White Dog Fell from the Sky - By Eleanor Morse Page 0,41

table, got up, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. The first issue of Botswana Notes and Records was on the bedside table. Her boss from the Ministry of Local Government and Lands had asked her to have a look at it before she completed the position paper on land use and the San people. She checked the table of contents and turned to an article about the hunting practices of the !Kung San. When a man is ready to hunt, she read, he smears a nerve toxin from the pupae of a small beetle along the upper shaft and point of an arrow, which is then wound with sinew and hardened over a fire; if he nicks himself with the poisoned arrow tip, he dies.

The San hunt in pairs. They position themselves downwind from the herd and choose an animal. The stalker moves forward while the other man watches and gives hand signals. When the stalker is within fifteen meters or so, he rises and shoots an arrow into the animal’s stomach. Depending on the freshness of the poison, it can take one to three days for an animal to die. The hunters see by the spoor when the animal is weakening. A gemsbok will grow sick unto death, stagger, and fall to its knees.

She lay the article facedown on her chest. Once, she’d held a Bushman arrow in her hands. The husband/wife anthropologist couple in Lobatse had showed her the arrow. Its head was made of fencing wire, pounded flat, the shaft was made of reed, the haft about ten centimeters long. A bone joint fit into the shaft and was bound with sinew to the head. It was very light, a thing of beauty.

She’d drafted this paper about land use, knowing far too little. Because she had a degree, because she could put words down on paper, she was helping to make decisions about people’s lives she knew next to nothing about. Of what possible benefit were her words to them?

She called Horse once more. Magoo, who thought it was a call to a second supper, rushed in from the garden. She went back to bed and turned the page to another article, about the great Sechele, chief of the Bakwena, who was born in the early 1800s. She read about how Sechele’s father had been murdered by his half brother, Moruakgomo, a villainously ambitious man. Moruakgomo had also murdered his half-witted brother, Segokotlo, his last obstacle to power. The brothers went out in the bush together, and Moruakgomo told his simple-minded brother that they were going to pray for locusts to come so their people would not die of hunger. “Here,” said Moruakgomo. “Here is where the gods live.” Poor Segokotlo bent down to put his head into a fresh ant bear hole, and Moruakgomo cut off his head with a hand axe.

Power and cruelty. Cruelty and power. The same old story. She turned off the light and lay there. In the darkness, tiny soft footsteps fell on the floor, closer, closer. She knew the sound, but somehow the steps filled her with dread. Mr. Magoo jumped on the bed and stood on her stomach, his eyes staring into the dark like a haunt. “Where’s Horse?” she asked. He rubbed his chin on hers and purred, his paws imprinting her throat and chest.

17

The next day, Muriel stopped by to ask how she was doing and to invite her to Thanksgiving dinner that night. “We’re having a few people over. Just a spur of the moment thing.”

She pictured herself there solo, wearing some brave little festive outfit, surrounded by couples. “Thanks, dearie, but I think I won’t.” She wanted to tell Muriel why, but it felt too wearisome to explain. Some shred of dignity she was trying to hang onto, and she’d lose it in the process of explaining.

She left work early and drove to the co-op for food. This would be the first Thanksgiving in her life that she wouldn’t celebrate in some fashion. In the street, she ran into Hasse.

“What are you doing out of work so early?” Those eyes, full of irony and sparkle.

“I suddenly had an impulse to cook something resembling a Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’d invite you to join us, but I don’t think you’d enjoy yourself.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“How are you?”

“I’m on my own now,” she said. But he already knew. She saw it in his eyes.

“You’re okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “How about you?”

“I’m well enough,” he said. But he wasn’t, and he knew