DOUG DONNAN
Executive Editor/OMNI-GENRE+
"Scheherazade"
by
DOUG DONNAN
CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC/SOUTHERN CHAD
ZAKOUMA NATIONAL PARK
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE
SALAMAT RIVER
“Be on your guard Colonrik,” DeSpaine whispered under the
brim of his weathered
khaki
bush hat, “the native boys say this is a ‘free fire zone’…anything and anybody
is
considered
fair game. AK47s, machetes, and all-terrain vehicles are the tools of the
trade
out here!”
The fallen carcass of the bull elephant
was as big as a metropolitan bus. Its’ massive
head
had been heartlessly and crudely severed. With scorching indifference the
midday
African
sun was mercifully, albeit slowly, cauterizing the festering wound. In their
inimitable
parasitic way the ants and flies were frantic, tenacious in their attack on the
lifeless
gray mountain.
“Jesus Christ DeSpaine,” Colonrik choked
out over his crumpled blue bandana,
“What
did they, your poacher boys, do to this poor creature…decapitate it?”
DeSpaine lowered his head somewhat and
squinted out a laser-blue stare at the
obese,
sweat stained American. He underscored the look with a snide puff of disgust.
“May I remind you Mr. Colonrik, it was your
idea to come out into the field to see
first
hand how the ivory ‘procurement business’ operates. There is nothing pretty
about
it— nothing fair, or off limits. You people want the product. We get it. The
old law
of
supply and demand—with a deadly set of twists out here on the African plain.
It’s a
dangerous
game—try and remember that!”
An ominous squadron of vultures performed
a patient pinwheel far overhead as the
twosome
continued to vent their concerns and opinions.
“But was it necessary to chop off its’
very head?” Colonrik sighed as he mopped at
his bulbous forehead with the kerchief. “I didn’t
know that—”
“The boys are very good at what they do,”
DeSpaine cut in as he glanced around into
a
scraggly stand of parched Terminalia trees. “They have to be quick about things.
The
park rangers and guards are just as determined to protect the elephants as we
are
to
relieve them of their ivory burden. I’m afraid it’s the most efficient way.”
DeSpaine
said
softly in a hollow, matter-of-fact tone.
Off in the distance the snapping sound of
rapid gunfire made them cock their heads.
They
both stood there for a moment until DeSpaine waved a hand in miming, beckoning
for
Colonrik to follow him. He quickly shouldered his huge Marlin hunting rifle and
they
made
off into the dry bush and cutting whip grass of the sweeping savanna. The
muffled
brap-a-brap
sound of their four wheelers breaking into
the serenity of the park.
* * *
It
was a herd of almost 200 strong. They were on the run, once again. The huge
matriarch
at the point frantically trying to lead them out of harms way. She was an
experienced
elder, and knew both the safety boundaries of the park and the ruthless and
conniving
ways of the poachers. She was wise and cunning; a survivor and protectorate,
a
living legend known as Scheherezade—Sherrie for short. Sherrie was
leading them all;
young
and old, large and small, male and female, in what she felt and trusted to be
beyond,
and
out of harms way. However, this time she
was wrong—dead wrong! As the running
herd
broke through the sea of Terminalia and Acacias they found themselves
confronted
by
the raging, muddy water of the Salamat River. Most of the older elephants,
including
Sherrie,
had never confronted this situation. They were more familiar with the Zakouma’
areas
sporadic watering holes,not the tumbling turmoil of this mighty, rainy season
river.
Also,
even with her poor vision, the steadfast matriarch could see the enormous
log-sized
crocodiles
waiting patiently on the other side of the river. As the gathering herd stacked
up
behind her in a nervous wave she quickly decided that now was the time...
The
time to make a stand.
* *
*
“Stagger yourselves along this entrance
way,” Aksenhamman ordered as the rest of
the
poachers ran this way and that around the huge mounds of elephant droppings
that
lead
off into the thick sprawling rain forest. “There must be at least one hundred
of them
off
in there—headed for the river I’d say, not too smart if Scheherezade is
leading them
on.
The Salamat is much too treacherous for crossing this time of year, and also
the resting
crocs
on the other side would be a major concern for Queen Sherrie.”He jammed a fresh
banana
clip of ammunition into his AK 47 rifle and then adjusted his dark, aviator
sunglasses.
