Children of the Dusk (6 page)

Pandemonium ensued. Within seconds half-a-dozen guards were galloping, yelling, toward the zebu. Befuddled, it simply stood and watched them come on, swinging jouncing carbines off their shoulders. Behind them trundled Pleshdimer, belly flopping, eyes glistening like huge fat globules.
 

He and the guards formed a semi-circle around the animal, which stood without moving, apparently torn between attack and an attempt to break her tether and make a run for it. When none of the men moved closer, she returned to cropping the nearly barren ground on which she was hobbled.

Hempel checked the action on his Mann, glanced at Misha, who had thrust his head out of the door of the hut, and holstered the weapon. He looked as if he was about to stalk toward the zebu, but instead he went back to the steps and called the boy to come to him, using the same tuneless whistle with which he had commanded his wolfhound.

M
isha heard Hempel's whistle, but he did not move. Despite having watched the Zana-Malata and Hempel dine on the wolfhound the night before, and again today, he had not come to terms with the fact that he was expected to act as Boris' replacement.

"A mongrel like you should consider this an honor," Hempel had said, placing the dog's collar around the boy's neck. "Boris was every bit a thoroughbred, presented to me by Himmler himself. He would consider you a poor replacement."

Misha tugged at the collar. His fingers came away with several dog hairs stuck in the cracks of his broken nails. He pulled the hairs out and blew them away.

Coughing the dry, hacking cough that had started almost from the moment Hempel put the band around his neck, though the collar didn't feel all that tight, Misha wiped his hands on the sides of his raggedy pants. From his crouched position, he could see through the gap between the zebu hide and the door frame. He had heard the conversation between Hempel and Erich, and knew what was to come. He could only guess at what the major's mood would be afterwards.

Though the hut was dark and stank of food, the fact that he was alone provided a few moments of relief from the constant expectation of bad happenings. The only other time he could think was at night, when Hempel slept and Misha lay awake, going over the list of good things and bad things that had happened to him in his life, making sure the balance was still all right. Some nights he went over his plans for killing Pleshdimer; others, he mapped out in exquisite detail several alternative plans for killing Hempel. And he had added the Zana-Malata: alive, on the bad side; dead, on the good side. Not that the Zana-Malata had done anything bad to him. Yet. He must be waiting, like Pleshdimer had done. When Misha was at the camp, Pleshdimer had treated him like the other prisoners. Better, maybe, once Hempel
adopted
him. That hadn't changed until they were out of the camp. Then the major started to reward Pleshdimer by allowing him to hurt Misha.

Pleshdimer wasn't allowed to do the
thing
, but that didn't mean much because it wasn't what the Kapo wanted. Tying Misha down and hurting him with the edge of his knife, that was what he wanted. Being mean. Threatening him. Making him scared.

How he hated all of them, Misha thought, edging outside because he had no other option. He couldn't pretend to be asleep, because Hempel had seen him glancing through the doorway. If he tried to stay inside, Hempel would come to drag him out, or worse yet send Pleshdimer to get him. Besides, the Zana-Malata would be back soon, and just looking at the syphilitic made Misha want to vomit. He sensed that the black man was evil, not just ugly.

There was hating and hating, Misha decided. The one kind was for a reason, like the way he felt about the people who had taken away his parents. And Pleshdimer and Hempel. Anything about them was automatically on the bad side of the list.

Then there was hating like the way he felt about Boris, which had little to do with the wolfhound and almost everything to do with its owner. True, he had never especially liked Boris, but he knew that was from how he felt about Hempel and not from any particular dislike of the dog. Perhaps, had the animal been properly trained like Taurus and the other shepherds, it might have been more receptive to children; it might even have communicated with him, or he with it. He had certainly felt sorry for the dog when the boar gored it. To hear Boris' roar of pain followed by a cry of helplessness and then silence had chilled him.

And to end up being cooked and eaten!

He couldn't really hate Boris after that, Misha decided, as he pushed through the zebu hide and blinked in the light.

"I was calling you, Misha," Hempel said. "Come. I want you to be present for the first flowing of island blood."

T
he entire series of events was staged and un-military, Erich thought as he watched Misha come out of the hut in a half-crouch. Hempel motioned for the boy to follow as he strode toward the zebu and its would-be killers.

Erich started after the major but was stopped in his tracks by the trainer he had nicknamed Fermi. The man approached him, holding a closely choke-chained Pisces at heel at his side.
 
The dog kept glancing toward the zebu and the guards but made no attempt to pull his trainer in that direction. His obedience pleased Erich, after the display of insubordination with the Zana-Malata when they had arrived.

Fermi looked down at the red dust on his boots. "The guards have been talking all morning about killing the zebu," he said in a quiet tone of respect. "Fresh meat would be fine, especially after the weeks on the ship. I would like to make certain there will be portions for us and for the dogs."

"What makes you think I would neglect my animals or my trainers?"

"You have a lot on your mind, sir."

Erich was flabbergasted at the intimation that he could overlook his primary responsibility. His primary love. "You and the dogs will be taken care of," he said, somewhat more angrily than he had intended.

Fermi glanced up. "Thank you, sir." He saluted and made his way toward the kennel area.

Removing his cap, Erich wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. In this heat it was no wonder the dogs were suffering, he thought. But suffering was one thing, brain fever another. Though they didn't have that, the danger of its happening was real. Already they were irritable and uncoordinated, not at all the fine corps of healthy animals he had loaded onto the ship. He could only pray that they would make the adjustment soon, or he would find himself in charge of a ghost unit.

"Does it really take that many men to kill a tethered animal?"

Erich turned, startled to find Miriam behind him and annoyed that he had not heard her approach. He prided himself on being aware of what was going on, not only around him, but anywhere nearby. Of thinking like a dog, he had told people when he was young. "Don't you start in on me as well," he said.

