TWO SHORT STORIES: (1) DEBULT'S DEADLY DEED AND (2) DANCING AND THE JUNGLE CAFE
Debult’s Deadly Deed
1.
Miss Kulombard stared at the lifeless body, with a halo of blood where the head should have been. The corpse had definitely not been there when she locked up the library last night. She would certainly have known. Miss Kulombard knew everything that happened in the library. She had done so for the last twenty years without a single mishap. Now she had a body lying in the reading section.
She blinked twice, but there it remained: a lifeless body and no head.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she fluttered her arms around. What was she to do? ‘I can’t have that,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How could he have done such a thing?’ For a moment, Miss Kulombard stood still, cardigan a little too tight. She glanced at the clock. Eight twenty five. Just thirty five minutes precisely before the library was due to open. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her forefinger, and smoothed back her bottled jet black hair, still not moving.
‘What a bother’, she thought.
Then she decided she would have to deal with the problem. Mr. Debult was nowhere to be found. She surmised he would not be seen for the rest of the day. He often just took off without a ‘by your leave’. The proprietary part of her said she had to deal with it, but the decisive part of her seemed to have deserted her.
‘What a bother,’ she said aloud this time. ‘I suppose I need to do something about it.’
She turned on her heel and went to the broom closet on the far side of the library, skirting around the well stocked shelves with their Dewey indexed stock in perfect order. In amongst the janitor’s things she found an old blanket and an old mop, as well as a small bucket trolley. She placed the blanket in the bucket of the trolley, together with the mop and made her way back to the corpse on the mat. This would have to happen on George the janitor’s day off.
The sight of the headless remains made her nauseous and it was all she could do to stop retching. Placing the mat beside the cadaver, she positioned the mop under the body and with a heave rolled it onto the mat. The pool of congealed blood stayed behind like a bizarre Picasso. The sight of it made her heave as though she was on a cruise ships rounding the Straits of Gibraltar.
With the body on the mat, she carefully manoeuvred it so that she was able to roll the mat into a sausage. as she wheeled the trolley in close. With some she effort was able to slip the mat, with its gruesome cargo, onto the trolley, finally pushing the offending load back between the library shelves into the closet, where she firmly locked the door, pocketing and pocketed the key. She would decide what to do later.
There was still one problem that worried her: that of the offensive blood stain. Looking around she found the only way to deal with it was to take her Persian rug from beneath her desk and place it over the stain. Such a pretty rug, with its crimson background and perfect geometric shapes she thought; ideal for the purpose. Should the blood soak through, it would not be obvious on casual inspection. Miss Kulombard knew from years of experience that the library readers never noticed anything unless it bit them.
Of course, at the end of the day, she would still have the gruesome cargo on the trolley to dispose of but, now at least she had time to think of a solution.
Promptly at 9.00 a.m., never skipping a beat, Miss Kulombard opened the library door to the first of the customers for the day. She had never been late for anything.
Keeping a beady eye on the Persian rug, and the Jackson twins, who were the most likely to disrupt the peace, Miss Kulombard kept busy without much time to muse over the closet’s secret. Somebody wanted an obscure novel by a writer Miss Kulombard frowned on, a modern ‘chick-lit’ book she called it. Then, there was a request for some poetry by Byron.
‘Ah! My favourite,’ she cooed to Mr. Harper, ‘You’re obviously a man of taste.’ He harrumphed in his beard and skittered out of the library, and Miss Kulombard surmised that he feared she had more than a passing interest in him. During the course of the afternoon one of the teachers from the local school brought in a noisy bunch of teenagers to research some historical subject. Miss Kulombard’s heart almost skipped a beat when the teacher suggested that they rearrange the reading corner to accommodate them all of them.
Miss Kulombard, firmly, objected from the desk before coming to stand directly in front of the teacher,
‘No Mrs Reading! We do not rearrange the library to suit ourselves. ’
‘We will tidy up after us,’ Mrs Reading said, with the boys already beginning to move chairs.
‘Oh no! I have heard that before. If you want to treat this as an extension of the school, I suggest you go to the resources centre. That’s what it’s there for,’ Miss Kulombard said, with one foot firmly on the Persian rug over the spot which covered the blood stain.
The gleam in Miss Kulombard’s eye, was enough to deter Mrs Reading so that she said, ‘Well come along then children, let’s get to the resources centre.’
On the way out the sixteen children jostled and fooled around. Miss Kulombard found herself shaking, especially when one of the children tripped over the edge of the carpet and almost upset the whole mat.
