They were up in the northeastern part of the country, where Gabon fades toward the Congo and tempts the inhabitants of that unhappy country to risk an illegal dash across the border for a chance at a life in their more prosperous, less populated neighbor. Cleft by the equator, little in the way of civilization penetrated this obscure, densely forested corner of one of the planet’s least-visited countries. Baka pygmies still silently stalked downsized duiker in the depths of soundless jungle while keeping a wary eye out for dyspeptic forest elephants and the occasional fidgety lime-green mamba. If not for the unauthorized loggers and illegal bushmeat hunters, probably no one would come here at all, Cort reflected.
A soft rush of disturbed air as if a small plane was passing low overhead caused him to set his coffee down while casting a casual glance skyward. It was only another spectacular hornbill. He was sick of hornbills and their interminable raucous cries. It was just after noon and not much was stirring in the forest. Soon, it would be too hot even for the mangabeys to move.
You knew you were in the real tropics, he reflected, when you sat perfectly still, did not move a muscle, and sweat still ran off you in rivulets. Every day, his chest became a delta.
Peering across the battered table, he found himself admiring Shelly anew. He had known many attractive women, but she was the first he had ever met who had shown a willingness to accompany him on a trip like this instead of insisting they must go somewhere like Rome or the Riviera. Her predecessors’ notions of exploring the tropics rarely extended beyond attending a garden party in Miami. Limiting their horizons thusly caused them to miss out on much that was of interest.
Him, for one thing.
Where his personal appeal was concerned, Cort labored under no false illusions. The substantial trust fund he had inherited only enhanced his attractiveness to the opposite sex. He felt no shame at this unearned wealth. We are none of us responsible for the conditions imposed upon us by fortuitous origins, he had often cheerfully reminded himself. Usually while withdrawing money.
Now, as they neared the end of this particular journey, having gone about as far north in Gabon as one could go without running out of road entirely, their driver apparently felt it necessary to conclude their last day with a fairy story.
“Let me guess.” Cort winked at Shelly, who had to lower her gaze to hide her smile. “You’re referring to a secret place, and nobody knows about it but you.”
Yacouba looked offended. “Not so, Mr. Cort. Many people know about the place. They just don’t go there.”
Shelly could restrain herself no longer. “Oh, let me guess.” She bugged her eyes and shook her hands. “It’s—haunted.”
Their guide pursed his lips. He was a small, slightly built man from a coastal tribe but no pygmy. In addition to being a student of local history, he was also an excellent driver, a self-taught 4x4 mechanic, a decent cook, and fluent in English and French as well as an unspecified number of local languages. He was an educated man, having attended college, though family needs had prevented him from graduating. He had revealed to Cort his true dream was to be a historian, but when one had an extended family to support, one took what work was available. Given the man’s background, Cort would not have expected him to lend credence to local superstitions.
“You joke at my expense.” Yacouba was clearly hurt. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Fang.”
Cort started to laugh aloud but caught himself. “The Fang? Don’t you mean a fang?”
The driver eyed him patiently. “The Fang are a large and powerful tribe in Gabon. They know the territory of which I speak better than anyone. They know full well what lies hidden among these mountains. But even they will not go to the place I tell you about now.”
Cort nodded, sighed tolerantly, and took a swig from the mug sitting on the table in front of him. He’d had just about enough of camp brew and would be glad to get back to Boston and some decent coffee. Such unavoidable impositions aside, he had to admit that he had enjoyed the trip. Even if the principal motivation in embarking upon it had been to provide him with the means to yet again one-up his many sometimes insufferable globe-trotting friends. To the best of his knowledge, none of them had ever been to this part of the world. Naturally, he could not resist the opportunity to beat them to it. Once home, he would regale them with tales of his adventures while delighting in their inevitable expressions of envy.
“I suppose you’re referring to some ancient, mysterious relic of a bygone race and age?” he ventured.
