The bracelet was one solid piece. No doubt the others were, also. Very interesting. He tossed it back to Isabel.
The bracelets had been cut from a single, gigantic blue diamond. Idly, he wondered what the craftsmen who’d fashioned them had done with the center that had been cut out to form the solid bracelets. It probably rested somewhere in the bottom of the pool, too. Cut to form a doorstop, no doubt.
He made only one more dive. Between that and what Kobenene brought up, everyone was too emotionally exhausted to search further.
It was clear that the bottom of the pool was covered to an interminate depth with the wealth of the greatest empire Africa had ever known. There were spearpoints, also of cut ruby, and more war clubs, and necklaces and earrings and nosepieces beyond imagining.
Barrett’s personal favorite of the booty was a pair of ceremonial sandals, tied together with gold wire. They’d have done Cinderella proud. Oh, they were a bit large for his feet, but otherwise they suited him just dandy, oh yes.
The three-centimeter thick soles, like the bracelets, were solid blue diamond. And why not, he reflected hysterically. After all, what would wear better or last longer than a pair of solid diamond shoes?
The toe-straps that he slipped his feet into were beaten, alloyed gold, cleverly set into notches cut in the diamond.
Barrett noticed Luana staring at him.
“All this is what is called ‘money,’ I suppose?” she asked.
“Yes, Luana.” Barrett spoke as one would to a child. “This is a form of money. Money means many things to many people, though. For me, it means no more taking orders from fat used-car moguls out to prove their macho by shattering an impala with an elephant gun. It means being able to do exactly as I please for the first time in my life. It means not having to worry where my next meal is coming from. It means . . . being free.”
She smiled back at him and he couldn’t escape the feeling that she was laughing at him.
“I can understand that, George Barrett . . . but I already have all those things. Still, I cannot argue how you chose to find yours. I am glad to see you so happy.”
“That’s the greatest understatement since the Rhodesian Prime Minister called Salisbury a segregated city,” Barrett replied, heedless of the fact that she couldn’t understand. He turned to Murin.
“Dump the food. We’ll use the boxes to haul some of this stuff back to camp. When the guys back there get a look at this they’ll forget about eating, too.”
They set about loading the plastic book cases, their few burlap sacks, and even the tiny pockets in their underwear with the ancient jewelry. They went about this task with a single-mindedness of purpose that was as admirable as it was misdirected. It caused them to miss other interesting sights.
For example, Barrett would have greatly admired the silver and sapphire war club that knocked him silly.
Chapter XII
They sat, bound with wire of solid gold, in one of the great stone buildings. From the sound of it, they were still somewhere near the waterfall pool. The jewels, their flashlights and sacks and Barrett’s skinning knife, everything but their clothes, had been taken from them, except the harmless rope.
Outside, the degenerate inheritors of empire, the in-bred guardians of imperial memory, beat ominous time on drums inlaid with platinum and ivory and sard.
One thing was certain: these were no associates of the Wanderi. Or of any known tribe. Their bearing was regal, their speech archaic. There weren’t many of these warriors, surely not enough to populate all the golden fortress. With the one rifle and an element of surprise, Barrett and the others might have been able to escape.
But they had no rifle, and the surprise belonged to the other side. They’d been lying in wait for the proper moment, and had found it with the would-be billionaires sorting their discovery. Probably they’d been waiting ever since Isabel’s shout away back at the base of the first, small cascade.
The way they’d been surprised was almost as painful to Barrett as the lump at the back of his skull. It throbbed for attention and he tried not to wince, shifted closer to the little fire in the center of the room. It was cold in the cavern at night. They all crowded around the tiny, cheerful blaze. It was the only moving thing in the room that was.
“Can’t even talk to ’em,” he grumbled in frustration.
“Nor can I,” Luana admitted. “Their speech is one I have never encountered before.”
Barret glanced over at Kobenene. The big man was staring morosely into the flames.