‘Can’t you see watch where you are going?’ She cried shrilly at the child who blushed furiously and skittered out of the library as fast as his legs could carry him.
Once they had all departed, Miss Kulombard felt her heartbeat settle back to a normal rhythm and she breathed out slowly. That had been too close a call. For the first time in all her years as a librarian, she couldn’t wait for the day to end. But it seemed to her that after three o’clock the clock stood still. She kept watch but time never seemed to move.
Just prior to closing she saw George wander in. She stopped breathing. What on earth was he doing here at this time, and on his day off?
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘I caught some salmon in the river this morning. Thought I’d bring some for Mr. Debult. He’s partial to a bit of salmon. Where is he, do you know?’ he asked cheerfully and started to wander off towards the closet.
‘You can’t go in there,’ she said, thinking ‘He wouldn’t think to bring a little bit of salmon for me, now would he?’
‘Why not?’ He eyed her with suspicion.
She looked startled for a minute wondering if he was reading her thoughts, then realised that he was actually speaking about the locked closet with its gory body.
‘Uh, I’m it’s locked,’ she stuttered
‘Why?’ He asked and she knew he must have thought her completely mad.
‘Uhm,’ she racked her brains for an answer. ‘Uhm, they’ve had to fumigate.’
‘Fumigate?’ He didn’t appear to believe her.
‘Uhm, yes. I got a memo last week. Didn’t I tell you? I was sure I had. Chief Librarian sent a memo. Said we had to fumigate against silver moths.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ George asked. He tilted his head to one side and squinted at her. He wasn’t buying her story she could tell.
‘Yes. They eat the books you see.’
‘So why fumigate the closet and not the books?’ George said. She knew this confirmed what he had always thought: she was a little bit mad.
‘Seems they breed in damp places, and the closet is very damp,’ she replied weakly. She had to keep George out of there. She edged closer until she was in front of the door, and then turned to face him with an inane smile.
‘So, when can I get in there, again?’ He asked. She could see his brain working overtime.
‘Oh, only twenty four hours. It’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. ‘Have you seen Mr. Debult, then? The fish won’t keep till tomorrow and I don’t want to leave it out. It will start to smell in this warm weather.’
‘No, No! Haven’t seen him all day. But leave the salmon here. I’ll make sure he gets it before I lock up then.’
‘I’ll be off then. Give Mr. Debult my best.’
At last he left. Miss Kulombard breathed a sigh of relief as she sat on a nearby chair to gather her wits. She felt quite annoyed with Mr. Debult. She was sure this was all of his making. It had his stamp all over it. Now to deal with the body, before that started to smell as well. She sniffed the air delicately, and wrinkled her beaky nose expecting there to be some odour. But, so far the still air retained only the mustiness of the books, and the smell of newspaper print.
With the library closed she was free to consider the problem. Purposefully, she went out, locking the library door firmly behind her and saying goodbye to the postmaster as he hurried by.
’Nice evening,’ he nodded to her then started whistling his way down the road.
At home, she made a pot of tea in her favourite pot, the one with the roses on it, but the tea hardly made any impression. She watched the light fade as she impatiently rocked back and forth in her Sanderson linen rocker.
Finally, when it was dark, she donned hat and coat, despite the warm summer’s evening. She put on a pair of dark glasses which she normally only wore on trips abroad, where the sun was a lot fiercer. She made her way back to the library. She had no need to switch on the lights as she knew her way around blindfold, her trusty torch in her pocket for emergencies.
As she glanced up she noticed that the rear window was open a trifle wider than normal. She must have a word with George about it. It was a security breach and this was probably how Mr. Debult had managed to get in and out of the library. Now this terrible killing had taken place within the sanctity of the library. She could not have it happen again.
She took the key from the front desk and made her way to the closet. She hesitated, closing her eyes briefly as she anticipated the sight of the body in its rug shroud. Why had Mr. Debult done this terrible deed? She knew it could only be him.
Suddenly there was a loud bang behind her. Miss Kulombard jumped back in fright. She heard light footsteps echoing across the empty wooden floors. Without any warning, there he was, right behind her. She turned to face him.
7.
‘Mr. Debult! What a fright you gave me!’ She said, clutching her breast. ‘Where did you come from so suddenly? Where have you been? I was looking for you all day. Oh, Mr. Debult, why did you do this terrible thing?’
He paid no heed to her, but went straight to the rug. She watched as he did a tour of the body, his eyes bright and wide open.
