I Am Marcus Fox, page 8
Attempting to free myself of the lions’ mind games was incredibly difficult. Whenever I thought I’d made a little headway and could picture myself sinking my teeth into that grinning lion’s neck — at the moment my canines brushed his fur, the unreal beast would whip his head around and devour me. I would wake from these psychedelic trips screaming, my hot, white fists balled up, punching nothing. Mostly what I envisioned was his bloodstained, pleased-with-himself, shit-eating lips pulled back into a fuck-you grin. My worst fantasy lived to mock me.
Sometimes, he growled ferociously, while other times he tore me limb from limb. No matter how deep into concentration I went, the ghost lion always got the best of me. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why my own brain allowed this. And then, one rainy evening, I was standing in the Zambezi shallows, watching the fish swim by, allowing them to pass, choosing my dinner carefully. I had not been in a state of meditation all day — I was taking a break. I needed a respite from that madness. But alas, the mind is a tricky thing to trick. I’d been shutting it down and exercising it on fumes and bare-naked instinct for so long that, when it did not receive its proper daily introspection, my brain had different ideas.
Through nature’s primordial curtains, I peered. Lo and behold, the mighty vision-lion emerged from the Zambezi. He raised his head slowly so that I could see his hungry eyes fall upon me. The river beads trickled off his head as the rain marched heavy upon his brow. The water made the beast both terrible and magnificent to behold. When his jawline broke the surface, I could see, very clearly, that this was not the same lion who had feasted on my monarch elephant at the base of those stones. This was not the one who mocked me with my fresh kill’s flesh in his maw. This was the ruthless ghost of the animal I carried in a sack long ago, on my first journey to Shakasantie Village. The very same who, once devoured, delivered unto me the news that a person can never know the true being of another.
His mighty, floating, disembodied head made its way dreamily toward me. It did not matter that this was a hallucination; all I could feel was fear — pure, viable, self-shattering fear.
The lion’s head cocked his magical whiskers to the left and spoke in thunderous roars, and I understood him.
You know why you are afraid, he stated.
“I do not.”
Look into my eyes, Marcus. What do you see?
“I see,” I said. “I see,” I said. “I see …”
You see yourself.
“I see myself.”
You see yourself.
“I see myself.”
You are the blood of the lion. You are me and I am you.
“No!” I screamed at the thing and grabbed at its ears. I pulled him to me and chewed out his eyeball. It popped in my mouth and I swallowed the stringy juices. If you must know, it was akin to eating a handful of newborn salamanders. But as I carried on, the lion remained calm. I let go of his ears and stepped back a few paces. He looked at me with his one remaining eyeball and grinned. His visage morphed into the form of the last lion who had mocked me — the elephant eater.
You had better hurry back to your body, Marcus, he said. We have much work to do.
He pierced the world with an epic, ancient roar and I fell forward into the river. As I splashed in the shallows, shaking free the fear, the unreal lion’s last words beat like Shakasantie drums in my head.
… work to do …
… work to do …
What did it mean to have the blood of the lion when the lion sought to drain the blood of my people? What work was there to do? And was I really trying to make sense of a fiction? I don’t claim to be a learned man, but I do know you should not change your life based on a fantasy.
Regardless, I felt strangely new. As if something that had been missing was about to reveal itself.
My overworked imagination had drained me.
“Until tomorrow, lion,” I whispered to nothing and no one.
The world turned out its lights and I slept, but without peace. My dreams were haunted by the terrible moans and cries of a howling soul. I hadn’t given any thought to my first father’s bedtime Banshee stories for some time; for that matter, I hadn’t bothered to think of Billy at all. But for the first time in a long time, my subconscious turned to him. In my dream, he wore an indistinct face made of vibrating lines and swirling cosmos. He whispered something in my ear that was impossible to hear over the persistent wail of some tortured woman. She hovered in the air just above and beyond Billy’s messed-up head. She was the epitome of sadness.
When morning came, the lion’s warning persisted.
