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NOTES:
OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED
Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.
This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.
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"Baboon Mourning"
by Jacky Dowling - Hermanus, Western Cape, South Africa
Photo: A Cape Baboon in a favoured pose - eating.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jacqueline Dowling grew up in England and South Africa. Home is the Southern Cape coast, between a glorious valley filled with vines and olive groves, and a huge bay which for six months each year is a sanctuary for Southern Right whales. She has had children's stories published in the UK; her travel articles have appeared in South African newspaper supplements and Garden and Home magazine. Baboon Mourning, her first African story, is based on simian encounters of a close and frequent nature and she is presently working on a series of African themed children's books the first of which won the children's section in a national competition (2008).
COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:
1. Evocative style, but I found the descriptions of the baboon's raids overlong and occasionally confusing. There could have been more tension leading up to the ending.
2. Vividly evocative, poignant, heart-breaking, yet told with a detached eye that balanced well the views of all involved. Insightful, and very realistic in so many ways, while highlighting the realism with a fiery touch of conjecture that lifts the whole tale into something special. The shadowy pick-up truck wasn't really properly given its place or explanation and jarred somewhat because of this, and the ending might have had a
better build-up. I presume the two were connected, but that didn't come out and wasn't used to full advantage.
THE STORY:
The old baboon stretched, yawned hugely a noxious blend of halitosis and slobber into the gentle morning air, displaying a nightmare arsenal of yellow fangs. Emerging from the communal cave, he sat at the entrance absentmindedly scratching his tummy and watching a trio of dungbeetles industriously pushing and shoving a huge ball of dung. A tatty chap, his pelt a coarse grey mat, chunks missing here and there, like a motheaten rug. Leaning back against the warming rock he surveyed his domain through canny amber -coloured eyes; losing count of the summers in his long life and feeling his heart to be covered, like his body, in scruffy grey hairs . Behind him nursing females scolded their squealing infants, all his. That’s how old he was, the Alpha Male, and would probably scrub up quite well, given half a chance. Not that he needed to, mind, he was so Alpha that good looks had ceased to matter. And they all had body odours anyway, it helped keep track of wandering adolescents, and unfaithful females.
Dawn came softly to the valley that summer morning; fingers of sunlight tentatively teasing at rock faces, sweeping away the shadows of the night and breathing warmth in to caves and canyons. Across the bay lazy whale spouts fountained against the growing light, a huge fluke appeared, slapped the surface of the water desultorily, and sank beneath the waves. Whale cows lolled lazily in the troughs and swells, their small calves undulating with them in gentle balletic unison.
Before him the golf course stretched almost to the sea, his troop had been non-paying members for as long as he could remember and it remained a major source of very satisfactory loot. Scanning the houses below for any movement, he was rewarded with the sight of binbags awaiting collection, the day held great promise; it was time to get moving. He pulled himself to his full height and barked ‘Whao-gho’ – a deep throated short , hiccupping cry which echoed off the rocks and rolled along the escarpment gathering answering barks as it travelled. The mountain erupted with a canon of staccato yelps and screams. His troops mustered , a stream of grey shadows flowed down the mountain nimbly dodging bushes and trees, and spread out among the sleeping houses. First light was the best time to raid bags; dogs were still safely inside, and there was time to make a thorough examination of contents. This activity demanded a certain discipline and pecking order. The most senior member of the group had first pickings; the discarded items passed around, inspected and either thrown out or hoarded.
For a time the streets were alive with garbage flung recklessly in to gardens, roads, and patios. Furry arms windmilled through the air in choreographed mayhem. No-one bothered about the mess left behind, it was, after all, not worth further consideration, which was why they’d left it in the first place. Common sense really. And the cleaners were coming anyway……babies clambered onto mothers’ backs and rode, rodeo-style, just before the tail; a nice safe place to be. And they were away. None noticing the menacing, enraged figure following slowly in his pickup.
Breakfast time; and that meant seeking out open windows, making a dash for the kitchen, grabbing whatever food was out, and beating a hasty retreat. The Old One was lucky today, he found an unlocked house , fiddled with a window catch and clambered in. A row of jars containing sugar, muesli, jam and rusks were first in his line of fire. He pulled off the tops with an ease born of years of practice, turned out the contents and gorged himself; the empty jars dropped to the floor, where they shattered, and he moved over to the fridge for the next course. A couple of minutes’ quiet and intelligent inspection revealed eggs, butter, bread – not much of a find, but there were bananas and a papaya on top. Quite satisfactory for his immediate needs. Rootling around, he emptied a milk carton onto the floor, a grey puddle licked its way into the mess of food and glass already there and spread. Padding back through the by now considerable sludge, he knocked over the rubbish bin, strewing its contents across the disaster area. Finding a few choice bits of discarded food, he loaded up as much as he could carry, and exited, leaving great splodges of goo wherever he walked. Burglar guards ? No problem!
