Luana (8 page)

“Isn’t that sweet of them. What would they like me to do? Wrestle a croc? Take on a leopard with my bare hands? Trade spit with a spitting cobra?”

“It’s rather more serious than that, I’m afraid.” Murin didn’t smile. “They want a kill-fight.”

“Pigana ua,
huh?” Barrett cracked his knuckles. “Okay, if that’s what it’ll take. Who do they want me to go against?”

“It seems Kobenene has volunteered.”

“Kobenene.” Barrett nodded. “Somehow that figures. All right. Can the chief supply a couple of scorps?”

Murin nodded, then put a friendly hand on Barrett’s shoulder as the other started to rise. He eyed a puzzled Isabel, spoke in Swahili.

“George, don’t you think it might be better to pass this? I know what this woman is paying you, but really, is
pigana ua
worth it just for money?”

“Bite your tongue, Breeded,” Barrett snapped. “It’s worth it especially for money! Besides, I’ve got more at stake here than just shillings.”

“Your crazy theories again, friend George?”

“Yep. Anyhow, a scorpion sting isn’t fatal all that often. I like the odds.”

He stood up, handed Murin the canteen.

“Are you sure?” asked Murin. “This Kobenene has much weight on you. It’s not all fat, either.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Barrett said as they I started towards the center of the corral. The cattle had been shunted aside and the dry open space would serve nicely. Delighted at the prospect of some real entertainment, the villagers would be gathering already. Laying bets, too, no doubt. Gambling was a universal human instinct.

Isabel Hardi had been quiet up to now. She’d been bursting to say something ever since she grasped the import behind Murin’s words, but had kept silent in accord with Barrett’s “one captain” orders. When it became apparent that it was far from a joke, she couldn’t restrain herself any further.

“Mr. Barrett—George—this is absolutely ridiculous!”

“Of course it is,” Barrett agreed. “It’s also absolutely necessary.”

He put on his best mock serious expression, glaring down at her, and spoke in the sepulchral tones of a Karloff, “Don’t you realize, Miss Hardi, that This Is Africa?”

She seemed genuinely upset, however. “Please don’t joke with me, Mr. Barrett. From what I gather, it’s not a joking matter.”

He halted, eyed her evenly. “No, you’re right, Izzy, it’s not. Okay, we’ll call it off, pack up, and go back to Nairobi. Is that what you want?”

She looked down at the dirt.

“Well . . . is it?”

“No.” He could barely catch her whisper.

“Beg pardon. I didn’t quite catch that.”

“No.” She screamed. “No, no, no!” and turned and ran towards the lean-to where they’d stored their cases and crates and bottles of water.

“That’s a fine woman,” said Murin as they resumed their walk towards the center of the now well-populated circle.

“Yeah,” agreed Barrett. “She’s got money, she’s got looks, and she’s got guts. Fact is, she’s only short one thing I can see.”

“Oh?”

“Common sense,” Barrett supplied.

They entered the circle and the locals made a passage for them. Kobenene was on the other side of the open space, waiting, waiting.

“Well fine,” admitted Murin, from slightly behind him. “That makes you two a perfect match.” Barrett had a reply ready but no time for it. He was sizing up his opponent.

Stripped to the waist, Kobenene’s bulk was even more impressive. And the Breeded was correct about the absence of fat. The man’s belly protruded comically, true, but it swept out and back in a single smooth curve, not in layers and rolls.

Barrett undid buttons, broke snaps and stripped off his own shirt. This was no place to be caught or cramped by a taut seam in the wrong place.

Two young boys finished pounding on a pair of wooden stakes and left the circle. Barrett slowly settled down on his stomach, his eyes never leaving Kobenene’s. He put out his right arm, settling the elbow firmly into the dirt. The big man did likewise. The old chief approached and tied their arms to respective stakes. Obviously enjoying the attention, he took his own good time about it.

Two small circlets of long thorns were brought out. One was placed next to each stake. Then the two boys reappeared, breathless, carrying two small baskets. The chief mumbled a few words, then another few, and another. It sounded like he could go on all day. Both Barrett and Kobenene admonished him to get on with it. It was damn hot in the sun, and neither Barrett nor the fat man was interested in oratory just now.

