Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.
Chapter 2
“Matthew, lay still, and press this tightly with your hand"- brilliant streams of light exploded and danced in his tightly clenched eyes as the shooting pain seared through his mind and groin; the full impact of the great rhino's horn lost as his uncle Jeremy ran to him, knocking him sprawling to the side as he stood motionless with rifle to shoulder, unable to fire. The thundering hooves had frozen him, like impala caught in a night lamp; unable to move in the face of certain death.
The rhino had torn through at them as it exploded from the dark dense bush in the hidden kloof, the great horn not able to pierce Matthew directly and impale him through to his death, it had missed it's mark when Jeremy's lunge to him, but the side glancing great horn had run up and ripped into him where young bronzed legs met torso. Pink and tender flesh was no match for to Africa's most feared animal.
Poor eye sight and a trigger hair personality had made him the most feared and unpredictable of all of the huge land beasts. Better to walk away and live another day than to stand and play hero to the great horned master of the African earth. He gave no quarter, never retreated and would challenge to the death. The myths and truths of the rhino as an adversary and silent sentinel roaming the African plains and bush land was told up and down the land. Many a hushed and respectful story told by campfires' end, a Cape Merlot or Scottish whisky drunk suddenly without pause; the firelight caught in the eye of the storyteller made dim with the thundering memories now playing in the minds eye.
Blood was slowly seeping from his wound and through his dusty fingers, it trickled to the hot ground to pool in the sand. His uncle's bandanna a poor plug against his open tear. Matthew could not believe the pain. It rolled and tore at him. He could not breathe; tears rolling, they made rivulets on his dusty face, glistening in the sun.
"Why, why, oh God why?" Matthew sobbed to himself. He should have stayed back with his mother in Cape Town and not come to his uncle's sprawling farm. However, the backslapping and the baritone chorus of males had left little doubt. On this trip, he was to be well bloodied on the slopes and hills of Kenya and enter then the ritualised circle of "The Bauldwin Men.”
All Bauldwin men had become men with blood. Fox hunting in the Olde Country, riding hard with bugle and dogs baying through fields of English green. Each young man would return home to the manor house with the blood markings boldly etched on foreheads and pimpled cheeks by proud fathers sipping sherry at hunt's end. Another long tailed fox ritually torn to pieces and blood left clotting in the afternoon sun by the baying hounds for the sake of the collective ancestor's approval.
This land was the land of the Black People and their ancestors. These People had come to this land from the heart of central Africa, the Shaba region in Zaire (Congo) and the Cameroon.
The People filled the land as they drove their herds and flocks, or hunted for scarce food desperately picking the weakest from the teeming wild herds that flowed like rivers over the brown earth on their endless migrations between the rain seasons. They walked along unmarked routes known only to the elephant, the buffalo and the wildebeest, moving south and spreading far and wide. Wars and famine directing their destinies they became known as far south as Angola, turning back up again into the highlands of Lake Tanganika. They came through the Sudan and stayed in the Great Rift Valley. They followed the green grass that came with the great sacred rains and followed the hereditary customs of their fathers.
From Mount Elgon and the Nile River came the Abaluhyia, Abagusil and the Abakuria Peoples. The Taveta, the Dawida and the Akamba People, they settled between Mount Kilimanjaro and the seacoasts, then moved north to their final grazing lands. They drove themselves west in the highlands and became the Agikuyu, the Aembo, the Chuka, the Tharaka and the Ameru Peoples.
Those that lived along the hilltops behind the coastline became known as the Majikenda, they had come from a place called Shungwaya in Southern Somalia where they had lived with the Taita, the Pokomo, Segeju and Galla Peoples.
They came and settled in nine fortified hilltops, in kayas or villages in between the Kilifi Creek and the Shimba Hills. After a time, the Digo and the Segeju were the first to leave, then came the Pokomo, Taita, Ribe-Kauma, Giriama, Chonyi and Jibana People.
