Laugh with the Moon (17 page)

S
oon it’s too hard to make faces. Memory and I are out of breath. “I need a rest,” I say, glancing back at the beach. From here, the sunbathers look like dolls.

“I must rest as well,” Memory says.

We hand our oars to Saidi. “The expert is here,” he tells us. He’s not kidding! A fierce breeze blows through my hair, and suddenly, we’re cruising. And I’m staring. How can I not? Every time Saidi pulls back on the oars, the muscles in his biceps bulge.

Memory reaches over the side of the boat, scoops up some lake water, and splashes it onto her brother’s forehead.

By the time Saidi decides that even the rowing expert could use a break, the beach is a strip in the distance.

Innocent sleeps while I teach Saidi, Agnes, and Memory my little game. And when Agnes says, “I eight
the cake,” Memory, Saidi, and I crack up, but Agnes says, “What is funny? Do not laugh.”

“Number two student should understand,” Memory says.

“Number one student should explain in Chichewa,” Agnes replies.

So Memory explains the game in Chichewa, and when she finishes, Agnes says, “A baby game. Why must a woman such as me understand this game for babies?”

Memory and I roll our eyes. Saidi picks up the oars again, and an orange rowboat teeters into view. The people in the boat are pointing to a big rock in the shallow water near land. “What are they staring at?” I ask, when all of a sudden the rock shoots out of the water and lets out a thunderous roar. The ugly beast’s mouth is big enough to swallow us in a single bite.

I’m still shrieking when it sinks under the water again. Agnes, Memory, and Saidi laugh so hard that our rowboat wobbles, which doesn’t make me feel any better. Agnes wipes a tear from her cheek. “Do you like our—how do you say—mvuu?”

“Hip—hip—hippopotamus!” I grab on to the side of our rocking boat.

“
Mvuu
. Most dangerous animal on planet Earth,” Saidi says. “Never get more near as this.”

I gulp.

“It is a good thing we are still far,” Saidi says. “If we are close, I will be screaming with you, Clare.”

“Black mamba snake only poisons people,” Agnes says. “The hippo
eats
 …” Another rock lifts itself out of the water.

Memory gives Innocent a gentle rub on the belly. “Look, Innocent.
Mvuu!
” she says. Innocent doesn’t move. “Innocent!” When he doesn’t answer, Memory shakes him harder.

Innocent’s eyes flutter. Memory’s voice turns shrill and tight. She speaks to Saidi in Chichewa. A few seconds later, Saidi climbs to the front of the boat. He grunts and groans as he cuts the water with the oars.

Agnes leans her elbows against the edge of the boat and says something in Chichewa.

Memory grits her teeth.

Agnes turns to me. “All I say is, I do not see why we must ruin our day on the lake. Innocent is a tired boy. Nothing more.”

I tell myself maybe Agnes is right. Maybe he’s just very sleepy. But if that’s true, why are the hairs on my arms stiffer than porcupine needles? Why is a haze of sweat fogging up my skin?

When we finally near the shore by the Chomp and Chew Stop, Saidi jumps into the water. He reaches into the rowboat and grabs Innocent while Memory climbs over the edge, lowering herself into the lake and soaking her skirt.

“If your desire is to worry like old hens,” Agnes says, “you may. I will not wreck my excursion to the beach. A girl does need her sun and sand.”

I splash over the edge of our rowboat, grab my backpack off the seat, and wade to the shore.

“You shall see,” Agnes calls. “You shall see. The boy is fine. He is healthy. When you return, you shall say Agnes
is a smart girl.” Her voice fades into the sound of the birds and small waves as I climb onto the beach beneath the Chomp and Chew Stop.

After Saidi hands Innocent to Memory, he races across the sand toward a group of teenage boys who are playing a game of paddleball.

I tell Memory we better get Innocent to the hospital, to my dad.

Sand blows across the beach. “The distance is far,” she says. “We may not have time.” She presses her cheek to Innocent’s forehead. “It may be malaria,” she says.

My teeth chatter in the sudden chill. And I think,
Malaria? How can it be malaria? Doesn’t Innocent take Malarone pills like me?

We turn and watch the boys on the beach stop their game. The one with the long face points to a nearby hill. Saidi races into the Chomp and Chew Stop while I follow Memory up the sand to the road.

A few minutes later, Saidi bolts out of the restaurant toward us with a man who wears an orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt. The man looks at Innocent. “Cute little bloke,” he says, cupping his hand on the back of Innocent’s head. “I’m sure it’s nothing but a little heat fatigue. If I had a
kwacha
for every kid who comes down to Lake Malombe and passes out in the sun, I’d be a rich man.” The man shakes his shaved head. “Let me tell you something. You Africans need sunscreen every bit as much as us
azungu
, but as you like it. I’ll drive round.”

We pile into the back of the SUV, and Saidi gives directions—around the lake road, off to the right, and up a large hill. While we drive, the man chatters on about
the crowd in the Chomp and Chew Stop. “Best business of the year right now. Place is packed. Good times,” he says, and chuckles.

When we finally reach the top of the hill, Saidi instructs the driver to turn down a craggy path. “This place,” Saidi says. He points to a mountainside hut with three stalks of maize growing in the yard.

“Best of luck to you kids,” the driver says. “Now off you go.”

Memory gets out of the SUV with Innocent in her arms. Saidi leaves too. But I’m sure there’s some mistake. This isn’t where the doctor lives. “Could you wait for us?” I ask the driver. “I seriously doubt this is the right—”

“Wish I could, darlin’, but like I said, loads of customers this time of year. We’ve rented every rowboat, every moped.”

I take the bills out of my backpack and quickly count them. Four thousand Malawi
kwacha
.