Carefully removing the top from the two baskets, the old chief dumped the contents of each into the pair of thorn circles.

The black scorpions the boys had rounded up were big ones. Momentarily dazed, they nonetheless began an angry search for a way out. The inward pointing intersecting thorns kept them pinned in their miniature arenas. With big double pincers and centimeter-long, tail-mounted hypodermics, they prodded and jabbed at the confining thorns. Neither was in a very good mood. It was safe to say that they would react to any fleshy intrusion of their territory with appropriately venomous speed. The chief backed away, stood.

“Enda!”
he shouted. “Go!”

Kobenene threw all his weight into a first irresistible surge. Caught a split second late, Barrett’s hand went down, down, until the back of the palm hovered barely centimeters above that lethal curved sting. The scorpion moved into the shadow, danced and picked futilely at the barrier of thorn. The barb waved and swung like a Saracen’s scimitar.

The hand was forced down another centimeter, then stopped.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, Barrett forced Kobenene’s arm back up, up until they were perpendicular to the ground once again. They continued to stare into each other’s eyes.

An outsider observing them would have thought both men were relaxing in the morning sun. Their arms barely moved. Oh, a centimeter here, a centimeter there. Their expressions didn’t change. Neither gave outward sign that he was putting all of his strength and concentration into every second of the contest.

The sun sank lower in the sky following a brief ritual bath of cool water the two boys gave each man. Their arms did not waver while the refreshing liquid was carefully applied to their heads and backs. Occasionally some of the watching locals left to perform daily tasks and household jobs, only to return later. The bearers had lunch, sat and watched. So did Isabel, Murin, and Albright.

“How long can they keep it up?” she whispered, not knowing why she was whispering.

“Depends on the men,” the Breeded replied. “And how evenly matched they are, and how great their reserves, and their determination. I once watched a
pigana ua
go on for two days. The loser got stung and died. He made one fatal mistake.”

“What?” asked Isabel anxiously, fascinated by the spectacle despite herself.

Murin took out a cigarette, lit it casually. “He fell asleep.”

Nothing happened for an hour.

Two. Three.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Kobenene’s forearm began to dip, bending like a metal bar in a shaping press. It was a slow, gradual dip. Very slow. Not like earlier, when he’d caught Barrett off guard and unready. Both bodies wore a beaded coat of sweet, glistening. The sun flashed off Barrett’s back and the fat man’s forehead. A couple of the watchers murmured.

Slowly the hand continued to drop. Five minutes passed. Ten.

It was a few centimeters lower still. And in another five minutes, still lower. It dropped to within a thumb’s length of the scorpion on the other side. The ugly little arachnid seemed to dance impatiently in its cage of thorns, the deadly tail bobbing and weaving in the growing shadow.

Kobenene stopped it there, gritting his teeth and putting all his huge bulk into it. Other than tightening his slight grimace a little, Barrett showed no sign of the effort he was expending. He couldn’t press the big man any further, but neither would he allow the other another centimeter’s breathing room.

They lay like that, deadlocked. If Kobenene could raise his arm to the vertical again, now, he would gain a tremendous psychological advantage.

He could. But Barret allowed him no respite, keeping an unrelenting pressure on, refusing to let the other man back up.

“Tosha, tosha!”
Kobenene blurted suddenly. His arm was vibrating with the strain like a too-taut rope. “Enough!”

Slowly, carefully, Barrett released his grip, drawing his hand free and then pulling back. The chief darted forward quickly and cut the ropes binding the two men to the ground. Kobenene said nothing, only rose, rubbing his wrists, and walked away. There was no excitement among the dispersing locals, no cheering among the bearers.

Murin tossed his partner a towel and Barrett began to rub the perspiration from his slick torso. He was completely exhausted.

“Sunuvabitch was one strong character, Mur. He almost got me there at the start.”

“Why did you let him up?” asked Isabel. Barrett hadn’t seen her approach, now looked down at her in surprise. He mopped at the back of his neck.

“We settled what we had to settle. There was nothing to be gained by killing the man.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “He wouldn’t have let
you
up.”

“How do you know, Miss Hardi?” asked Murin.

