Luana

by Alan Dean Foster

  Gradually the rest of the party hauled itself out of the brown muck. Luana swung over on a creeper onto the damp bank, dropped lightly to the ground. It was a considerable drop. Barrett wondered why she didn’t shatter a knee from such a plunge, or at least twist an ankle. She must have thighs like steel—

  That led him to precisely the kind of thoughts he’d been trying to avoid.

  He got to his feet, swatting at the mud trailing from his shorts.

  “Any more low places like this, Luana? God, what an unhealthy spot!” The cats, he noticed, had vanished.

  “No. It is still difficult, but not so hilly or damp. The plane itself is near where a big river broadens into a kind of lake.” She tried to sound encouraging. “It is not that much further, friend George.”

  “Yeah.” He kicked at the moldy loam. “We’re gonna have to stop here for the rest of the day. Everybody’s too tired to go on. We’d just be asking for a broken leg or something.” He turned and surveyed the mephitic swamp distastefully.

  “Is there a place close by where we can camp, one further in than this? I’d like to get as far away from this water and the bugs as possible.”

  They found a small clearing further in and higher up. Time to boil water for cooking and washing again, but at least they didn’t have to rely on swamp juice for drinking purposes. He didn’t care to imagine what it would taste like, sterilized or not.

  “This’ll do, I guess,” he agreed, turning a circle and eyeing the dry brush. “It’ll have to be opened up a little, but it’s worlds above the shore.” He took off his rifle and leaned it against a tree. The machete flashed dully when he pulled it from its case on his right leg.

  “I’ll get started here. How about you go back and get the others? Tell ’em we’ve found a dry spot and they’ll come running.”

  “All right, friend George.” She didn’t smile.

  Barrett wondered what was going through her mind as he watched her lithe form disappear back through the brush. What’s wrong with you, man, he thought as he started hacking at the reluctant growth? So the girl’s been living in the bush and is maybe a little crazy besides being a knockout and she plays a little rough, but she wants you. Just what the hell is wrong, huh?

  If Isabel found out? Oh, brother! Why the hell should you care if she finds out? It’s a matter of record that you’re no saint, fella. That prompted a review of the previous thought.

  Why should you care what Isabel Hardi thought? All right, maybe it wasn’t logical, maybe it didn’t make sense. That didn’t change the fact that he did care.

  He slashed viciously at a short, thick palm. It parted like celery and sprayed green sap all over his hand. There was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Sure, you liked Izzy. Liked her a lot. But that wasn’t the only reason. C’mon, tough guy, admit it. This is your own head. It’s private in here.

  Aha! So that’s it. You are maybe just a teensy bit afraid of that girl, aren’t you? Aren’t you?

  He raised the machete again and took aim on an innocuous fern.

  Something hit his upper arm with the force of a hammer.

  He tumbled backwards, the machete falling nearby. As a heavy weight went around his hips he looked to his left, nearly froze with horror. A flat, ugly spade head stared unblinkingly back at him, its jaws clamped tightly into his bicep. A python. A reticulate, Vishnu help him!

  A coil went around his leg, and he made a desperate lunge for the machete—came up centimeters short. He took in a deep breath and yelled for help at the top of his lungs. It might be the only chance he’d get. He yelled again and concentrated on two things: trying to press himself into the ground and reaching the machete. It lay temptingly, tauntingly, just beyond his straining fingers.

  The python weighed over a hundred kilos, and it wasn’t going away. Only one thing had saved his life. The first powerful coil had gone around his hips. It was contracting now, squeezing with inexorable power, a single great, solid muscle. It hurt like hell, but that was all. His arm was bleeding slightly from under those jaws, and his leg began to throb near the second coil from the interruption of circulation.

  But if the snake slipped upwards on his body, away from the protective girdle of his pelvis, it would sit over his belly and rib cage. No constrictor was strong enough to actually crush him to death. Instead, the powerful coils would tighten until he couldn’t breathe. He’d choke to death, slowly.