"Oh yes, by all means, let the boys play. Maybe you should dust off your javelin and join them."

My javelin, Erich thought, wondering what had become of that. He'd been so proud of his skills with it as a youth, had even fantasized about participating in the Olympics, and he'd come close, too. Miriam walked toward the doomed animal. He wondered if she expected him to follow. He did so. He would not join in the sport, as she called it. He had never killed for sport. In fact, he had never actually killed anything. Except Grace, Taurus' grandmother, who was nine-tenths dead by the time he'd used his javelin to put her out of her misery. And Achilles, of course. Taurus' mother. He had killed her. But that wasn't by choice, either. Not his choice. That was Hitler's doing. Erich was merely following orders, as any good soldier must.

If only Miriam could understand that. Solomon, also, but Miriam most of all.

He watched her move toward the zebu. The cow about to be killed seemed to draw her irresistibly, as if it needed her presence to dignify its slaughter. She stood slightly apart from the guards, who had lined up in front of it like a firing squad.

The animal kept feeding, pulling up her head every now and again to stare at her executioners, as if she defied them to look her in the eye.

"Let's not ruin the meat," Hempel said, striding up. "Just one of you will do. Johann?"

"Sir?" the blond radio operator asked.

"You're the youngest. Put a bullet through her brain."

"Yes, sir!" The youth raised and sighted his Mauser. Erich felt a brief though undefined satisfaction when Miriam turned away, momentarily shutting her eyes.

The shot sent birds twittering from the forest.

The cow bellowed and staggered in a circle, head turned around nearly to her back as though she were troubled by insects along her spine. Her protest rolled through the morning and set the dogs howling. Then she toppled sideways, as if she had been pushed over by some enormous force. Her legs stiffened even as she dropped and her head nodded twice against the ground; her tail slapped once, and she lay still.

Johann grinned and lowered the gun. A hush fell upon the pasture and the surrounding ring of forest. Erich could see the animal clearly: ribs prominent, rheumy eyed, covered with flies.

Shouting, the guards pulled out daggers and threw themselves upon the beast, laughing as they slashed the belly and gutted her. Pleshdimer squirmed among the others like the largest member of a litter, squealing as he tore out the upper intestines. They gleamed like sausages. He drew them toward his mouth, as if he could not wait for the cookpot before he gorged himself, then changed his mind and wrapped them around his neck like a boa.

"A
pretty killing, you think?"

Bruqah knew that to the foreigners' ears--all but Miriam who understood him intuitively, and Solomon, who was learning to do so--his words, spoken in his melodic voice, often acted contrapuntally to his meaning. Eventually they would all understand, even Colonel Erich Germantownman. Understand and remember.

"You walk with the grace of a man who hears secret music in his head," Miriam said, as if the dancer in her had suddenly become acutely conscious of her clumsiness.
 

Bruqah smiled, acknowledging the compliment. As always, he carried his polished, carved, lily-wood walking stick, and the mouselemur sat at the nape of his neck, clinging to his hair. He was shawled from shoulders to waist in his white
lamba
. Already taller than everyone else, it created the illusion he wanted--that he towered above them. They were so easy to trick, these foreigners, he thought. They drew fast and faulty conclusions because doing so was less tedious to them than thinking. By creating the assumption of magic for themselves, they rendered his skills as a master illusionist superfluous. He had appeared with the mouselemur no more than twice before they took to whispering of it as his familiar. The same was true of his appearances and disappearances...as if from nowhere, to nowhere. They never quite felt his absence and always anticipated his presence, which was just the way he wanted it.

"I tell myself this Rosh Hashanah of Solomon's must be of great concern to you. Must be, or you would not encourage this sacrifice," he told Miriam.

"Killing the zebu has nothing to do with what the Jews want," Erich butted in. "The guards know nothing about the Holy Day."

Bruqah smiled again, condescendingly this time, and brought the mouselemur around against his chest. He stroked its fur and ran his fingers along the thick tail that tapered abruptly at the end like the nib of a fountain pen. The creature made stuttery, appreciative sounds.

"I think they know. I think they know more than you think, Mister Erich Germantownman. You are full of death, you Germans. Yes, I think they know." He pointed toward the Nazi flag, which dangled--as though wilted by the humidity--from the first pole the Jews had erected, one near where the gate was being built. "Even your flag is the color of death. We Malagash wear red and black as shrouds."

"So do we, since the Nazis came to power," Miriam said.

Bruqah shifted his gaze back toward the zebu. The animal's master had allowed it to overgraze. He pointed toward the cow's barren patch of ground. "All over Madagascar...the same." He allowed his anger to enter his husky voice. It was simple, yet no one seemed capable of understanding: they burned the forests for the
savoka
to grow, then grazed the zebu until even that grass was gone. He shook his head sadly. "I was once the worst offender."

"You?" Miriam asked.

Until the trees taught me, Bruqah thought, and I learned from the lemurs. All of which took lifetimes. "There is a saying.
Omby milela-bato, matin'ny tany mah-zotra
--the zebu will lick bare stone, and die in the earth it loves." He ran his hand from the mouselemur's head to its tail, causing the tiny animal to shudder with apparent joy. "We Malagash measure our worth by our cows, but we allow them to kill the land that is our mother...and theirs."

"We Germans measure our worth by--what, Erich?" Miriam said in an ugly tone, looking at the butchered zebu with undisguised disgust. An apparent wave of pain, reflected in her face, passed over her. "By our...our scientific accomplishments?" Her breaths began to saw. "Or our industrial efficiency?" She shot Erich an angry glance. "Or by our capacity for killing?"