I Am Marcus Fox Read online

  Relentless upward air forced my eyes open and my body hit sky. All the world was a swirling cosmos of blue white blue white blue. The wind spiraled me out of control. It plastered against my face and ran up my tiny legs. Falling. Tumbling. Falling. This was it. The end of my short-lived life.

  In a way, it was fitting. I was born midair, I was going to die midair. I honestly thought my racing heart would explode before I ever crashed to Earth. It felt like it was beating on the outside of my chest. I dared a glance down. Nope, no heart flying beneath me. This was both good news and bad. It seemed as though I was actually going to survive the incredible fall just to die on impact.

  But my heart, my heart my heart! I reached down to feel its uncontrollable beat, and that’s when I discovered the pull-cord. My hand was on it. Pull it or die, I thought. But then my arms flailed outward again as I just narrowly missed hitting a flock of birds. The unfamiliar species flew onward as if I was of no significance. And I wasn’t. Never was.

  Water. There was water! It was close. Death was in my sights. My body took another unexpected somersault and I caught a last glimpse of that Cessna flying away.

  I sent them a silent curse and my body flipped again to see that the water below was raging. I ripped the cord. WHOOSH. The parachute opened and jerked me backward and upward. I lost my breath. My lungs sucker punched my ribs and my gut swallowed my heart as I struggled to inhale. At last it came, and I had one, maybe two seconds of painful peace. The open parachute yanked me upright so that my legs dangled in their rightful position. I braced for impact as I had my last thought between death’s two plains: I don’t know how to swim.

  SHOOM.

  I plunged into warm, rushing waters and held my breath as I tried to climb an invisible ladder to where I hoped the surface might be. Not too far above, I saw the shape of my parachute blocking out the sun. I climbed for it. I climbed with all my might! But I was choking. Was dying! I surfaced. I gasped for air and fell back under again. I bobbed there for I don’t know how long, caught in my half-submerged parachute. I struggled. I clawed. I ripped myself clear and pulled myself up again. One horrible breath. Under again. Surface. Air. Under. I climbed. Climbed. Surface. Air. Under. What was the point?

  “Do it!” some inner life force demanded. But I was weak and it was hopeless. I let go. I let everything go. I committed myself to drowning. I closed my eyes and sank to my death.

  But, of course, I did not die. I told you, I never die. Also, I’m here so that’s proof positive. I did, however, lose consciousness.

  The next time sunlight stroked my face, someone or some thing was carrying me, swimming me to shore. The arm around my fragile body was massive and black. I sucked for air. Couldn’t find it. Choked on swallowed water. Then at last inhaled. It was a short breath but it filled me and I coughed and coughed.

  “Devil current,” a deep, masculine voice bellowed. My savior, whoever he was, was fighting to save both our lives. He pulled with one arm and held me up by the other. We were making little progress as far as I could tell. There was nothing I could do. My fate was in his hands. From either shock, fear, adventure, or lack of oxygen, I went limp and passed out again.

  SLAP.

  “Boy!”

  SLAP.

  With effort, I lifted my head from the solid ground it lay upon and threw up. I fell forward into my own puke. Through the mess, I could feel the hot earth against my cheek.

  “Good. You are awake, angel boy! Welcome to this world!”

  I lay there for a moment, then rolled onto my back and looked up into the face of my savior. He was but a large silhouette, painted by the sun.

  “God has answered our prayers! Oh blessed day!”

  He grabbed hold of me and clung me to his chest. His sweat smelled of sweet danger, like hot gunmetal in a late afternoon greenhouse firefight. After just learning how to breathe again, his clutch was too much. He realized he was hurting me and released me from his bear hug.

  “Are you all right, my son?” he asked. I took in my new surroundings. Nothing was familiar. The trees, the heat, the river …

  “We must go to Shandra-Namba. Oh, she will kiss your feet!” He looked me up and down. I was covered in a disgusting mess of my own making. “But first, we must make you clean.”

  He led me back to the edge of the river, where he proceeded to splash water on my face and body. And then, as he purified my skin with the healing power of the river, I experienced my first-ever epiphany.

