Walter Ayres: Caught Between Rivers

The sky was a truly magnificent blue—deep and rich and inviting. There was a gentle breeze caressing the branches of the camel thorns around them. It was undoubtedly creating the perfect playfield for the savanna’s birds of prey high above. Walter Ayres could see a few of their silhouettes dipping, diving, and twisting against the sapphire sky.

He squinted and scanned the deep blues for a silhouette that made his chest puff. Hieraaetus ayresii. The Ayres Hawk-Eagle—his biggest scientific accomplishment since landing on these southern shores. But it was nearly impossible to tell if his small black-and-white eagle was among the other birds. What he did see, however, made him grit his teeth.

Large, dark clouds were rolling in across the horizon. They towered like vast, grey mountains over the bushveld as they gradually crept closer to where Walter and his company stood in the middle of the savanna. Thin streaks of lightning flashed against the dark masses that hung low over the veld. As far as his eyes could see, there was a wall of clouds and rain.

An arm wound around Walter’s waist, and he glanced down. Ivan clung to his father with wide eyes as he stared at the approaching storm. After three years of travelling across various parts of Matabeleland, he knew what that sight meant. And it wasn’t a welcoming message.

Walter looked down at the eleven-year-old with a tight smile. He ruffled the boy’s hair and nudged him towards their two wagons. Still nestled under the safety of his father’s arm, Ivan let Walter lead him back.

‘What do you think, Boikanyo?’ Walter asked as they neared the wagons.

The old wagon driver was leaning with his chin on his ox whip, lips pursed and eyes slightly narrowed.

‘That storm trouble, Master Walter,’ he huffed after a while, shaking his head.

‘Then we need to set out and cross the river before it floods.’

Boikanyo glanced between Walter and the oncoming clouds. His face scrunched up even more. ‘Rain far, upriver. Flood starts now.’

‘Should we rather wait for the storm to pass?’

Boikanyo shook his head fiercely. ‘We stuck between rivers here. Must cross now, before more rain.’

‘Get the oxen ready. We’ve delayed here long enough.’

The oxen were sluggish, panting under the oppressive humidity. Whips cracked in the air, competing with the rumbling of the thunder that was gradually getting louder. Man and ox glanced at the approaching rain, and the oxen seemed to get new energy. They set off with loud bellows as the wagons crept forward.

It was a difficult terrain to navigate. Bushes of many shapes and sizes, with and without thorns, were scattered across the veld. The oxen had to pull with all their strength to keep the wagons moving forward while Boikanyo and his team carefully picked out the best path. As they neared the river, the prickly bushes and short trees transformed into gigantic pillars of wood. The vegetation changed from a slight yellow to a vibrant green that engulfed them.

They wound their way around unyielding leadwoods with leaves that rustled loudly in the growing wind. The sky was becoming darker by the second as the wind picked up. Soon, it seemed like night had arrived early. The first large drops of rain began falling as they neared the riverbank.

Boikanyo had been right. Water was rushing down the riverbed at a concerning speed. Walter clenched his jaw as he glared at the flood. It hadn’t quite reached the edge of the bank yet. They might still be able to cross. He took a deep breath and turned to Boikanyo.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to reach the other side?’

The old wagon driver took a few steps forward. Walter watched him closely. There was a look in the old man’s eyes Walter hadn’t seen before in the many years they had travelled together. Boikanyo seemed hesitant. It made Walter’s skin crawl. He had always been able to rely on Boikanyo’s assessments and suggestions, which usually led them down the best path with little trouble. If this hardened man of the country didn’t know what to do, they were likely stuck between a collection of bad options.

Finally, Boikanyo turned towards him, face set in a hard line. ‘We cross before storm comes. I go see how deep river.’

Walter nodded. Boikanyo straightened his shoulders as he walked on, ox whip in hand. They had done this many times before in all the years of searching for new and poorly documented bird species. It was a common venture in a country with so many rivers. Flash floods were also not strange; it was the signature of the African bushveld. There was no reason for this crossing to be any different from the hundreds they had done before.

Walter took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and fixed his eyes on Boikanyo. He noticed Ivan walking up next to him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look away. Father and son stood side by side, the rest of the men a few paces behind, holding their breaths as they watched Boikanyo.

The old wagon driver reached the river’s edge and slipped his whip into the water. There was a clear current, but it wasn’t too strong. Boikanyo knew that would change soon if they didn’t hurry. He leaned against the whip to hold him steady as he slid to the ground, inching his feet into the water. The current pulled at his legs, and he paused.

His gaze travelled over the water. There was no movement other than bits of grass and branches floating down towards the greater river they had crossed a few days before. Lips pursed, Boikanyo heaved into the stream. It reached up to his thighs. Using the whip as extra support against the flow, he crept forward. The water rose with each step. When he finally reached the middle, it was up to his chest.

