Trunks of Ages: The Seven Seals

by Mary Beth Frank

Chapter 17 History

  December 24-A Few Days Earlier

  “Well, are you going to tell me what I came to hear?” Jerold Hanks leaned into the dark man before him, anxious to get on with it.

  “Where's the lady?” The man sat back in his chair, chewing on the straw from his cocktail.

  “She couldn't make it. She wasn't well.” Jerold grimaced at Beth's haggard appearance the last couple of days, coming down with the flu.

  The man clicked his tongue, “Such a shame. Do you have my payment?”

  A large envelope filled with bills was laid in the middle of the table.

  “All American, just like you asked. You can count it if you want, but it's all there.”

  The man smiled and shoved the envelope into his jacket. Jerold watched him make a quick surveillance out the window, and then he leaned into him, so close that the man’s cologne overwhelmed his senses. Holding his breath in anticipation of the information this native man, Ceban, could mean for their search, he silently hoped he hadn’t made a mistake. They didn’t have much time in Port Elizabeth, and they could use a bit of luck right now.

  Just a few days ago, Jerold happened to be in the right place at the right time. He was in the city’s small library, reading through old tribal stories and histories, focusing on books about South Africa during the 1800s, before the British turned this port into a major English trade city. A tall black man had walked past, slowing as he noticed the books on Jerold’s table, studying him with a curious look.

  “Excuse me, may I ask a question?” Ceban inquired, standing at the edge of Jerold’s table, hands shoved into his denim jacket.

  “I guess so.”

  “Why is ‘n Amerikaanse wit man studying the history of an African tribe from long ago?” The man was leaning into Jerold, a polite smile plastered into place. Ah, a man who speaks Afrikaans and English.

  “Well, I’m researching, although, I’m not sure if I’m searching through the correct information. I’m looking for a particular item that might’ve been lost centuries ago.”

  “What item is that?” The man sat down across from Jerold, suddenly interested.

  “Well, it’s of a confidential nature. I can’t share that information,” Jerold said not sure if this man was to be trusted.

  “I see. Well, I might’ve been of some assistance. Name’s Ceban.” He shoved his hand out, which Jerold tentatively shook.

  “I’ve lived here all my life, and that book,” he pointed to the book opened, “is the history of my people.”

  Jerold sat up, suddenly attentive. “You are of the Khoi tribe?”

  “Yes. I am a decedent of the Khoi people. My ancestors were a small sect of that tribe. I have grown up with their legends and tales.”

  “You mean you know their origins?” Jerold sat back, eyebrows raised.

  Jerold looked across at Ceban, studying the man’s strong facial features, his prominent chin that jutted out just a little too far in front of his face, his high cheek bones, his wide nose that sat between two very dark eyes that blazed against his black skin.

  “Jerold, my name is Jerold Hanks.”

  Ceban smiled letting his brilliant white teeth gleam in the dimly lit library. Jerold relaxed a bit; his instincts telling him this man could be trusted.

  Ceban shook his hand, leaning into him from across the table.

  “You see, Mr. Hanks, I was raised here by my grandmother and mother. I never knew my father, as he was never involved in my life. But, my mother and grandmother tried to raise me with a sense of dignity, culture, and purpose. They decided that it was very important for me to understand my origins and the histories of this town. So, when most children have bedtime stories and fairy tales, I had tribal legends and stories of my ancestors. So, if there were any stories you needed to know about the tribe, I am sure that I would know of them.”

  “Well, then, yes you can be of some assistance to me.” Looking around, Jerold decided that this was not the place. “Meet me on Wednesday night at the bar across the street. My wife will be with me.”

  Ceban smiled and nodded. He wrote something down on a piece of paper and pushed it in front of Jerold. Jerold picked up the paper, his shoulders sagging.

  “Of course, I should have known you'd want payment for your information. I'm sorry for not offering.” Jerold was slightly disgusted at the bribe, but it wasn't at all uncommon.

  “No problem, my friend. Good information is not free. If there is an item of interest that was lost, and if there are stories about such an item, I would know. As I said, I’ve been raised with the history of my tribe and its tales.” Ceban stood up, walked out of the library, never looking back at Jerold.

  Jerold looked at Ceban in front of him. The crowd in the bar was growing; a comfort for Jerold in case Ceban wasn’t the man he claimed to be. Jerold patiently waited for him to begin his tale.

  “Well, there is a brief history about a box, but not a trunk. But this box was said to have an unusual shape, like an egg, and it held unlimited treasure. Anyway, the white man brought it to this area, before the ships came to haul off slaves. The legends say there were four white people in all; a small boy, an older boy and two women. My people were scared of them at first, scared of their skin color. They were planning on killing them, but curiosity kept them from doing so. They continued to let them live among them, eventually forgetting the plans of death as they began to see they brought peace with them. The vreemdeling taught them many things that improved their quality of life. In fact, the legends say they were full of magic, but it was thought the strange box was the source of the magic.”

  “Why would the box be the source?” This was the first time Jerold heard anything about magic or power being associated with the trunks, if this was one of their trunks. But it was a possibility he’d been thinking about the last few years. How else could they be impossibly locked?

  Ceban smiled, “The wit man protected the vak with their lives, never letting anyone near it. But then the men in ships started arriving, capturing slaves from the neighboring tribes. The wit man wanted to stay to help the Khoi, but one day while a small group took the wit man hunting, my tribe was captured and taken away on the slave ships. When they returned, the village was burned to the ground. The only thing that survived the flames of the slawehandelaars was the box. Legends say that the white visitors helped all that survived escape into a secret world: a world that would protect them forever from any evil or danger. About 6, along with the box, were taken to that world.”

