Endangered (9 page)

I looked up and saw three adult bonobos at the other side of the clearing, muscular and nearly as tall as people. The one in front was young, with well-groomed, glossy black hair, somewhere in age between Otto and the adults farther in the background. A teenager. He stood upright, alternating between offering his hand in greeting and exposing his teeth in fear. To make myself as non-threatening as possible, I put my head down submissively, laying my hands open-palmed on the ground. Otto buried his head in my chest.

All I could see was a tiny patch of Otto in front of my eyes, his wiry hair and a few fingers of his good hand where they curled on my shirt. I heard seconds tick by on my watch as I waited for the bonobos to decide what to do with me. My breath mingled with Otto's as I stayed frozen in that position, desperate to know what the other bonobos were doing but scared to look up and have it be interpreted as an act of aggression.

There was a touch on my knee. Now on the other knee. A touch much heavier than Otto's.

My thighs tensed as the weight grew more substantial. I raised my head and saw the young male fully on top of me. He smelled pungent, and I could see impossibly long toes curled around my thigh, like I was a branch. I couldn't figure out whether I was being attacked until I felt fingers against my scalp and knew the answer for sure.

He was grooming me. A sign of friendship.

The bonobo's weight, which I guess would be no big deal for another bonobo, was crushing me into the ground. I had to let my legs flop open, and he stumbled. I felt a tickle against my forehead as he lifted my hair with two long fingers to peer into my eyes. I closed them. I knew from my recent reading that if I didn't look at this bonobo, he would know I wasn't going to challenge him for dominance. Otto ignored him, too, burying his head into my shirt.

How long was this guy going to sit in my lap? I felt more hands on my head. The other bonobos were grooming me, probably trying to get to the root of this bizarre and virtually hairless female who'd invaded their enclosure. I cracked my eyes open and saw there was nothing like affection or welcome in their expressions, only cold curiosity. That was fine. I could live with cold curiosity.

Finally, the teenage bonobo eased off me. He ripped up a shoot growing out of the rotting trunk and started peeling away its bark to get at the green pith inside. The other bonobos came over and prized up their own shoots, biting into the pith eagerly. Food had been discovered, which meant the weird naked ape girl had become old news.

Thinking it would help me fit in, I tried to rip out a shoot of my own. The stubborn stick wouldn't come away, though, and slipped through my sweaty palms. The male bonobo looked at me quizzically and went back to his snack. As if to rub in my ineptitude, Otto handily pulled away a shoot and munched away. He offered me the inedible castoff bark.

Thanks, Otto.

One of the female bonobos shrieked, the other replied, and then the foraging group wandered out of the clearing.

With no more warning than that, Otto and I were alone again. I settled deep into the shelter of the tree, my body going limp as
tension drained. I gave Otto a kiss on the top of his head and held him close. I suspected that part of the reason I wasn't attacked was that I was a girl — Mom always said the bonobos had a harder time with men. It made sense, given what they'd all been through at their hands. At that point I, too, didn't feel like seeing any human males for as long as I lived. As the adrenaline left my body, it left an unexpected feeling behind: loneliness. It had been nice to have more company.

 

Otto and I were still in the same position come sundown. I'd hoped to be out of the enclosure by darkfall, but during the late afternoon I'd heard another burst of rapid gunfire from the sanctuary, followed by laughter — the
kata-kata
hadn't left. The possibility opened up in my mind that they might never leave, that these were rebel soldiers with no loyalty or source of pay who were going to take advantage of the sanctuary's solid walls to make themselves a home. If I were part of a lawless band marching in a thousand miles from the east, wouldn't I pull my legs under me and stay here awhile, where there was shelter and supplies and plenty of food to harvest from the fields of the slain villagers? If they really were here to stay, I'd have to wait for the war to be over for them to leave.

And who knew how long that could be?

I'd figured I would wait until night and then sneak out, using the cover of darkness to slip past the sanctuary. At the first opportunity I'd steal what provisions I could and hit the road with Otto. Toward the capital or, if that route looked too dangerous, wherever took me away from the soldiers.