Ivan shivered and resisted the urge to huddle against his father. He was eleven now, a man in his own right, and a man didn’t hide under his father’s arm. Another shiver crept up his spine, and he looked to the darkened sky.

The branches were at the mercy of the wind. It pulled them into every direction and Ivan could hear the wood creaking. Leaves fell to the ground and mixed with the increasing raindrops. Ivan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around himself. It had been an exciting few years, but he was ready to go home. They’d be there soon.

A sudden, shrill shriek pierced through the wind and thunder. Ivan’s eyes shot open as his head snapped towards the river. His heart raced and his breath hitched in his throat. It was dark, but he could see Boikanyo flailing in the water, screaming and fighting as he tried to get back to shore.

A large, jagged tail swiped through the air and a cruel jaw flashed above the surface. Boikanyo disappeared beneath the water, his cries cut short as his head went under. The ripple in the spot where the old wagon driver had been was quickly washed away as the river continued its flow undisturbed.

No one said a word. They barely dared to breathe as they stared with wide eyes at the rushing water. The sky flashed brightly and a loud crack of thunder echoed across the savanna. A split second later, the rain poured down in unrelenting torrents.

‘Turn back! Turn back!’ Walter yelled at the top of his lungs. His voice was nearly drowned in the downpour. He grabbed Ivan and ran towards the remaining men, gesturing madly for them to turn around.

The oxen struggled to turn with the wagons dragging heavily behind them. The ground was rapidly turning to mud, and men, animals, and wheels were all slipping. Three of the remaining workers fought to guide the oxen away from the river while the last two helped Walter and Ivan urge the wagons forward.

Walter’s heart was racing as he threw all his weight against the wagon, heaving to keep it from getting stuck in the mud. He kept glancing down at Ivan. The boy’s eyes were closed as he pushed. He didn’t seem to be breathing with the effort; even Walter had a hard time catching his breath with the rain falling in a nearly impenetrable veil.

The river rose by the minute. Walter could almost feel the water lapping at his feet, but he refused to turn around to look. Finally, the wagons and oxen were facing away from the flood and moving forward at a desperate pace. Walter urged them on, yelling as loudly as the rain would allow. Every step forward was a step ahead of the current. They just had to get out of the floodplain as quickly as possible. He didn’t have to know how far behind the water was.

They kept pushing on for nearly two hours, but there seemed to be water wherever they turned. It was the perfect little prison, caught between the Vhembe and Magalakwen Rivers. 1 Their only chance of survival was finding a spot where the rivers were too far apart for the floodplains to meet. But with the curtain of rain and the earth dissolving beneath their feet, it was a difficult task.

By the time the rain let up a bit, they were near death with exhaustion. Ivan was trembling and Walter had to tense every muscle in his body to keep himself from shivering as well. They were finally able to determine which way was southwest as the clouds gradually thinned out, and they headed further into the savanna.

When night had fallen and they could barely take another step, Walter called a halt, praying that they were far enough from the two rivers. It was pitch black. Not a single star was visible through the lingering clouds. The men unyoked the oxen in a daze and the animals only made it a few paces away before sinking to the ground. Walter and Ivan climbed into their wagon and nuzzled into the driest blankets they could find. The remaining five ox drivers piled into the second wagon and a deathly silence fell over the company as they faded into sleep.

***

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A second attempt at crossing the river the next day was out of the question. The sky was splattered in different shades of grey and a thin sheet of rain kept falling. They had no way of knowing how long the storm would last. And even when it did end, the rivers would take days, maybe even more than a week, to settle back into their beds.

Heavily struck by the loss of his most trusted driver, Walter’s only thought was to make sure they were out of reach of the flood. He instructed for the oxen to be yoked again. Two oxen didn’t get back up.

With heavy hearts and stiff limbs, the company travelled further southwest until they finally reached a safe, level spot. They unyoked the oxen and set up camp with tarps spanned high between the wagons. With nothing else to do, they sat in any mostly dry spot they could find and watched the rain fall.

The storm continued for two more days. They decided to stay at their campsite for a few more days before attempting to cross the river again. When the time to pack up arrived, they found three more oxen had died. With five animals gone, the company’s progress was slower.

More oxen died before they could reach the river, and another storm was brewing on the horizon. They were forced to struggle back deeper into the savanna before the next flood hit. By the time they reached a safe place, they had lost 17 animals.

The second storm didn’t last as long as the first, but it was enough to send a wave of fever over the camp. Ivan fell victim first and they were unable to travel for weeks as he fought against the sickness. He tossed and turned as sweat poured down his brow and images of the crocodile devouring Boikanyo haunted his dream.

Before Ivan had fully recovered, Walter fell ill as well. Their already pitiful medicine supply ran out within a few days. They were left at the mercy of what the African bush could provide and the knowledge of the natives to heal them.

