Christmas Trees & Monkeys (14 page)

* * *

Donel ascended the stairs, stopped outside Liam’s door. He thought of Cloida, and how it was she who once performed this nightly ritual, walking in and standing beside Liam’s bed. She would only stare, waiting to see if he was breathing, drinking in the sight of him before softly walking away and closing the door. She never touched Liam in those moments - fear of waking him. A few moments every night. Donel would stand where he was now, the door ajar, waiting for his wife to emerge glowing in the warmth of a mother loving her son.

On that final night two years ago, she hadn’t checked on Liam. She’d gone straight into their bedroom, opened the dresser drawer and pulled out the pistol which she’d kept hidden for God-knew-how-long. When Donel had seen his wife bypass Liam’s room he should have known, should have followed her. Instead he waited for his wife to emerge into the hallway with an embarrassed smile.
How could I have forgotten to check on my son?
she might have said.

He’d heard a “pop” and found Cloida in the middle of their bedroom floor, shattered head bleeding into the carpet.

Now, he paused outside his son’s room and tried to calm himself. He should have known it was an illusion - getting through tonight without remembering every detail.

* * *

Forgive me
.

The legs rough now, bumpy and gray like wet sand. Liam knew it wasn’t too late. He could look up, see the demon before him, say he loved her. He missed her. But a deep part of him, too mature to express, too clear to ignore, knew that such an acknowledgement of its existence, of its
self
, was all it wanted. Forgiveness, remembering who it once was and what it meant to him. He wanted so much to give it to her - to
it
. It was an
it
. But to accept, acknowledge its nature would somehow set it free. He didn’t understand completely, but Liam knew if it was free it would never come back.

Something burned, far across distant hills. The odor tickled at the back of his nose.

Legs dried, pillars of cracked brown earth, an ancient monolith, statue of dust and worship for the boy. Then a faded leaf drifted down, skin flaking, falling in autumn.

The right leg shattered. The figure tilted a little before the left leg fell. The body collapsed into a growing pile of itself. Splintering torso falling over knees, breasts indistinguishable from stomach, from the increasingly neglected contents of his sandbox. Smell of burning, shoulders crumbling to dust. Liam followed their descent to the carpet, the pile wide and thick. The face spread out before him, shifting, fading. Liam wanted to stare into its hollowing expression, but closed his eyes instead.

The non-voice screamed, grabbing for whatever lifeline the boy might have been inclined to throw. He hadn’t. Eventually the burning smell dissipated and was gone.

Liam lay on his belly, ear to the carpet, and imagined his mother’s figure falling back into the place she’d cast herself, a dark world, fire and clouds drifting over statues made of stone and flesh. Everything burning.

It didn’t matter. As long as she kept coming back each year to plead with him. Maybe some day he would set her free. He didn’t want to forget, nor wanted
her
to forget
him
.

* * *

Donel opened the door. Liam lay as he had the year before - on his belly in the center of the room, face turned towards the closet door, mouth askew in sleep. He’d fallen off the bed.

Donel walked into the room. The closet door was open. He walked over and clicked it shut, then lifted Liam off the floor and down onto the bed. The sheets were still tight. Donel had to pull hard to make an opening wide enough to gather his son beneath them. He thought about the sheets. Liam couldn’t have simply fallen out of bed.

Maybe they’d been sharing the same vigil after all. Though the father would have preferred to share such a moment with the son, he knew everyone had their own way.

Liam did not wake. Donel wondered if he was feigning sleep. He ran a hand across the boy’s face, brushing stray hair away. Unlike Cloida, Donel preferred to touch his son each night, feel the reassuring warmth of skin. He’d done it every night for two years, a ritual he relished more than any other. He bent down and kissed Liam’s forehead.

Before he closed the door, a small voice said, “Good night, Da.”

Donel smiled but did not turn back. “Good night, Liam.”

“
I won’t forget. She was beautiful, you know.”

Donel nodded, knowing his son would not see the gesture. “Go to sleep now. You’ve got school in the morning.” He closed the door, and crossed the hall to his own room.

— — — — —

About “White Wave of Mercy”

Fiction writers aren’t known for their obsessive research habits. In fact, if we could include a Research Checker on our word processors to accompany Spelling and Grammar, we’d be a lot happier. But sometimes the work at hand calls for some detailed analysis if it’s ever going to get off the ground. Editor Brian Hopkins knew this. He was a self-admitted
research junkie
and edited a series of anthologies in which the stories have to take place in a foreign (but factual) locale. Said locale must be thoroughly understood and/or researched by the author. The
Extremes
anthology series was pretty successful, and garnered some Bram Stoker Award nominations.

For a while I carried with me an image (which I assumed would one day become a story) of a young boy living on an isolated island somewhere, standing on the beach and seeing the shimmering image of a generic White Man hovering before him. I didn’t know what the image would ever develop into, if anything. But stories are like that, sometimes they’re not ripe enough yet to pick.

Around the time the call for
Extremes 4: Darkest Africa
came around, there was some media coverage of the AIDS epidemic in Africa. Mostly on National Public Radio, since most other news outlet didn’t think that a quarter of the sub-Saharan population being infected with HIV was important enough to cover. In my usual
writerly
way, I began to wonder about Africa, musing conspiracy-like about the motives behind why so many of the Major Powers seemed to be ignoring the issue. Not
completely
ignoring, as there was a growing uneasiness among the world toward a continent with a growing population of orphans. Africa is a large, fertile patch of land, and I began to wonder the old
what if
questions. What if the world powers were simply, well, waiting...?