But when night actually arrived, when the world blackened and chilled and the jungle filled with unrecognizable sounds and I could barely see what was in front of me, I couldn't bear the
thought of putting my plan into action. I felt almost safe where I was, but I could imagine all the fanged creatures that would be under my feet as I wandered blindly, could imagine rounding a bend and finding the eyes of a hostile ape staring back. So instead Otto and I climbed on top of the fallen trunk and sat there, where the sun's warmth lingered in the wood beneath us. Otto was too wound up to sleep, so he kept crying and walking up and down my body. He was probably starving. I was, too, now that the havoc of the last few hours was fading; my stomach kept growling and it seemed like I wouldn't ever fall asleep.

Even in August, nights were chilly. I tucked my shirt into my pants, planted my palms in my armpits. The warmest parts of me were those covered by Otto. I lay back in the wet night air.

My thoughts unspooled and my breathing got quicker rather than slower. What was going to happen to me? The UN plane was gone. I assumed everyone who worked at the sanctuary had escaped or been killed. My mom was hundreds of miles away, my dad much farther than that. Even if Otto and I made it out, how far would we get? With the government fallen, hostile soldiers would be scrambling over the countryside. I'd have to stay here with the bonobos. If I survived them.

My thoughts picked up speed. How could I be both panicked and exhausted?

I must have finally been able to ignore the occasional dropping leaf or the tickle of insects on my skin, because I fell asleep. I woke up to a loud crashing sound and the light of day. I snapped to a sitting position, my hands instinctively going to my belly to check on Otto. He was missing. I jumped to my feet.

The bonobos were back.

At least ten of them were across the clearing, all staring at me. I recognized the one in front from that one morning in the nursery. Anastasia the Queen. She bent a sapling over, as if to pluck a
choice fruit from the top. Then, her eyes never leaving mine, she ripped up the entire tree and brandished it at me, shrieking.

I did my trick from yesterday, making myself small and lowering my head in submission. I shook my head, trying to clear the sleep from it. My eyes darted; I was desperate to find Otto. I spotted him on the other side of the clearing, standing and worrying his hands, making the murps that meant he wanted me to come pick him up. I couldn't afford to be submissive anymore, not with Otto unprotected. I stood tall, only just maintaining my balance with my sneakers on the slippery mossy log.

Anastasia grew more agitated, waving her weapon and barking. There was such strength to her movements — she swung her arms as if she were holding nothing at all, certainly not a sapling in full leaf.

Then she rushed me.

At the sight of her mass bearing down, I jumped off the fallen tree and bolted across the clearing. Anastasia came crashing after me. I made it to Otto first and threw my body over his. We rolled in the mud together, Otto grunting as the breath was pressed out of him when we slammed into a trunk. I waited to feel Anastasia's weight on us, to feel teeth in my shoulder or hands ripping at my leg. But there was nothing. I looked up.

Anastasia had dropped the sapling and was staring at us, the remaining bonobos — probably the aggressive Pink Ladies Mama Brunelle had told me about — again flanking her. Her breath came out in loud snorts. Her attitude seemed to have softened from hostility to mere distrust. Something about Otto, about the fact that I was protecting a bonobo infant and was therefore somehow like her, had changed our chemistry.

Another female, this one nearly bald on her head, approached me. She kept looking sideways and all around, but despite her nervousness she reached a tentative hand forward and patted me
twice. Then she lay back and stared at me. As if to demonstrate what I should have done, Anastasia sat on top of her and rubbed their bodies together, staring into my eyes the whole time. It's often said that bonobos constantly have sex, but this wasn't erotic; it seemed more of a way to express goodwill and reduce tension. But I wasn't ready to go rubbing strange bonobos, so instead I sat down where I was.

I recognized the male nearby as the one who sat on me yesterday. As the females greeted one another, he got a good running start and re-created Anastasia's charge. It wasn't quite as dramatic a showing, though, since instead of a tree he'd armed himself with a leaf. Barking, he hurled it at me. Seeing how unimpressed I was, he lost passion and sat down heavily. He let out a sigh and kicked at the leaf that had so let him down. When it finally came to rest, he smiled at me in unexpected pleasure at what he'd accomplished.