“Well, because he . . . he—”

“Because he’s a native,” finished Barrett. “An African. A black man, maybe.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“I know,” Barrett sighed, “I know.” He took a long draught of water from a canteen, dumped the rest of it over his head. The village might be poor but the central well, thank god, was located far enough away from the huts to stay uncontaminated. The water here was good. At least they’d be able to fill up before starting the long trek into the jungle. The water trickled cool, cool down his spine.

“But it’s what you thought, deep down. No, don’t bother to deny it. It wouldn’t matter. You’re not responsible for what you think.”

No one so much as mentioned the incident when the troop got underway the following morn. This tacit avoidance in itself shocked Isabel. It wasn’t the way people were supposed to react following a fight to the death. For all the effect it seemed to have had, the men might as well have been playing cards. This was untrue, of course, but nothing was to be gained by seeming to think otherwise.

The bearers too, said nothing, but their attitudes had changed radically. Neither Albright nor Kobenene bothered to talk dissension to them anymore. That was now an unprofitable avenue of approach to their own special problem.

Some of the bearers were still frightened, yes. But to their way of thinking, yesterday’s demonstration had established Barrett’s competency to lead beyond any reproach.

The village sat on the border between the high veldt and the mountainous jungles of the Rift Valley. Not that there were thousands of kilometers of empty territory stretching away in all directions. Pavement had come to Africa with a vengeance born of overlong neglect. But the roads stuck to easy right-of-way, for the most part.

One could go a kilometer from the certain road carrying daily, heavy traffic, and never find civilization or that road again without professional help and elaborate survival gear.

The semi-rain forest they were entering now was utterly unroaded, unsurveyed, and unexplored. In a land where elephants still blocked traffic and an occasional lion prowled the streets of major cities, it was hardly surprising.

The jungle itself was enough of a factor to discourage exploration. What was there to see a hundred meters on, except another hundred meters of jungle? The deadly Wanderi were only an added factor. Civilization would come to this end of the Earth too, some day, but right now the followers of Nyerere had enough trouble trying to civilize themselves.

In the lead, Barrett studied the jungle as it approached. It always seemed that way to him, as though he were standing still, watching, while the great trees marched towards him. Isabel jogged a few steps, came up alongside him.

“Is it always this hot here?”

Barrett smiled at her while watching the trees.

“Hot, here? Izzy, in a little while we’re going to start to go downhill. And then up, and then down, and then up, and after a while you’re going to find yourself wishing, praying, to be back here in the nice cool sunshine. I take it you haven’t been in real jungle before?”

“No. I’ve only flown over it.”

He chuckled. “You must understand when you look into it that nothing’s what it seems to be. The most beautiful plants are parasites. Twigs are insects. The biggest bugs are harmless and beautiful, while the tiny ones do the real killing. Every branch, every tree root can have scales and fangs and can murder. What seems to be solid ground is mud, and what looks like mud is razor sharp lava that can cut right through the toughest boots.”

“Do you hate it so much, then?” she asked as the trees started to close over them.

“Hate it? I can’t hate the jungle any more than a sailor can hate a storm, I suppose, or a pilot an adverse wind. He thought a moment.

“ ‘. . . where highest woods impenetrable, to star or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad.’ Milton.
Paradise Lost.”

“Why, Mr. Barrett, you hypocrite, you! I’d never take you for the poetic type.”

“Don’t think you’re going to take me at all,” he quipped. “And I’m not. I read it on a travel folder.”

“But you remembered it.” Her look of admiration was disgusting.

“Have it your way, then. I’m poetic. Say, did you ever hear this one? ‘There was a young lady from Gaul, who—”

“Please, Mr. Barrett, leave me with Milton.” He grinned, and she smiled back. They were in among the first trees now.

“You know,” said Barrett idly, “a forest has its own profile, just like a high-rise apartment. The lower story runs from zero to about twenty meters. From there to forty they call it the Canopy. Any tree that rises above that is classed as an Emergent. And in addition to those there’s the forest floor, which is a separate system in itself.

“Each level has its own quota of plant and animal life, all different from those above or below. Like going up the side of a mountain range, only in miniature.”