“What about you, fat tortoise? You’re supposed to be the resident expert on dead languages.”
He muttered a reply. If he’d been the only one of the group able to communicate with their captors—ah well, another lost dream.
“Their speech is old, old Bantu dialect. I can understand a word here, a word there, and that’s all. I could understand more, I think, if they would only talk slowly and repeat things. Of course, in order to do that, I would have to know how to tell them to do so, and since they will not—”
“Okay, okay, I get the point.” Isabel hunched closer to him, and this time she tried to cheer him.
“What do you suppose they have in mind for us, darling?”
“Well, they seem a cut above the Wanderi. Something of unique historical importance, I’m sure.” His tone was dry. “Everybody be sure and take notes. Pity none of us are anthropologists. I expect their ceremony will be much more interesting than the last we almost went through.” He leaned forward, tried to peer out one of the small windows.
“I think maybe it’s getting light out. That usually seems like a starting time.” He paused, his gaze attracted by motion in their circle. “Hey, Kobe, what are you—”
Barrett didn’t need to finish the query. The big man’s movements became self-explanatory.
He’d shifted around until his back was to the fire. The gold bindings would take powerful wire trimmers to cut them, but—
No one in the little group knew how Kobenene stood the pain without crying out. Maybe he had enough extra fat on them to partly protect him. Also, greed is an amazingly powerful force. He held his hands there, over the flames, while sweat streamed down his puffy cheeks and the skin of his wrists began to blacken.
The gold wire began to bend, then to flow. A couple of drops of molten yellow formed in the middle of the wire, dripped into the fire, hissing. Kobene jerked violently, jerked again. Powerful arms flew upwards as the weakened metal parted.
“Nice going, Kobe!” Barrett congratulated him excitedly. They might get out of this yet. The big man was working at his leg bindings, soon loosened them. Barrett shifted around until his back was to the other. “Now do mine.”
When nothing happened, he looked over his shoulder in confusion. Kobenene was standing by the small window on the south side of the building, rubbing his charred wrists and staring cautiously out.
“Hey!” Barrett shouted. It was an eloquent hey.
“Don’t worry.” Kobenene turned a smiling face back to them. The smile cracked slightly as he rubbed at the severe burn he’d incurred. “I’ll see to it that you’re all buried in coffins of solid gold.”
He was gone, squeezed through the window before Barrett’s second “Hey.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted the fat sonuvabitch!” Isabel looked ready to cry. Barrett nudged her, shook his head violently. “No! Maybe we can . . .”
Murin already had his wrists over the fire. Long minutes passed while he stoically endured the tiny, terrible flames. Then his hands were free. He went to his ankles and started working frantically at the knots.
“Relax, Mur,” advised Barrett softly. Murin looked up, sighed.
Three men crowded in the doorway. Two were old, but the grips on their spears were firm. Barrett sensed others crowding around these first three. Sure enough, a group of women entered and helped Murin remove the rest of his bindings. Barrett, Isabel, and Luana were likewise freed.
; One of the old men, who’d been looking uncertainly around their dim prison, abruptly began shouting excitedly in the dead dialect. There was no need for translation. They’d finally discovered that Kobenene was missing. There was considerable commotion in the crowd outside. Straining, Barrett thought he saw three shapes move off in the direction of the stream. He hoped they’d catch the bugger, but not kill him.
Barrett reserved that right to himself.
They were marched ceremoniously across the cavern floor. A crowd of women and a few children trailed. The women sort of cackled softly, but the men were determinedly silent. There was no howling and screaming. It was eerie. Again, Barrett was struck by the difference between their current captors and the Wanderi. There was a more civilized ruthlessness in operation here.
The procession halted. Across from them, a metal gate formed of criss-crossing bars of alloyed gold was set into the naked rock of the cavern wall. A second, solid door of wood now formed a bridge across a narrow, but deep dry moat filled with sharpened stakes.