I found myself smiling, too. Big mistake. The moment I showed my teeth, all the bonobos tensed, backing up and pounding the earth. Anastasia charged me again, and I fell to the ground and curled up, making sure I again had Otto beneath me. As we lay still, Anastasia put her lips right against my temple and barked. Ear ringing, I scrunched my eyes closed. She leaned heavily into me, and I felt a crushing pain on my forearm. Crashing sounds became quiet rustling as she departed.

I opened my eyes once I was sure Otto and I were alone again. A row of divots dotted my arm, in the shape of Anastasia's teeth. Two spots had already begun to well with blood beneath the skin. Otto prodded the blossoming bruises and murped. His touch hurt, and I shook him off. He took his comfort position around my torso.

I'd have a big bruise, but the wound wasn't too bad. If Anastasia had meant to really hurt me, she easily could have. She could have killed me. What she'd done was give me a warning.

She'd left me alive.

And here we were again, all alone.

As the adrenaline from the encounter ebbed, a thirst dry as salt came over me. The more the feeling increased, the more I couldn't get out of my mind a tall plastic tumbler full of club soda, ice tinkling inside. On Friday nights, my family would go to the Centre Culturel Belge. Dad would usually be entertaining clients, with my mom beside him. Me, I'd snuggle myself away into a nearby
paillote
with the latest installment of my book series of the moment, taking advantage of the concealing thatch of dry fronds to watch my parents during page-turns.

My mom had this gift for putting people at ease, treating each person she met like she'd known them for years. My dad was the opposite, gliding past everyone like a car passing pedestrians, but what he did have was this quiet focus. He was a man who listened. I loved those evenings, because I got to simultaneously read about a made-up world and revel in how well my parents worked together in the real one. But I also loved Friday nights because the waitress knew to bring me club soda after club soda. All I could think of now was the almost bitter taste of the bubbles popping against my tongue, the crunch and numb swallow of ice cubes, condensation accumulating on textured plastic until it dripped.

And if I was thirsty, I couldn't imagine what Otto felt, used as he was to getting milk every couple hours. Remembering that there was a pond in the center of the enclosure, I headed out, encircling Otto with my unwounded arm.

Once we reached the pond, Otto sprang from my arms and scampered to the edge, cupping water in his hand and gulping greedily. The water looked awful and murky and the very embodiment of disease, but once it was cupped in my hand gave the impression of overbrewed tea. I took a sip. It tasted earthy. I took another sip, and was soon drinking mouthful after mouthful. Our thirst satisfied, Otto and I lay back in the grass.

Though the sanctuary staff had worked hard to keep the bonobos healthy, I didn't like the idea of drinking from the same source as they did. There were loads of waterborne diseases in Congo, and a thousand different paths that all led to the same destination: diarrhea. It was how most of the kids who died here ultimately went. I'd grown up boiling even the water I used to brush my teeth. If I'd had iodine, I'd have used that to purify it. But I didn't, and letting Otto and me get dehydrated was no alternative.

Now that our thirst was taken care of, there was food to worry about. Those green shoots weren't going to cut it, not if I couldn't even peel them open.

The bonobos in the enclosure spent their days foraging, but it was more out of habit than for sustenance; their main source of food was the massive mound of fruit my mom's staff bought from the local market and piled into the enclosure each morning. But the staff was probably dead or gone, and the village farmers were definitely dead or gone, so there would be no more food delivery.

My hunger was getting sharp.

My mind went to the duffel I'd packed for the UN flight that I'd thrown to slow down the peacekeepers. Figuring I couldn't expect Coke and peanuts on a refugee flight, I'd packed my last American granola bars, a liter of spring water, some powdered milk in case by chance they had let me bring Otto, a bunch of clothes, contact lenses, some pink girly razors, sleeping pills for the flight, American tampons and Congolese pads, and I forgot what else.

To eat, I had to get that bag back.

But it was on the other side of the fence.