them to mourn over.”
I look down in horror at the bloody scrap of clothing. I don’t want to touch it; I certainly don’t want to pick up those scattered bits of bone and hair. But I nod and say, “I’ll help you. We can use one of the burlap sacks in the truck.”
He rises and looks at me. “You’re not like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t even want to be here, do you? In the bush.”
I hug myself. “No. This was Richard’s idea of a holiday.”
“And your idea of a holiday?”
“Hot showers. Flush toilets, maybe a massage. But here I am, always the good sport.”
“You are a good sport, Millie. You know that, don’t you?” He looks into the distance and says, so softly that I almost miss it: “Better than he deserves.”
I wonder if he intended for me to hear that. Or maybe he’s been in the bush so long that he regularly talks aloud to himself out here, because no one is usually around to hear him.
I try to read his face, but he bends down to pick up something. When he rises again, he has it in his hand.
A bone.
“Y OU ALL UNDERSTAND, THIS expedition is at an end,” says Johnny. “I need everyone to pitch in so we can break camp by noon and be on our way.”
“On our way where?” says Richard. “The plane isn’t due back at the airstrip for another week.”
Johnny has gathered us around the cold campfire, to tell us what happens next. I look at the other members of our safari, tourists who signed up for a wildlife adventure and got more than they bargained for. A real kill, a dead man. Not exactly the jolly thrills you see on television nature programs. Instead there is a sad burlap sack containing pitifully few bones and shreds of clothing and torn pieces of scalp, all the mortal remains we could find of our tracker Clarence. The rest of him, Johnny says, is lost forever. This is how it is in the bush, where every creature that’s born will ultimately be eaten, digested, and recycled into scat, into soil, into grass. Grazed upon and reborn as yet another animal. It seems beautiful in principle, but when you come face-to-face with the hard reality, that bag of Clarence’s bones, you understand that the circle of life is also a circle ofdeath. We are here to eat and be eaten, and we are nothing but meat. Eight of us left now, meat on the bone, surrounded by carnivores.
“If we drive back to the landing strip now,” says Richard, “we’ll just have to sit there and wait days for the plane. How is that better than continuing the trip as planned?”
“I’m not taking you any deeper into the bush,” says Johnny.
“What about using the radio?” Vivian asks. “You could call the pilot to pick us up early.”
Johnny shakes his head. “We’re beyond radio range here. There’s no way to contact him until we get back to the airstrip, and that’s a three-day drive to the west. Which is why we’ll head east instead. Two days’ hard drive, no stops for sightseeing, and we’ll reach one of the game lodges. They have a telephone, and there’s a road out. I’ll arrange to have you driven back to Maun.”
“Why?” asks Richard. “I hate to sound callous, but there’s not a thing we can do for Clarence now. I don’t see the point of rushing back.”
“You’ll get a refund, Mr. Renwick.”
“It’s not the money. It’s just that Millie and I came all this way from London. Elliot had to come from Boston. Not to mention how far the Matsunagas had to fly.”
“Jesus, Richard,” Elliot cuts in. “The man’s dead .”
“I know, but we’re already here. We might as well carry on.”
“I can’t do that,” says Johnny.
“Why not?”
“I can’t guarantee your safety, much less your comfort. I can’t stay alert twenty-four hours a day. It takes two of us to stand watch overnight and to keep the fire burning. To break camp and set it up again. Clarence didn’t just cook your meals; he was another set of eyes and ears. I need a second man
I look down in horror at the bloody scrap of clothing. I don’t want to touch it; I certainly don’t want to pick up those scattered bits of bone and hair. But I nod and say, “I’ll help you. We can use one of the burlap sacks in the truck.”
He rises and looks at me. “You’re not like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t even want to be here, do you? In the bush.”
I hug myself. “No. This was Richard’s idea of a holiday.”
“And your idea of a holiday?”
“Hot showers. Flush toilets, maybe a massage. But here I am, always the good sport.”
“You are a good sport, Millie. You know that, don’t you?” He looks into the distance and says, so softly that I almost miss it: “Better than he deserves.”
I wonder if he intended for me to hear that. Or maybe he’s been in the bush so long that he regularly talks aloud to himself out here, because no one is usually around to hear him.
I try to read his face, but he bends down to pick up something. When he rises again, he has it in his hand.
A bone.
“Y OU ALL UNDERSTAND, THIS expedition is at an end,” says Johnny. “I need everyone to pitch in so we can break camp by noon and be on our way.”
“On our way where?” says Richard. “The plane isn’t due back at the airstrip for another week.”
Johnny has gathered us around the cold campfire, to tell us what happens next. I look at the other members of our safari, tourists who signed up for a wildlife adventure and got more than they bargained for. A real kill, a dead man. Not exactly the jolly thrills you see on television nature programs. Instead there is a sad burlap sack containing pitifully few bones and shreds of clothing and torn pieces of scalp, all the mortal remains we could find of our tracker Clarence. The rest of him, Johnny says, is lost forever. This is how it is in the bush, where every creature that’s born will ultimately be eaten, digested, and recycled into scat, into soil, into grass. Grazed upon and reborn as yet another animal. It seems beautiful in principle, but when you come face-to-face with the hard reality, that bag of Clarence’s bones, you understand that the circle of life is also a circle ofdeath. We are here to eat and be eaten, and we are nothing but meat. Eight of us left now, meat on the bone, surrounded by carnivores.
“If we drive back to the landing strip now,” says Richard, “we’ll just have to sit there and wait days for the plane. How is that better than continuing the trip as planned?”
“I’m not taking you any deeper into the bush,” says Johnny.
“What about using the radio?” Vivian asks. “You could call the pilot to pick us up early.”
Johnny shakes his head. “We’re beyond radio range here. There’s no way to contact him until we get back to the airstrip, and that’s a three-day drive to the west. Which is why we’ll head east instead. Two days’ hard drive, no stops for sightseeing, and we’ll reach one of the game lodges. They have a telephone, and there’s a road out. I’ll arrange to have you driven back to Maun.”
“Why?” asks Richard. “I hate to sound callous, but there’s not a thing we can do for Clarence now. I don’t see the point of rushing back.”
“You’ll get a refund, Mr. Renwick.”
“It’s not the money. It’s just that Millie and I came all this way from London. Elliot had to come from Boston. Not to mention how far the Matsunagas had to fly.”
“Jesus, Richard,” Elliot cuts in. “The man’s dead .”
“I know, but we’re already here. We might as well carry on.”
“I can’t do that,” says Johnny.
“Why not?”
“I can’t guarantee your safety, much less your comfort. I can’t stay alert twenty-four hours a day. It takes two of us to stand watch overnight and to keep the fire burning. To break camp and set it up again. Clarence didn’t just cook your meals; he was another set of eyes and ears. I need a second man
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