Goodbye to the Jungle

by Wayne Mansfield

  Jahl didn’t dare move or speak. It wasn’t entirely because he didn’t want to further annoy Brocknor. It was more that, even though he understood most of Brocknor’s words, he barely understood the concept. In fact, he found the best way to pass the time while posing like a dead tree that had been struck by lightning was to lose himself in thoughts of his jungle home.

  What would he be doing if he were there? Probably hunting. Or sitting in a circle with the other men, making spears and arrows. Some of the older boys would be learning how to chip the stone at the right angle to create a keen edge for the spearheads, or how to cut and attach the feathers to make the arrow fly straighter. The old men would be smoking and telling stories about the past, and a small group of young boys would be sitting before them, spellbound. Meanwhile, the women would be in the jungle, collecting roots or berries or fruit. The younger girls would be with the women, learning which plants provided food and which were to be avoided. The older girls would be cleaning or cooking. Perhaps some might be with the elderly women, weaving baskets or making string bags.

  A single tear slid down his cheek, despite the fact he was smiling.

  A great deal of time had elapsed before Jahl was finding it more and more difficult to stand completely still. His arms had grown tired, the struggle to keep them raised almost more than he could bear. He noticed them shaking, and fortunately, so did Brocknor.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” he said, wiping his brushes on a rag. “I also need a rest.” He washed his hands in the swimming pool, drying them on the hem of his tunic. “Are you coming?” he asked, nodding in the direction of his bedroom.

  With nothing else to do, and knowing the pleasures that could be bestowed on him by Brocknor, he followed. Once in the relative privacy of the bedroom, Brocknor stripped and led Jahl to bed.

  At first, nothing happened. They lay on their backs, side by side, dozing.

  “Jahl, I realise you might be unhappy. You’ve been taken away from everything you know and love. But I promise to make your life here as happy as you’ll allow yourself to be.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  Brocknor rolled onto his side, his head propped up by his hand. “Why did I do what?”

  “Buy me?”

  Brocknor furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “If you know how unhappy I am, why do you keep me here?”

  Brocknor reached for Jahl, but when he flinched, the man withdrew his hand.

  “I keep you here because I bought you. I bought you because I needed a companion.”

  “Why did you need to buy someone? Why not make a friend? Find a lover? Seek the companionship you want from someone who would give themselves willingly?”

  “I-I-I…” Brocknor appeared stumped. “I don’t know. It’s easier this way.” He started stroking Jahl’s head, his voice becoming calmer, gentler. “Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I pleasured you? Is it really so bad being here with me?”

  Tears bubbled to the surface, spilling down Jahl’s cheeks. He turned from Brocknor, ashamed to be seen crying by another man.

  “Jahl, please don’t be upset. I promise your life here won’t be a difficult one.”

  Jahl sniffed back his tears and cleared his throat. As he turned to face Brocknor, he wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. “It might not be a difficult life, but it will be one spent away from the people I love. It will be one spent away from my true home. It will be a life you give me, not one I make for myself.”

  Brocknor sighed and rolled onto his back. He lay for a moment before getting out of bed. “I’m sorry, Jahl. I’m really sorry.” He padded from the room, naked, with nothing more to say.

  Chapter 6

  For the remainder of that day and most of the next, a tense silence existed between Jahl and Brocknor. Jahl spent the night in the room set aside for him—a small annex off Brocknor’s room. It was barely large enough for its small bed and table, but Jahl sensed that when Brocknor got over his guilt, he wouldn’t be using it much.

  To keep boredom at bay, he took to helping Mari, asking her for chores since he didn’t want to ask Brocknor for anything, even jobs.

  “It gets better,” she said.

  They were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. Mari was naked, but for a makeshift turban, which kept her long, black hair out of the way.

  “What does?” asked Jahl.

  “The aching in your heart. In the pit of your stomach. In your spirit.” She dipped her brush into the bucket of water. “Sadly, your memories fade as well. I suppose you can’t have one without the other.”