Anyhow, I wanted to tell this story from the perspective of someone both on the outside of day-to-day events, but at the same time directly affected by them. The Mbuti pygmies are a relatively isolated race of people who live predominantly in the Congo region, also known (sometimes) as Zaire. I read a lot about them (doing my research!!!), and let what I learned guide how my character would react, say and do. I wanted the character Mabeli helpless to do anything about it, though. On a final note, I found a home for the image of the boy on the beach, except the scene shifted into the dark tangled jungles of Africa.

Special thanks to Kevin Duffy, whose wonderful book on the Mbuti pygmies
Children of the Forest: Africa’s Mbuti Pygmies
(Waveland Press) was invaluable reading in the development of this story.

White Wave of Mercy

‘
81

The lunchtime crowd at Yvonne’s American Deli and Grocery began to wane. The few beleaguered souls too busy to eat at a decent time nodded to the old man as they emerged with bulging take-out bags. Others saw nothing but their next business appointment.

Mabeli sat on the bench and unwrapped his ham sandwich. Olive oil leaked from the corners, but would be absorbed by the paper before ever reaching his slacks. Regardless, Mabeli wore his stains proudly. Everything was too clean these days. In some of the newer buildings in downtown Epulu, the thick humidity and deep green smell of the forest were purified into a dull sameness.

The sandwich was good - one of his vices and a small acceptance of the new world which had emerged around him. Mabeli liked this spot. It was close enough to the edge of the forest that the Ituri rose into view wherever he looked.

“
Hi.”

“
Bonjour!”

The two boys offered reflexive greetings as they hurried inside. Mabeli nodded in return. His French wasn’t good enough to try with a mouth-full of ham and bread. The boys - the white one’s name was Mike, he thought - were doing what they’d been doing every Tuesday afternoon since school began. Today the new comic books were downloaded.

Was
it Tuesday? He’d know if Mike and his friend came out with noses pressed to their readers, lost in adventures that shone from expandable screens.

Mabeli felt the same quick rush each time he saw the white boy, wondering if today was the day. A certainty that they were all being moved, wittingly or not, toward a single event.

So long ago, the memory was clouded by the myriad of experiences in his life vying for attention. Still, Mabeli remembered. Like recognizing a kindred soul on their first meeting, he knew this boy was the one he’d encountered sixty years earlier. Perhaps his hopes had grown too strong to rule out the obvious question.
How
could he be so certain? Time - years - none of that mattered when Mabeli was young. Nor for his people, not then.

Within the relative isolation of the Congo basin, the Mbuti pygmies lived as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. Beyond the protective walls of the forest, the world changed, fell and rose like the tide. It remained, for the most part,
outside
except when the Mbuti ventured beyond the forest to trade, or when an occasional
Muzungu
was drawn into Mabeli’s world for research or simple curiosity.

In the end, the
Muzungu
always returned to their own world. Until the day they came in numbers, and never left.

* * *

‘
21

Nine-year old Mabeli clambered among the branches in pursuit of imaginary prey. He drove the
mboloko
further through the brush with shouts and the beating of his spear against tree trunks. If the hunt was real, Mabeli would wait by the nets with the other men, letting the women drive the small antelopes their way. In play, however, standing still and waiting couldn’t compare to the
chase
.

In one hand, Mabeli carried the small spear he’d made with Akujay’s help, when his father was healthy and could sit upright. In his other, a wide mongongo leaf. If someone caught him at play instead of gathering leaves to patch his parents’ hut, he could hold it up and say, “See? I
am
gathering them.”

But no one bothered him. Yesterday’s hunt was short-handed but successful. Enough meat for many meals, including the upcoming festival and more for Kalegi to take into the village to barter. Mabeli would play now. He’d asked his sister to join him, but she remained with their mother at Akujay’s bedside.

He knew he should be there as well, display the same concern for his father’s illness. Instead he felt anger. For the third time in recent memory, they would soon pack up camp and move on. Mabeli felt a driving need to escape into the woods, alone if not with his sister, and play his games. Chase the
mboloko
.

Too many people were dying. The tribe would have yet another Molimo festival to bring better luck, and dance around the
Kumamolimo
- the festival’s central and sacred fire. Pretend it was doing good.

At nine, Mabeli was old enough to understand something evil was among them. The other day a
Muzungu
priest, his once-white skin sun-burnt and peeling, accompanied Kalegi back from the nearby village of Epulu. The priest talked among the tribe, then performed a ceremony over Akujay and others who’d fallen ill.

As he prepared to leave, the priest approached Mabeli. The tall man spoke fluent Kingwana, warning the boy to be careful, speaking of the disease in terms of sexual intercourse, of blood. The ideas had both amused and frightened Mabeli, who quickly excused himself to run to the other side of camp.

Looking back, he regretted the reaction. The priest had stared after him with a look that was akin to fear - for Mabeli and his people. Something very bad had found its way among the pygmy tribes of the Ituri, something which had been ravaging the rest of the continent for a much longer time. Many
Muzungu
had lately tried to explain this, but the concept eluded most as the Mbuti tried to carry on with their lives. How could they accept a disease, especially one revolving so strongly around sex, which even the best roots and herbs could not conquer? It was Death gone out of control.