Termites!
Nipping and throttling the intruder to drive it out, a good haul clung to the thin, straight switch Una had selected and stripped of its leaves. Finally. success.
She quickly forgot her technical victory and savored its reward, her lips too busy plucking the morsels off the stem one by one to concern herself with the implications of achievement. Her first few attempts had left her almost whimpering, as her thick and gnarled stick barely fit into the entrance hole of the termite mound. Every time she pulled it out she was lucky if there was a smashed little soldier on the end.
Mercifully, one of the older ladies took pity on her and helped pick a suitable stem, stripping it down to a delicate wand. But the mound still would not yield its bounty to herham-fisted shove, splitting it in two. Now the whimpers came as she sat disconsolately watching the more experienced members of the troupe enjoy their treats. What were they doing differently? She had followed the steps her mother had shown her and even got the right stick from a friend. Thin stick, strip, hold one end, into hole, back out. Termites. That was it; there was nothing else in between.
As she sat there in a pathetic little pile, chin on her chest, clumsy hands like two lumps of wet mud on the ground beside her holding her broken twig, she stared blankly at one of the males extracting the feast with ease. Thin stick, strip, hold one end, into hole, back out. Termites. Thin stick, strip, hold one end, into hole, back out. Termites. Thin stick, strip, hold one end, into hole...
Then she caught it.
That’s what she had missed! She quickly made herself another termite fisher, and after slowly and deliberately plumbing the mound there was a wriggling feast attached. The way the male pulled the stick out was different than how it went it. The trick was thin stick, strip, hold one end, into hole...gently back out.
Termites.
As she pulled her fifth and sixth helpings, she looked up and saw the lady who helpedstaring at her. There was something oddly bemused in her eyes—or was it reproach? Una grinned sheepishly, realizing what a pig she must be making of herself, but then the smile was returned and the curious little spell was broken. The lady casually returned to nibbling the last few termites at the end of her stick and laid back on the soft undergrowth, basking in the warm sun coming through the clearing in the canopy.
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There were two new young females in the troupe who had defected from a rival clan during a territorial clash when food had become scarce in the dry season, and they seemed to be fitting in very well. One of them had mated with George, the Mtemi of their troupe, and looked to be getting rounder every day. Females came and went every once in a while, but when it was during a battle it was exceedingly risky. She remembered how one of their own tried to skirt a defeated pack as they retreated into the jungle, but George had caught her by the hind leg and corralled her back into line with a few slaps and a bite for good measure. Even as the female sat alone in the clearing licking trickles of blood from the nip on her arm, Una couldn’t help but feel like she deserved it. For as big as George was, she could have had far worse and she had surely earned it. However, despite his size George was disposed to be on the kinder side, and generally treated everyone fairly. Sometimes when he was too lazy to make his own termite reed he wold nudge one of the females out of the way and steal a few mouthfuls, but other than that he let them alone, occasionally moderating a disagreement here or there and keeping the younger males from pestering them too much.
Apparently it didn’t used to be that way. When Una was still too young to let go of her mother’s fur, a grumpier male had been Mtemi. He would often rough up anyone who irritated him or thump a young male who ate a few too many fruits off his nearby branches. He wasn’t mean per se, just touchy, she finally decided after watching her mother take a moderate swat for coming too close to the watering hole before he had finished drinking. In the end it must have been her mother’s mistake. After all, the Mtemi was first in all things, and if there was any doubt it was best to stay out of his way.
Still, she couldn’t help but look back on the day George had given him a sound beating late one afternoon as an easing of tension. Even when he was number two George was more apt to help a youngster than give them a violent lesson in social etiquette, and once he was in charge the rest of the males softened a bit as well in deference to his example.
The old, defeated male had died during the dry season that year, but he had never been the same anyway since he had been dethroned. He slunk around the clearing or stayed in the trees by himself all day, and whenever George was nearby he kept his head down or moved off to the far side of the clearing. But with authority comes challenge, and even though the few juveniles who had tried him had been sent away with something to think about, Una had a vague sensation that eventually George’s day to creep off into the forest would come.
