by Russ Elliott
John set down the case and cooler. “What are all those shells?”
“The professor mentioned something about that.” Brad stopped and lowered his blade. “About ten years ago, one-third of the tribe died from a mysterious disease. Most of the victims were children. Those are the gravesites.”
All at once, the vibrant scene faded beneath a dark cloud. The jungle grew cooler, and a clap of thunder rumbled overhead.
“Disease,” muttered John. “I wonder what kind.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and ask them.” John followed Brad’s gaze. About fifty yards beyond the clearing, he saw the front wall of the village.
Chapter 4
THE VILLAGE
Stepping clear of the jungle, John could now see the small village in plain view. East of the village was a series of caves. Starting at the caves, a roughly hewn wall made up of vertical logs stretched around the village and gradually tapered back to the blue-green sea. “I guess they do like their privacy,” muttered John. He looked up at the pointed tops of the logs as the strong ocean breeze tousled his hair. “Must be at least twelve feet high.” They continued to walk beside the massive wall until they came to a large, gate-like structure.
A pair of dark eyes appeared behind a small opening beside the gate. John leaned toward the opening. He spoke loud and slow, “We’re friends of Professor Atkins from Africa. We’d like to talk to your chief.”
The eyes disappeared from the small hole. A few seconds later, a different pair appeared, and John repeated himself.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then there was a clank, followed by a loud squeak of wood. The large gate slowly opened revealing a row of dark figures. John’s stomach tightened. Behind them, he saw a tall ship’s mast protruding from the center of the village.
Brad looked at John with a smirk. “Whatta ya know, mate?”
One black man stood a head taller than the others. He wore a loincloth made from an animal hide and a necklace with multicolored stones. His demeanor alone told them he was the man in charge. This demeanor was reinforced when he spoke. “My name is Kota-leg-way. I remember professor.” The dark figure glanced at Brad. “Why you come here?”
Brad locked eyes with Kota and smiled like a madman, refusing to break his gaze. Kota’s brow deepened. The men around him grew agitated. They pointed at Brad and put their hands to their eyes, motioning him to look away. Several seconds into the stare, John threw himself in front of Brad. He waved his hands, breaking the stare. “We came to speak to your chief. We’d like to offer him a trade.”
Kota’s eyes remained narrow. He looked them over for a long moment then motioned them to step inside the gate.
The huge gate slowly closed behind them.
John looked at the eight men who stood around Kota with their intimidating spears in hand. Behind them, off to the right, he noticed a large, dark statue of a figure seated on a throne. Kota said abruptly, “Stay here.” A final glance at Brad, and he left the others and disappeared into the village.
“Nice going,” John whispered to Brad. “You’re a regular ambassador of goodwill.”
“You gotta let these savages know who’s the boss right up front, ay.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, those are spears in their hands. Just leave the talking to me. And keep your eyes to yourself.”
John gazed past the eight imposing figures. Beneath a beautiful sunset was a village of simple huts made of bamboo and straw. Various villagers, mostly women and children, were preparing for nightfall. To his right, behind the large statue, several women gathered up tools around an enormous fishing net. Nearby, a group of young boys played what appeared to be a mock game of spear fishing. He watched as the youngsters threw long sticks at a rock carved in the shape of a fish that sat in a large circle of stones. Taking it in turns, they hurled their spears at the object, careful not to step within the circle.
John’s attention turned to the large ebony statue he had noticed earlier. It rested on an island in the center of a manmade pond about thirty feet wide. While the guards watched, John picked up the cooler and slowly walked to the edge of the pond in front of the sculpture. Brad picked up the cases and followed.
John looked up at the towering figure as it boldly sat on a throne with a staff in its right hand. A lit torch was on either side of the throne. John marveled at how the flames illuminated the enormous black head with flickering light. His eyes were drawn to the only color on the statue, a long, white triangle that covered the right side of its face.
Wow, you can’t even see a chisel mark, thought John, admiring the detail of the smooth, black face. He studied how the mysterious white spike started on the forehead just below the hairline and gradually tapered down to a point beside the figure’s mouth, completely covering the right eye. Very interesting, he thought. Must be of great significance to the tribe.
An elbow in the ribs snatched John’s attention. “You still with me, mate? I think the chief’s here.”
John turned to face a man in his early fifties, about five feet nine inches tall, with a waistline that nearly matched his height in inches. His long, braided hair was pulled straight back. He wore several layers of pearl necklaces around his neck and a bright-red animal skin around his generous waistline.
“This is Chief Omad,” announced Kota.
John nodded in a gesture of respect. “I’m John Paxton, and this is Brad Anderson.”
“I see you like statue?” said Kota, translating for the chief.
“Yes, the craftsmanship’s excellent.” John pointed to the carved inscription at the base of the sculpture. “What does that say?”
“TAO-EB-DOLI,” replied Kota.
“What does it mean?”
Kota slowly looked at John and said, “Keeper to the Door of Death.”
