The Antbear Cabin

Elana Bregin

Description

The stories in this collection span a time period from 2003 to almost 2023. They are offered as my witness to the planetary moment I�ve been part of, the continent of Africa that I was born on, and the difficult country that formed me. They reflect the changing times, contexts and concerns that have engrossed and troubled me. The golden thread that binds their disparate voices and themes together is my own lifelong wresting with the deep questions of our bipolar human journal of a wobbling planet. Elana Bregin is a fiction writer. Her books include Survival Training for Lonely Hearts, Shiva�s Dance and The Slayer of Shadows.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Elana Bregin Wobblingearth
• Date de parution: 25 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780620847803
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

The Antbear Cabin

Elana Bregin

P u b l i s h e d i n 2 0 2 1 b y Em a i l : e l a n a . b r e g i n @ g m a i l . c o m ISBN: 978- 0- 620- 84779- 7 © E l a n a B r e g i n All ri ght s reserved . No part of t hi s publ icat ion may be reproduced or t r ansmit t ed in any fo rm o r by any means, elect ron i c or mechanical, inc ludi ng phot ocopying, recor din g or any info rmat ion st orage and ret rieva l, wi t hout prior permis sion i n writ ing f rom Elana Bre gin. C o v e r b y M D e s i g n

T y p e s e t i n G a r a m o n d 1 2 p t

This book is dedicated to all the many displaced people of Congo and other conflict zones, in their search for home and wholeness.

Special thanks to the following people:

Kim Ward, whose unstinting support and encouragement has been invaluable on this and other writing journeys.

Liz Thomson, who knows the art of silent walking in mountains.

Sue Winchester, for light on the voyage. Gudrun Hebel, for recognising the worth in this story and her willingness to take it on.

Chrisi and Louis van Loon, for the incomparable BRC space that has inspired so many profound and joyful moments.

And to Patrick Tumone, for his invaluable assistance with verifying Congo references in this book.

CHAPTER 1 e was in the giant forests of Ituri, gliding through H them with the river pygmies. Small brown men in animal-hide loincloths, who moved through the dense vegetation with hardly a trace; the thin line of their passage detectable only to the animals, their progress virtually soundless, save for the occasional soft snapping of a twig or stem being bent to signpost the way back. They were pleased with him because he, too, made no noise. He knew how to place his feet softly as they did, to angle his body sideways so that it slipped between the close tree stems without resistance. It made him happy to be walking here again, one with this forest world and its rich profusion of life.  A shy Okapi antelope with striped hindquarters stepped out of the tree cover and slid back in again. Other forest animals took its place, pausing to look at him without fear before drifting away into the trees. There was the sound of water ahead; they had come to the river Loya. A wooden dugout was drifting in its centre. He saw that his mother was in it. She wore the bright batik cloth that he liked so much: yellow zebras

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with red manes on a background of royal blue. Her hair was plaited into the knotted antennae bumps that was the Congo style. ‘Emanuel,’ she called to him. ‘Come in the pirogue with me. Jump into the water.’  He did as she said, but the river carried him swiftly away from her. He twisted round to look and saw that she was smiling. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait here for you,’ she called. The river’s current was strong, ferrying him rapidly. He was passing through familiar scenery. The smoking volcano crater of Nyiragongo on his left, still wearing the ash crown from its recent eruption. The familiar three peaks behind it: Visoki, Karisimbi, Mekano. The forest kept pace with him, tall comba-comba trees spreading their digit leaves to the sky. Inside the green gloom, he could see the shaggy mounds of banana-leaf huts that the Mbuti pygmies made. These gave way to the wattle-and-daub rectangles of the forest people. More scenes unfolded rapidly behind his eyelids: banana plantations; terraced rows of giant, elephant-eared manioc; a large market place in a clearing of baked earth, displaying maize, yams, beans, pawpaws and other foods. He was surprised to see such plenty. He realised this was the place of before. In the time of peace. When

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E L A N A B R E G I N people still could plant, harvest and live off the land as they used to.  In front of him were the Rwenzori Mountains. He tensed his muscles and in one bound was out of the river, climbing effortlessly up the side of the mountain, through vegetation even denser than in the forest; not trees so much as broad-leafed plants, making walls of green on every side, shut in by the low grey cloud cover. Such quiet in this green gloom. No birdcalls. No insect noises. Only the bobbing of leaves as the faint breeze reached through the humid stillness. He sat down on the hillside, gazing out over the far plains below him that stretched to the rim of mountains beyond.  The jungle behind him shook suddenly; he turned his head to see what would emerge, fear moving in him for the first time. Out of the close thickets of stems and leaves a large black shape emerged: a big male gorilla. It came swaying towards him on knuckled hands and sat down next to him. He felt no fear. They looked out together over the jungle slopes, across the blue plains that carried the darkness of cloud shadow on their undulating surfaces, the peace of brothers between them. He woke to concrete, unable to breathe. There was an arm locked around his throat. Another set of hands

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wrestled with his feet. He couldn’t move, even to reach for his knife, hidden in its secret seam on the inside of his trouser leg. The hands invaded his pockets. There was nothing to find. They slapped his head in punishment. Might have done worse, but for the roar that interrupted them. A big, bearded bear of a man came lumbering out of a shop-front recess, shaking his knobkerrie. Emanuel’s attackers scattered, taking his shoes with them.  His rescuer stood looking down at him. ‘ ? You are alright, my child?’ Lungile ngane Emanuel nodded but couldn’t answer. He under- stood, but didn’t yet speak, the languages of this place. That was part of what made him easy prey.

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CHAPTER 2 aturday was always a slow-starting day in Hillcrest’s S centre. The main street took its time waking up. It was still early and the shops weren’t open yet, only a small pack of cyclists disturbing the swirling litter with their passage. A single sleepy hawker was huddled against the brick support of a pavement wall, waiting to set up her trestle-table shop of sweets and fruit for the taxi commuters. Later, the Old Main Road would regain its popularity, traffic of all kinds flowing along the ten- block shopping stretch: smart SUVs with license plates made up of words, not numbers; gleaming sedans along- side older versions that had seen better days; minibus taxis stopping at random to pick up signalling passengers, queues of resigned motorists at a standstill behind them.  Outside the guarded perimeters of the shopping centres, foot entrepreneurs conducted their business of the street. Hawkers and hopers of all kinds, walking the well-trodden routes between the traffic lanes, tempting the closed car windows to open, hoping for a quick sale before the lights changed: home-sewn shoe bags and

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