Читать книгу The Boy and the Poacher's Moon - Pamela Newham - Страница 9

The boy woke. The ground was hard, and something sharp was digging into his side. He moved slowly, stretching his arms and legs. The sun was already high. He heard the rasp of a match, and he breathed in the pungent smell of dagga.

Moamba was talking to Lebadi. He always spoke in English because the boy and the man with the scar did not understand the language he spoke in Mozambique. The boy raised himself onto his elbow so he could hear what was being said.

“That mhlungu. He is not happy.” Moamba had been talking on his cellphone. He stuffed it into his pocket. “He says we have to find the one we did not get last night. He says the order is for two.” He spat in the dust.

Lebadi shook his head. “The tshukudu will have moved.”

Moamba shrugged. “They won’t have gone too far, but the SANParks people will be out there. And the others who also want what we want.”

The boy lay back and stared at the marula leaves above him. When the tree was heavy with fruit, the elephants would come. They loved the fruit of the marula.

He thought about what Moamba had said. He must have been speaking to the big boss again. It was not good. If they did not get back today, he knew his grandmother would be worried.

He closed his eyes and wished it was over. Not just today, but all of it. He wanted to be back in the small hut with his grandmother and sisters. He wished he had never met Moamba.

“It will be easy work. In and out,” he had told the boy the first time they met. “No problem.”

The boy was not stupid. He had known from the beginning what the ex-soldiers who came across the border were doing. But it had been hard to say no to the money. That was what kept him here. That and the fear of what these men might do to him and his family. The money allowed his grandmother to buy pap and bread, sometimes chicken. Even though, when she took the cash, she never looked at him. Just went, “Aaai, aaai, aaai,” and stuffed it into her blouse.

“Moshanyana,” Moamba called, and the boy scrambled to his feet. “Get the things together. It is time to go.” He nodded in the direction of the hidden sack buried under the ground. “We will leave that here and come back for it later.”

The boy put the empty bottle into his backpack. When they passed the river, he would fill the bottle again. He took the empty tins and buried them with the stompies from the men’s zols. He knew he must not leave anything for the SANParks staff to find. “That is how they track us,” Moamba had said.

Moamba slung the hunting rifle over his shoulder. He checked his belt for his knife. The boy picked up the axe.

They were on the move again.