Missing something. What?
Work to do. What?
I needed to move on, but to where? I busied myself walking the perimeter of my camp and collecting my thirty-three blades. I tried to forget the pending question, hoping that some silence in my head would answer it. But as the old saying goes: Try not to think of the severed lion’s head. It’s impossible.
The long day passed, and still I was no closer to an epiphany. In the evening, I picked pieces of catfish from my teeth. I wished I could just leave the unknown alone and carry on. I stood. I paced round my fire. I made agitated hand gestures that surely would have read as crazy had there been anyone to witness them. I fought with myself, shaped some shale, swung Shumbuto’s machete in graceful arcs. Sunlight caught the blade and it shone into my eye. Clumsily, I dropped the weapon. It made a WOOMF when it hit the dirt. I bent low to pick it up and a current of chilled air brushed past my face. It smelled of … of …
“Shakasantie.”
Your blades, gather them all!
Quickly, I threw my thirty-three possessions into my sack. I kicked dirt on the fire and picked up Shumbuto’s blade. I did not bother to take a last look at the Zambezi or my camp. Time was not a luxury. I’d let too much of it slip away. Stupid, selfish ignorance!
As I dashed through the forest, I recounted the months in my head. But time, of course, meant nothing to me then (it means even less now). What mattered was not that it had been an unbelievable seventeen months since I’d left, but that I’d missed an entire killing season. I was so wrapped up in honing my own hunting skills that, in my absence, the lions had come and gone from Shakasantie Village. Who had they murdered while I was away? I couldn’t bear to think on it.
What was done was done, and now the soft winds were drawing the beasts back to my home again. How could I have let the time slip by? How could I have forgotten? How had the winds and cooler air escaped me? My mind kept returning to blame the thrill of the hunt for my folly. But the master of my destiny was only me, after all. I’d received what I deserved: total loneliness and fragmental madness.
Amid my harried haste, I lost my way. Fear held my heart and squeezed. The severed lion’s head echoed his cruel laughter in my own. I don’t know for how long I ran aimlessly through the forest. But when I came to my senses, morning light had returned, and my skin felt the sting of a thousand scratches.
Focus.
I had to pull myself together for the love of my people! What, if anything, had I been doing out on my own for the past year and a half?
Smoke rose in the distance.
A fire, I thought. Good, they are cooking. Where there is food, there is vigilance. Shandra-Namba will wet my forehead, and Shumbuto will kill, skin, and cook the fattest warthog in my honor.
But the closer I got, the blacker the smoke appeared. This was no dinner blaze.
Ashes.
Shakasantie Village was in ashes.
There was blood everywhere — blood, but no bodies. Long trails of blood (animal or human I could not tell) went off in every direction. But the smoke was still fresh, raw, and urgent. That, if nothing else, was a beacon of cruel hope — that I might not be too late to save my family.
I heard a wailing in the distance. Dazed, I rushed toward the sound, which was coming from the garden. The tomatoes were plump and unpicked.
“Father! Mother!” I called out in desperation, but the only reply was more tiny screams. And now that I was close to the source, I knew it to be the sound of a traumatized baby.
I weaved in and out of the rows of squash and corn until, at last, I came to it. I picked up the child and held him at arm’s length. The boy had not been shrieking out of fear after all. His noise was a siren, a call for me to come find him. I wiped dirt from his face and saw that he had not shed a tear. With the grime cleared away, his bold features revealed his identity. Here, in my strong hands, I held my father’s son.
“Marcus.” My name drifted up and over the garden. It was him. I knew it was him.
“Father!” I hollered, clinging the child to my breast.
“Marcus.” I bolted at the sound of his weak voice and found him dying in the dirt just a few rows over. I knelt, holding the child still.
“Father, I —”
“Where is your mother, Marcus? Where is Shandra-Namba?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
He coughed, and what came out of his mouth was black, vile bile.
“Oh, Father … I abandoned you, and look at what has happened.”