  “But I don’t want to forget my old life. My family and friends. I’d rather tolerate the pain than have that happen.”

  “It happens whether you want it to or not. I tried to hang onto my memories for as long as I could. Every night, without fail, I pictured my mother first. I imagined her smiling at me, speaking to me so I wouldn’t forget her voice. I’d hear her telling me that everything would be all right. That I was strong, and that I was loved. I pictured my father and my sisters. Each of them talking to me, telling me the things I needed to hear. I’d imagine the sound of my sisters laughing, the sound of their giggling often making me laugh. I saved my husband till the end. I remembered all the sweet things he ever said to me, and the way he said them. I remembered the way he used to smell and the way his lips felt when he kissed me.” She sat back on her heels and looked at Jahl, the hand holding the scrubbing brush resting on her thigh. “But even from the very first night I started, some small detail was forgotten, not quite right, until all I was left with were vague impressions.”

  Jahl had stopped scrubbing to listen more carefully to her words, words that had stunned him to the point of being incapable of moving. When at last he regained control of his senses, he sat back on his heels, mirroring Mari. “And now?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “And now I don’t think of them at all. I can barely remember what they look like. I’ve forgotten what they sound like. My ideas of all those I loved are distant memories, so distant they feel like someone else’s memories. I walk around this villa every day. I know every corner of this building and every bush in the garden. I know this man’s life more than I know my own.”

  Jahl shook his head. “I won’t let that happen to me. I’ll find a way to return to my family. You’re welcome to come with me. But believe me, I’m going.”

  Mari smiled, her full lips parting to reveal perfect teeth. “No, my desire to flee has faded like the memories of my family. I have nowhere to go, not now after so long, and I couldn’t bear to endure a beating, or worse, if I was caught.”

  Jahl gently clasped her hand. “Come with me. You can stay with me and my family. Perhaps we can travel together to the Arari. Find your family.”

  Mari’s smile broadened. She stroked Jahl’s face with her free hand. “You really are sweet. It’s a nice fantasy that I should return to my people, but it can only be a fantasy.”

  “They won’t catch me,” said Jahl, determined. “I know exactly how to get back to my people. I took notice of everything on the way here. The houses, the swamp, the track through the jungle. And once I’m back with those I love, no man would dare come looking for me. They’re cowards, stealing people when they are alone and vulnerable. Never once have I heard of them raiding a village. We’d annihilate them.”

  Mari threw back her head and laughed out loud.

  “Why are you laughing?” he asked, unable to keep from grinning. “What did I say?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just, you speak so boldly, so bravely, of escape. There’s such a fire in your belly. I admire it. I remember when a similar fire raged in my belly.”

  Jahl didn’t know whether she was laughing at him or not, and so he simply shook his head at her.

  “It’s nice to see you two getting along so well,” said Brocknor, entering the kitchen.

  The laughter ceased immediately. Both Mari and Jahl re
commenced scrubbing the floor.

  “I didn’t mean to spoil your fun.” Brocknor walked to the edge of the food preparation table. “Mari, do you have the list of things you need from the market?”

  Mari leapt to her feet. “Yes, master.”

  She stood and fetched a single sheet of parchment from a storage cupboard. She handed it to Brocknor, then returned to her scrubbing.

  “Jahl, I should like you to accompany me. Mari can finish the floor.” He gave the room a cursory glance. “It doesn’t look like there’s much left to do. So go and wash up. Make yourself presentable. We’re going to market.”

  Jahl got to his feet and hurried to the wash room, a spring in his step. Market. He was going to market, an opportunity to memorise the streets and the buildings along the way. Or rather, to recheck his memories of the route.

  He washed, then dried himself with one of the towels that sat folded and stacked on a shelf. He hung the towel on a peg to dry and returned to Brocknor.

