by Tamar Myers
“I’m sure that had to be awkward,” a voice at his elbow said.
Chapter Seventeen
Even in her best Sunday dress Mrs. Gorman was not appropriately attired. To put it simply, she was a missionary. Her job was to spread the Good News, and that was easier to do if she did not draw attention to her body. The Belgians, on the other hand, were free to show their smooth shoulders and flaunt their suntanned backs. A few of the women even felt free enough to expose shocking amounts of décolletage.
Shocking was exactly the right word to describe it. That’s the word Mrs. Gorman would use in her letter to her sisters who lived in Charlotte, and to whom she wrote every week in her elegant handwriting. Of course they would be seeing Mrs. Gorman soon—hopefully within a month—oh, my fathers, there went another one, with her cleavage exposed practically down to her navel! So shocking! So thrilling, even. Mrs. Gorman was entranced.
If only Mr. Gorman’s whereabouts could be confirmed. Protruding Navel had insisted that he’d seen Mr. Gorman in the side yard conversing with the girl’s father—but that was before lunch. Since then no one had seen either man. However, the Gormans’ car was still parked in front of Missionary Rest House, which was both a good sign and a bad sign.
On the plus side, it could mean that Mr. Gorman had set off on foot with the Headhunter, on one of his evangelizing forays into the bush. This would certainly not be unlike him. Once when Mr. Gorman had seen an unexpected opportunity to witness a band of Bapende hunters passing through the mission, he’d dropped everything to join up with them, and was gone for two weeks. When he returned he claimed to have baptized eight of the men. “Collecting scalps for Jesus,” he called this kind of work.
On the negative side—well, gosh darn it, there was that very wicked chasm behind the Missionary Rest House. Everyone in the mission with any lick of sense had urged the Mission Board back in Raleigh not to approve the appropriation of this site, or the building of the Missionary Rest House there, but the view gawkers had the loudest voices, and had won the day.
Now, quite possibly, Mr. Gorman lay smashed somewhere at the bottom of the gorge or, worse yet, he might already be in the belly of the behemoth reptile that waited greedily at the bottom. Thankfully, Mrs. Gorman had been in training all her life for just such an evening as this. Only unfaithful Christians worried; the faithful ones put their trust in the Lord and lived their lives with joy and the knowledge that everything works out for the best for those who truly love the Lord.
So there was no point in worrying, no point at all. Enjoy the evening, be a light unto others, and yes, by all means, experience a little shock. Just don’t let anyone see you looking, or they might get the wrong impression.
From the safety offered by the leafy shadows to the left of the portico, Cripple stared in amazement at the gathering of whites. Not since the scheduled day of her execution had she witnessed such a vast number. Then, as luck would have it, her mind had been on other things and she had not had the luxury of taking it all in.
So many Whites, yet they all looked the same. How did they manage to find their own mates in a throng such as this? Or perhaps they were encouraged to do just the opposite; indeed she had heard tales of a Christian sect across the Big Sea in which the men were allowed to take many wives and Jesus did not mind. If this sect were to come to Belle Vue and recruit, maybe then Cripple might consider becoming a Christian. Until then, however, she would remain a happy heathen.
Yala! What was she doing thinking about such trivial matters now! She was there as a mulami—a shepherd—for the new Ugly Eyes. The real Ugly Eyes. What did the OP call her? Danielle. Not too difficult to say, but still a silly name, as it had no meaning.
Cripple tried making up a few names. “To-ma-lah. Ma-don-ah. Lin-si.” What foolishness. Aiyee! It was so hard not to be judgmental. But she who judges will be twice judged; so said the wise old women who passed on the secrets of living the happy life to which Cripple aspired.
Happiness was not the birthright of any creature—except for those who could fly, such as birds and butterflies. (For those who were ashamed of flying, and therefore flew at night—such as bats—theirs was a curse). Everyone else had to work to be happy within his or her own rules and the traditions handed down by their elders and their stories; for even monkeys and leopards had rules for being monkeys and leopards, did they not?