“Get going now,” the man says.

“Please!” I say. “I’ll give you five hundred
kwacha
if you’ll wait for us.”

“Sorry, kid. Scoot.”

I don’t know what comes over me. “Okay, four thousand,” I say.

The man pierces me with his stare. “Serious?”

“Dead,” I say.

He looks at his watch. “Okey-dokey. Make it snappy. Name’s Derek, by the—”

I don’t have time to hear the rest. I jump out of the car and run across the dirt to join the others at the doorway of the hut.

Memory wipes a tear from her cheek. “The doctor,” she says. “He is not here.”

But a second later, a very old man with gray hair and shriveled skin appears. He looks right at me. “America?” he asks.

I nod.

He smiles a crooked smile and waves us inside the hut, where a giraffe skin is spread over the dried-mud floor. The old man instructs Memory to lay Innocent on top of it. Then he folds up an orange cloth, bends down, and slips it under Innocent’s head.

The old man says something to me in Chichewa, but I don’t understand. “He want ten thousand Malawi
kwacha
,” Memory tells me.

“I … I … only have four thousand, but … but I already promised … I didn’t think …”

Memory translates. The old man clicks his teeth.

Saidi takes two hundred
kwacha
out of his pocket, but obviously that isn’t going to make a dent in the bill. I don’t know what else to do, so I pull out everything I have, including a bunch of
tambala
coins. I drop the money into the old man’s leathery hands. He closes his wrinkled fingers around the money and stuffs it into a cardboard box on a wooden table.

Beside the box are dozens of jars. The old man unscrews the cap on one and pulls out a small bone. He drops it—
clink!
—into a glass. He pours in blue liquid and stirs the mixture with a stick. Next, he crumbles up dried leaves and sprinkles them on top. Then he screws on the lid and gives the jar to Saidi.

The old man kneels on the floor by Innocent’s head.
He closes his eyes, spreads his fingers wide above Innocent’s face, and chants a strange melody that creeps me out. Finally, he places a large white bean on Innocent’s tummy. When the bean rolls off, the old man says, “He breathe.”

“He breathed before!” I cry.

“He breathe,” the old man says, and nods. “Evil spirit …”

This man is a witch doctor. A fake! A phony!

His eyes light up. He stretches his arms out. “Gone!” he says. He hobbles over to me, taps the jar with the blue liquid, and holds up three fingers.

“Three?” I say.
“Katatu patsiku?”

He gives me the jar and nods yes, Innocent should drink the liquid three times a day. Then he flicks his hand toward the doorway.
“Yendani bwino!”
he says, spitting out each word like a curse.

I gasp. We’ve been here less than five minutes, we’ve spent all our money, and now we’re getting kicked out with nothing for Innocent but a jar of blue craziness. I whisper to Saidi that Derek’s outside, and Saidi whispers to Memory. Then he bends down and lifts Innocent off the giraffe skin, and we all sprint outside to the SUV.

Memory slams the door.
“Tayendetsa!”
she shouts.

“As you like it!” Derek says.

In no time, we’re racing down the hill, back to Lake Malombe.

“M
y father’s a real doctor. He works at the Machinga District Hospital.” My voice cracks. “Could you take us? Please!”

“Wish I could, my friend. But Machinga is several hours from here. See the sun? That means …” Derek rubs his fingers together, the international sign for money. “Got to get back to business before all the customers leave my shop. But tell you what,” he says. “There’s a couple inside right now that’ll be heading up your way first thing in the morning. Bettin’ you could hitch a ride.”

“We cannot wait to sunrise,” Memory says.

“Malaria,” Saidi adds. “May be bad kind.”

Derek looks back at us. “Listen, kids. If it was the vicious sort of malaria, that healer on the hill would’ve given him a fair go. Would’ve kept him overnight.”

“That man only witch doctor!” Memory cries.

“He’s a crackpot!” I shout. “He stole my money. He gave us this.” I shove the jar of blue liquid toward him. Derek glances at it.

“Dunno,” he says. “I’ve seen stranger. Could work.” He sighs like he’s really torn up. “Listen, I can drop you kids at the minibus stop for no extra cost. I assure you, though, the little chap will be fine. He’s a bit sunbaked is all.” He pulls over to the side of the road. “Now, about that four thousand,” he says.

“I told you. The witch doctor took it!”

The back of Derek’s neck looks like a snow cone getting filled with cherry syrup.

“I swear, I’ll mail you the money. The second I get home. All four thousand—plus a tip, of course. A big tip! Or you can ask my dad for it.”

“Get out of here!” Derek snarls. “All of you. Out!”

We open the SUV door and scurry away like panicked geckos.

“How can we take the minibus? We don’t have enough left for even one of us to travel,” I say.

“We must beg the driver for a ride,” Memory says.

So we wait and wait, while Saidi holds Innocent, who is still asleep, and I pace back and forth, back and forth. I want to ask why Innocent doesn’t swallow little white pills each week like I do. I want to know how it’s possible that one little mosquito bite can make someone sick. But instead, I look on silently as Memory pours the drink into Innocent’s lips, which are no longer pink but more of a bluish white. A man and woman on mopeds speed past us to the beach as the potion dribbles back out onto Innocent’s shoulder. If we had mopeds, we wouldn’t have to
wait for the stupid minibus. Who even knows if the driver will take pity on us and help us out?

The tourists lock the bikes that they no doubt rented from Derek. Before they mosey down to the beach, they tuck something into the bag on the back of one of the mopeds. I think I know what it is.

Innocent’s teeth chatter. His eyes are half closed, but the parts I can see are all white, and I don’t need any more inspiration than that. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Still, I don’t think a good person would just stand around at a minibus stop and hope for the best.