Soon, weeks had turned into months as the fever ripped through the company. Storms came and went, driving them back into the savanna every time they tried to move on. The oxen died one by one, and soon, there weren’t enough animals left to pull the wagons. They were stranded in the north of the Transvaal Republic.

Walter felt completely helpless. He was squatting at the back of his wagon, staring blankly at the bushveld. They would’ve been home by now. Maybe they would’ve just arrived. He would’ve had Maria in his arms, hugging his wife for the first time in three years. Their only contact had been a few letters on the sparse occasions when the company stayed in a town for a few days to restock. He missed her smile.

The bush rustled beside him and Walter glanced up to find one of his ox drivers watching him hesitantly. Walter had to fight not to grimace. Beyond Boikanyo, they had lost another man to fever. He wasn’t sure how to keep the remaining men’s spirits up and their minds loyal.

‘Yes, Modise?’

‘Baas, the food gone. We need meat.’

Walter turned his gaze back to the bushveld stretched before him. This, at least, was something he could fix. ‘Prepare my rifle. I’ll go hunting now.’

Modise nodded and disappeared around the wagon. Walter got up with a heavy sigh and followed.

It took some time to convince Ivan he wouldn’t be going along. The drivers had to stay back as well. Walter wanted to be alone. He could easily shoot something and call them to help carry it back to camp. In the meantime, he craved a few hours with nothing to worry about, no one to give orders to, and no one to reassure. Rifle in hand, he ruffled his pouting son’s hair with a bright smile and set off into the tall grasses and thick bushes.

Tracking was easy with the still-damp clay capturing each imprint beautifully. He picked up on the track for a bushbuck and followed it back in the direction of the Vhembe River. It was bliss to travel quickly without the wagons and the oxen that often felt like they were crawling rather than walking. But without either, Walter wouldn’t have lasted two months on this journey.

He kept his eyes trained on the ground and his ears perked up at any sound. Some familiar birdsong echoed through the trees. The shadows deepened as the branches reached higher and higher so near the edge of the life-giving river.

Now and then, a particular bird would capture his attention, and he would pause, scanning the treetops. He knew most of them by heart after spending so many years tracking almost every species in this southern tip of Africa. His wagons were nearly buckling under the weight of the specimens he had gathered just on this last leg of the journey. Laughing softly, he shook his head.

Midday came and went, humid and blistering. The only thing to break the heat was a gentle breeze and the occasional cloud passing in front of the sun. Walter glanced up. Hopefully, those were only stray clouds. The sun was halfway to the horizon when he finally spotted his prey.

It was a stunning male bushbuck with a big set of horns that stretched proudly towards the sky. He was grazing about 120 metres away. Walter knelt to the ground, cocked his rifle, and lifted it level with his gaze. With a deep breath in, he took the shot.

The bullet flew through the air, but the shot was a bit off. It hit the bushbuck in the ribs, and the antelope bleated as it ran off. Walter swore and set off after it.

The density of the bushes increased as Walter neared where he had hit the bushbuck. He could see the blood trail leading further into the bushes, and he glanced up. The sun was barely visible through the trees as it crept closer to the horizon. Ivan and the boys would be waiting for him, and they were expecting him to come with food. He set his jaw and entered the undergrowth.

Walter had to squint as he scanned the bushes. He crept forward, eyes jumping between the blood trail and surrounding vegetation. Bushbucks were elusive animals, good at hiding themselves. A sound caught his attention to the left and he spun in its direction. He didn’t have time to step back as the bushbuck charged at him, spiralled horns held low and aimed directly at Walter.

The sharp points pierced the flesh across his stomach as he tried to sidestep the furious animal. The tips cut deep, and Walter stumbled back before falling to the ground, clutching the wound as blood began seeping through the torn flesh. The bushbuck dashed off further into the shrubbery.

Gasping and heaving, Walter dragged himself to his feet and stumbled out of the bush. He made it to the base of a tall leadwood before sinking back to the ground. Every step was agony as the movement disturbed the severed muscles. Groaning, he propped himself up against the trunk.

A flash of lightning broke through the green canopy and rolling thunder shook the trees. Walter felt his heart sink as large raindrops penetrated the leaves high above him and splattered on his face. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the leadwood.

***

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Ivan watched his father disappear into the savanna, mouth drawn in a thin line. When would his father stop treating him like a child? He could’ve helped. With a sigh, Ivan turned towards their camp and kept himself busy with any small jobs the drivers directed him to. One eye kept flicking back to the horizon.

The day drew on lazily. Clouds began forming again and Ivan felt a pit form in his stomach. But his father was an experienced hunter; he knew how to take care of himself. Ivan just couldn’t imagine there was so little wild in the area that his father would take this long.