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After a few no-gos in the thicket of leaves and branches above the forest floor, her mother was finally pleased with an evening nest site high in the Muhimbi tree. The sun was low enough that Una could smell the humidity of the night, and the undersides of the highest leaves blurred into the orange clouds overheard. Despite being tired, Una knew the search would go on until her mother had satisfied some mystical formula locked away in her head. Her mother had always been very picky about certain things—sometime too picky for Una’s taste—and often Una couldn’t see a bit of worthwhile difference.
She had to admit though, the nests were always very comfortable. The right spot had branches with a springiness and spacing that helped them knit together well, and after piling on a few extra leafy bundles they settled in. Una knew that the nest would keep her safe, but it never felt quite as safe as her mother’s fur. Soon after she had stopped nursing her mother wouldn’t carry her up the trunks any more, and twice she had started building the nest only to find herself alone in the tree. The first time it happened panic took over, and all she could manage were a few quiet “hoos” into the misty dusk. It was over in a second though. Her mother calmly swung back from the next tree over and helped her finish.
The second time she didn’t even notice until she was almost done. An odd curiosity came over her as she searched the darkness, and reservedly she crept onto the nest and laid there watching the canopy go from blue to grey. She tried to stave off the drooping of her eyelids, and when her mother returned, Una watched quietly while she rustled through the branches before settling down a few meters away.
It was a lot of change all at once, she felt, and for a few weeks resentment nagged her whenever her mother was around. First, her mother wouldn’t let her nurse any more, and gradually paid less and less attention to her in general. Fortunately the other juveniles were happy to play, but before she knew it her mother was spending most of her time grooming with the other ladies or foraging for fruit. And not sharing very often, Una noted with a snort. Although by then Una never had any trouble finding enough to eat on her own it was still an obvious injustice, but on the upside the others were becoming surprisingly generous about sharing any meat the older males brought back from the who-knows-where after a march into the jungle. Finally one day it sank in. She was no longer a child. She was a member of the group.
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Crack!
The husk of the Kola nut split at the seam, and Una picked out the waxy beads, stuffing them into her mouth. There was a tingly giddiness in her fur when the nuts began to turn red and drop from the rare trees on the edge of their territory, and eating the Kola nuts only heightened the frenzy. Cracking the stout little things open with her teeth initially gave her pause, but effort gave way to common sense when she saw the others gathering sizable stones to bash them apart.
That’s not to say that any rock would do for her. There are rocks and there are rocks, and for some reason Una enjoyed passing up what any other would accept as a perfectly functional stone for one that fit smoothly into her hand. It had nothing to do with the fact that her first choice resulted in a sore thumb, of that she was sure. But now when the season was nearing she found herself keeping an extra keen eye on the forest floor for a special prize.
On the last few trips, Una had been lucky. There had been an excellent stone near the river both times, and she had carried it with her for four days until they reached the grove. Although none of the others seemed to give it any notice, Una guarded it closely, sometimes waking in the middle of the night to run her fingers over its smooth surface just to be sure it hadn’t been pinched.
When the day came to start the trek, Una could barely contain her excitement. She had found the best stone ever, and amongst the din of the others crudely hammering away Una savored the pleasure of the Kola shells cracking almost exactly in half every single time. She was also faster, and it wasn’t her gluttonous abandon—her’ stone was smaller than the two-fisted blocks the others had grabbed, but there were no two ways about it—hers worked better.
Crack! Another yielded its delectable seed. Crack! Another beautiful mouthful.
Crack!
The blurry forest was beginning to clear, but with it came pain. Rolling onto her back, the musky mass that was rummaging over her body mercifully crawled off of her. The hollering of the ladies shot a lightning bolt of fear up her spine as her hazy brain told her it could mean only one thing: a leopard! Her mind seized with fear. Where was the stone? The stone! The perfect stone she had harbored for days would save her if she could find it. She groped the forest floor, her desperation and anxiety rising to a fever pitch as the all-too-short seconds flickered by, but was nowhere to be found.
Crack!
A malevolent wave of clarity came. The wild hollering of the ladies continued, but Una’s attention turned to where she had just been sitting. There was Malcolm. He stared her down indifferently as he shoveled the Kola nut into his sneering lips.