“No.” Yacouba spoke not as a guide but with the assurance of a scholar. “The place I speak about is only a few hundred years old. It was built by Europeans.”
Cort perked up slightly. It was not the response he had been expecting. “Europeans? What Europeans?”
Clearly pleased to share more knowledge of his homeland, the guide continued. “No one knows for certain who came to the place first. Given the age of the walls, most probably the Dutch. But it might have been the French, or the English, or quite possibly the Portuguese. At one time or another, all of them could have had a hand in it.”
Cort looked again at Shelly. While informative, their driver was still being evasive. “So, at this place on the night of a full moon, there are walls that weep. What kind of walls, Yacouba?”
“Stone walls. The walls of a castle.”
Now, that was interesting, Cort decided. Could the ruins of some forgotten British or Dutch outpost lie this far inland, beyond mountains and across forest, overgrown and concealed by centuries of festering jungle? During the great age of exploration and colonization, the Europeans had built and maintained posts all along the west coast of Africa, but until the nineteenth century, few of them had ventured very far into the interior. Still, big local rivers like the Ivindo and the Ogooué offered a route inland, just as the great Congo itself did farther to the south. What lure might have drawn early European explorers away from the coast and into the hellish, fever-infested hinterland?
There was gold in Gabon, and diamonds all over Africa. Had some undocumented explorers found and then lost a diamond mine? As for the “weeping” walls, a full moon might produce just enough of a tidal surge in a pool or river to send its water trickling over the old stone wall of a cistern or two, giving it the appearance of weeping. Or so Cort chose to surmise. He would have been the first to admit that he was no scientist. But it was the best explanation he could think of on the spur of the moment. Assuming an explanation was even called for. Yacouba might simply be yanking his chain.
He gave a mental shrug. Why not check it out? It wasn’t as if he had to be back at a job or anything.
“It’ll be a full moon in a few days. If you’re not just spinning us a tall tale, Yacouba, I think Shelly and I would be interested in having a look at your weeping walls.”
Their driver immediately looked away. “No. You are right. It is just a story, m’sieur. A forest fable to amuse children.”
Cort grew annoyed. First, because he didn’t like the guide’s tone, and second, because people did not say “no” to William Edward Cort. But he did not get angry.
“Come on, Yacouba. You tell us this story, you get me to where I’m half believing you, and then when I seek actual confirmation, you decline to provide it.”
As the diminutive guide turned to face him, Cort was startled to see that the man’s expression was not one of defiance or uncertainty but unmistakable fear.
“I know of this place, Mr. Cort. I mentioned it to you only in passing—not thinking you would ever contemplate actually going there. I know where it is supposed to lie, but I myself have never been there. I will never be there.” His sudden resolve was startling.
Bored by the discussion, Shelly delicately sipped down the last of her coffee, pondered the cookies set out on a paper plate in the middle of the table, and leaned back in her folding canvas chair. “Go or don’t go—I don’t care, Cor. One more week of this and then we head home. That was the arrangement. I’ve put up wi
th these conditions pretty well, I think.” Her eyes narrowed. “You owe me a month in London. With shopping.”
“I know, I know,” he agreed irritably without looking at her. “Can we get to this place in three days, Yacouba?”
The driver looked away again. “One day driving, then two days’ walk. Same back out again. Not easy, but it could be done.” There was no hesitation in his voice. “But it does not matter. I will not take you there. I am sorry now that I mentioned it.”
Cort sighed and leaned toward the guide. He knew exactly what to do, because he had done it dozens of times before and it always worked. Always. “I paid you half your fee in Libreville.” His smile was not unlike that flashed by the crocodiles that inhabited the nearby river. “I’d hate to have to reconsider payment of the rest following our return due to, um, unsatisfactory fulfillment of designated duties.”
As expected, the threat shook Yacouba. Not only did he need the money for his family, but Cort knew how the game was played. If a Westerner complained to the Tourism Department in Libreville, Yacouba could lose his official guide’s license. In a country like Gabon, it could mark him for life.