“Stop, Marcus.” He coughed again. “What’s done is done.”
“The village is burned, Father. Where is everyone? Did the lions take them? How is the village burned?!”
“They came. They came and they took them all.” He coughed more of his life away. “The poachers, Marcus. The poachers.” Again that wretched sound came out of him, and this time, it was hollow and lasted too long. I didn’t think he would have another inhalation in him, but the strongest man I ever knew would stave off death for as long as a man could.
“I will find them,” I told him. “I vow it to you. I will find them and paint the earth with their blood.”
“It is too late, Marcus. Our people are gone.”
“But Mother …”
“Your mother is dead, Marcus. They will use her for lion bait and kill her when they are through.”
“There is still time, Shumbuto. You will be well. We will hunt them together and we will save our people.” Even as I spoke the words, I knew them to be untrue. The shell of the man before me would not live to see one more sunset. And I would have to face a new enemy alone.
“You are our people now, Marcus.” With every ounce of strength remaining, Shumbuto rose up on his elbows and clutched my shoulder with his giant, bloody paw. “We resign ourselves to our fate. You are the Shakasantie. You and your brother, Kuwajii.” He let go of me and with one finger caressed my brother’s face. “Take care of him, Marcus. We are the dead. You must tell our story. You are the one.”
And then my savior, my true father, chief of the Shakasantie tribe, fell back and died in the garden of his people, with his two devoted sons by his side.
I stayed by Shumbuto’s body and mourned him. The smoke from the ashes of our village hovered over us.
My brother. Kuwajii. A child. A baby who needed me to keep him alive and show him the way. How? I could hardly tend to myself and I certainly didn’t know my own way. What I did know was that no matter what my father’s dying wish, I was not going to leave Shandra-Namba or any living Shakasantie to suffer in the hands of murderous poachers. I wasn’t going to allow the only family I’d ever known to be wiped from the face of the earth. Not without a fight. But how could I save whatever remained of the Shakasantie when I was saddled with an infant?
One step at a time, some voice within me answered.
I walked with the boy to the Zambezi to bathe him and give us both a drink. Behind, the village smoldered. I turned and viewed the disaster of my own making. If I had not been so pigheaded, I could have been here to protect them.
“Oh, Shumbuto,” I spoke softly into the wind. Kuwajii slept soundly in my arms. “Father, I swear to you. I will watch over this boy, your son. The true chosen one will live to carry on your name. Kuwajii will be Shakasantie’s storyteller.”
And with that, my resting orphan brother and I set off into the world together.
* * *
Kuwajii didn’t eat much, but what little food he desired needed to be chopped into a puree. If he’d still been at Shandra-Namba’s breast, he was incredibly good at weaning himself. He didn’t have much choice, did he? Mostly, I sliced up mushrooms for the boy, and he was grateful.
“In this world, brother, you do or you die. Get used to it.” He understood me to some degree because, though he didn’t thrive in those early days, he didn’t die either.
We weren’t making much forward progress, for as agreeable as Kuwajii was when we were standing still, he did not travel well. The boy would sleep in my arms, but only while I was stationary. With the slightest movement, he would wake with an alarming, monosyllabic “wah!” and then be restless, cranky, and immobile for hours. He never cried full on (which, having been around Shakasantie babies before, was unusual), but he also never shied from voicing his loud opinions about the trek. It seemed that some part of him knew he was leaving his family’s home, and this he found unacceptable, despite what he’d witnessed.
I hoped the one shelter I knew of (that had a roof and felt like home) would allow Kuwajii some comfort. And, let’s be honest, I also needed the familiar warmth of the place to clear my head and figure out my next move.
We arrived at Shumbuto and Shandra-Namba’s humble hunting lodge (my first Zambian home) to find it had not weathered over time. I made a decent bed of crisp leaves and hardened mud for Kuwajii. He settled into it and closed his eyes. I could tell the boy wouldn’t need much in life to be happy. He was, after all, Shakasantie. I left him sleeping peacefully and sat guard just outside the door.
