Salticidae
Page 23
“You’re serious, huh?”
“Insanely. So tell me…you in or out?”
Derek wiped dressing from his mouth, looked out the window at steam rising from a nearby manhole cover. “Fuck it. Why not.”
***
As the sun began its slow fall behind the jungle horizon Shumba deviated on his normal course back from the bee hives and pushed through the bushes toward the edge of the cliff. He looked out over the jungle valley, the Old Man far off in the distance, the river hidden by the canopy below but giving off a low, almost inaudible gurgle. Two parrots soared over the treetops and dove into the greenery, lost amongst a sea of emerald and sapphire.
Shumba’s father had said little after returning to the village that day. They had seen no spiders on the way back, but that meant little. The battle they had won with the white men was just that, a battle. Not a war. War would never end in the Congo, not with the militias, the miners, the drug runners, the government, or Mother Nature. Certainly not with a creature that could see out of the back of its head and jump twenty kilometers at a time.
Upon returning home, there were mourning prayers sung for the fallen, and a celebratory dinner prepared by the women. Musa spoke nothing of the battle, nor did the other men, mostly for want of not scaring the wives and daughters of the tribe. But Shumba knew, could see it in his father’s eyes and read it in his silence, that their work was not done.
He thought of this as he watched the jungle below, the sun’s last few rays painting a red halo over the Congo. He thought of what it meant to be a warrior, about facing fear and embracing death. He thought of how the spiders had appeared almost organized at times, and certainly dedicated to the hunt.
He dug his hand in the pouch on his belt and withdrew a small piece of golden honeycomb. The sweet, chewy substance was a delight to his hungry belly. Which reminded him, he was wanted back up at the village so the honey could be used for the night’s beverages.
The song of the jungle grew louder now. The birds whistled lullabies, the monkeys played rambunctiously in the boughs, a cat roared somewhere down below, readying itself for a nighttime prowl.
And perhaps, there, down below the canopy, that white line and erratic shadow moving quickly through the flora was more than just sun-bleached liana and a trick of the shadows from so many trees.
But for now, he would wait to see what his father’s plan was. It would surely involve more battles to defend the land. Such a beautiful land, he thought, warm to the touch and playful to the nose. But unforgiving. Oh yes, a land that would teach you a deadly lesson if you did not respect it. And he would not have it any other way.
“Our land,” he said.
He turned away from the tangerine sun, plucked another small bite of honeycomb from the pouch, and plopped it in his mouth. He hummed his own soft song as he made his way back to the village.
END
About the Author
Ryan Thomas works as an editor in San Diego, California. You can usually find him in the bars on the weekends playing with his band. When he is not writing or rocking out, he is at home with his wife and two dogs watching really bad B-movies. Visit him online at www.ryancthomas.com
Other books by Ryan C. Thomas:
The Summer I Died (The Roger Huntington Saga part 1)
Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga part 2)
Ratings Game
Hissers
The Undead World of Oz
Scraps & Chum
Monstrous (as editor)
With a Face of Golden Pleasure
Enemy Unseen
Malcontents