Despite all that, Yacouba hesitated for a long time. At last, he cursed under his breath. “I will take you close enough to see. But I won’t go to the weeping walls myself.”
Cort put his hands behind his head, leaned back in his seat, and nodded complacently. “Fine. You stay with the tent and the rest of the gear. That’s all we want, is to have a look.” He eyed his companion. “Isn’t it, Shelly?”
She did not turn back to him. A bird was singing in the trees and she was trying to locate it. “If you say so, Cor,” she said absently.
“Then it’s settled.” Even if they didn’t find a lost diamond mine, he told himself as he pushed back from the table, there might be relics of historical value. His bank account would ensure smuggling such artifacts out of the country would pose no obstacle. He might get his picture in the paper back home. The anticipation was delicious as he envisioned the boys at the Club pondering that and fuming.
Pain made him wince suddenly. Looking down, he slapped hard at whatever had bitten his exposed calf. Something small, multi-legged, and dull blue in color scampered madly off his leg as it made for the cover of the low scrub beneath the nearby land cruiser. His momentary visitor was not close kin to what one might expect to encounter on, say, the grass of Boston Common.
Central Africa, Cort reflected, would be a far more tolerable place without the bugs.
* * * *
It was a stupid idea. The notion that it had been a stupid idea struck Cort forcefully about an hour after they had left the land cruiser parked at the terminus of a winding, bumpy, near-impassable track that could not by any stretch of the imagination actually be called a road. What kept him going now that they were on foot was not an overwhelming desire to see their guide’s conjectured weeping walls, but Cort’s sure knowledge that he would look like a prize idiot for having insisted on coming this far only to turn back at the first indication of difficulty.
To her credit, Shelly was complaining no more than usual. At least they were both somewhat acclimated from the couple of weeks they had already spent in the country. But tramping through the jungle, real jungle, was very different from lounging about at places like the Lopé Hôtel, with its fine restaurant and swimming pool and air-conditioned suites.
Dreaming of air conditioning did nothing to improve his mood. Furthermore, Yacouba was not only leading them through raw jungle but uphill as well. Cort’s tone was cutting as he addressed the guide.
“Wouldn’t an outpost, much less a castle, have some kind of road or at least an old trail leading to it?”
Yacouba looked back at him. Though he was carrying the tent and most of their supplies, their guide was hardly sweating. “It has been a long time since anyone has come this way except local people, Mr. Cort. Local people do not need roads, and the forest long ago swallowed any trail.”
“You’re sure you know where you’re going?”
“I am sure. The place of the weeping walls is as well known to the people here as it is little visited. It has been well known for hundreds of years.” A bit stiffly, he added, “It is referenced in several books.”
We had damn well better find something substantial, Cort growled silently to himself. If not diamondiferous earth, then a couple of hundred-year-old bottles of rum. Otherwise, a certain wise-ass guide was going to find himself handed a pocketful of coins instead of a fistful of Euros when they finally returned to Libreville.
Buttressing tree roots seemed to reach out, deliberately trying to trip them up. Once, they had to freeze and wait for a browsing forest elephant to move out of the way. Later the same day, they had to sprint across swarms of driver ants too extensive to go around. The presence of the ant swarms was further proof they were walking through primary, unlogged, untouched forest. The trick was to imitate a ballet dancer, employ the longest strides possible, and leave only the tiniest footprint while dashing across the restless, ever-moving surface. Despite their best efforts, every time he and Shelly found themselves successfully on the far side of a swarm, a few of the ferocious ants always managed to grab hold of a boot and scurry upward to bite and sting. A couple of frantic slaps was usually enough to finish off the isolated assailants.
“What happens if you just ignore the ones that get on you? They’re so small. Do they just sting you and then drop off?” Shelly asked as they plodded onward. Even while grumbling and soaked in perspiration, she still managed to look good, Cort thought admiringly.