Two of the ladies came to her side, screaming at Malcom as he relished the rewards of his theft, but Una took little notice. This was not a time for curses. That was hers, and he had taken it from her. She had seen them screaming before when an errant male had violently imposed himself upon one of them, but justice seemed no more than an exercise in diffusion. Una tried to roll this new thought over in her mind, but before she realized it she was shrieking too.
Malcolm, of course, could not possibly care less. The ladies were welcome to their outrage, but males need not concern themselves with it as the pecking order was above all divided on gender lines. On a few occasions Una had seen the males fight, but no female could possibly force the issue with one of them. It seemed a lost cause until she heard the crashing from the nearby undergrowth.
George came barreling out along with three of his confederates. As the Mtemi it was his job along with the other senior males to fend off a wild animal so the rest could scatter into the trees. They quickly realized there was no outside danger, but males do not diffuse their emotional state so quickly. Beating their chests, and kicking up dust, they tore around the clearing while George appraised the situation. Somehow, Malcolm had crossed a line with the ladies, and as the Mtemi there were two choices: either the eyes could be rolled or action could be taken. He charged.
Malcom reared up, baring his inch-long canine fangs, and brought the rock down with terrifying force, but he was a split-second too late. George bowled into him, simultaneously pummeling him with his fists. The two rolled over a log together, biting and thrashing at each other, until George stood up and gave Malcom a tremendous thump in the chest that sent him running off into the jungle for safety from the roaring king.
Puffing, the bristles on George’s back slowly subsided. After a few minutes, he walked over to the bits of broken nutshells on the ground and calmly nibbled on an errant pod. Una edged around the scene and picked up her forlorn little rock that had started all the trouble. It was chipped, but it’s smooth, tumbled surface was reassuring that balance had been restored. As her eyes returned to George, they followed a red rivulet that led back to the pile of nuts. George sat there, blood dripping from the bite on his hand, listlessly picking through the shards.
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Una saw Malcom for the first time towards evening of the next day, skulking around the perimeter until finally returning to the circle of the younger males. These things happened it seemed, and the simplicity with which the they moved on was a reminder that the male paradigm is one of ordered hierarchy and dominance struggle. As long as one’s place was respected, little else was of concern. Apart from moving a bit slower, he seemed to have recovered from the spectacle tolerably well.
George, however, had developed an infection from the bite on his hand. Over the next week it became inflamed and oozed puss, and incessant licking didn’t seem to help. As he became more lethargic and touchy, there was a rustling amongst the males—even those in his coalition—that occurs when a Mtemi can no longer project the strength and confidence to maintain discipline. There was an inevitability about it, and as they stopped grooming him he spent his days listlessly propped up in the branches of a tree.
Then it came. The females all heard it and came rushing over. The males were banging on trees, brandishing sticks, and making charging displays in the midst of a tremendous and terrifying racket. George howled and jumped, but he no longer had the command of his voice or the energy of his younger rivals. A few began to make passes at him, and he did his best to avoid contact and retaliate with a belabored swing.
As the crescendo rose to a climax, Malcolm moved in. Bellowing and pounding on his chest, he charged the weak and exhausted George and beat him mercilessly with both fists. The younger ones considered challenging Malcom but thought better of it. Slowly the chaotic scene dissipated, but one thing was absolutely clear: there was a new Mtemi.
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Order returned as the males fell into line. Malcom strutted around like a peacock, and the others lowered their heads and extended their arms out to him as a show of submission. George took longer that expected to recover, and his hand got even worse. He barely had the energy to climb into the trees, much less move around, and the best he could do for food was a mouthful of leaves and occasional nearby insects. The other males paid him no mind at all, although the females empathized with his condition and groomed him or stroked his head for a few minutes before getting back to business.
Finally, it seemed he would succumb. Spending most of his time on the ground now, too weak to climb, it was only a matter of when before a hungry animal found him. His hand was grotesquely misshapen. The fingers were gnarled and withered, and the abscess had grown larger and smelled terribly. Even his forearm looked like a stripped branch. He only seemed interested in picking the leaves off of a little shrub with yellow flowers, barely even chewing them before picking a few more.Then he would make his way slowly towards water, drink, and return to the plant.