“We’ll wait here a while and see if they come back. If not, we can press in
slowly
and finish them off by the river bank. Should be a good kill, many tusks.
Mr.
DeSpaine will be pleased.”
The sun burned down relentlessly as the
ominous play and the characters in it below
fashioned
and formed up for the final scene. There was to be a startling convergence
between
the hunters and the hunted.
* * *
Sherrie stood for a moment by the
riverbank, still as stone—thinking. Before long she
rotated
her great body and gave some slow, but deliberate fades of her head and trunk
to
the
left. She had decided to lead the herd back around the woodland, in effect,
doubling-
back
the long way around as opposed to heading back into the trampled path they had
made through the trees. She felt some type of
trap had been set for them. A deadly trap
that
she was now determined to outsmart.
* * *
“There they are, just up ahead,” DeSpaine
called out with an extended arm and
shaking
finger. “They’re on point for something…something big looks like!”
The two throttled up and raced to the huge
broken and trampled opening in the trees
where
Aksenamman and the other nervous, onyx-skinned poachers waited—automatic
rifles
locked and loaded. Electricity and apprehension cut through the sweltering
African
air
like a million piercing knives.The fear and perspiration washed over them all
like
an
ominous ague.
“What’s up Akkie?” DeSpaine asked silently
as he eased to a stop. “You all got some
big
ones in there?” he nodded off in the direction of the opening.
“I believe so sir. Many numbers of
elephant came this way. Perhaps led by their great
mother
Scheherezade.” Aksenhamman replied with a hand salute to the faded rim
of his
New
York Yankee baseball cap.
“Sherrie, huh?” DeSpaine rubbed at his
lantern jaw with a puzzled look around. “The
ol’
gal is a little out of her jurisdiction around these parts wouldn’t you say
Akkie?”
“Juri…s…dic?” Aksenhamman tried to repeat.
“Around the Salamat, ‘specially this time
of season,” DeSpaine recovered. “Hmm.,”
he
squinted up at the darkening sky. “Another storm is brewin’ my friend. We’ll
just wait
here
a while and see if she heads ‘em all back out of there. Keep your team ready.
You
know
how quiet they can be, even a big herd like this one.”
“Very good sir,” Aksenhamman said as he
retreated with a submissive little bow.
* * *
The complacent yet curious crocs observed
the sweeping herd of elephants from their
other-wordly
position across the raging, muddy Salamat. The long parade of gray giants
was
on the move now. Quickly, hurriedly did they follow their trumpeting leader as
she
lead
them down and down the sandy stone and stick river bank. On and on they ran,
great
strides
and steps until the stand of trees off to their left did begin to thin out and
curve
backward,
again revealing the vast wind-swept veldt. Here Sherrie changed course and
started
in her cambered pattern. The others followed her with a wild abandon, trusting
her
instincts
and intuition with every determined stride. They were behind her, come what
may.
All this hurried activity was too much for
the crocodiles to ignore. A potential meal did
always
stimulate their total commitment to
action. So, in a flash of thunder and lightning,
a
silent armada of them slipped into the muddy, uncaring river. They were on
their way,
memories
of blood and rapid spinning driving them across.
* * *
It was only a matter of time that the sky
turned into a ribbon of darkness and the
clashing
clouds relieved themselves. The heavy rain drove down in waves, so fast and
hard
it was as if it could not wait to reach the ground. However, the undaunted
Sherrie
and
her followers pressed on in their curving quest. Around and about did they
continued
for
some time until, at last, did she slow considerably. The others spreading
silently along
beside
her for some distance. Eventually, the great matriarch froze in position, this
time
in
a state of satisfied concentration. She focused in on the blurred figures up
ahead. It
was
the bad ones— she remembered them. Now, having formed abreast of each
other,
as
far as the eye could see, the herd (some 200 plus) did stand there in the storm
whipped
tall-grass,
still as statues, undetected by the band of far off preoccupied poachers.
The
mighty, resolute elephants were in position, ready for ‘their’ turn. Now was
the time—
the
time for revenge.
* * *
“I can’t see anything in this shit
DeSpaine!” Colonrik called out from deep inside the
hood
of his dripping L.L. Bean all-weather parka. “Why don’t we just turn back. Go
back
and
have drinks at the lodge in Khartoum, let the boys go in there and finish up.
I’ve seen
enough
of this.”