Up on the roof, hunkered down beside a chimney, an egg in each cheek, he peeled a banana, and waited patiently for the inevitable explosion of fury which his regular visits provoked. In future he’d come a bit earlier and have a go at the cupboards, but that took time and careful planning and a helper to carry what he couldn’t manage. His last visit had been a bit disappointing, just a roll of frozen puff pastry and a tray of raw meat; he’d unplugged the telephone and broken a bottle of sherry on the way out. Today’s haul was not bad for an early morning raid and, after all, if They left windows open, They could expect trouble. It’d been like that for years, the baboons always managing to keep a step or two ahead of current security measures. Besides, the animals had been on the mountain since time immemorial and felt quite strongly about the human invasion of their territory. It was a question of live and let live, after all.
Down on the fairways the troop loped off in small groups; young baboons chased golf balls while the elders sat around the greens in polite observational silence. Chip and putt; chip and putt – birdie on the 9th, good one. The odd bold youngster hitched a lift on the back of a golf cart, its irate driver not being in a position to argue for fear of holding up the queue. And they moved on to the 10th tee via Halfway House. This required taking up positions of surveillance, from a safe distance but not too far away, to be able to leap into action at a moment’s notice. The Old One jumped onto the roof and took up his station, the daily Battle of the Sandwiches and Pies was about to commence. This required serious concentration, anticipation and orchestration. The Rules of Engagement practised and understood. Soon enough the window opened and a head popped out , had a quick look around for any signs of non-humanoid life and , satisfied, the owner stepped outside the back door and surreptitiously lit a forbidden cigarette, keeping it cupped in his hand. So focussed on his illicit activity was he , with his head well down and dragging at the butt in short hungry gasps, that he failed to notice the creeping tide of furry grey bodies approaching from all sides.
As one, the troop descended in swift and total silence. Cling-wrapped plates of sandwiches and pies passed rapidly from hand to hand, and disappeared into the undergrowth. Up on the roof the Old One had his own selection of goodies delivered, which he ate with less gusto than normal, owing to the rather solid foundation of cereal weighing heavy in his gut. Chaos broke out below at the end of the smoke break. Great shouting and beating around with sticks, threats and more threats and swearing, then silence, and a hangdog walk back to the clubhouse for emergency replacements. Really, the Old One mused, you’d think They’d know by now what to expect, the troop’s daily visit was a given and They still hadn’t done anything about securing the premises. Silly, if you thought about it. And he descended lithely to join his troop, having a little scratch on the way down and assessing the terrain with a somewhat cynical mien.
Lunch over, and having no further interest in chasing golf balls or riding the carts, the baboons moved off to forage for fruit and berries in the nearby nature reserve. A mountain fire early in the year had decimated almost all their natural food sources, and the daily intake required more and more time and energy. Grape and deciduous fruit harvests were in, the vines and trees bare, so they had to move further afield each day to assuage their growing hunger. Today, however, was different. It was Festival Week and that, happily, meant a vast amount of food would be available – by stealth, not request. Probably.
The Old One stole up to the open door of the Reserve’s kitchen; hands on the frame, poised for flight, he peered in and assessed the situation; mentally marking the most promising spots to raid. Women in aprons dashed about with plates of cakes, scones and sandwiches. Great mounds of bread and fillings adorned trestle tables, while cakes and tarts gleamed sticky and inviting.. His presence unremarked, he quietly allocated tasks to the most mobile members of the troop. Soon enough there was a most satisfactory mound of edible goods dumped behind a large protea bush, far enough away to be safe. Pick of the crop was the splendid Black Forest cake which had been raffled each day, and was about to be given to a lucky winner. Wrapping was ripped off plates and flung into bushes, the cake torn apart by eager hands, and devoured. A troop of somnolent baboons, heavy with the fruits of their labours, curled up on warm rocks and slept. The Old One found a comfy dustbin lid, where, hands behind his head and legs crossed, he drifted off in to a relaxed post prandial sleep.
As the sun slipped behind the mountain, baboons began to stir and make their way home. A brilliantly marked Puffadder, bloated and lethargic after a day’s hunting, slid with a sluggish sibilance through the dust and scrub, golden scales sparking late sunbeams as it moved. A sound of dry leaves rustling hovered through its convoluted trail. The Old One followed at a distance, a solitary and slow-moving grey spectre loping across the sandy slopes, rounding up his charges. He’d had a most fulfilling and satisfactory day; the troop were sated, well disciplined with no apparent fight for succession brewing; all in all life was pretty good.
A single shot echoed off the crags. In the silence that followed, a pathetic huddle of collapsed fur and bone lay twitching in the sand. He was a tatty chap, his pelt a coarse grey mat, chunks missing here and there, like a moth-eaten rug. One wizened black hand lay slack across his muzzle, his puzzled, hurt eyes clouding over as life drained away in to the hot seaside dust. His lips were smeared with chocolate icing. The Old One’s grey furry heart shuddered, and was still.
Copyright (c) 2009 by Jacky Dowling - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
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