Brad whispered over John’s shoulder, “Isn’t that sweet. Ask him about the fish already.”
The chief glanced at the cases beside John and Brad then spoke to Kota. Kota said, “Chief want to know what kind of trade you here for?”
“Yes. A friend of ours, Professor Atkins, was here about a week ago,” replied John. “She mentioned that your people had been catching a type of fish that we find very interesting. We were hoping to work out some sort of trade for one of them.”
“I knew this about fish!” The words exploded from Kota’s mouth. He was clearly agitated.
Sensing hostility, the chief raised a hand in a gesture for Kota to stop speaking. They spoke among themselves for a moment. A submissive nod to the chief, and Kota again turned to John. “Yes, we caught few fish the professor eat that night, but those only ones. There no more fish you speak of.” Kota looked again at the chief then back at John. “It dark soon. Chief say tonight, you sleep in village. Tomorrow, he find bones of fish you speak, then talk trade.”
The chief motioned them to follow him. “Come,” Kota said. “Chief want to show you village before dark.”
Brad whispered to John, “You’re not buying that crap?”
“Ssssshhh, I’ll do the talking. For now, we’ll take whatever they offer and try to negotiate with them in the morning.”
Brad gave him an impatient stare as they picked up the cases and followed the chief. He muttered just loud enough for John to hear, “I didn’t come all the way out here for a couple of stinking bones.”
The chief clapped his hands. “Phata, phata!” Two tribesmen came up to John and Brad to take their equipment. Brad hesitated, holding onto his case. “I can handle this one, mate.” He pulled it back.
“Don’t worry. They take to hut where you sleep,” assured Kota.
John glared at Brad. “Just let them take it. Lighten up!”
Brad loosened his grip on the handle as if releasing the hand of a loved one, and reluctantly fell in behind John. Flanked by Kota and the chief, they were led through a maze of tiny huts. The guards stayed close behind them. Curious villagers watched as they passed, murmurs spreading through the crowd. As fa
r as John could tell, it was an unknown dialect mixed with fragments of Zulu, including one word he heard repeatedly—indoda, meaning white man.
From shadowy doorways and windows, anxious eyes peered at them. A small boy, about three years old, emerged from one of the huts and toddled toward John. His mother frantically ran out and picked him up, quickly returning to the shadows of her hut.
The beautiful orange sunset slowly gave way to darkness. Still, no one in the group said a word. They passed several villagers gathering their tools from around an unfinished canoe. A few yards farther, John noticed a shapely native girl as she and two other young women went about lighting the large torches placed throughout the village. She glanced at John with a shy smile.
Wiping his brow, John discretely glanced back. He was quick to notice that the men held their spears loosely with the tips pointed upward and not at his and Brad’s backs. A good sign, he thought, no early signs of hostility.
Along the way, he tried to read the chief, but his expression left him little to go on. He just stared forward, occasionally glancing at Kota. In an attempt to ease the tension, John looked over at Kota and said, “I’ve heard that you were educated in Africa?”
“Yes, for eight years,” said Kota. He then translated the question for the chief.
Judging from the chief’s grin, John could tell that he was quite proud of Kota’s scholastic achievements. He continued with his questions. “What university did you attend? What was your field of study?” Oceanography or perhaps marine biology, John guessed.
The tall native stood up straight, heaved his chest and bellowed, “Cape Town Elementary, sixth grade!” he smiled proudly, as did the chief.
Brad leaned close to John’s ear, and in his best hillbilly accent, muttered, “Gee, Uncle Jed, now I know we’re in some fast company, especially with Jethro here and all.”
John bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud and whispered, “Maybe he’s just big for his age.”
The chief continued to guide them through the labyrinth of huts until they found themselves confronted by a massive wooden wall. John felt the breeze growing stronger and could hear the waves crashing against the shore behind the towering structure.
He looked up at the vertical logs. They had the same pointed tops as the perimeter wall of village, except these were much higher. The wall seemed to slowly arc around toward the water. It was clearly designed to separate the interior of the village from the coastline, he thought. But why?
Having apparently achieved the full tour, they were now led back to the center of the village. Ahead, John saw the ship’s mast protruding from the ground and quickly looked away from it. He hoped the topic wouldn’t come up in conversation.
Brad kept looking back over his shoulder at the wall. He was staring at a pair of large gated doors flanked by two enormous torches. “What’s on the other side of those doors?”
Kota replied simply, “Sacred ground.”
The chief raised his hand. “Ni-lamba?”
“You hungry?” asked Kota, translating.
“I’m starved,” replied Brad.
“Yeah, sure,” John gave a forced smile. He looked at the chief, all the while doubting he could swallow a bite of food, so nervous was he about the entire trip, mostly that they might return without the Rhipidistian. He also knew that he couldn’t risk offending the chief, so he smiled and followed the chief and Kota. He glanced at Brad to check his demeanor. If I’m starting to get agitated, I’m afraid to imagine what thoughts must be racing through his mind by now.
