Have you ever wondered about that egg,- the one desperate Nagaina dragged with her into the abandoned rat-hole we called home? The one that Kipling doesn’t mention again. I was that egg. Now I am full grown. I’ve re-located. Living in another country you can deceive yourself that the past is insignificant, even that it never existed. In my reformulation, the story would have ended so very differently. Mostly I can forget that I was born an orphan, with 24 siblings slaughtered by that treacherous Rikki Tikki Tawi. I prefer the condensed moniker RTT;-to grace him with his full name may re- flesh memories preferred forgotten. Still, on hunting nights when the moon is waxing, I sometimes find myself involuntarily hissing it’s entirety, so magic-ing -up his mongoose wraithness.
Mom, you remember, perished but not before hiding me under the dung-enriched earth of a side alcove. Snakes,-cobras in particular,- have an excellent sense of smell and near-perfect recall. The offensive sweetness of desiccated rat-pellets mingling with the stink of jubilant mongoose, the muffled distant cries of Man as Mom was murdered, the jubilant rasping of RTT as she lay dying, these are my earliest memories.
I will not dwell here on the planning needed for the journey out. How when the parlour maid was canoodling with the groom I climbed into the leather trunk and coiled myself into the crown of Woman’s hat, how I built up my reserves by gorging on mice, crickets and the second brood of the unsuspecting Taylor Birds, (serves them right!) how I slowed my metabolism to the minimum necessary for survival,- those are tales for another day. Enough to say I missed the Suez Canal and the long sea-filled months minus a horizon.
Re-joining a South African world was like wakening from the deepest sleep. No, more like being born again. Despite so many uncomfortable jarring similarities, without the familiarity of the former bungalow and cantonment life, the disorientation and disassociation overwhelmed. The same sun feels different on the back; the grass can still irritate being foliate rather than spiky couch grass; the tasty chicklets of the spotted Guinea Fowl are easy prey and an excellent dietary substitute for the Taylor Birds.
Resting, my musings extrapolate as the day lengthens. Humans here keep the adult birds as
caretakers due to the sharpness of their high-pitched calls when alarmed. Not so expert caring for their own young! I recall the panicked trilling on discovering my intrusion and their missing nestlings. The bobbing protuberance of that skin flap atop their heads and bare scrawny necks reminded me of the Lammergeyer vultures back home. “Are they pack- avians or lone operators?”
“Home.” This is “home” now.
An accumulating crescendo of clamorous squawking returns me to the present. On raised tail, in pendulum sway, I survey the encircling palisade. Scratching one step forward in unison the Guinea Fowl advance, then strike. “Pack-Hunters. Take vengeance my hidden eggs!”