  He struck at the flat head with his free hand. Might as well pound on a rock. There were upwards of a hundred teeth in that spring steel maw, every one of them curved and pointing backwards, to force prey back and in. It was a head equipped not for letting go, but for swallowing. He tried to roll over without rising, couldn’t.

  He could have done so and reached the machete, but if he did the coil would surely have slipped upwards and gained deadly purchase. There was no certainty he’d be able to kill it before passing out from lack of air. But, goddamnit, he’d have to try something!

  He’d almost resolved to try rolling when he noticed a tall figure standing in the brush, watching him.

  “Luana!” he yelled. “The rifle . . . use the rifle!”

  She didn’t move, didn’t react. Just stood, watching him. Barrett felt the coil begin to slip higher, towards his belt-line.

  “Luana, for God’s sake!” he pleaded. He shoved with both hands at the coil, trying to force it down, keep it from rising. It was like trying to stop a runaway ’dozer.

  “Help me!”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then came to a decision. A few steps brought her to his side. The gun lay against the tree trunk, ignored. Placing her hand on the back of the reptile’s head, she began to stroke and pet it.

  Barrett was too surprised to object. She was cooing to it, whispering to the monster. He didn’t dare move or say anything.

  The powerful coil relaxed. There was a lessening of pressure on his arm. Trying to breathe as regularly and evenly as possible, he stared as the python slowly released its grip, having to slide forward and stretch its jaws wide to pull free the teeth.

  Slipping backwards and down, it slithered off into the forest.

  The minute the last scale left him, Barrett rolled violently to his left, came up with the rifle and aimed it all in one smooth motion. Luana was there to knock the barrel sideways. He looked at her furiously for a few seconds, glaring into those deep black eyes. Then he relaxed.

  “You’re right, of course—it’s gone.” He tried to read behind that exquisite mask. “Why did you wait, Luana? Why?”

  “Wait?” she said. “I didn’t wait. What are you talking about?”

  “You stood there—you stood there watching while that thing was trying to press the life out of me!”

  She didn’t seem to hear him, backed away a few unsteady steps.

  “Wait? I didn’t . . . wait.” She whirled and dashed into the trees.

  “Luana! Luana!” There was no point in chasing after her. She’d be back when she was ready.

  The rest of the expedition arrived eventually. Isabel noticed his bleeding arm and ran to him, her face showing fear and concern.

  “George—what was it?”

  He kept his right hand clamped over the wound. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, now.

  “Nothing, Izzy.” He forced what he hoped was a disarming grin. “Great white hunter cut himself on thorn tree like great idiot. That’s all. Nothing serious.”

  She left him to help with the unpacking. He didn’t remember when she’d started doing that.

  Murin recognized the source of the wound instantly. The punctures were unmistakable. That’s why he had the Breeded do the bandaging, over Isabel’s protests. Neither man spoke about it. Murin looked at his friend, and George looked back. Murin tilted his head—so. Barrett nodded—so.

  And that was enough.

  Barrett had trouble getting to sleep that night. Not from his arm, which still throbbed painfully. And not from the actual brush with slow death. He’d rid
den that road before and knew how to handle the fatal chuckholes, the cracks in the pavement.

  No, it was Luana who kept him awake, as surely as the snake had nearly put him to sleep. He thought about the way she’d watched from the brush. Damn it, she had hesitated! But why? If it had been a mamba at him instead of a python he’d be spared all this confusion.

  No, her attitude towards him had changed perceptibly. He shrugged it off without further examination. The shock of finding out who she was had been too much for the poor kid. She was still adjusting, that’s all. Sure! As long as she continued to guide them towards the plane . . . and elsewhere. Elsewhere . . . now that was a beautiful place, dripping diamond necklaces and, oddly, traveler’s checks, all nicely countersigned by the devil himself. He smiled in his sleep.