Yacouba peered back at her. “You notice how the ants that get on you always climb upward? They are looking for your eyes.”
“Oh.” She quickly terminated the line of questioning.
As if by way of compensation for the heat of the day, the first night away from the land cruiser and its conveniences proved surprisingly cool, though just as humid as the daytime. Lying on the ground, looking up through the tent’s netting, Cort found himself contemplating an endless, tree-framed black sky speckled with thousands of stars that barely winked. After several minutes of this, he turned to reach for the undulating shape lying on the foam pad beside him.
An annoyed Shelly swatted his groping hand away. “Are you out of your mind? Until I’ve had at least two showers and a full bath, you keep your hands to yourself.”
He persisted. “The sweat doesn’t bother me.”
“Then you’re more of an animal than any we’ve seen.” Disgusted, she turned over on her side and away from him. The fact that her back was now facing him was in no wise discouraging, but her words were. He decided this was not the place to push that particular envelope. With a grunt, he rolled over onto his back. Small, fast-moving shapes were scuttling across the ground all around them but outside the walls of the tent. Somewhere nearby, an exhausted Yacouba snuffled quietly in his sleep.
The sultry, oppressive reality of his immediate surroundings, Cort reflected as he lay still, was not nearly as exciting as had been the contemplation of them back home in Boston. Ah, well. Another day would see them reach their mysterious destination. They would have a look around and then they could start back. At least the stinking hike back to where they had left the land cruiser would be mostly downhill. And as luck would have it, it still had not rained on them.
Not only would sightseeing in a tropical downpour be uncomfortable, in the midst of a thunderstorm it would be difficult indeed to evaluate the legend of weeping walls, he mused as he drifted off to sleep.
* * * *
“This is as far as I go, m’seiur.”
Cort glared at the guide; if Yacouba chose to run off, he and Shelly would have a difficult, dangerous time trying to find their way back. Even if they succeeded, if their guide beat them back to the car and decided to take off with it . . .
“No. You’re coming with us, Yacouba.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Mr. Cort, m’sieur, I said I would bring
you to the place, and I have done that. But I also said I would not go up to it.” He nodded skyward, through the trees. “Soon, the sun will be down. I have to start making camp.”
Cort nodded curtly forward. “Then set it up next to one of your ‘weeping’ walls. Wouldn’t that be a good place to camp? There might even be some overhead shelter.”
Unsettlingly, Yacouba took a step backward. Cort did not pursue—not yet. He had been quite an athlete in college and he was not worried about the guide outrunning him, not even in the jungle. Especially not with all the gear that was still strapped to the man’s back. Especially not if he had any hope of receiving the second half of his payment.
Nor did Cort raise his voice. He preferred to persuade with words rather than violence. It usually worked. It had worked with the girls in college, it had worked at the Club, it would work here. He’d always risen to a challenge.
“Come on now, Yacouba. Be reasonable. Remember the remainder of your fee. I think Shelly and I have gotten to know you a little bit over the past couple of weeks. Surely you aren’t afraid of some old ruins? This weeping phenomenon—if it’s real, I bet I can explain what causes it. Maybe there’s a small spring near one wall. Or a pool of frogs who are more active during a full moon. There are plenty of possible explanations.”
Yacouba was not swayed. “No m’sieur, please, Mr. Cort, sir.”
Cort’s expression hardened. “You don’t come with us, you don’t get paid. You get nothing more.”
Yacouba looked angry enough to fight, but Cort knew he was trapped. The government would never take Yacouba’s side in a dispute with a wealthy tourist. And if Cort ended up hurt, none of the promised money would be forthcoming, anyway. Shelly stood nearby, examining a cluster of yellow flowers and ignoring the confrontation. She did not draw the blossoms close to sample their fragrance. Cort had warned her not to touch anything in the jungle—not even pretty flowers.
What the #@&% Is That? Page 33