‘Mr. Debult. How could you? You know I don’t like rats, you wicked cat!’
THE END
Copyright rests with Margie Wilson, who is the sole owner of all publishing rights to this story. Should you wish to download it, please contact her at [email protected]
Debult’s Deadly Deed
1.
Miss Kulombard stared at the lifeless body, with a halo of blood where the head should have been. The corpse had definitely not been there when she locked up the library last night. She would certainly have known. Miss Kulombard knew everything that happened in the library. She had done so for the last twenty years without a single mishap. Now she had a body lying in the reading section.
She blinked twice, but there it remained: a lifeless body and no head.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she fluttered her arms around. What was she to do? ‘I can’t have that,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How could he have done such a thing?’ For a moment, Miss Kulombard stood still, cardigan a little too tight. She glanced at the clock. Eight twenty five. Just thirty five minutes precisely before the library was due to open. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her forefinger, and smoothed back her bottled jet black hair, still not moving.
‘What a bother’, she thought.
Then she decided she would have to deal with the problem. Mr. Debult was nowhere to be found. She surmised he would not be seen for the rest of the day. He often just took off without a ‘by your leave’. The proprietary part of her said she had to deal with it, but the decisive part of her seemed to have deserted her.
‘What a bother,’ she said aloud this time. ‘I suppose I need to do something about it.’
She turned on her heel and went to the broom closet on the far side of the library, skirting around the well stocked shelves with their Dewey indexed stock in perfect order. In amongst the janitor’s things she found an old blanket and an old mop, as well as a small bucket trolley. She placed the blanket in the bucket of the trolley, together with the mop and made her way back to the corpse on the mat. This would have to happen on George the janitor’s day off.
The sight of the headless remains made her nauseous and it was all she could do to stop retching. Placing the mat beside the cadaver, she positioned the mop under the body and with a heave rolled it onto the mat. The pool of congealed blood stayed behind like a bizarre Picasso. The sight of it made her heave as though she was on a cruise ships rounding the Straits of Gibraltar.
With the body on the mat, she carefully manoeuvred it so that she was able to roll the mat into a sausage. as she wheeled the trolley in close. With some she effort was able to slip the mat, with its gruesome cargo, onto the trolley, finally pushing the offending load back between the library shelves into the closet, where she firmly locked the door, pocketing and pocketed the key. She would decide what to do later.
There was still one problem that worried her: that of the offensive blood stain. Looking around she found the only way to deal with it was to take her Persian rug from beneath her desk and place it over the stain. Such a pretty rug, with its crimson background and perfect geometric shapes she thought; ideal for the purpose. Should the blood soak through, it would not be obvious on casual inspection. Miss Kulombard knew from years of experience that the library readers never noticed anything unless it bit them.
Of course, at the end of the day, she would still have the gruesome cargo on the trolley to dispose of but, now at least she had time to think of a solution.
Promptly at 9.00 a.m., never skipping a beat, Miss Kulombard opened the library door to the first of the customers for the day. She had never been late for anything.
Keeping a beady eye on the Persian rug, and the Jackson twins, who were the most likely to disrupt the peace, Miss Kulombard kept busy without much time to muse over the closet’s secret. Somebody wanted an obscure novel by a writer Miss Kulombard frowned on, a modern ‘chick-lit’ book she called it. Then, there was a request for some poetry by Byron.
‘Ah! My favourite,’ she cooed to Mr. Harper, ‘You’re obviously a man of taste.’ He harrumphed in his beard and skittered out of the library, and Miss Kulombard surmised that he feared she had more than a passing interest in him. During the course of the afternoon one of the teachers from the local school brought in a noisy bunch of teenagers to research some historical subject. Miss Kulombard’s heart almost skipped a beat when the teacher suggested that they rearrange the reading corner to accommodate them all of them.
Miss Kulombard, firmly, objected from the desk before coming to stand directly in front of the teacher,
‘No Mrs Reading! We do not rearrange the library to suit ourselves. ’
‘We will tidy up after us,’ Mrs Reading said, with the boys already beginning to move chairs.
‘Oh no! I have heard that before. If you want to treat this as an extension of the school, I suggest you go to the resources centre. That’s what it’s there for,’ Miss Kulombard said, with one foot firmly on the Persian rug over the spot which covered the blood stain.
The gleam in Miss Kulombard’s eye, was enough to deter Mrs Reading so that she said, ‘Well come along then children, let’s get to the resources centre.’