The Kikuyu ancestors had come from the land of Meru and Tharaka, through Mbere, Mwea and Ndia. They settled in the land between the rivers North Mathioya and Gura and then to the lands westwards towards Kiambu and up to Nyeri.
Here they met finally the Masai and to the Masai, they did not come from anywhere else but from God - Ngai, which literally means Sky.
It was Ngai who originally owned all the cattle and land that they lived on.
"One day the earth and the sky separated, and Ngai became separated from the People to live in the Heavens, the cattle remained in the sky with him. As the Heavens did not have the lush grasses of the Sacred Earth and they had begun to die, Ngai sent them back down by means of the aerial roots of the Sacred Wild Fig Tree and told the Masai to look after them."
It is in this story handed down from their own time immemorial that they quite literally took this to mean and an excuse to relieve, all neighbouring tribes and people of their own livestock.
Since Ngai had strictly given the gift of cattle to only the Masai, it was not considered theft or robbery of any kind, but of returning ownership of the cattle to their rightful place and that could only be the Masai. More, it was their duty to enforce the will of God.
The Masai in their tall splendid red robes, copper bracelets, colourful beads and bodies painted in deep ochre, still believed they were the kings of the land. They believed they were dropped to the earth by the very hand of Ngai Himself; to enjoy and be the caretakers of the Rift Valley and the teeming wild animals that stretched from one side of the horizon to the next.
The Masai still tend to their cattle as they have always done. This is their pride and wealth for all to see and the cattle are fiercely guarded from all men and beasts. Great herds with young boys calling to each cow and steer by name. Individual markings and colours etched in their minds, the boys sooth their frightened herds with gentle songs, calling out their names like children as they bring them into the compound at night to the safety of multi-thorned walls of branches collected at the onset of the setting sun. This their only traditional night time defence against hungry predators that wait for any opportunity to fill their empty bellies.
Now the Masai hide from the white man's rules, their initiation to manhood outlawed. No Masai Warrior can ride the wind as a man, unless he has hunted and killed a lion during the lion hunt or olamayio. Long lines of initiates boldly stride out after long night dancing and singing, tall plumes and thickly plaited ochre hair, copper ringlets and long iron tipped spears moulded by local smiths in their ancient traditions.
Terrible scars mark many a warriors back or proud chest of those that return. Some fallen names are remembered only in night time songs danced by the roaring fire as proud warriors jump high into the star night with their shields, each painted with large yellow eyes to challenge the lion's courage in battle.
Warrior's bodies and bones are left in the tall bloodied grasses. No fallen Masai is returned for burial but left to the victor as payment. To break the land and ground even for burial is considered insulting to Ngai, for it alone brings forth the sacred grasses that feed the cattle and this Devine Land belongs only to God. No other work but tending cattle is deemed worthy of a man, any other task beneath him.
Matthew had woken up early that morning, cramped muscles and high headache a testament to a sleepless night, his bunk and mosquito net canopy totally dishevelled from his endless rolling. Even the full moon radiating outside his open window had not dimmed his mind enough to fall into the endless sleep of the innocent.
No victorious dreams of rugby victories played on green fields on the slopes of fabled Table Mountain. The esteemed and privileged Diocesan College (est. 1849) or commonly known as Bishops Boys High School had a long and envious track record, beating their Anglican scholastic rivals and winning their school's divisions', the Lord Alderbury Cup, a record third consecutive time this last year to the great delight of all the school's board of notable trustees.
This was his fourth time Matthew had ventured north with his father. Up for the summer holidays, an exciting yet sometimes turbulent flight north on his uncle's invitation to his large sprawling farm outside the broad, thickly forested bend of the winding Talek River, bordering the Masai Mara National Reserve named the Blue Barn.
"Oh God it hurts, oh God make it stop!" Matthew curled up holding the blood soaked bandanna tightly and drawing his knees up towards his chest, as much to stop the blood and pain as to hide his shame. The fierce impact had not only wounded him but the sudden pain and jarred collision with the hard red earth after his uncle had thrown his sideways had loosened his bladder and frightened bowls. The wet stain and putrid aroma now evident to those close by.