Tonight all attention should be solely on the girl. Was she happy, or unhappy? Neither. The girl was terrified. Cripple could not only see the fear written on the young woman’s face, but she was sure that she could smell it as well.
Although the new Ugly Eyes was standing next to Mamu Ugly Eyes, she was obviously on display. By turns the whites stepped up to greet her and, of course, to get a good look at one of their own who had somehow managed to survive in a Bashilele village. Cripple could not understand the words that the colonists spoke to Ugly Eyes, but she observed with approval that the mamu translated some of these words and that Ugly Eyes appeared to respond to these words by nodding or shaking her head. However, it did not escape Cripple’s attention that the bakalenge—the Belgian masters—maintained a greater distance than is normal when speaking, as if Ugly Eyes were a strange wild beast that might suddenly leap forward and bite.
Once, in the workers’ village, Tshilembi, the hunter who lived next door to Cripple, returned from a hunting trip bearing a fawn with five legs. All that afternoon and evening the village boys poked at the fawn with sticks to make it walk, even though it could only drag the fifth leg. The next morning it lay dead in the wicker pen Tshilembi had built for it. The death glaze had stolen the fawn’s sight, and its tongue protruded grotesquely from its long slender muzzle.
As Cripple looked at Ugly Eyes, the memory of the fawn returning, it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps the baby antelope had been a warning, a foreshadowing of Ugly Eyes, daughter of the headhunting Mushilele. Instead of the marvel of a fifth leg, this girl had the white skin of a Belgian. Like the fawn, however, the girl did not belong where she’d been captured and taken, and like the fawn, it was possible this girl could die.
Undoubtedly a fawn with a fifth leg would, sooner or later, be taken down by a leopard, or a hyena, for it could never run as fast as a normal antelope. But in the meantime the fawn would be free, a stranger to torment. And what of Ugly Eyes? Was her destiny to live her life as an African with white skin, and not only an African, but one steeped in the traditional ways? How long would it take this “fawn” to perish in captivity?
Bualu bukole! Something must be done. Cripple was never one to second-guess herself. What was the point in doing so? One could always change directions later, and if not, then whatever it was that had been futilely attempted must be regarded as not in one’s destiny. It was as simple as that. Really, life was very simple if you didn’t think about it too much. Act first from the stomach, and then see what the head has to say.
“Ugly Eyes,” Cripple called from the shadows.
It took three tries, but then two pairs of ugly eyes strained to find her in the shadows.
“Not you, Mamu Ugly Eyes,” Cripple hissed loudly. After all, Mesu Mabi does not roll off the tongue without some syllibency.
There followed an awkward moment when Cripple considered hobbling away from the OP’s house as fast as her deformed leg would carry her. It seemed as if the white mamu was angry and was for sure going to call for help. Instead she gave her young charge a gentle push in Cripple’s direction, while stepping forward alone to greet the would-be gawkers.
“Aiyee, Cripple!” Ugly Eyes sounded both happy and immensely relieved to be away from the spotlight. “What are you doing here? Why are you clothed in darkness? Where is my father?”
“Kah, so many questions! Ugly Eyes, you must focus on what I am about to ask you. Is that understood?”
“Cripple, I am not a child.”
“Exactly so. Therefore, Ugly Eyes, I must ask you, do you desire your freedom?”
“To return
to my village? To Mother, and Iron Sliver, and all of my friends?”
“Eyo.”
“And my dog as well?”
“E, unless your mother has eaten it, you foolish heathen.”
“Cripple, are you not a heathen as well?”
“E, but I am a Christian heathen, a civilized dweller of the village of Belle Vue; whereas you are a bush heathen of the Bashilele plains. But enough of this talk. If you wish to return to your people, meet me later tonight in the mango grove when the moon goes to sleep.”
“We laugh and we cry,” Ugly Eyes said. It was the literal meaning of “thank you.” She glanced back at the whites who had come to stare at her.