DeSpaine turned and shook a disgusted look
at the cowering Colonrik, “Sure, sure
whatever
you say Bwana. We’ll leave the boys here in this African monsoon to do
your
dirty
work. But mark this and mark it well; this ivory ‘collecting’ business isn’t an
inexhaustible
one. You’ll find that there will come a day when all of these gentle giants
will
be gone, killed off by you, me and other sons of bitches like us that don’t
give a damn
about
anything but money and the pursuit of it. We’ll find out one fine day that…” he
stammered
a little as he squinted a dripping look around Colonrik’s flapping hood. Off in
the
distance he thought he could make out a long roll of large surging shapes,
figures of
some
sort. He stepped around the windswept Colonrik. “What the fu…?”
It was Sherrie and the elongated herd
standing in formation, like an army of
enormous
gray ghosts.Poised for their assault, they marched forward in the driving rain,
as
in a dream, slowly…quietly.
“Stay—stay right here,” DeSpaine whispered
nervously. “Don’t move!” He made a
series
of sandcrab-like movements and then paced over to Aksenhamman and the
others
who were huddled under the convoluted, bushy branches of a giant blowing
Terminalia
tree. The rain was unrelenting in its attack. There was a wild exchange
of
hand
waving and finger pointing between DeSpaine, Aksenhamman, and the rest of
the
trembling poachers as they stared at the wall of elephants off in the distance.
“My men will have none of it Mr. DeSpaine,
and I am with them in this matter.
We
have never seen something like this out here. I see a bad thing out there…a
very
bad
thing. It is Scheherezade, and she has all the others in
collection with her. They
are
now as one— they prepare to come for us.”
“Come for us?” DeSpaine screamed into the drawing rain and
wind. “What in the
Hell
are you talking about Akkie? Have you and the rest of these little bastar…lost
your
cotton pickin’—” he stuttered uncertainly as he whipped around to survey the
distant
steaming horizon.
They were on the move, advancing en masse
with Sherrie at the very head of the
frenzied
herd. The steadfast matriarch calling and trumpeting the charge.
The frantic band of poachers dropped their
weapons and exploded from beneath the
useless
expanse of the listing Terminalia tree. They ran wildly, as if possessed, down
the
trampled opening in the trees toward the raging Salamat and the waiting,
voracious
crocodiles. The dispirited and desperate Colonrik had already made his
risky
and imprudent decision to flee.
He was to be dealt with first. In his
frantic attempt to circumnavigate the rushing
elephants
he was woefully unsuccessful. The angered giants easily waved over his
sputtering
four-wheeler and made quick work of him. His muffled cries for help were
brief
and then there was only the seismic sound of the trembling ground as they had
there
way with him.
DeSpaine, now seemingly frozen in time,
witnessed the entire assault in total horror
and
disbelief.He soon found himself struggling with his limited options. Time, for
him,
was
running out. He cursed crazily at the thundering herd as they drew down on him.
Fumbling
with his 45 automatic pistol, he emptied the clip in a futile attempt to halt
their
maniacal advance. But, in the end, it was to no avail. They overtook him and
quickly
trampled him with a purpose. As the rest of the herd moved away in hot pur
suit
of the renegade poachers, a lingering Sherrie methodically finished his
contorted
body
with a succession of powerful, goring thrusts from her curving tusks.
In due course the once zealous poachers,
having just managed to escape from the
elephant’s
storming encroachment, found themselves rushing into a snapping ambush
arranged
by the lingering crocodiles. Perhaps surprised, but never discriminating, the
vast
gathering of peaked crocodiles rushed in for the kill. The swiftness of their
scurrying
for
the trembling, skinny legs and crawling arms was merciless. Having soon
overwhelmed
their
prey, they dragged the meat and bones back into the murky waters of the
Salamat.
It was done.
* * *
The rain had given up and made way
for a blinding sun that opened a fissure in the
gloomy afternoon sky like a
living presence. The mighty herd, having only recently been
united in their determined
revenge, had now disbanded and moved out into the vastness
of the savanna, separate
groups going separate ways. Scheherezade and her followers
made for the calm waters of
the far off Rigueik water pool where they would wash the
caked mud from weary feet and
dried blood from their glorious ivory tusks. They stood
together each in their own
towering magnificence with the invincible Sherrie, her royal
majesty, to watch over them
and protect them.
_____ The End _____