  “Ready,” he said, eager to escape the confines of the villa walls, if only for an hour or so.

  “Good. We won’t delay. Could you collect those?” He pointed to three bags made of twisted and tied dried seagrass. “We’ll need those to carry things.”

  They bid goodbye to Mari, crossed the front yard, and exited through the large wooden gate. An elderly man stood on the other side.

  “Ah, Ralan,” said Brocknor. “Is everything ready? Your men? Your tools?”

  The man nodded humbly.

  “Good. Good. Then I won’t hold you up. We’ll be gone about an hour.”

  Ralan nodded again.

  Obviously satisfied, Brocknor started heading into town with Jahl beside him.

  Jahl had always considered himself to be an intelligent man. In two days, he had learned his place, what was expected of him, and a great deal about his master, and the way he thought. Still, something about the old man, and the few words Brocknor had spoken to him, disturbed him.

  Ignoring the little voice inside him telling him to stay silent, he spoke. “Who was that man?”

  Brocknor looked at him, a strange smile on his face. “Just someone I’ve hired to do a little job for me.”

  Jahl didn’t pursue the issue. Nevertheless, he had an uneasy feeling about it. To take his mind off things, he studied the buildings on both sides of the road, noting the blue shutters on one house and a large olive tree with branches growing over the wall of another villa, its fruit littering the ground. Then two houses joined by a common wall, their front doors opening directly onto the road. A narrow lane. A large house with a second storey, and opposite, a house with a pen of chickens.

  All the way into town, he made mental notes. He didn’t expect to remember them all, but even if he remembered most of them, he’d be okay. Besides, he could test himself on the way back.

  The market was much like his vague recollection of it—an L-shaped formation of stalls, kiosks, and carts, selling all manner of fruit and vegetables, eggs and cheese, clothing and jewellery, livestock such as chickens, ducks, and sheep, as well as various household items. People haggled to get the best prices, then stood around talking to friends and neighbours about what good deals they’d got.

  Brocknor had no patience for haggling. He’d ask the price, the vendor would tell him, and he’d suggest a price marginally less. Anyone who wanted to further bargain with him lost the sale completely, although most of the men and women seemed to know Brocknor and gave him what he wanted.

  At the centre of the square loomed the wooden building where he had suffered the greatest of his humiliations. The mere sight of it created a flash of anger, a feeling of intense hatred for all it represented. He turned away and made certain he never looked in its direction again.

  “Would you like an orange?” asked Brocknor.

  Jahl looked at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language, which indeed the word was for him.

  Brocknor chose a large orange fruit and handed it to Jahl. While Brocknor paid for it, Jahl bit into the thick peel, throwing the fruit to the ground in disgust.

  “What did you do that for?” asked Brocknor, bending to rescue it. He handed it back to Jahl, who shook his head vehemently. “You’re supposed to peel it first,” he said, demonstrating.

  When the fruit had been freed of its bitter peel, he handed it back to Jahl. Only nervously did Jahl accept it, and even more uncertainly, bring it to his lips.

  “Go on,” said Brocknor. “It’s all right. You’ll love it.”

  Jahl took a bite, paused, and when the flavour hit his tastebuds, he smiled.

  Brocknor laughed. “I told you.”

  Jahl took another bite, and another, until pale juice washed over his chin and spilled onto his chest. He licked his lips and bit into what was left of the fruit, pushing more of it into his mouth than could easily fit. He swallowed as he chewed, sucking juice from his hands and arms.

  “You enjoyed it after all,” said Brocknor.

  Jahl nodded, hurriedly swallowing the last of his mouthful. “Where do they come from? Why have I never tasted them before?”

  Brocknor laughed again. “They come from a land far from this one.”

  “Can you buy some more? I want some more.”

  Brocknor asked the vendor for ten more oranges, and suggested that Jahl leave them in the bag. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Jahl wanted more than anything to try another of the strange and succulent fruits, but also knew that if he could delay his gratification and wait until a later time, the ten oranges in his bag would last longer.