  “They’re gone,” I said. And my savior continued to wash me. “I’m free.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, my son! We are all free. It is glorious, is it not?”

  I broke down and cried. Six years of negligence and terror flowed out of me. I wailed like a baby in a giant’s arms.

  “Cry, child, cry. Go ahead and cry.”

  And I did. And I did. And I did.

  There, I was reborn. Right there on the bank of the Zambezi River, I became a real boy.

  CHAPTER

  2

  This was Zambia — Zambia, Africa.

  The giant who pulled me from the Zambezi River called himself Shumbuto, because that was his name. He was naked, save for a shredded cloth tied around his waist. The purpose of this meager covering was lost on me, as his penis openly bounced to and fro between his legs as he walked.

  Shumbuto carried a blade that was bigger than my entire body. When he strayed from the river’s edge, quick swipes at encroaching vegetation allowed him to forge a new path. Pesky shrubs and dainty ferns crumpled at his feet. As the angry flow of the Zambezi faded into the distance, the trees grew much taller, their upper branches forming a broken canopy far above my head. The holy ceiling provided long slivers of shade as we walked. Clearly, this Africa was in a universe unto its own, far removed from Texas.

  Shumbuto talked on and on, offering an impromptu tour of my strange, new whereabouts, though he kept getting sidetracked by the happiness in his heart (his words).

  “You do not know how long we have prayed for a son,” he rejoiced. Though he spoke about me, he wasn’t speaking to me. On that first walk, he was preoccupied with reconciling his thoughts. The few times he considered me at all were to verify that I was still there, following his fast footsteps and not, in fact, just some teasing dream.

  “… and this is where I killed the mighty …”

  “… and this spot is halfway to …”

  “… and here is a good spot for sitting in rain …”

  “… and this is a lizard. Hello, lizard!”

  The canopy parted, unveiling a noonday sky. The spongy grass under our feet turned from soft green to firm yellow to hard brown in mere steps. A few more and it disappeared completely — burned away by the harsh sun. Until now, I’d been so immersed in the unfamiliar spectacle of nature that I’d barely registered the loss of my shoes. They, along with my troubled past, belonged to the Zambezi now. Godspeed.

  “Come, boy. We are almost to our home.”

  Home. It was a word I never knew. Not to get overly sentimental, but the idea of an actual home had always been a fantasy to me. A home was something that only good boys and girls were allowed. Somewhere deep down, I knew that couldn’t be true. It was just one of Billy’s many lies. Probably. Maybe.

  Up ahead, sitting in a nowhere land of dirt and sun, there was a single small hut, held together by tree limbs, stones, and hardened mud. It had no physical door in the American sense — no hinges, knob, or even a frame to justify such things.

  “Here. We are here! Shandra-Namba! Come!”

  Shumbuto bent his bulk down and disappeared through a medium-sized hole in the curvature of the wall. I stood outside, patiently wavering, expecting to collapse. The heat, exhaustion, detoxification, likely starvation, dehydration, and probable shock were getting to me.

  “She is out.” He emerged disappointed. “She will return soon. Come!” He beckoned me. “Come, you are welcome!”

  Inside Shumbuto’s hut there was nothing. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. There was a blanket made of some animal’s golden fur draped across the ground, a clay pitcher in one corner, and a wood stool in another.

  When it struck Shumbuto that he did not know my name, he asked it of me.

  “Marcus,” I croaked. My mouth was dry. Parched. Swollen. Dirt. Shumbuto handed me the pitcher, and from it I drank the purest water I’d ever known.

  “Marcus,” he repeated, chewing on my nomenclature. “You have a good name. What does it mean?”

  “What does it mean?” I repeated. “Nothing, I don’t think.”

  “No!” Shumbuto stood taller than before and struck his chest with a proud, tight fist. “All names have meaning. I am Shumbuto. My name means ‘peace by blood.’ I wear it well. It is who I am.”

  “Peace by blood,” I repeated.

  “In time, you will learn our ways. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  He led me back to the entrance with his strong, protective, life-saving arm around my shoulder.