“And what of my father? What if he cannot be found?”
“Tch! Enough thinking like a child. Put yourself in his place; what would you want your daughter to do? Would you prefer that she get away from these people, or would rather that she waits here while she is poked and prodded like a five-legged fawn and her father gets drunk in the village on palm wine?”
“Truly? A five-legged fawn?”
“A five-legged fawn.”
Cripple took a deep breath in order to calm herself. It was surprising just how effective that tactic was at the moment, for suddenly she felt entirely peaceful. She imagined it was much like a suckling child felt as she drifted to sleep before the second breast could be offered.
It was clear now that she’d been right to offer the Mushilele girl an escape plan. The wearer of this white skin was nothing more than a child. She was surely not a woman. Perhaps Ugly Eyes would be sold into marriage soon after reuniting with her true family, or perhaps the Belgians would return to her village and exact a punishment of one kind or another, unless she was returned to them. Unlike Husband, who was a hereditary witch doctor, Cripple did not possess the ability to see the future, yet she knew inside her bones that the strange creature before her would not meet a happy ending. But such was the fate of the five-legged fawn, was it not?
“When the moon sleeps,” she said, giving the girl a gentle push back to the world of the whites one last time, “meet me in the mango grove.”
Pierre Jardin couldn’t recall ever being so happy. He’d been resigned to a life of bachelorhood, stationed here in an outpost of the Belgian Congo as he was. He wasn’t complaining—he liked Belle Vue: he spoke Tshiluba, he got along with most of the whites, the blacks weren’t yet killing each other, it was only half a day’s drive from Luluaburg, where he was born, and it was a bush town—that part he actually liked as well. Where else could you kill a rogue elephant while doing your job?
But having been resigned to never getting married made it all that much sweeter to suddenly have the most beautiful, seductive woman in the world practically fall into your lap. True, she was an American and a Protestant missionary, but she was also Amanda Brown. Oo la! If you thought you knew American missionaries, then you’d never met Amanda Brown.
Amanda was—well, she was gorgeous! Ravishing! There she was, standing against the railing of one of the eastern terraces, the last rays of the sun glinting off her hair. They say that the French girls are the best dressed, but Pierre would have to disagree; it is the American girls who know how to enhance their hourglass figures. Besides, the neckline of Amanda’s dress was not only flattering, but it was positively shocking—possibly even scandalous. In fact, she had worn a light silk scarf over her shoulders until she was quite certain they were alone.
“Ma cheri,” he said. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
Amanda laughed. “Pierre, we haven’t even been on a proper date!”
“This means a malt shop, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Perhaps with a little Belgian ingenuity the Consortium clubhouse could be turned into a worthy stand-in. What do you think?”
“Oh, but it must have drive-in speakers, and waitresses on roller skates. Try arranging that.”
Pierre had never even held Amanda in his arms, much less kissed her. Tonight, what with the teasing, the moonlight, and her provocative dress, he knew it was time to take their relationship to the next level. Just a smooth, gentle embrace and a series of light, teasing kisses. He stepped forward, his arms half extended, his eyes on hers—but then out of the corner of his right eye he saw the most horrible, unimaginable thing happen.
“What is it?” Amanda demanded as she whirled.
“A man,” Pierre said. There was no point in trying to deny it, not with the woman with whom he was hoping to start a relationship.
“Where is he now? I don’t see him!”
“Look away, Amanda. Look at me.”
The stubborn girl would not do as he said. She was looking down, and down was where Pierre knew the monstrous man-eating crocodile made its home. But the crocodile wasn’t just man-eating, it ate any mammal, fish, or bird that got swept over the falls and was thereby rendered incapable of escaping. This was not a bad thing; it was, in fact, a good thing. This crocodile is what kept the catchment basin clean. The giant crocodile was Belle Vue Falls’s garbage disposal, and as such had been allowed to survive unharmed since the town’s establishment. Even the Americans at Missionary Rest House relied on the beast to consume their refuse.