  George Barrett had a mind as crisp as a jungle map, full of straight, fine roads and pathways. Of course, it was bracketed by lots of dense spots—

  The antelope was still downwind of them. Luana moved quietly through the trees as Chaugh and Jukakhan circled to get behind it. It cropped lazily at the grass, its spiraled, curving horns bobbing above the high weeds.

  She shifted the knife in her right hand, trying not to breathe, to move without motion, without form. Almost above it now. Easy there, easy. Wait for the head to go down—NOW!

  She dropped like a rock, the knife made an arc . . . and missed! The startled buck could have hurt her . . . not with those show horns, but with its sharp hooves. Instead, it bolted in the opposite direction while Ohoh chittered madly in the branches above.

  It ran right into Jukakhan.

  The two cats ignored the fresh meat and watched her jog over to the kill. Chaugh could not indicate disbelief, but she sensed it anyway.

  “You missed, sister. I cannot remember when last you missed a straight kill. It was fortunate this was a longhorn and not one of the heavy ones. We might not have reached you in time.”

  She growled irritably. “Be quiet and eat.” Her own knife sawed at the carcass. “It will not happen again. Have you never missed an easy kill?”

  “Certainly, sister,” the panther admitted freely.

  “I misjudged the distance, that’s all. Well, what are you staring at? Do you want me to have Ohoh gather some nice, soft berries for you?”

  Chaugh turned his head and bit deeply into the fresh, warm haunch. But he felt unwell on this and looking across the unmoving flank, saw his concern mirrored in Jukakhan’s eyes.

  Luana tossed and turned restlessly on the bed of moss and spatulate waxy leaves. She’d found a soft place between the roots of a great tree. Sleeping on the jungle floor would have been dangerous, perhaps fatal, for most people. But with Ohoh in the branches above her to give alarm at the slightest threat, and Chaugh and Jukakhan on either side, she was safer than she’d have been in the finest hotel suite in Nairobi.

  Moonlight turned elephant ears to silver plate, and painted the earth with sterling. Jukakhan padded over and licked her lightly on the shoulder.

  “You move without sleep, sister. What is wrong?”

  She rolled over and swatted at the great cat uneasily.

  “Nothing, you ugly yellow hulk. What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “Your actions for one,” he replied, licking his smarting nose where her light blow had connected. “And your tone.”

  “For once I agree,” came Chaugh’s low snarl. “It is not just tonight, nor the kill you missed. You have been like this for several days.”

  “Been like what? Look, why don’t you mind your own business?”

  Chaugh was not to be denied. “It’s the man-thing you call Barrett, isn’t it?”

  “Goddamnit!” she growled, imitating Barrett’s curse. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” She closed her hands around a small rock and threw it in the panther’s direction. There was a dull thump and quick snarl as it hit his side.

  “As you wish then, sister,” the panther said with dignity. “Come, brother.” The two big cats padded silently off into the dark. Luana rolled over miserably and stared at the kaleidoscope of the sky.

  “Maybe,” came an uncertain small voice from that direction, “you should listen to them a little?”

  “Are you defending them, Ohoh?”

  “It is true that cats are not very smart,” said the chimp, “but now and then they say something worth listening to.”

  “Well, you go listen to them, then,” she snapped. “I’m not in the mood for listening.”

  “No, sister, you surely are not.” The chimp-shape vanished, reappeared in another tree in the direction taken by the cats. He started to follow—paused—stopped.

  True, he was cleverer, smarter, braver than any cat. Certainly more so than those two great fools Chaugh and Jukakhan! But that very thoughtfulness made him less independent, too. He turned and stayed there, watching the now distant form of Luana lying at the foot of the big tree, staring upwards into the moon.

  The next day dawned made to order, designed for convenience and pleasure. There were high, thick clouds devoid of compromising rain, yet solid enough to cut the sun. For the first time in a week Barrett woke up without sweating.

  Luana was waiting for him when he finally left the tent. She followed him as he went to the wash basin and watched with interest as he submerged his face. Even the boiled, lukewarm swamp water was a welcome cleanser.