The warriors formed two lines and took up positions along the two chains leading into the cliff wall. Others brought torches forward. Away from the early morning sunlight, this side of the cave was still dark. But not that dark, Barrett reflected. The torchbearers lined up two deep, forming a ring of fire around the metal gate. They weren’t there just for supplementary illumination, nor did he think their purpose was purely ceremonial.
There didn’t seem to be a formally arrayed chief or witch doctor, though the old man who came forward could have passed for either. He had the dignity, if not the finery. At a signal from the patriarch, the two lines of men began to haul on the chains. Slowly, ponderously, the heavy golden gate was raised, disappearing into a slot cut in the roof of the tunnel it barred.
Maybe they were just going to lock them up in a safer place. Sure, that was it! That explained the lack of ceremony and screaming, of the festival atmosphere. Apparently they were worried by Kobenene’s escape and didn’t want to take any more chances.
A spearpoint prodded him. They walked forward across the wooden bridge.
At least it wasn’t the cruel joke that was one possibility, he mused in relief as they reached the other side. The razor-sharp stakes set in the bottom of the narrow moat were not used for executions. The bridge had held. They stood there, watching, as the oldster gave another sign.
The metal gate dropped slowly in front of them, and the wooden bridge started to come up. Barrett saw the Bantu inheritors watching him, until the rising wood shut out their faces. Eventually it shut tight and they found themselves standing in near total darkness.
Barret stretched out a hand. “Isabel?” He heard a short gasp, moved towards it.
“Here, George.” He turned slightly left, took another step, and bumped against her. He drew her close, remembering her fear of the dark.
“Luana, Mur . . .?” Murin answered, and . . . silence. He tried again. “Luana!”
“Quiet!” Her voice came from somewhere slightly ahead, deeper in the cave, and it was tense. Then the short hairs rose at the back of his neck, at what she told them next.
They were not alone in the cave.
“Can’t you smell it?” Luana whispered.
Barrett took deep whiffs, feeling at once silly and terrified. He reckoned himself a brave man, braver than most. But the girl’s soft admonition, coupled with the stygian darkness—well, it was almost too much.
There was nothing—no, that? A faint, heavy, musty odor. And it was getting stronger.
“What is it, Luana?” The reply was taut, controlled.
“Cat-smell . . . and yet,” she sounded confused, “it is not. I cannot recognize—” Sudden quiet, then, “Make no fast movements, or sounds!”
They waited, in silence as enveloping and all-consuming as the dark. Barrett strained his eyes, saw nothing; strained his ears, and heard—was that a faint hint of heavy breathing?
The reason for the circle of torches became obvious.
Kobenene kicked a last time and burst out of the cave into clean, honest daylight. He swam for the camp and beach.
“Kwa nje!” he shouted. “Watch out!”
The men on shore heard him. There were ready hands to help him from the water. Someone threw him a towel and he began drying himself. Everyone of the excited bearers had two questions.
Kobenene had no time for curiosity. He reached excitedly for the rifle, trying to tell them everything at once.
“Barrett, Murin, and the two women have been captured! A strange tribe of evil ones, who live inside the mountain! Only I managed to escape. The whites are all dead! We will be, too, if we do not start back immediately!” He grabbed.
Entebbe kept a firm grip on the weapon and backed away. Now, Entebbe was no genius, but he was no man’s fool, either. This fat servant of the dead would-be murderer said too many things too quickly. Boss George had left him in charge. That charge was embodied in the rifle. He wasn’t about to surrender it so easily.
“Didn’t you hear me, you country bumpkin? We’ve got to get out of here! Now!”
“Maybe we do and maybe we don’t,” the bearer replied, eying the other warily. “If so, we go when I say so, not you.”