As the sun sank lower, the clouds grew darker. Soon, the sun was a weak orb fighting to break through the deep greys. When the first drops fell, Ivan found himself pacing as he stared in the direction Walter had disappeared. Modise had to nearly drag him to the fire.

‘Baas Walter be back soon. No worry. Eat here,’ Modise said as he handed Ivan the last bit of fresh meat they had left.

With a heavy sigh, Ivan settled around the campfire with the other men and ate in silence. His head snapped around at every sound he heard, but dinner passed without Walter returning. Ivan threw his mat out next to the fire in line with where he could see the open bush. He drifted off to sleep with the rain pattering softly on the tarp above him.

Morning arrived with much heavier rainfall and still no sign of Walter. Now nearly sick with anxiety, Ivan insisted they start searching. The ox drivers didn’t take much convincing. They set out in the drenching downpour, each scouting in a different direction. But the rain had washed away all tracks.

For two days, they struggled without much luck. Finally, on the third day, they found Walter sprawled against a giant leadwood near the edge of the Vhembe River. The blood in Ivan’s veins froze over as he saw his father lying unmoving on the ground.

Walter was still alive when they reached him, but after three days in the rain without any food, he could barely lift his head. They decided to carry him back to camp.

It was a slow journey and Walter had to grit his teeth to keep from yelling out each time they hit an uneven piece of ground. His strength was nearly spent, and he slipped in and out of consciousness. When they reached camp, they set him up in his wagon and Ivan rooted himself by his father’s side.

Without the strain of travel, Walter stayed fully conscious as he fought the fever that had crept in. Each breath and movement caused severe pain as the state of the wound worsened. They had found him too late to sew the skin back together. The cut had turned dark blue around the edges. Red streaks spread out around it as infection and poisoning seeped into his veins. Walter didn’t need much wisdom to know he wasn’t returning home.

Early the next morning, Walter woke Ivan and asked the boy to take care of the specimens they had gathered during their journey. He gave detailed instructions on what to do with them and where they were meant to go. Each specimen meant a bit of money for his family. Walter was intent on making sure he didn’t leave his wife and children uncared for.

Ivan sat pale and unmoving as he listened to his father’s instructions. He could only nod as tears streamed down his cheeks. When Walter had finished, and Ivan still hadn’t said anything, Walter reached out to take his son’s hand.

‘Ivan, I need you to promise me you’ll take care of this. It will help you and your mother when you get home. I know you’ll get home, and I’m sorry I won’t be there with you. But, Ivan, you need to promise.’

‘I promise, Father,’ Ivan answered, his voice quivering. He took a deep breath and met his father’s gaze. ‘I promise I won’t disappoint you.’

Walter gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand. ‘You’ve already made me prouder than any father could hope to be. You’re a strong young man now, Ivan, but I’ll still be watching over you from above. I love you, Son.’

Ivan snivelled and dropped his head to his father’s shoulder. Walter grimaced but held his son’s head close to him as the boy wept quietly. Finally, Walter nudged him, and Ivan looked up.

‘Please call the boys for me.’

Ivan dragged himself out of the wagon and called the ox drivers. They crowded around the back of the wagon as Walter explained to them where they had to bury him. Having already prepared himself to die beneath the leadwood, he had every intention of making it his final resting place.

Once his instructions were delivered and he was assured that everything would be carried out as he had wished, he closed his eyes. The sun was still close to the horizon when Walter Ayres released his final breath.

***

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Ivan couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. His last memory was the ox drivers covering his father’s corpse with soft earth. Somehow, he still remembered how it smelt, light and fresh after all the cursed rain. He also vaguely recalled their hands and arms around his shoulders and waist. They were pulling him back, away from his father, away from the person who had shaped him into the man he had become.

That was the last image he remembered.

After that, it was just this feeling—this strange, overwhelming feeling. A mix of feelings, really—grief, pain, and horror but also determination. He had made a promise to his father, and he meant to fulfil it.

They must not have travelled as a group, because the others weren’t here with him. He was surrounded by unfamiliar faces staring at him in shock and wonder. He was inside a building that smelt too clean to be natural.

There was a window in his line of sight and movement beyond that. More movement than he had seen in months. The wagons and carts looked different from when they had set out three years ago, though. They were smaller and noisier, and Ivan couldn’t see the horses drawing them. He let his head fall back against the pillow.

‘I am Ivan Ayres. My father was Walter Ayres. His specimens are in a wagon between the Vhembe and Magalakwen Rivers. Please help me get them,’ he heard his voice drone whenever someone asked a question.

Yes, that’s right, the others were still in the savanna. He had left them behind. Too many oxen were still dying, and they weren’t making progress. Ivan had left them behind and set off to find Rustenburg on his own. He had a promise to keep.

‘My name is Ivan Ayres. My father, Walter, is dead. Please help me fetch his specimens.’

He wouldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t stop here.

He never stopped pushing forward until his father’s dying wish was fulfilled.