  They spent a little time at each stall, Brocknor examining each and every product, interrupting his browsing to greet various people he knew, and once or twice engaging in a short conversation. It seemed to provide him great pleasure, though Jahl was more bored than he could ever remember being since most people ignored him, or at best, gave him a brief polite smile.

  Only when he heard mention of a runaway slave did his ears prick up.

  A tall, stocky man with a large belly was talking to Brocknor. “They caught him heading east, towards the desert. Dunno why he should go there. Nothing but sand and heat and Death Stalkers. But he got what was coming. Got beaten pretty badly, and to cap it all, they cut off his toes. So he can move about”—he chuckled—”just not as easily as before.”

  Jahl glared at the man, hatred burning in his heart. How was it that one man could inflict such terrible tortures on another, and even worse, find another man’s pain so amusing? Although, it pleased him to see that Brocknor found nothing about the man’s story to smile about.

  By the time Brocknor suggested they return home, it was well over an hour later and Jahl’s bags were laden with produce.

  On the way back, Jahl was so pre-occupied with the horrific tale of the runaway slave that he forgot to pay attention to the landmarks. Brocknor was talking to him about something, about the town and its market, but to Jahl it was background noise. So perplexed and absorbed in his thoughts was he that he couldn’t pay attention to anything Brocknor said. Only as they approached Brocknor’s villa was he drawn from his thoughts. Something didn’t seem right. There was something missing, something that had been there a little more than an hour earlier.

  Then he realised. The trees! The trees were missing.

  A chill traced an icy finger down his spine.

  Unusual sounds came from the other side of the wall, and after Brocknor opened the gate and they entered the grounds, Jahl saw a group of five or six men sawing lumps of wood, while the old man, Ralan, raked up large piles of leaves and twigs.

  Jahl glared at Brocknor, his heart full of rage, or shock, or fear. Or perhaps a mutant combination of all three.

  “That’s going to make such a difference in autumn,” said Brocknor. “No more leaves, thank the gods.”

  Jahl marched ahead, towards the villa. He took his bags of supplies to the kitchen and dumped them on the table.

  “You could help me p
ut them—” Mari didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence.

  Jahl tromped to the end of the villa, to the room with the bath. He hurried to the small window and peered out, looking with horror at another man sawing down the last of the trees that bordered the property.

  Jahl seethed. Yet what could he do? It would be unwise to confront Brocknor about the massacre of the trees. What possible reason, apart from the real reason, could he give for being so upset? The trees didn’t belong to him. Brocknor could do what he wanted with them. Besides, he knew why Brocknor had done it. Absolutely, he knew. He also knew that if he was ever going to escape, he’d have to stay one step ahead of his master.

  Chapter 7

  “I’ll miss you when you go,” said Mari one day while doing the laundry.

  “You really should come with me,” said Jahl. He hadn’t told Mari about the runaway slave, nor would he, though it was constantly at the back of his mind. “We won’t get caught. We won’t. I’ll make damned sure of it.”

  Mari shook her head. “I’ve been here a little over eight years. Before that I was with another master for ten years. I was taken when I was fifteen. Remember I told you how my memories have faded? I wouldn’t recognise anyone now, and they surely wouldn’t recognise me.” She shook her head again, dolefully, then cast a cursory glance around the room. “I hate to say it, but this is my life now. I don’t know any other kind. Besides, it’s not that bad. The master is good to me. You should have met my first master. Beastly. I was glad to be away from him and his beatings and…well, the other things he used to do to me.”

  Jahl stared unblinkingly at Mari, not quite able to understand her attitude to any of what she had said, except the last part, but respecting it just the same.

  “How do you plan on escaping now the master’s cut down the trees?”

  Jahl felt a surge of anger. “I don’t know. After I’ve been here a while longer, after I get a better idea of how things are done, I’ll find a way.”