  “Everything I have is yours,” he said as he swept his free hand in a high arc to indicate his vast empire of wind. “I am your father now.”

  I stood there in the doorway, believing in impossibilities.

  “Come, rest,” Shumbuto said. “You have traveled far. You must sleep.”

  I lay down. The ground was uncomfortable for a few minutes, but then the soft fur of the blanket took hold. I surrendered myself to sleep, soothed by Shumbuto’s heavy breathing. My savior was taking his own well-earned nap. I drifted as he drifted.

  In my dreams, I saw the faces of Billy and Calliope as I’d always wished they could be: shining, full of love, and happy. “You will grow into your name, boy. By your manhood, it will define you,” my ex-parents whispered in tandem, in Shumbuto’s voice.

  I slept the sleep of gods and wallabies. When I woke, Shumbuto was gone and someone new was observing me from the stool in the corner.

  “Hello, Marcus. I am Shandra-Namba. You have come to us, just as we have known you would. Yet, you are somewhat younger than we expected.”

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My hands came away covered in river grime. Shandra-Namba came to me with the pitcher of water and washed my face clean with a rag. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think, or how to act, but none of it mattered because this woman seemed to know me.

  “It is all right, Marcus. Your old life is behind you now.” She shifted her weight on the stool and I caught sight of her left breast inside her flimsy tunic. Noticing me noticing it, she tucked it back, not in shame but with decorum.

  “You are weathered beyond your years. It is OK to forget,” she said. “You are hurt, lost, confused. Forget it all.”

  She hypnotized me with her kindness.

  “But …”

  But nothing. She was right. I’d lived one lifetime and was ready for the next. Everything past was preposterous. Let it fade.

  “Shumbuto thinks you are an angel sent to us by God. Let him believe what he wishes. He is a good man.”

  “What do you believe, Shanna … Sha …?”

  “Shandra-Namba. I believe in many things, Marcus. I believe in my husband. He says you fell from the sky. If he says a thing, it is true. But I also believe you are more human than angel. Shumbuto thinks that God pushed you out of his nest, intending for you to fly. He believes that because you could not, you fell to the earth, to us. And Shumbuto understands it is our duty to help you learn.”

  “Learn to fly?”

  “In a way, yes. And I believe so too. But I am more practical than Shumbuto. He is a kind soul, but sometimes, perhaps too innocent.”

  “I’m no angel,” I reflected. “I am the spawn of devils.”

  “Such big ideas for such a small child!”

  I blinked hard, fighting more tears. I would forget. I would have to.

  “It is OK, Marcus. You will learn to leave it all behind. Just as I said.”

  “But … how?”

  “Time will help. You will see. And, Marcus.” She came close and held my face in her hands. My heart swelled, and in that moment, I knew I would love her forever. “I believe in you.”

  Gently, she pulled me toward her breast and more tears came.

  “Cry, Marcus. It is good. Cry to forget, child.”

  Somewhere in the middle of it all, she kissed my cheeks. And somewhere in the middle of it all, she stroked my hair. And somewhere in the middle of it all, our unbreakable bond was formed.

  * * *

  And so, I became their son and learned their ways.

  In those first few weeks, I had many questions, the most prominent of which was why they had chosen to make their home on the harshest land around. In every direction, there was suitable forest that would be much more conducive to survival; yet that desolate patch of dead earth, that anti-oasis, was their home.

  “The harsher the land, the stronger the man,” Shumbuto preached. “Where not a weed can grow, a true man can prosper.”

  “But,” I persisted as we entered the forest path that led to the river, “why not build a hut by the water? We have to walk so far every day just to fill our pitchers!”

  “You do not enjoy the walk? How can you not? I love a good walk! It keeps me fresh and appreciative of my body. You should learn, Marcus, that you cannot have everything so easy. Life is full of hardships. You have fought many already, I am sure. But you no doubt have untold hardships yet to come. You will see. Hopefully, your struggles will make you stronger. This is the only way. The alternative is unforgivable. Weakness in a man is shameful.”