“Pierre!” Amanda screamed. “Pierre, you have to help him.”
“No one can reach him, Amanda. He can’t be helped.”
“You must!” she shrieked.
He grabbed her and yanked her away from the railing. Then he scooped her up and carried her along a fern-and-orchid-embroidered trail until they reached an alcove without a river view. He set her gently down there but continued to hold her in his arms while she sobbed hysterically. In an effort to calm her he kissed her hair and muttered soothing words in French that were every bit as meaningless as “there there.”
This was not the way their first embrace was supposed to have unfolded. These were not the kisses he’d been dreaming about. Oh well, that was only a plan, a wish; this was real life.
After many minutes the sobs became raspy as Amanda fought to breathe. Soon it became apparent that she desperately needed to blow her nose. Mon Dieu, what was a gallant Gaul to do under these circumstances? Pierre carefully unbuttoned his shirt, which had been imported from Paris, and offered it to Amanda as a handkerchief.
True, it wasn’t a malt shop with roller-skating waitresses, but he reckoned it wasn’t a bad gesture for a first date either.
Both eyes were swollen shut so the man had to feel for any indentations there might be in the rock above him. Unfortunately every nook and cranny was the potential home of a scorpion or a poisonous centipede the length of his forearm, or one of a dozen varieties of snakes. He had no way of knowing, but he’d already managed to pull himself up about thirty feet from where he’d finally landed—this despite a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder.
Mai Manene they called this falls: the Big Waters. A better name for this place was Mai a Mutoyo: the Noisy Waters. The man had shouted to make himself heard until he had no voice left; he could not produce as much as a croak or a whimper. Fairness was not something that the man expected from life, yet it occurred to him that even a dying infant could make some sound that another could hear.
Then at last the man’s right hand found a spur of rock that had smooth edges, and behind which there might have been a ledge. It was something to hope for. If he could stand to move his broken leg, and if he could find a crack or pit for a toehold, he could perhaps make more progress in the next few minutes than he had in the last two hours.
And there it was! A crack just wide enough to accommodate his foot, and what’s more, it seemed to rise at an angle in the right direction. However, fate is no respecter of persons. As the man breathed a sigh of relief, in that same millisecond his concentration was broken and he relaxed his hold on the cliff face just enough so that he slipped and plunged to his death on the rock at the bottom of the abyss.
Such a small thing, that exhalation of a single breath. Yet such an importa
nt thing for the monstrous Nile crocodile waiting patiently below. Or, perhaps, it had been waiting impatiently. Who is to know? Surely not the dead man, who was not omniscient, and for whom reptilian fantasies were beyond his ken. Who, then, is to live and tell this tale?
Perhaps it was the man peering over the edge of the abyss.
Iron Sliver’s brother had been in the hunting party that was absent from the village the day that Headhunter and his daughter left for Belle Vue. Although he had been born a Muluba slave, Little Bully was the chief of the Headhunter’s village.
Although most decisions that involved the welfare of the village as a whole were made by the council of elders, old men all of them, there were occasions when Little Bully acted unilaterally. These happened to be occasions when Little Bully thought that he knew better than everyone else, or when time was too precious to waste on a consensus opinion. At any rate, by the time Iron Sliver and the Headhunter’s wife were through telling their stories, the chief of Musoko village had already made a crucial decision.
He clapped his hands, signaling his messenger to his side. “Alert the drummers. They must communicate the following message to the people: tonight we move the village deeper into the bush in order to escape the wrath of the Bula Matadi. We will dismantle every hut, including the palaver hut and the women’s bleeding hut. Every chicken and duck must be rounded up. Every goat and sheep must be securely tied. We will leave nothing behind.”
Unfortunately, it so happened that the Headhunter’s wife was standing within hearing distance of this conversation. No sooner did the breath of the last word cool his lips than she pounced on him like a leopard hiding in tall grass.
“Mukelenge, please, may I speak with you?”
“No, for surely you have heard there is no time. I must get this village moved before tomorrow’s light.”