would find my own way to kill the giant-pawed sons of bitches that were eradicating my tribe.
In the summer of my first teen year, I was ready to kill ’em all.
“Marcus.” My mother approached me as I stood in the shallows of the Zambezi on the morning I planned to leave. “Marcus, don’t go,” she pleaded. I couldn’t face her or her tears. They were falling like the fucking rain.
“You know I have to,” I said, my voice cracking one final time from the puberty (not the pain). “There is more to protecting our people than Father has shown me. He knows so much more and he’s just … he doesn’t respect me.” I swallowed. “He doesn’t love me.”
She crashed through water, storming toward me at the river’s lapping mouth. She planted herself in front of me, her finger in my face.
“That is not true. Never say that. Never think that. Never believe that. It is just not true.”
“Then why, Mother? Tell me why. Why do we allow the killings to continue every year? Why does he … why do our entire people take such an amateur approach to the protection of our own lives? Years go by, one after another, with so much joy in peacetime and then, on nature’s whim, always the same thing, and no one seems to care. When I came to Shakasantie, we were near one hundred strong. How many are we today? Twenty? Twenty-five? It is too depressing to count. I have lost too many friends. I am beginning to forget their faces. Is this how we should live? Forever in the cursed shadow of the lion? Are we to be doomed? Are you? Is Father? Am I? I cannot bear it any longer. Listen to my voice, Mother. Soon, my face will be bearded. I will be a man. I say I am Shakasantie. And if Father won’t save our people, I damned well will.”
“You are right.” It was him. My father. He, too, was making his way into the gentle-flowing Zambezi now. “You are Shakasantie. In some ways, you are more Shakasantie than us all.”
I turned to face him. He stood there, dripping in sunlight, looking so old, so tired, so beaten by terror.
“Shumbuto,” Shandra-Namba said, attempting to stop him from telling me what I’d always wanted to know. I wouldn’t let her stand between us.
“What are you saying, Father?” I dared not break eye contact with him.
“Shumbuto, don’t.”
“What do you mean?” I implored him.
“Shumbuto, I need to discuss something with you.”
He paid her no mind, though she was right by his side. I had him locked in my gaze. I was going to hear this.
“Tell me, Father. Tell me what you have always wanted to but could not. Explain why you have never taught me the way to kill the lion.” I had him ensnared. “You say the Shakasantie never speak falsely. Then speak true now.”
“Shumbuto …”
Mother was not well. She was dizzy. I pretended her distress was not real. Because this was real. This moment was everything.
“Father, tell me now!”
“You are to be the last of the Shakasantie, Marcus!” he shouted back before regaining his composure. “None of us will survive the lion. Only you. You are the one who will tell our story. The one who will help us live on, throughout history. So it has been written.”
My mother’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell forward. I released Shumbuto of my imprisoning glare as Shanda-Namba landed in his arms.
“Shandra-Namba?” he asked stupidly as he held his passed-out wife and love.
Shumbuto rushed her up the slope, past the caged cattle, and to the women. When she was laid out in the cool shelter of Yesshara’s hut, it was established that Shandra-Namba was breathing and that she was “resting her mind with calm dreams.” She was all right.
Shumbuto and I sat alone together, quiet with our thoughts. All other Shakasantie (what remained of our feeble tribe) were gathered around Yesshara’s hut for support. We watched them from a distance as they hovered with good intentions.
“Father,” I said, when his breathing settled to a reasonable pace. “Surely you don’t believe the Shakasantie will be completely wiped out?”
“Our story has been passed down for generations, Marcus.”
“Two. Two generations. That is the complete history of the Shakasantie.”
“Yes. And as the legend goes, someday …” He faltered, as if he required one final push.
“It’s OK, Father. Go on.”
“Someday,” he continued, “a Shakasantie boy will be born and he will bear the mark of the lion.” With uncharacteristic flair, he stood from the stoop so I could admire the back of his leg. I’d seen it before, but never paid his birthmark much mind.
As I have surely mentioned, Shumbuto was dark as night. There was just one patch of gold above his left calf. It was the size of a large walnut and freckled with what appeared to be silver, but couldn’t be. It took a moment until my focus revealed the beady, moonlight eyes of a lion on Shumbuto’s skin. Now that I saw those terrible eyes on my father’s flesh, I could not unsee them. The whole image took shape and it became apparent that, yes, there was in fact a razor-toothed snarl and mane.
“Now you can see,” he said and sat back down. “I bear the mark of the prophecy.”
“A prophecy?” I said, trying to figure what the word could mean. “But you were born with the mark so it is you who are chosen. What for?”
“The prophecy is clear. It states that he who bears the mark will be father to the chosen one. It is you. You are my only son. You will, one day, bring the Shakasantie back. After we are long gone, we will live again. Through my son. Through you, Marcus.”
I did not blink or breathe. The Shakasantie tell no lies.
“We,” Shumbuto continued, indicating the Shakasantie who were still gathered in front of Yesshara’s hut. “We will all die. But you, Marcus, you will live. This is why we exist at all. It was written that our people were meant to be exiled. It was written that I would spend this life walking and hunting and waiting for you. That I would protect you at all costs. That I would keep you from the impossible danger of the hunt.”
“But I am not from here.” As much as it pained me to say it, it needed to be said. “I am not your son.”
He leaned. He would tell more. He would tell how I was his son, the only son he would ever have. He would explain who he thought I was — some savior of the tribe. Some big fucking deal.
But I would have nothing of it.
“Save your breath, Father. I don’t want to hear it.”
For the better part of the next hour we sat, returning to worry for Shandra-Namba.
At last, Yesshara emerged from her hut, supporting my mother as she walked out. Cheers arose and blind joy was instantly restored. She was all right.
Shumbuto smiled as he went to his wife, taking over Yesshara’s careful job of holding her steady.
I put aside my feelings of hopelessness for the Shakasantie and confused ire for my place in their world. I started toward them, my true parents. My heart was filled with eternal love for them both. They were holding each other so close. It was as I had known them at our first home years before. In their embrace, I saw there was nothing else in the world that mattered to them, nothing but each other.