On the way out the sixteen children jostled and fooled around. Miss Kulombard found herself shaking, especially when one of the children tripped over the edge of the carpet and almost upset the whole mat.
‘Can’t you see watch where you are going?’ She cried shrilly at the child who blushed furiously and skittered out of the library as fast as his legs could carry him.
Once they had all departed, Miss Kulombard felt her heartbeat settle back to a normal rhythm and she breathed out slowly. That had been too close a call. For the first time in all her years as a librarian, she couldn’t wait for the day to end. But it seemed to her that after three o’clock the clock stood still. She kept watch but time never seemed to move.
Just prior to closing she saw George wander in. She stopped breathing. What on earth was he doing here at this time, and on his day off?
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘I caught some salmon in the river this morning. Thought I’d bring some for Mr. Debult. He’s partial to a bit of salmon. Where is he, do you know?’ he asked cheerfully and started to wander off towards the closet.
‘You can’t go in there,’ she said, thinking ‘He wouldn’t think to bring a little bit of salmon for me, now would he?’
‘Why not?’ He eyed her with suspicion.
She looked startled for a minute wondering if he was reading her thoughts, then realised that he was actually speaking about the locked closet with its gory body.
‘Uh, I’m it’s locked,’ she stuttered
‘Why?’ He asked and she knew he must have thought her completely mad.
‘Uhm,’ she racked her brains for an answer. ‘Uhm, they’ve had to fumigate.’
‘Fumigate?’ He didn’t appear to believe her.
‘Uhm, yes. I got a memo last week. Didn’t I tell you? I was sure I had. Chief Librarian sent a memo. Said we had to fumigate against silver moths.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ George asked. He tilted his head to one side and squinted at her. He wasn’t buying her story she could tell.
‘Yes. They eat the books you see.’
‘So why fumigate the closet and not the books?’ George said. She knew this confirmed what he had always thought: she was a little bit mad.
‘Seems they breed in damp places, and the closet is very damp,’ she replied weakly. She had to keep George out of there. She edged closer until she was in front of the door, and then turned to face him with an inane smile.
‘So, when can I get in there, again?’ He asked. She could see his brain working overtime.
‘Oh, only twenty four hours. It’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. ‘Have you seen Mr. Debult, then? The fish won’t keep till tomorrow and I don’t want to leave it out. It will start to smell in this warm weather.’
‘No, No! Haven’t seen him all day. But leave the salmon here. I’ll make sure he gets it before I lock up then.’
‘I’ll be off then. Give Mr. Debult my best.’
At last he left. Miss Kulombard breathed a sigh of relief as she sat on a nearby chair to gather her wits. She felt quite annoyed with Mr. Debult. She was sure this was all of his making. It had his stamp all over it. Now to deal with the body, before that started to smell as well. She sniffed the air delicately, and wrinkled her beaky nose expecting there to be some odour. But, so far the still air retained only the mustiness of the books, and the smell of newspaper print.
With the library closed she was free to consider the problem. Purposefully, she went out, locking the library door firmly behind her and saying goodbye to the postmaster as he hurried by.
’Nice evening,’ he nodded to her then started whistling his way down the road.
At home, she made a pot of tea in her favourite pot, the one with the roses on it, but the tea hardly made any impression. She watched the light fade as she impatiently rocked back and forth in her Sanderson linen rocker.
Finally, when it was dark, she donned hat and coat, despite the warm summer’s evening. She put on a pair of dark glasses which she normally only wore on trips abroad, where the sun was a lot fiercer. She made her way back to the library. She had no need to switch on the lights as she knew her way around blindfold, her trusty torch in her pocket for emergencies.
As she glanced up she noticed that the rear window was open a trifle wider than normal. She must have a word with George about it. It was a security breach and this was probably how Mr. Debult had managed to get in and out of the library. Now this terrible killing had taken place within the sanctity of the library. She could not have it happen again.
She took the key from the front desk and made her way to the closet. She hesitated, closing her eyes briefly as she anticipated the sight of the body in its rug shroud. Why had Mr. Debult done this terrible deed? She knew it could only be him.
Suddenly there was a loud bang behind her. Miss Kulombard jumped back in fright. She heard light footsteps echoing across the empty wooden floors. Without any warning, there he was, right behind her. She turned to face him.
7.
‘Mr. Debult! What a fright you gave me!’ She said, clutching her breast. ‘Where did you come from so suddenly? Where have you been? I was looking for you all day. Oh, Mr. Debult, why did you do this terrible thing?’