  He paused in his speech and in his stride. We were about halfway to the Zambezi. I held a bucket in each hand, while Shumbuto carried four. He was an ox of a man, as I’m sure I have already said, but his inner strength was even greater. His resolve to live on his own terms, no matter what, was a thing to be admired. I know that now.

  “I don’t understand. Why should anyone want to make their life harder than it already is?”

  “That is not my meaning. By appreciating life for its many challenges, you will be amazed when it surprises you with top rewards. Yes, that sounds accurate.”

  He sat on the ground and motioned for me to join him. “Take this path, for example.”

  I looked down the trail as far as I could see. We’d traversed this long, unlikely route back and forth twice a day since my arrival, and it never crossed my mind to think of how it came to be. I did now, and Shumbuto brightened when he saw my quizzical face poring over it.

  “Shumbuto! How has the path come to be?” I asked. Already I was beginning to speak like him.

  He was a funny man at times. He would make jokes with his eyes, as he did now. They rolled up in an innocent manner as if to say, “Surely, I have no idea.” And then his pupils darted down to the scabbard hanging from his belt (he was wearing short pants made of hemp that day). Inside that scabbard, I knew, was his blade.

  “You?” I said, surprised. “You cut this entire path? How long did it take you?” I looked up. Left. Right. The path had not merely been cut through leaves and bush, but the stalwart trees had been cleared as well! “You chopped down the trees? That must have taken forever!”

  “What is forever? I will never know. Will you?”

  As funny as he could be with his eyes and as strong as he was with his arms, Shumbuto was equally as confounding with his philosophies.

  “What you must know, Marcus, is that everything worth doing is worth doing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You are so full of questions. You will learn, in time, your own answers.”

  To this day, I often wonder if Shumbuto was a learned shaman or just a brilliant nincompoop. He would always say that each man is put on Earth for a purpose, but only a select few are wise enough to glean what that purpose is before their time comes. Furthermore, even fewer men, upon knowing their purpose, can approach it with patience, hone it into a practical skill, study it, live it, and God willing, pass it on. Shumbuto’s greatest skill, his life’s purpose and reason for existence, he said, was to hunt.

  When I would ask Shumbuto to take me on one of his hunts, his answer was always, “No, Marcus. You are far too young.”

  Shandra-Namba agreed. It was the only aspect of life that separated me from them. In every other way, they treated me as an equal.

  Each day, I helped prepare the meals. Whether dinner consisted of mushrooms and berries from a recent gathering or fresh meat from one of Shumbuto’s hunts, I would assist Shandra-Namba in the preparation. Cooking came easy to me, though that’s not saying much. All I had to do was get the fire going and toss whatever the meal was onto the metal slab. The heat did all the work. Heat and patience. The only real skill was in knowing when to turn the food. A trained monkey could do it.

  We ate meat often. Our greatest source of protein came from Shumbuto’s hunts. His excursions were, on average, biweekly. He would leave, shrouded in mystery, before the sun. At first, I slept through his exits. I was an active boy and therefore slept peacefully as Shumbuto crept out of the hut. When I awoke to find him gone, I asked Shandra-Namba of his whereabouts. She only replied, “Your father is off providing for us. He will return when his bounty is full.”

  I watched for him every daylight hour (and a few by the light of the moon). When he finally returned, he emerged from the forest with a giant sack slung over his shoulder. I rushed to greet him, dancing around him in a circle as he walked.

  “Shumbuto! What have you got there?”

  “Here, Marcus, is enough meat to fill our bellies for a full month.”

  He dropped the sack near the fire pit. There, he held Shandra-Namba in a loving embrace and kissed her in a way I’d never seen before. There were true feelings between them. Watching them like that made my arms tingle. Letting his wife go, Shumbuto lifted me up onto his shoulders. I laughed freely, as a child should, as he ran around the hut a dozen times before he stopped the game and put me down.

  He set his blade down next to his kill. I stared in awe at that incredible sack of meat. From what animal had it come and how had he killed it? Was it just one beast? It couldn’t be, could it? I imagined the corpses of a herd of buffalo within. The sack was huge!