  “Do you know where this secret world is?” Jerold was shocked, frustrated.

  “Now that my friend is something I know nothing about. You see my ancestors were in hiding in the bushes just outside the village, having been to the river for cleaning, and missed being taken either on the ship or to the secret world. They overheard what was happening, but were too fearful of going with either party. They thought the second party with the white visitors would eventually be caught and put onto the ships with everybody else. So, they made their own way, carrying on my tribe from the few they had remaining. They somehow found a place that allowed them to escape the slave captives, but if you ask me, I think that the white visitors put magic on the tribe before they left for the secret world. I think the spell hit the ancestors in hiding.”

  Jerold’s eye brows shot up, questioning the man’s theory. The story was already far-fetched for him, but spells?

  Ceban noticed his doubt, but continued. “Why do I think this? Because, from that day forward, not one conflict ever descended upon my tribe. No slave ships, no tribal wars, no plagues, no sickness, no hunger. Natural death was the only sorrow experienced after that day. My relatives all say that the white man’s box holds the power of life. Many of my descendants have sacrificed much to find it, but no one ever has.”

  “Do you know where this village was located? Is it still around?”

  Ceban sat back in his chair
and smiled at the question. “You are in luck, my friend. The gods are smiling on you, for the right information has fallen into your lap this week, has it not? Well, it is just as it was back then. I go there sometimes when I need to remember who I am. It is about 40 miles north, in the jungle.”

  “Will you drive me and my wife?” Jerold was whispering as loudly as he dared.

  “Well, that will cost you extra, but yes, I will take you there.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  Ceban smiled, “Yes, môre will be just fine.”

  Ceban got up, strolling out of the bar with a spirit that defied the cares of the world. Jerold watched him leave, thinking about what he had just learned, wondering if all this time they had been dealing with the impossible. His instincts told him he was out of his mind to even consider it, but his heart told him the truth has been staring at him for years.

  The next morning Jerold, Beth, and Ceban were loading the jeep with their gear. They were dressed in hiking clothes, prepared to make some of the journey on foot if necessary. Beth insisted on coming despite the fact that she spent the entire morning throwing up. She was sitting on a bench outside their hotel, closing her eyes, be he could tell she was breathing in deeply, trying to ease her stomach. The sun was streaming down into the small courtyard outside their hotel. Peeking through the trees, the natural light acted the stage lights hitting her face. Even in sickness, Jerold thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d every laid eyes on. Wanting to alleviate her discomfort, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it with water from his canteen. He made his way to her and silently handed it to his wife, who was grateful but preferred to be miserable alone. Beth took the handkerchief and rubbed it all over her face. Finally, after all their gear was loaded up, they hopped in the Jeep and Ceban began driving them toward the place where his people once lived.

  A few miles from their destination point, Ceban stopped the Jeep to make a pit stop, leaving Jerold and Beth protected by only a single riffle. They had left the border of the civilized coastal town of Port Elizabeth about a half hour ago and were now deep into hilly jungles of South Africa. Jerold looked at Beth, whose face was covered with sweat. He could tell she was battling with her stomach on the bumpy and rough ride. Even so, this was not the worst she’d been through, so he remained quiet, knowing she didn’t want to be babied. She was tough. He knew she could handle anything, if she had to.

  Jerold wrapped his fingers around the trigger of the rifle, wanting to be ready should they have an unexpected encounter with some of the wild animals known to these parts.

  Hoping to distract his wife, and himself, from any anxious thoughts while they sat in the thick of the jungle, he began to hum. An old hymn quickly popped up in his head, one from his youth. A chuckle nearly escaped his lips. He hadn’t been to church in years, except for the traditional Christmas Eve service, when they were home. Jerold sighed, his thoughts coming round to home. What would the kids be doing right now? Would the Christmas decorations be hung? Glancing at his watch, he answered his own internal query. Everyone at his house was probably asleep by now. It was almost Christmas for them. He smiled, thinking about all the things they had ordered online during their trip from New York to South Africa. Hopefully, it had all arrived in time. He had purchased a prepaid card for Sebastian, just in case Tildon…. The thought was interrupted by the sound of an oncoming truck. Jerold instantly stood up in the passenger side of the truck and looked down the road, nothing coming into view. He looked at Beth, who was looking down the road as well, and held his breath. There, several miles off, were two trucks. He grabbed the high resolution binoculars from his pack and focused on the front truck, knowing that if one of Tildon’s associates was here, they’d be in the front. He zoomed in as far as the lens would go. Three figures were standing in the front with guns aimed and ready. Jerold gasped when he made out the figure of a dark woman in black; a face he’d know that face anywhere. Angelica. Jerold dropped the binoculars, nodded to Beth, who needed no explanation. They quickly scrambled for their gear. Fortunately, they had prepared themselves for the unexpected, packing enough food and water to make it several days out here. Hopefully, that is all they’d need to outrun their attackers. Ceban. Jerold stopped. They’d have to make a run for it in his direction. He silently prayed that they would find him. Otherwise, it would be the end for the tribal guide they had started to befriend. Jerold grabbed Beth’s hand and they disappeared off into the line of trees.

  Angelica watched through her binoculars, as Beth and Jerold made their way into the dense forest. She’d hoped she would get the pleasure of ended this fiasco herself, but Tildon had called. The King’s magic had finally been used and she was needed back in the States to follow the children of the prophecies. Her associates would have to finish off the parents.