He paid no heed to her, but went straight to the rug. She watched as he did a tour of the body, his eyes bright and wide open.
‘Mr. Debult. How could you? You know I don’t like rats, you wicked cat!’
THE END
Copyright rests with Margie Wilson, who is the sole owner of all publishing rights to this story. Should you wish to download it, please contact her at [email protected]
DANCING AT THE JUNGLE CAFE
The heat clung to the earth despite the fading light. Silhouettes of trees and bushes dotted the hibiscus coloured sky.
‘Can you believe the colour of that sunset?’ Marcie was happily paddling around in the pool whilst I waited disconsolately. Who knew where my suitcases were by now. I’d come to Africa and my luggage had gone to Indonesia, if the airlines were to be believed. How was I expected to enjoy my safari holiday with no clothes?
‘Come on, Becky, have a skinny dip. Nobody can see you from here.’ The leopard print bikini looked out of place in the blue water.
I scowled at her. As inviting as the water appeared to be, I did not want to bare it all as a naked mermaid. My pallid flesh would be even more out of place than Marcie’s bikini. There was a lot of world out there: endless grassy plains with occasional trees, which our driver on the way to the lodge had called ‘acacias’. They were slender and stately, with long spiny needles and had a sweet fragrance emanating from the insignificant creamy flowers.
The lodge lived up to the brochure’s picture. The tented chalets were set far apart and faced onto endless tracts of bush, but I felt nervous. I could see the headlines, ‘British woman killed by marauding lions in bush.’ Hot, sticky and in the same clothes that I’d left home in two days earlier, I felt miserable. I sipped my drink from the courtesy bar fridge without much enthusiasm. The surroundings were indeed blissful, but I was missing Jake even more. I made my way to the bedroom where a large ceiling fan swayed with a rhythmic beat over my bed, not wanting to let Marcie see my tears.
‘Go and see what the souvenir shop has to offer. I’m sure they’ll have some clothing that will fit you,’ Marcie called to me as she swam across to the far side of the pool, ‘You’ve got to get something to wear. I want to go dancing tonight.’
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to go dancing. In fact I was beginning to think this holiday was a giant mistake.
‘You aren’t expecting some sort of disco are you?’ Marcie asked. She was the original party girl, always ready for a good time. We were as different s sisters could be.
‘Don’t be silly.’ I said.
Marcie missed the sharpness in my voice as she continued, ‘The brochure on the bureau says there’s a display of tribal dancing first and then we get shown how to do the dances later. It’s got to be fun. Damn it, Becky, stop being such a wet blanket. Maybe you’ll meet a man.’
‘Marcie, I don’t need a man. I don’t want a man. I’m happy without a man.’
‘You could have fooled me.’ Her voice became muffled as she turned to face the bush.
I wondered what had possessed me to bring my sister on what should have been my honeymoon safari. Yet she was right, I was lost without Jake. Three months away from the altar and he had been gunned down in Afghanistan. I was raw inside. My heart had been ripped out of my body. I wasn’t used to being on my own. Jake and I had been together for ten years. I was lost without him. I didn’t want another man, not just yet, if indeed ever. The wounds of my lost love were too raw.
‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘I’ll go and see what gear I can find. I’ll probably look like something out of jungle book though. See you in a while.’
I ambled down the path towards the twinkling lights of the central lodge where a few staff members were needlessly tidying an immaculate lounge. The barman nodded to me his face lighting up into a broad smile as he polished an endless stack of glasses. The staff waited expectantly for the guests to emerge from their luxury tents, all primped and preened for the evening’s entertainment. In the gift shop a lone assistant straightened shelves, trying to look busy. She moved across the shop with a grace that belied her large shape. Her bright orange skirt sported some beautiful beadwork, as did the turban around her head. She noticed my entrance. When she smiled a bank of vanilla ice-cream coloured teeth set in a dark chocolate coloured skin beamed at me. Her skin shone like satin.
‘Good evening, madam. How can I help you? I’m Patricia.’
‘I need some clothes.’ I smiled back. ‘My luggage got lost and I have nothing to wear.’
‘I heard. Everyone knows everything here. Such a shame about your suitcases. So sorry. Never mind, we have quite a few items here that you may like. This way please. It is at least a little cooler this evening. Today has been very hot.’ She had a soft voice with an indefinable accent.
She made small talk as she led me between the narrow shelves. I wasn’t paying attention to the clothes, but was watching her ample bottom swaying rhythmically from side to side.