Kobenene was astonished, then furious. “I’ll break your goddamn neck, you ignorant—”
Entebbe took two quick steps backwards and lowered the muzzle of the .470. It pointed right at the other’s most prominent target. The startled Kobenene stopped in his tracks. His hand went reflexively for the machete that wasn’t there. The same thought occurred to Entebbe. He tossed the fat man his clothes. After a second thought, he let him have the big knife, too. Let him try something if he wanted to. Kobenene had kept to himself the whole journey. It was obvious he thought himself better than them. No one in the group would grieve if Entebbe felt compelled to shoot him. There was a click as he slipped a round into the chamber.
Kobenene seemed to sense the other’s thoughts. Then he looked back towards the mountain, looked again.
“All right, see for yourselves!”
Keeping one eye on Kobenene, Entebbe turned with the others to look at the rock.
One man emerged from the sheer wall, brandishing a spear. Two others followed, swimming awkwardly. They gesticulated at the camp in a definitely unfriendly manner.
Entebbe set the rifle to shoulder, making sure he was out of Kobenene’s leaping range, and squeezed off a shot. He was no marksman, but he wasn’t shooting to kill anyway.
The shot exploded on the wall, sending stone shards flying. The shell whined into the distance. Taking one look at where the invisible spear had struck, the leader of the pursuing trio turned and ducked back under the surface. His two companions were well ahead of him.
Kobenene had taken a hopeful step forward. But Entebbe rapidly swiveled around to face him once more.
“What’s the matter with you?” the fat man pleaded. “Don’t you see I’m telling the truth?”
“How come you are still alive?” asked Entebbe.
Kobenene was about fed up with this dumb hick. “I told you, I escaped. Barely, just before they came for us.” He held up his scarred palms. “No one else had the courage to burn themselves free.”
Ah, the fat fool’s ego had betrayed him! These men had all been present at the pigam ua. Anything this great hulk could do, Boss George could do also.
“Well?”
Entebbe looked around at his fellow workers. They were all watching him, waiting for instructions. Though he was no more than the least of them, Boss George had left him in charge. They would proceed on his word. It was an unaccustomed position, and he hesitated.
If this fat fellow’s story were true, they could sit here for weeks, for months even, waiting for dead men to rejoin them. Next time Kobenene’s strange pursuers might return in force, and a single shot not be enough to frighten them away. Nor would the single gun help if another tribe of Wanderi came upon them, or even the regrouped members of the
first.
But if George Barrett were still alive—
Entebbe didn’t care much about the others. The silly American woman made his nervous and the other female frightened him more than he would admit. Murin he did not know. But for a white man Barrett was fair and just. He paid on time and didn’t put on airs, and called them by first names, and, wonder of wonders, demanded not to be called bwana.
And in giving Entebbe command and the rifle, he’d signed another, deeper contract.
“We stay,” he said finally, surprised at the firmness in his voice.
Kobenene was too angry and frustrated to argue. He looked around at the circle of watchers and said tightly, “What about the rest of you? Are you all going to stay with this madman and get slaughtered by savages?”
A few of them wouldn’t meet his eyes, but no one said anything, either.
He started going rapidly through the hampers and cases. Once he came across the carefully stacked workbooks of John Hardi. He ignored them. He didn’t need the pittance they could promise, anymore.
“You don’t mind, do you, if I take some food? And water? And maybe a spare machete?” Entebbe shook his head.
It would be dangerous to try the return journey alone. But if by some miracle Barrett and the others escaped, he would get back before them. There was a trail of slashed vines and bushes all the way back to Mpanda.
At the big river he’d take the raft, then set it free. Any survivors trailing him would have to chance the crocodiles, or take the time to build a new one. Yes, he’d have a sizable start. And he could move faster going alone.
He glared back at the assembled bearers, who stood watching him silently.
“All right, you fools, you back-country cretins! Don’t say I didn’t try to save you. Dogs, monkeys! I gave you a chance. Now it’s off my conscience!”
Feeling full of righteous indignation at their stupidity, and surging excitement at the power and wealth soon to be his, he shouldered the makeshift backpack and struck off the way they’d come.
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