  He rubbed vigorously at his face and neck as he spoke. “You say it’s less than a day’s journey from here?”

  “Yes,” she answered quietly, “but the jungle is thick all the way.”

  “That’s nothing new.” He finished his face, dried his hands.

  “But not too thick,” she amended. “You should make it before the sun falls.”

  “Good.” He turned. “Mur! Murin!” The Breeded was at his side in a minute.

  “George?”

  “Luana says the plane’s not quite a day’s march from here. We’ll take light bedrolls and enough food and water for two days. It’s near a river—that right, Luana?” She nodded. “So if we get stuck, there’ll be no water trouble. Take half the men.”

  “Okay, partner. Anything else?”

  “That should do it. This is a good spot and we’re well set in. The rest can stay here and keep up the camp. We’ll only move if we decide we’ll need more than a day at the site.” He grinned. “Let ’em throw dice to see who stays and who works.”

  Murin chuckled. “Okay, George. And no side bets, or that skinny one, Palia, will have the others carrying his load all the way back to Mpanda.”

  They made better progress than Barrett expected. It was heavily overgrown, all right, but slightly downhill and dry. Certainly nothing as bad as the swamps.

  It was near noon when Luana dropped down next to George. She walked alongside without speaking for a while, then spoke without turning. There was nothing in her voice or manner to hint at the bombshell she dropped.

  “We must turn back.”

  “Back?” Barrett stumbled, regained his balance. He managed to smile. This was a joke, or something. Don’t panic, boy. “Why?”

  “Wanderi,” she said, in the same way she might tell him her foot hurt, or that there was a caterpillar on his shoulder.

  You can now panic, boy. He looked around wildly.

  “I don’t see anything.” There was more hope than sense in that comment.

  “They’re trying to surround us completely,” she continued. “At first there were only two of them. I thought it might be only a hunting party. Then, a few minutes ago, a great many of them arrived without warning or sign. We had best turn back.”

  “All right.” Something surged up at the back of his mind and he looked at her sharply. “Luana, you wouldn’t be making this—” She turned to him and didn’t smile.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  He turned and shouted. “Mur, tell the boys we’re turning back!”

  From the rear of the procession his partner looked at him quizzically, b
ut started to give the necessary order. Isabel was alongside in a second.

  “George—Luana—what’s the matter?”

  “Wanderi,” muttered Barrett, trying to look six ways at once. “They may only be upset because we’re first moving into their territory. If we turn back, there’s a chance they’ll leave us alone.”

  It seemed that way at first. They’d gone a hundred meters and more back along their track. Then the witch-men were on them from all sides. Barrett barely squeezed off three shots before something hard and sharp hit him from behind. He went down like a rock.

  Isabel grabbed up the gun and fired it point blank into the face of the witch-man with the club. The heavy caliber shell destroyed his expression. Also his face. Then someone tackled her from behind and the gun fell from her hands.

  Seeing Barrett down and the overwhelming number of their opponents, Murin the Breeded reached several conclusions simultaneously. No blowguns, no poison had been used this time. No spear had gone for his partner, despite the momentary destruction his rifle had wrought. That left only one possibility, quite more terrifying than spear or poison.

  The witch-men wanted them alive.

  He raised his own gun, aimed at the unconscious Isabel, and pulled the trigger. The blunt edge of a spear cracked his forearm and the shot went wild. A second later, so did his thoughts.

  Luana was practically encircled by the cautious Wanderi. An impressive number of them lay scattered around her, dead or dying. She had a knife in each hand, but it was her inhuman growling as much as those tiny blades that kept them at bay.

  The circle began to close, slowly, inexorably. Snarling especially violently she whirled, reversed both knives to hold them by the blade, and threw them. A running leap took her over and through the momentary gap vacated by the two fallen warriors. She sprang for the lowest branch of a huge kobo tree, caught, it and started to swing up.