"Matthew, hang on, we are going to get help, stay there and try and relax. The more you move the more it will hurt" Jeremy tried to gently stoke his arm and brush his hair to comfort him but beneath his calm exterior, he was bloody mad.
He had spent considerable time with his favorite young nephew, target practicing on the flat and open side of the farm. There wasn't a rusted tin can within a few miles that was not riddled with the efforts of his last birthday present. His aunt Claire had been adamant that Matthew was far too young to have his own rifle and be out hunting without adult supervision of some kind. Young men went off rushing, hot blood in their veins, over ready to prove themselves that they were grown men, eager for the hunt. This misdirected bravery was always a recipe for mishap. Some of the young hunters returned home with bloodied foot or arm, bandaged with gin soaked cloth after a careless step or tree branch fired their well oiled rifles.
A few never returned.
Young Nichol's son from the next farm, home from local boarding school and eager to test out his two-week furlough. They found his body by the tall grove on the eastern hills, a favorite stalking ground for the local young bronzed hunters, plenty of deep bush to hide their eagerness for success. A missed step had caused him to fall and his cherished rifle was found beneath his sprawled and broken body. It had torn a bloody hole in him, up from below his rib cage. Lying there in the hot African sun, he had quietly bled to death. The blue flies had watched his young dreams spill to the earth, until there was only bitter silence.
It had broken Nichols' wife Mary in terrible grief. She had aged a decade in the year since they had lowered his washed body into the cold ground by the family cemetery. She spent most afternoons now by the old grey trees that lined the family plot, tending to the settled ground as diligently as she had her home garden that now lay overgrown, untendered and unloved. Gone were the fresh scents of spice and fresh herbs, bright colours and deep greens around the farm. Only buffalo grass and long thorns ringed the farmhouse that now lay in silence. Nichols himself spent more time riding to the corners of his farm overseeing details that were never there, a gin bottle in his leather pouch as he rode to quench a parched and wounded heart that would not heal.
Matthew spent endless evenings when he was up from the Cape, firing the smaller sized .30-06. These did not require large shoulder strength to bring them to bear, unlike the more formidable big bore guns that were famous throughout the former empire. These larger guns had done their jobs with distinction, quelling both local rebellions and bringing down the most stubborn of the big five, elephant, buffalo, lion, rhino and leopard. These were the ultimate trophies of Africa, for both native and especially the white man. He liked his trophies close to his evening fire; to warm him when creeping age would sap his strength and muscle, the fire in his belly replaced with faint distant memories of his youthful sexual prowess, of victories and bitter defeats.
On cooler evenings, after an outdoor cookout by the wide side veranda, marinated venison would slowly be turned by a trusted farm hand on a well stoked wood fire, while fresh vegetables from the house garden graced the dinning room table; the finest vintage Cape wines smoothed any velvet palate and added to the long evening hours as friendly smiles and refilled red wine glasses illuminated successful hunts past the boundaries of their actual events.
Hot headed, temperamental and fickle as a new bride at an Italian wedding, Cape buffalo were a natural lore of the Bauldwin family. The first huge beast, a battle scared old bastard with torn ears, deeply curved horns and with a formidable attitude was brought down with billowing blue smoke from a newly acquired .500 with the family name custom engraved with Renaissance scroll from Europe. It was a gift for the new adventurers as they left family and hearth. The first time the wagons and decommissioned war trucks, laden with family crystal and bone China from the home had come to where the Blue Barn would be built, the buffalo had stood on the exact site where the house was to be raised. Refusing to budge or give ground the buffalo determined it owned, the result was months of well cured meat and an almost record set of horns overlooking a later to be built stone fireplace that was the centrepiece of the large Bauldwin family room where many a visitor enjoyed an evening of Brandy or Pink Gin in polished crystal. Deeply scented cigars and long leather riding boots tucked into even deeper old chairs, a testament to a successful day's hunt.Big guns and billowing blue smoke the staple diet of all who loved and feared the land.