At the far end of the shop were rows and rows of clothes. She picked a few items off the shelves and held them out to me. With an expert eye had picked out the right size with just a quick glance at me. She was obviously well versed in her job.
‘Now this,’ she said, holding out a silky grey kaftan. Her eyes dark eyes lit up at the sight of it. The front featured an over generous print of an elephant that stretched right across the garment from sleeve to sleeve and from neck to hemline. ‘This is my favourite item in the shop.’
‘You really like it?’
Her eyes sparkled, ‘Oh yes. In this dress you can conquer anything. Even the elephants would bow down in front of you. You can hide anything in a dress like this.’
Was she trying to tell me I was fat, I wondered? It was an enormous tent of a kaftan. I smiled, as I turned over the price tag. It was very reasonably priced. Patricia looked at me eagerly, willing me to take it. It was probably way beyond her salary or else she would already have snapped it up.
Ever the sucker for a bargain, I found myself saying, ‘I’ll take it.’
Patricia beamed, ‘You’ll look beautiful. Wear it to the dancing tonight. I’ll see you there.’
With this little purchase I had made my first friend in Africa.
‘Are you coming to the dance?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, I will be part of the entertainment.’ She giggled a little and swayed her bottom again.
‘You will?’ I had to laugh with her, but she took it in good spirit. Her size wasn’t a problem to her. She was happy in herself.
‘Oh yes! All the staff have a part in the tribal dancing.’
She must have been reading my thoughts, for she added, ‘In my culture fat girls are quite sought after.’ She wiggled her large bottom yet again, laughing at herself. She looked wistfully at the kaftan once more and said, ‘You won’t be sorry. This is a magic garment. It will make your life exciting.’
I smiled back at her. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
‘Come on, help me. I think you have a good sense of style. Pick out some things for me.’
‘Sure thing. We’ve got plenty to keep you well dressed. Unfortunately most have a safari theme. But hey, you are on safari.’ She laughed once more.
Soon we had quite a pile of suitable garments. I was pleased with the purchases that I had added to the grey kaftan with its enormous elephant print.
Back at the chalet, Marcie had abandoned the swimming pool and was dressing up for the evening,
‘Are you trying to outdo the animals with your prints?’
‘Don’t be nasty, I think the leopard skin shirt and khaki jeans, teamed up with conservative heels look good on me.’
‘Well, they certainly emphasise your figure. You do look stunning. I am sure you will attract the right attention. Maybe a safari guide?’
‘I hope so. Did you get something?’ She was applying a fresh coat of mascara in front of the living room mirror.
‘Hmm. A couple of things. I want a shower. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you at the bar.’ I was hesitant to tell her about the kaftan. Rather wait till I was dressed, and in a public place so that she couldn’t make me return it, because I was sure she would have something negative to say.
‘Okay, see you then. I’ll find us a pair of good looking guides.’ Marcie was in a good mood. She would probably be the only one who would enjoy our holiday.
The bush was slowly making an impact. Or was it Patricia’s happy spirit? I wasn’t really listening to Marcie as she prattled on. I spread the newly purchased kaftan on the bed. I smiled ruefully knowing that I was going to regret the purchase. It was so not me. I stripped down and headed for the shower, which had an open air view of the surrounding bush, adjacent to the pool. As I glanced at the pool I saw the reflected beauty of the sunset in it, just like a picture postcard. I had never before experienced such a beautiful twilight anywhere else.
The water of the shower was lukewarm, just right in the heat of the bushveld evening. I gazed out over the top of the reed screen, seeing an endless vista of open veld. Lathering up, I felt a little uneasy. I wasn’t used to showering al fresco. I got an eerie feeling and knew I was being watched. I turned, and stared into the eyes of a cute little monkey with velvety fur and mischievous button eyes set in a dark little face. He stared unblinkingly at me, as he busily stuffed berries into his mouth. He was no more than an arm’s length away.
I could not believe I was so close to wild life. From the top of the shower screen I could just make out some buck frolicking their way across the open grasslands. I think I had read somewhere that it was called ‘pronking.’ I must remember to ask my guide. A few birds flittered by, going from one tree to another as they crossed the vast landscape, calling to one another in flight. The grass waved in the breeze as it gently flowed up and down. I heard the chirrup of a million cicadas in the soft evening light and I gasped at the beauty of a herd of zebra that intermingled with the skittish buck. This was a true African symphony. I was incredibly lucky to be here. If only things had been different.