Malcom on the other hand indulged his newfound status by allowing his greed to manifest as malice. He generally paid George no mind as he was the least of the threats in the community, but made sure to give the juveniles a hearty serving of sharp smacks, sometimes for no reason. It was worse for the ladies. Unless they were estrous, in which case the could expect to be taken, his laziness prompted him to push, steal, and beat them any time he wanted something they happened to have. There were far fewer termites between them, and the other males, following Malcolm’s example, had begun bullying them off the mounds too. Una herself had been on the receiving endof more than a few bruises, and Malcolm’s remorselessness was trumped only by his utter contempt for the appeals to justice. Any female who had the nerve to protest could expect a stronger dose of the medicine.
Things were definitely worse, and several of the young females who had not mated simply vanished from one day to the next, presumably off to some other troupe. Frankly, Una doubted they needed a convenient alternative waiting to make leaving worth the risk. There were others around somewhere, and unmated females stood a good chance of being accepted as they posed no threat to a Mtemi’s lineage. Una herself considered leaving as well, and dreams of George’s minor shuffling offs around the termite nests recalled a happier time. Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave her mother and the other ladies. The thought of abandoning them to beatings without being there to console them until they calmed down seemed too heavy a burden to carry through the jungle. While Malcom’s fangs and fists were to be feared and subject entirely to his whim, opportunism, or worst of all, the glint of pleasure in his eye when he delivered a blow for no discernible reason whatsoever, he wasn’t going to leave even if she did.
As the days went by, something had begun percolating in Una’s mind she could neither place nor ignore. It was in the termite mounds, the rocks, her mother’s nests and the Kona nuts, and it would come and go as her thoughts shifted to them and away. It was dim, but certainly no hollow trauma, of that she was convinced. There was something more to it.
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Two nights later, Una was awoken by a rustling in the tree she had chosen for a nest. It was large, and the creeping smell of its pungent fur told her it was climbing. She lay still and silent in the darkness as the mounting terror pressed her eyes into the night sky. This was no chimpanzee. They were all asleep by now for sure, and even if one of them had descended to the ground to defecate they would have scrambled back up as soon as possible. The stealing phantom was probing for her like an egg in a nest; a slithering horror winding its way up in the dark. And it was getting closer.
Una’s whole body told her to holler the alarm and run, but it was too late now. She could see the leaves beginning to flutter gently below her, and the nearest tree was a few branches too far. She closed her eyes just as the enormous dark shape breached her nest and hovered over her.
It was George. He sniffed the air. He looked down at her with tired eyes, and climbed up a few more branches into a crook and fell asleep. Una, exhausted, drained her relief down the blackening whirlpool of sleep.
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For the next few days, George continued to eat the leaves from the shrub and then climb back into the tree to rest. He seemed stronger every day, and although his arm was now withered and his hand would forever remain a claw of crooked, useless bones, the abscess had dried up and was covering over with scabs. By the time the wet season was coming to an end, George was back to his normal self, albeit his disposition and obeisance was suited to his place. If anything, he was kinder to the females, occasionally mating if he could lure one of them away from the group for a while, and even kept some of the more brash juveniles at bay.
Malcom had not changed a bit, and he indignantly tolerated George only because he posed no threat and lowered his head when Malcolm strutted by. On a diet of the choice fruits and leaves in the community Malcolm had grown even more imposing, and as a result the threat of a swat and his determined, lumbering stride sent the females skittering away from the termite mounds without a fuss most of the time. The glint in his eye was omnipresent, and a beating could come at any time for what Una was thoroughly convinced was cruel pleasure. There were very few young females left, and on one occasion Malcolm had actually killed one of their babies on the off chance that he wasn’t the sire.
There was nothing to be done though. The Mtemi is the biggest and strongest, and that was that. She hardly knew how it could—or even should—be different anywhere else. She sat down on the edge of the clearing and absentmindedly began stripping off the leaves and bark to make a termite fisher, and then whittled it down with her teeth to the proper size for when Malcolm had had his fill from the mound. Looking at the delicate tool she held between her fingers, the eyes of the older lady in the sun drifted through her mind. What was in her eyes?
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The sun was shining on the red clay termite mound the next morning. In went the reed, out came the termites. Una had become excellent at the craft, and although she took the time to show the juveniles how to ease the fragile blades into the mound, even the older ladies had taken notice. In fact, the entire troupe was fashioning sticks with thinner, more flexible ends that allowed them to probe the deeper regions where the tasty creatures gathered en masse. It took them a little longer to figure out the right technique, but without a doubt the new sticks were working better.