Now Matthew lay in a pool of dark blood, shivering from shock, whimpering silent prayers for mother and God, eyes brimming with cold tears and shame. This hotheaded rhino had come with such speed, bellowing loud and long as it charged. Matthew had raised his trusted .30-06, looked down the long barrel and had frozen in fear. Grown men were known to have done the same, so it was no shame to a thirteen year old.
His uncle Jeremy had been standing too close to a tall acacia tree. With thick heavy bush all around them, he could not swing his own long bore rifle around in time to fall the beast and had watched in desperate horror as it bore down on Matthew and seen the young boy unable to fire, stiff fingers cocked on the curved trigger unable to move. It was all he could to side step and shove Matthew hard to his right, away from certain gored death. Time then to bring up his own rifle and fire point blank into the enraged animal as it charged past. The rhino had thundered and bellowed a few steps, then with its great horn lowered it had finally plowed a furrow into the deep ground and had gone to shuddering sleep as raining dust covered them all. Its short black tail flickered for a moment as if to brush away an irritating fly and then was still.
Jeremy had run to the sprawled boy lying by the side of the trail hoping to be relieved that the huge dark beast had missed his mark. The withering boy clutching his lower midsection had dashed his hopes and the now trickle of dark blood had chilled his own. He could see the scrape of bruised skin and direction the horn had taken up his inside leg and feared the injury all men fear. Of manhood's ripped and lost before their season had come.
Turning now in desperation, searching for Konjaru, his head African farmhand and unusual for Africa, a personal friend, such as their cultures could tolerate. A tall, well muscled man, in his late thirties, born of pure Masai blood. Jeremy had heard the whispers on the farm where most of his workers were Kikuyu, that he was descended from royal or chief's blood somewhere, but he had never asked him directly.
The Masai traditionally did not have headsman or chiefs. During the colonial period, the British had installed a number of elders as paramount chiefs over the great five clans.
Konjaru had never mentioned it so he considered the subject private. Every man keeps his secrets and Jeremy saw no reason to step over the line to satisfy his own curiosity.
Konjaru had been on their right flank, hoping to flush out a previously seen impala which had darted into the thick green and brown thorned bushes. The excitement of wild hunt only minutes past now seemed liked an eternity away.
"The dark winds have come and drawn their blood breath." Konjaru appeared from the bush and came close to the side of Matthew with ashen drawn face, flushed with excitement and dread. He had heard the great beast roar in delight as it found its tormentors with its small pink eyes that could not see but feet away. Relying more on smell, sound and experience as it found its way on the paths and cornerstones of the, the rhino had wildly charged onto them with all of his raging anger. A broken spear shaft still embedded on its rear hindquarters had left a festering ugly wound that had tormented him for days and burned his blood after fleeing a local village that had beaten their drums at him as they screamed into the night.
Konjaru saw the place of Mathew's private wound and shivered to his soul. It was the man place.
It would be time and time alone now that would tell which of the great horns belonging to the horned beast, that Matthew would inherit.
"Konjaru, find Doc Thompson on the Lambardi Estate. I heard he was coming this way, the beginning of the week from old Greavers. Claire mentioned it to me just this morning at sun up in the kitchen. Go quickly man! The boy is hurt badly." Jeremy said.
Looking directly and deeply at the stricken boy, Konjaru followed Jeremy's eyes, already black circles of fear ringing them, the bleeding dribbled no matter the pressure to stop its flow.
"Bwana!" he said in a quiet tone, hoping it would add to the seriousness of his request. "If I find this white daktari, it is a long path to this place. When I come from this other farm, young Matthew will have gone. This bleeding cut needs to be closed. It cannot wait for this white daktari.”