What had happened in my seventeen-month hiatus from Shakasantie Village was a horror I could not understand. My initial fear that the lions had returned and murdered everyone was not what had come to pass. Shumbuto had been very clear. Vile poachers were to blame (this year, anyway). It didn’t make any sense; I never knew any outsider to stumble upon our tribe. We were independent refugees who bothered no one and were forever left alone by human intruders. Until now, it seemed.
Kuwajii made a sleepy coo from inside the hut. I would never leave him. He was far too fragile — would be for years. But our people did not have years. Shandra-Namba did not have years. According to Shumbuto, it was already too late. I refused to accept that.
I thought it over as Kuwajii dreamed of whatever it is babies dream. He was fortunate, I supposed. Not only for surviving the raid, but also to be so young that he would not remember.
* * *
Every hour that passed was an hour I was not taking action. How many days had gone by? Four since the raid? In the morning, we would have to move. In the morning, we would have to — my thoughts were interrupted by a pack of lions. I spotted them cutting stealthily and in single file through the darkness, about 100 yards away. Their war-crazed eyes sparkled with determination. The great hunter within me sprung to life. It was good to have him back. He shut down every muscle in my body and flicked my survival mode switch to on.
I counted silently as ten of them promenaded by. Another six. More. They ignored the sweaty stench that emanated from my limby meat sack. The sleeping baby boy in the hut would have made a measly appetizer, but my great physique would have filled the bellies of at least half a dozen of them. They walked with their noses sniffing the air; they were acting like they didn’t know we existed.
But they knew. I knew that they knew, and they knew that I knew too. But they were intent on a much more substantial feast.
One by one, the lions ignored us as they marched their slow path through our part of the world. When the last fiend had finally passed (I counted him at twenty-seven), I felt a stirring in me I’d ignored for days. It was my vision-lion come back to embody me. He overtook me and we became one. His chant echoed in my head: You are me and I am you. My months of meditative preparation would bear fruit. As I let go and gave into the mind-meld, I could now smell what those lions were after. Deeply, I inhaled the scent of the Shakasantie people. I could taste it on my inner lion’s lips. I could feel the intensity of the lion’s hatred and desire, but the part that was Marcus was still in control. I was the one driving this overgrown pussycat machine.
I snarled and sprang into action. Out beyond the shit pit, I climbed the highest nearby tree, fashioned a baby’s crib out of twigs and branches in seconds, scrambled back down, grabbed the boy, hauled him up, placed him safely in the nest, scrambled back down, and made after them. I caught their trail easily and followed at a safe distance. But they were twenty-seven cats lined up, head to toe, moving slowly through the forest toward their goal. If they should find my people alive, I would have little time to get to the head of the pack before …
I jutted out, giving them a wide berth and approaching the lead lion from a safe distance. The sun was rising and I could see just how long this terrible pride’s procession was. I dared to get closer. They’d known my presence back at the hut and ignored me, but now they were entirely unaware as I expertly assumed their form. My aura was that of a jungle cat, and I blended so well. I heard their one thought over and over in my head: Shakasantie, Shakasantie, Shakasantie, Shakasantie. They were driven mad by the word and their instinct. The blood of my people was special, in all the wrong ways.
The torchwood trees leaned away from the pack. The yellow-throated sandgrouse and Senegal coucals twittering and cooing about on the ground took to the high branches. The very sun burned uncertainly, as if it were apprehensive to shed light on its own new day.
And then came the screams.
I raced forward as the pack raced forward. The earth shook under 108 clawed paws and my two bare feet. Try as I might, I could not reach the front in time. But it wouldn’t have mattered, even if I had.
The first lion fell into a deep, deep hole, and that was the beginning of the end. From all around us, rifle shots wreaked havoc on the morning’s virgin ears. The poachers were everywhere. It was the best-laid trap in history, and the lions who did not succumb to the pit were slaughtered like lambs.