Malcolm and the other males must have sensed the growing number of females around the mounds over time owing to the greater harvest, and the sudden, indiscriminate crashing through the trees above sent a shiver down her spine.
“Here we go again,” she thought to herself as she prepared for a stiff smack and the theft of her carefully honed probe. Malcolm fairly leapt out of the tree, and made a line straight for her. Although he was as blunt as he was crafty, he was above all predictable. It hadn’t taken long for him to recognize Una as the most successful fisher, and he came storming over, whacked her as he checked her off the mound, and stole her reed. All the other females backed off, heads down and “hoo-ing” softly amongst themselves. The other males stood dutifully behind him for their turn lest they receive the same treatment.
Dazed, Una picked herself up slowly and looked over at the other males. Near the back was George and his withered arm, waiting submissively for a morsel. Una’s mind flashed back to the afternoon in the Kona grove. The sound of all the inferior rocks half crushing the meat of the nuts or shattering while her’s neatly did the job. The fury of the crashing stones rumbled in her mind, in her mind, building and building as if to smash the forest to pieces. Then there was silence, but for the gentle tapping of her little stone.
For the first time in weeks, everything in her mind was in sync with her instincts, and she backed into the group of females. She grabbed a termite fisher from one of them and broke it. Then another. They stared at her bewildered. She broke another one and began bullying the ladies into a group. Malcolm had turned his head, unsure what to make of the spectacle, and then Una started screaming. Malcolm barked at her, but the other females joined in. A few of the younger males began to move cautiously towards their superior, but their eyes betrayed a genuine nervousness at this hitherto unknown anomaly in the fundamental social order.
Far at the back, George had not moved. Malcolm swung his arms at the ladies and bared his fangs, but they did not scatter. In fact, they began to hem him in, and in a fury he charged back to the males, hitting and shoving them, spurring them on to put down the revolt. They quickly rallied, and as they advanced, grunting and menacing, Malcolm spotted George. A small uprising could be tolerated, but betrayal of the Mtemi could be capital. Roaring and beating the ground, he ran over to George and gave him such a blow that George stumbled backwards and collapsed.
As she watched, Una’s screams turned to fury. She shoved one of the juveniles out of the way, launching herself towards Malcom. Before he even know what hit him, Una was on his back and bit him in the shoulder to the bone. Malcolm howled in pain, and enraged, grabbed her by the neck and hurled her into a tree. But the gathering noise behind him had taken on a frightful tone.
The males backed off as the larger group of females harried them with shrieks and charges. Three of them moved towards Malcolm as they built into a pack. One leapt at him and was batted away. Then another closed in, and another. Malcolm managed to beat the first few off, but then one sunk her teeth into his leg. As he turned, eyes red as blood, two more battered him with their arms. Then four then ten, biting, pounding and screaming, until he disappeared under the swarming, boiling mass.
Malcom’s furious cries gave way to high pitched squeals of terror, and then a horrible sound of ripping. The other males, whose instincts no doubt told them to fight or flee stood petrified, and for a full minute the tumult of fur and flesh writhed with malice. Then, it was over. The females spread away in a ring, revealing a horror. Malcolm had been ripped to pieces, and the meat and gristle of his dismembered limbs were covered in matted fur, slicked down to the flesh by the pool of blood where he had been standing a moment before. The remaining males ran. Except for George.
He had just begun to pick himself up from the stupor. Una had laid on the ground while the grisly scene played out, too hurt to move, but now she crawled over towards George and gently reached out and stroked his head. The other females’ wrath had subsided, and few of them came over towards George, touching him with a strange, unknown curiosity.
The rest of the day past in silence, the males nowhere to be seen. Occasionally one of the ladies would groom George or stroke his fur, even bringing him a fruit or two.
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As the week passed, the troupe gingerly coalesced. Nature inevitably runs its course, and a new Mtemi must emerge to bring order. One morning came the traditional sounds of hammering trees and kicking of dust. George’s withered arm made almost impossible to keep up, and quickly he backed off from the fray. The squawking from the females started almost immediately, surrounding the males who, dumbstruck, gathered into a tight, frightened pack. The females forced themselves between the males and George. As the males watched, a few of the females began grooming George while the others stood their ground.