"What are you saying Konjaru?" Jeremy growled, "Who else can fix him, man, you are talking rubbish, Matthew needs a doctor and stitches quick. And the only doctor I know who can handle this kind of serious delicate wound is Doc Thompson, now up on the Lombardi’s Estate. Hells-bells man, stop wasting valuable time while he is laying here bleeding and get your black arse out of here as fast as you can and get the bloody help Matthew needs."
"Bwana…"-skin pricking with the stinging rebuke he had just received from a friend. Jeremy was not a typical colonial farmer like others who dotted the African landscape. He did not lord over the men tending his farmland and animals.
"Bwana, this boy's cut needs to be closed with the long thread. The white daktari - doctor is too far away. It is best for someone close, to make this blood stop coming"
"Who Konjaru, who do you know? Do you know someone who can do this? Is he experienced with animal wounds and cuts? How far away?" Jeremy had stopped for a moment. Konjaru was a friend of many years and already Jeremy was feeling ashamed at the tone spoken. His voice softened despite the urgency.
"Bwana - an old woman of great age lives by the side of this farm, past the border fence by the small river and black kloof rocks where there is an old compound. She has lived at this place for many moons, before the coming of the last great rains. The villagers and other peoples come there to be treated, but they do not stay near her mud hut, for they are afraid of her bad spirits and the many white bones that hang all outside her hut."
"They are most afraid her One Milk Eye. They believe she can see the Other World of Ancestors and Spirits with her Milk Eye. But they come to this place because she heals all people. I know she heals with thread the deep cuts that can come."
"Manga, my wife's sister's son, had gone to her place when he had fallen from a tree and the white bones broke and came through the skin of his leg. This old woman fixed this leg with sticks then tied the skin together with threads. The leg is good now, and he watches the cows and goats like the other boys of the village. He is walking strong like a man.”
"Konjaru - how far is this place? I don't recognise where you are talking about. Have I seen it before?" Jeremy asked, quickly trying to remember the entire out rock regions of his vast farm.
This one was not familiar. It had been many years since he had ridden to all the far corners of the farm and beyond its territory. Some places were so inhospitable and hard to reach, he had not bothered for some time. What did not come into his everyday life was lost in the details of the common day and forgotten.
A faint memory of an old compound with broken mud walls and silent fire pits wafted through his mind, but was gone as smoke. Home now to grey haired baboons and long tailed jackals, no one had bothered for years to check. The land there not good for anything. Even the rocks lining up to reach the sky were stunted and worn with trying. Hot from the red sun they offered no rest to animal or man. The small stream running through it feeding the lizards and scorpions that baked in the sun.
"Konjaru - how far is it from here? Can you run to find her? On the other hand, better still, go back to the house, ride there and bring her here." Jeremy in the long run had to concede.
Time was a factor and the boy was looking pale and beginning to shiver from shock. Jeremy was a long believer of
He had seen enough in his day not to underestimate the power and superstition that was
With only the certainty that they had been singled out for death by these spirit men and women of
"Bwana - it is not far. It would be better if we take Mathew to her, for she does not come to the people or leave her place of fire and bones.” Konjaru said.
"If she knows what is good for her, tell her to come and bring her bag of tricks. Now!" Jeremy turned his attention to Matthew who was by now pale and whimpering quietly, white teeth clenched and body ridged with pain. Jeremy gently touched the wounded area, pulling back the wet cloth, the trickle of blood cooling in the sand.
"She will not come." Konjaru said with a resigned sigh. "We must take Mathew there for her to see him. She will not come to us at this place" Konjaru knew now that Mathew's life hung in the balance.
"Bwana, this is not the time to fight on this thing. Time moves away from us. We can carry Matthew between us, back to this place," he said.
"It is not far!"
Jeremy knew distance was not a factor in how Konjaru judged the length of a journey. It was the open terrain and strength of a man crossing the land on which he measured time. For him to say it was not far meant between them, it could be only a few miles or a bit longer.