I stood for a long time, hardly daring to breathe. This was Africa as I had dreamed of it. I was sad that Jake would never be here to share it with me. I cried silently for Jake with tears coursing down my face. I wished he was with me. It was so unfair. We had so many things to share, so many plans.
And then calm washed over me, like the refreshing water of the shower. It was almost as though he was beside me, holding me up. I stopped crying, feeling sure that if I breathed too loudly my presence would be revealed to the animals, and the beauty would disappear in a flash.
Yet, it was all so real. I was in Africa. I was part of the painting of life, as I absorbed it through all my senses.
Finally, I was clean, dried and almost dressed. With a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach I pulled the kaftan over my head and glanced in the mirror. The voluminous garment was a huge mistake. I looked even bigger in it than I had in the shop. I hesitated for a second. But I had no other choice. This huge tent of material was all I had to wear. Reasoning that nobody was going to give me a second look, it didn’t matter, despite Marcie’s optimism about getting lucky with a safari guide. And I hope that she would do just that. Me? Not a chance. I only wanted Jake and he was gone.
A sudden whim made me step beyond the bedroom, walk past the pool, and around the outside of the shower enclosure. I knew, having read the rules of the safari lodge, that this was not allowed, but I did so without giving it too much thought.
According to the rules that I had read the animals saw the camp as a single entity. If you were in it, you were part of a conglomerate and everything within its confines was part of it. The same principal applied on the vehicles which were used for game drives. The animals did not pick out individuals but saw a complete unit. Within a solid mass you were safe, beyond it you became prey. I often ignored rules, no matter where I was, but this time I knew I was being stupid. What was I doing?
Now here I was, outside the confines of the camp, a little apart from it, with my back to the reed enclosed shower cubicle. I felt quite brave and the defiance suited me. A little of the old fighting spirit in me had returned. Being on the far side of the camp meant that no-one could see me unless they, too, were out in no man’s land.
I looked around. To my left, about twenty paces away, was a cluster of bushes. I hesitated. I felt an urge to get close to the bushes as though someone unseen was egging me on. I heard a voice say, ‘Move towards it’. But there was nobody about.
Should I go there, just to see what it was like? The voice urged me forward. Another voice nagged that I was not supposed to be here. Somehow I could not resist. A more distant voice seemed to be calling, ‘Come, come.’
I hesitantly put one foot forward, then another, quite slowly, quite measured. My mind was blank, with no thought except that of moving towards the bushes. I reached out to them, and felt the softness of the leaves, coated in a very fine layer of dust. I rubbed a leaf between thumb and forefinger, finding that they were a shiny, dark, luscious green. It was so like the colour of the Scottish pine in our garden back home. I breathed in the rich air. Here there was no pine smell. Here was such a different smell, one that was both raw and wild. Was this how Africa smelt? No diesel nor carbon smells permeated the air. It was just earthy, pungent, and herby.
I took a few more steps towards the left of the bushes making my way steadily and quietly around it, trying to see the vista beyond, but concentrating on the ground. I did not want to disturb a snake or a scorpion. It was getting difficult to define the shadows at my feet. I looked up to get my bearings, and my heart stopped.
Not twenty yards from me was a great bulk of a beast, placidly eyeing me. Its great size blocked out the background and its vast shape loomed over me. Where had it suddenly appeared from so quietly? How long had he been watching me? I had not heard it come, nor had I been aware of its presence until we were almost on top of each other. Had it been there all the time? Its big brown eyes gazed at me steadily, blinking very occasionally with great big lashes sweeping across its craggy face. The ears came out for a second, and I stopped breathing once again. A slight snort came out of its trunk.
I stood still. There was no panic. I wasn’t afraid. I felt Jake’s presence right beside me, although I knew it to be impossible.
The elephant stood waiting motionlessly as we weighed each other up. His tusks were beautifully symmetrical, gently curving upward and I worked out that they were as long as I was tall.
After an eternity he lifted his trunk halfway, curling the tip over as it swayed from left to right, sensing the air. Then he dropped it back again with another small snort. He picked up an enormous foot, hesitated for a brief second, before putting it back again on exactly the same spot as before. Once more, the trunk lifted, and the ears moved away from his body, just a small fraction. His trunk came forward and this time he gently touched the ear of the print on the kaftan. I could feel the hot breath through the silky fabric. Fear left me at that moment, with his warm breath wafting over my skin. I was totally calm.