The males watched.
Then, one of them came forward. Head lowered, he walked through the group of females and extended a hand towards George. Another followed, and one by one they showed their subservience. Slowly, the group dispersed into the trees.
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Five years had passed, and Una had a young daughter by one of the lower-ranked males who had lured her off to the edge of the forest clearing. At the height of the wet season she had given birth just before a cloudburst. Not the best timing she supposed, but certainly the best result.
George had become old, but still maintained his position as the top male. Others were younger, stronger and certainly much louder, but the females ensured that his position was maintained and the other males simply developed a second-tier system. While not strictly the Mtemi owing to his age and physical diminishment, nonetheless George was treated as such and shown deference for food and water, even by the strongest males. In fact, George hadn’t been involved in the racket and charging displays for years, and generally stayed in the trees being groomed and nibbling fruits during the goings-on.
Despite this unorthodox arrangement, the troupe had expanded from twenty or so individuals that would periodically split up and reform depending on food and water conditions, into a near colony. Whereas younger females and males used to shift from group to neighboring group, the occasional territorial skirmishes with nearby clans inevitably resulted in many more new members. Early on it had become clear that since George was physically diminished, this new social arrangement would require a unified front from the other members, and the females—traditionally the most motile—formed a strong coalition. Their competitors weren’t so much killed off as gradually absorbed along with their territory, and Una couldn’t strictly say how many seasons had passed since they had seen another sizable clan.
Food had become a problem though. Because there were so many of them, expeditions had to range farther and wider than before, and even splitting up into small groups to forage resulted in hungry bellies now and again. When one of these imbalances turned violent, George had settled the issue by dividing the food. The adaptation had been swift. Foraging and hunting were seen as communal activities, and almost all of a day’s haul were brought to the central point of their territory where nuts, fruits and leaves were collected, even sometimes meat, so there was always a surplus. George picked through it first of course, selecting a few choice bits, but he and some of the older males made sure gluttony was tempered. Even when food was scant during the dry season, with so many full bellies around a hungry chimpanzee stuck out like a sore thumb, and the others made space quickly. Competition had been lessened, and more often than not altruism prevailed.
Things were, they all seemed to agree, better.
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One morning, George did not get up. For days, nervous chimps climbed up to his nest, lightly brushing his face or prodding and lifting his arms and legs to rouse him from sleep. George would look up at them from time to time with tired, distant eyes, but nothing more. A general depression set in, and for the next few day many of them couldn’t be bothered to forage or even move out of the trees. Even the secondary male just sort of huffed now and again, indifferent to the ceremonies of precedence that accompanied his station. It finally became clear that George was not sick or asleep when his body fell out of the tree.
The entire tribe gathered around, and for hours they sat silently staring at the body. Una herself had a terrified hollowness inside of her. Things like this happened from time to time of course, and for a while a part of the group was sad, but this was entirely different. This was not just their Mtemi—George had been selected. Over time, Una had begun to think of him like one of her rocks. A perfect rock needed more than just heft and shape; it had to feel right in her hand, but it was never strictly a question of utilitarian comfort. It was far more, and she could almost feel the smooth, rain-tumbled stone rolling over in her hand when he was nearby. George wasn’t like the rock; George was the rock.
There he lay, looking up towards the clearing in the canopy with empty eyes, his thin arm and crooked fingers extended outward in the dust, palm up, as if his final act was one of deference to his clan.
Now she understood. It was a metamorphosis. That’s what the long-gone elder lady had seen in her all those years ago.
Una walked over to a tree, broke off a branch, and began chewing. The others stared at her, and with the deft precision she had perfected over years, she produced a slender, delicate termite fisher. She walked back to George, and placed it in his broken hand. Then another female, and another, and another did the same, and quickly all the members of the tribe began foraging for a rock, a fashioned stick, or a piece of fruit from the store pile to give to him. By the end he was nearly completely covered, and had become a nest of little offerings and gifts. For another hour or two, as the sun slowly set, they watched over the new creation that once was George, and as they did so the collective sky of sadness seemed to clear up a bit. If George ever wanted any of the good things again, he could have them.