"Can we reach her place without harming Matthew?" Jeremy asked. Now he was looking right at Konjaru, lines drawn tightly between his eyes.
Once does not bring home the body of your younger brother's son in a pine box. These are wounds not ever healed no matter what the blood bonds are between men. Better to die yourself in trying to save him than to return empty handed without another man's son.
"If we find two good long sticks, we can carry him with us." Konjaru was already off searching for what was needed in the bush. Drawn panga or machete in hand, he chopped at the bush. The khaki short sleeve shirts of farmers are tough and durable. Tie the buttons together firmly, of both his and Jeremy's shirt and feed the poles through the body; they formed a perfect stretcher for the bush.
He had returned a few minutes later, poles carried easily, his shirt already off in preparation for their journey. In minutes they had prepared the stretcher and placed it beside Matthew. Together they took his small body and placed him gently on the shirts between the poles. A moment they locked eyes and held them there. This was a run for life and each man knew, to lay down his burden would cost a life.
"We must run like the wind, without touching the land and trees." Konjaru spoke in low tones. The challenge was there as men, There would be no stopping. They would leave their rifles by a tree. Carrying them would slow them down, taking their wind. They would have to return later with the Land Rover and collect them. Even their water bottles were to be left behind. This was going to be a run for life.
As one, they reached down, held the ends of the rough poles and picked Matthew off the dry earth. He murmured softly but he was already in another world where the pain could not find him.
"OK Konjaru, lead the way.” Konjaru would walk in front as they began to find each other's rhythm. The paths were crooked, trees and small shrubs tugged at them. Rocks strewn and old tree logs ripped apart by elephants now became the enemy.
Tanned white and black skins begun to glisten with sweat. Lungs began to blow as bellows, hungry veins seeking oxygen and strength. First a half mile, then a mile, the terrain began to thin out, less bush and more open land. The gnarled trees were left behind as they pressed on.
By now they had found their pace. At times a slow walk, picking their way through the maze of dense bush and thorn trees, or, finding an open area, they would jog gently without spilling Matthew to the ground. The land began to rise beneath their feet. Slowly, they were approaching a higher area, scarred with sun burnt old rocks that touched the sky.
Jeremy could feel his arms bursting now. His palms had already given way to open blisters, blood warming his hands as he held onto the bark encrusted poles. His heavy shoes, perfect for farmers land had weakened his stride but he dared not remove them. The stones and rocks would have flayed his feet in the first mile and left him bleeding and useless. Back muscles stretched, rippled and boiled by the sun, they continued through the pain.
Konjaru, although lighter shod that Jeremy fared little better. As head man on the farm and close friend of Jeremy he had enjoyed special status. Earning more money than the average African in
Many a night as he changed huts to sample from one wife to another their sweet delights, he thought of the white man's ways on how he limited himself to one wife's pleasure. Why would a man choose to have less of a good and wonderful thing? When one wife is visiting her red moon, you can find another and satisfy your dreams of hunger.
Look at a white man and know when he is not in a good place. His wife has turned him away from her sleeping mat. Blood left boiling makes a man angry and sullen.
Sweat was pouring down his black back and forearms. Drops of perspiration now clouded and dribbled into his yes and made clear vision difficult. Powerless to wipe the drops away, he plodded on.
"How much longer" Jeremy said between gritted teeth. The run had as he expected been longer than "close.” He knew he could not go for much longer. Digging deeply, they both drew for reserves they knew they did not possess.
At the end of his farm, past the outer territory in a sun burned rocky outcrop and surroundings unfamiliar to them both, they ran with a wounded boy to find an old woman who could stave off death for a young boy. There was no turning back now. Matthew would not make the return trip.
Doc Thompson and the white man's medicine, of sulphur, penicillin, sterilized gauze, bright operating theatres and wards filled with clean beds, tight hospital corners and doting matrons walking on the corridors in their white stiffly starched uniforms of their respective missions, was no longer an option for Matthew.
This partially blind old woman of Africa, was their only hope.
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