Slowly, delicately, the trunk explored the design, moving gently across my chest from left to right. His eyes were soft and moist. He was not threatening me. I understood that now, but didn’t know what to do. Should I back away? I wasn’t sure of the protocol.I didn’t know elephant etiqueete. My heart hammered in my chest, but it was with excitement not fear. I was sure he could hear it beating. Didn’t they say elephants had incredible hearing? I could so easily die here in some remote part of the African bush, yet I was totally relaxed about my fate, whatever it was going to be.
He moved shifting his great bulk from one leg to the other as he swung his trunk away, blowing a soft warm breath across me. He moved his trunk to curl it around a branch of one of the bushes. With no effort he snapped it off, gently holding it in his trunk which curled around it like a giant finger. Then he swung the branch towards me.
It was a peace offering like that of a lover presenting a precious bloom. As I took a step back, he came too. I swayed slightly to the left, and his head swayed with me. Carefully, I took the twig, my hand shaking. He let it go as his ears flapped out to the sides creating a gentle breeze across my body. I noticed that the ears alone could have wrapped around me twice. I stopped breathing once again as we moved back and forth in perfect step. When I stepped to the left his head followed. As I swayed to the right, so did he. We were dancing to some unknown rhythm, some unknown beat.
Despite knowing that I could be in deep trouble and that I should try to back up to the shower cubicle, I could not walk away. I stood still as goose-bumps ran up and down my spine, and the reality of my situation returned. I was aware of the lodge quite close behind me. I needed to get away, but it was impossible with legs that had turned to jelly. My dancing partner moved with each movement that I made, not threatening me, but unnerving me a little.
The stories of people like me who had been trampled to death by a rampaging elephant flooded my mind. I was so incredibly stupid. His shoulders came level with the top of my head, though I tried to keep my head down. I remembered somebody once had told me never to confront a wild animal by looking directly into its eyes. It was too late for that particular lesson. I had already done more than enough to antagonise him. I told myself that damage control meant I should now try to keep calm.
He could so easily dispose of me with a single rush or the lifting of a foot. Another step back for me, another step forward for him, as we continued our little dance. Vaguely in the background the lodge’s music was starting up.
From afar, I heard Marcie calling from the chalet. Now I froze. I knew she mustn’t come out here. I could not call out to her for fear of upsetting my new found dancing partner.
‘Becky! Becky! Where are you? They are serving dinner in a few minutes. You don’t want to be late. Becks, stop playing the fool. Come on. Hurry up.’
I knew she was moving around the chalet looking for me. I just did not want her to come out and find me with the elephant. I held my breath. He did too. But, not finding me, Marcie’s footsteps retreated down the path and back towards the main lodge once more.
I let out a deep breath once again, and laughed softly. The elephant seemed intrigued, and he put his head to one side once more. In the distance I could hear the sound of music playing. I had to get moving. I had to get to the lodge. Yet my slow rumba with my elephant continued.
Soon, I was in the open with the bush on one side and the chalet behind. The shower cubicle was still about twenty feet away. The elephant moved forward a little more quickly to the edge of the bush. It was going to be now or never. If he charged, I would have had my last day on earth.
He stopped advancing. His great bulk was silhouetted against the fuchsia coloured sky. I could not see his features clearly, nor could I see his eyes, as I waited, anxiously. Indecision kept me rooted. A few more steps back, whilst I waited for him to move. He paced the ground gently from the confines of the edge of the bush. This was as far as he was prepared to go. He stayed in the same spot although I knew he was watching me.
At last I was safe and back against the reeds of the shower cubicle. I heard him give a low rumble, before he turned and disappeared into the African night, almost as though he had never been. Just as I had not heard him come, I did not hear him go.
I was shaking like a leaf. I had been so, so stupid and had got away with it. Once I had regained control of my legs, I made my way to the bar. I turned back towards the bush, half expecting to see Jake there, but the feeling of his presence was also gone.
‘Where have you been?’ Marcie glowered at me as I joined her at the bar. ‘I feel stupid sitting here on my own. Did you have to take so long? What were you doing?’
‘Dancing at the jungle cafe.’ I said with more than a little bravado.
‘You do talk a lot of nonsense. The dancing doesn’t start until ten at least.’
I smiled at her. She wouldn’t understand. Some secrets were better kept to myself.
‘Dancing at the jungle cafe,’ I repeated. I would give the kaftan to Patricia. She may just need to find an elephant of her own.
ENDS - 3930 words