Deborah Wheeler: Mother Africa

“His own folks—” Joseph began, but hushed at Mama’s glare.

The only thing Dad said, once they were under way again, the kid still in Mama’s lap and her in the passenger seat, “We better get to that river pretty soon. Kid’s gonna need a bath.”

They came to the river marked on their maps later that same day. Almost, Willamette thought, as if Mother Africa were giving them whatever they needed to take care of the kid. By then, the kid had relaxed enough to start talking. He knew English, after all.

Dad told everyone for the tenth time that morning that they could splash around all they liked after they’d dosed themselves with Flukegard, but every single drop they drank had to be disinfected first. And to use the bug repellent, because tsetse flies were a problem in brushy areas. They’d had all the shots, but the bites were supposed to be painful.

Joseph stopped the crawler at the edge of the trees. Everyone jumped out, laughing. Mama took her bag and started upriver with Willamette. The kid went with them, clinging to Mama’s hand. Stephen made a face that said he thought it wasn’t right, but Dad motioned him to hush.

Willamette stripped and waded out into the thick, greeny-brown water. She splashed it over her shoulders and up in her armpits, shivering and laughing. Back on the bank, Mama had coaxed the kid out of his rags. His ribs were a row of slats and his shoulder blades jutted out like angel’s wings. Mama carried him into the water, talking to him the whole time. She got a brick of soap from her bag and lathered him up good. He kicked the water and giggled.

My Mama, Willamette thought, could charm the socks off a snake.

Willamette swam out to the center of the river, taking long, lazy strokes. The current tugged at her, colder. She thought of crocodiles or giant snakes lurking in the hidden depths. She kicked hard and headed back.

In the bag were clothes for the kid, a shirt and shorts, almost clean. They were too big for him, being Willamette’s. She didn’t say anything after she’d caught the smile on the kid’s face and the look in Mama’s eyes.

“We’ll stay here another day or two,” Mama said as they got dressed. The kid had let go of her hand, although he still stayed close. “While the drinking water disinfects, I want to wash every single piece of dirty clothing.”

They all sorted laundry and carried it down to the river, scrubbed it, found flat clean rocks to spread it to dry. Willamette and the kid stayed close to Mama. Mama sang, “The Water is Wide” and “Wading in the River”; she didn’t care where a song had come from so long as she liked it. The boy hummed a little. Willamette wondered if he remembered singing with his own mother.

They headed back toward the crawler the way they’d come, not following the river but back along a little path through the trees. They heard men’s voices before they saw them.

Dad and the boys stood talking to four or five men. They wore cut-off jeans and shirts that might have been red but were now mud-colored. They held spears, long sticks, and one banged-up rifle. A dozen or so scrawny cattle had waded into the middle of the river. Flies covered the sores on their hip bones.

Willamette could tell Dad was uptight by the way his shoulders hunched. The kid took one look at the men and jumped into Mama’s arms, almost knocking her over.

“What’s going on?” Willamette whispered. She couldn’t take her eyes off the gun. All the stories about tribal feuds came rushing into her head, all the warnings.

“It’s all right,” said Mama.

The men had spotted them and shouted. One of them waved his spear. Mama set her lips together and took hold of the kid.

Willamette’s knees were knocking together. She kept telling herself the things Dad had said, that these were their own people, their brothers. The man with the rifle didn’t look very brotherly with his lips pulled back from broken teeth.

Dad said something about this being his wife and child.

The man jabbed the kid with the end of his rifle. The kid let out a yip and grabbed Mama tighter. “This no child of yours.”

Mama lifted her chin. “This is a child we are caring for.”

Another jab. The kid squirmed and whimpered. The man laughed. Then he launched into a gabble in his own language. The other men said stuff that sounded like they agreed with him. One gestured toward Mama.

“Now just a minute!” Dad said in his you-better-not-mess-with-me voice. “I told you that’s my wife. You keep away from her.”

“Not hurt woman. We take child. Send him south to quarantine district.”

“And who will take care of him there?” said Mama.

The man shrugged, as if this was no concern of his.

The next instant, Dad put his six feet three in between the man with the rifle and Mama. “You lay one finger on my woman or my child or anything else in my camp and I’ll personally wring your neck.” He looked like he could do it, too, even though he’d gone a little paunchy since he played tight end at college.

“Our grandfathers told us once this land was rich. We had many cattle. Our granaries were full. Then foreign devils come from the south.” The man sounded frantic now. “They bring slim disease and all manner misfortune! Foreign devils must go home!”

He means us, too, Willamette thought.

“The only devil I see is the one standing in front of me,” said Dad.

The man motioned to the others. They rounded up the cattle, who by now had made a muddy mess of the river bank, and herded them away.

Willamette went to the nearest rock and sank down. Her heart pounded hard enough to jump out of her chest. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to cry or laugh or throw up. Mama told her to put her head between her knees.

“They’ll be back,” Joseph said. He got their rifle out of the crawler.

They loaded up as much water as was ready and went on. They saw no more signs of the strange men. As they set up camp, a quiet settled over the land, as if the sky were holding its breath. Color seeped in, yellow glowing to orange and then inky blue, so rich and soft that Willamette’s eyes hurt to look at it. Her heart caught in her throat. A humming began in her bones, a feeling that all she had to do was stretch out her wings, like precious things of gold and burnished copper and inky lapis blue.

This is Mother Africa, where life began, she thought. This is where it goes on forever.

The camp exploded with noise, a shot, then two more, punching through the sounds of men shouting and a high quick scream. Willamette couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her eyes locked on Joseph scrambling to his feet, Dad wrestling with a man in a red shirt. Mama hunched over, cursing in a hoarse voice. Another man ran toward her with something in his hands…

“No!” Willamette yelled and sprinted for the man. Her feet slapped the ground. She pumped with her arms. Every nerve in her body caught fire. The man was almost on top of Mama. Willamette leapt and grabbed, just the way Dad taught her, just the way she did with Stephen. She tackled him around the knees, his legs buckled, and they both went down.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. The man twisted like a snake and grabbed her around the neck. She clawed at his arms. His bones were hard as flint under papery skin. He shouted, but she couldn’t understand him. Pain shot down her neck. Her vision went gray. Her ears roared. She kicked out at nothing, screamed, tried to piy his fingers free.

Another shot went off. Dad yelled, or maybe it was Joseph.

Willamette sank her teeth into the man’s forearm as hard as she could. He thrashed around, his voice wild. The pressure on her neck eased. He jerked away. She heard the pad-pad-pad of running bare feet, then stillness.