~~~
They entered a large hut in the center of the village, where John and Brad were seated at a long banquet table. The chief walked around in front of them, Kota ever near his side. The chief clapped his hands. An attractive girl placed two large wooden bowls before them. John looked down to what appeared to be a mixture of chopped fish and brown rice smothered in a thick, white seasoning. He whispered to Brad, “Can’t tell the type of fish it is the way they serve it. Interesting.”
His mouth already full, Brad nodded and continued his meal.
After nervously taking his first bite, John looked at the chief and said honestly, “Very tasty.” Within seconds, he heard Brad’s wooden spoon scraping aggressively against the bottom of his bowl. John glanced over. If he’s nervous, his appetite doesn’t show it. He’s acting like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
John discretely looked up from his bowl to study his surroundings. The walls were bamboo. The ceiling was made of multiple layers of large leaves held together with some type of black sap that looked like tar. At the room’s focal point, he saw a dark stone sculpture. It was a seated figure similar to the one in the village entryway, but much smaller. He recognized the same white spike covering the right side of the ebony face.
On a wooden table ten feet away, he saw something that made him do a double take. What appeared to be a National Geographic magazine was sticking out from beneath a wooden box.
John elbowed Brad, interrupting his feeding frenzy, and motioned to the table with his eyes. Brad looked over, sauce running from the side of his mouth, and said, “I wonder if they have a subscription or pick it up at the local 7-Eleven every week, ay?”
The chief saw them looking toward the National Geographic. “Ne-owenta!”
“The magazines.” Kota said. “Chief thinks you wonder where come from? When I was at school in Africa, I bring back to island.”
The chief walked over to the table, opened the wooden box, and pulled out three more copies. He dropped the other copies on the table and brought one back over with him. Kota followed. The chief thumbed through the pages until he stopped on one with its corner folded. “Iapha–udalla!” He turned the magazine around and pulled it wide open for John and Brad to see. Kota translated in a somber tone. “These show me all the evil white man done to ocean!”
John stared at a double-page spread of a huge drain emptying waste into the sea.
The chief turned the page, “Iapha!” He pointed to a photo of a pile of rusty drums on the ocean floor, leaking streams of toxic waste into the blue water.
John stopped chewing and laid down his spoon.
The chief picked up a second magazine. Jerking it open, he held it in front of them, his words translated. “Look what come from white man’s ships.” John stared at a photo of an oil tanker in the middle of a massive black stain. The chief quickly turned the page, his tone more aggravated. “And look what it do to fish!” He pointed to a sea lion carcass and hundreds of dead fish on an oil-stained coastline.
John’s eyes widened in recognition of the tragedies.
Suddenly, the chief slapped the magazine down on the table in front of John, his eyes smoldering in rage. When he blinked, tears streaked his rugged cheeks. “Ten year ago . . . my son, Peekay Little,” said Kota echoing the chief’s words in English. “Big ship like in picture, hit rocks . . . turn water black as night. We later eat fish caught in lagoon this same color. Next day many get sick. After many moon, men and women get better. But not little ones. Many sleep and not wake up . . . forty children die, including my son.”
His lips tightened, and his fist came down hard against the table. “The white man learn so much, make life easier. But he only destroy—bring death to sea. Sea is our life. Sea is all life!” He leaned closer, staring straight at John. “And soon, sea will take back all life. Very soon!”
John’s jaw dropped, unchewed fish in his mouth. He watched in disbelief as the chief stormed out of the hut.
Brad, scraping the last drop of juice from his bowl, glanced over at John, “I don’t think he’s going to cooperate, mate. When he comes back, ask him again about the fish. Maybe it’s about time to break out the gold chains. Unless you’d rather I try other tactics, ay.”
“Now’s not the time,” John said in a hard whisper. “Let’s let him cool off for a while; I’ll talk to him in the morning. And wipe your face.”
As the native girl who served them backed away w
ith a disturbed look, Kota approached the table. “That’s touchy subject with Chief. He be in better mood in morning. Come, I show you to your hut.”
~~~
Entering the small hut, John sat on the corner of one of two straw beds. He was nearly sick with disappointment at the events of the day as he slipped off his vest without a word. He looked at the empty cooler beside his bed and slowly began to accept the possibility of the entire trip being a waste.
On the opposite side of the hut, Brad was on his knees rambling frantically through his case. The rambling then stopped, and Brad closed the case with a sigh of relief.
“What are you so relieved about?” asked John. “Worried they were gonna steal the lighting equipment?”
Brad sat down on top of the case with a confident smile. “Nah, mate. Everything’s in there just as I left it.”
“Well, a lot of good the light head’s gonna do us as long as the chief has a bug up his—” John stopped when he saw Kota standing in the doorway. Beside the tall tribesman was the girl he had noticed earlier lighting the village torches.
Kota smiled and led the girl forward. “Chief apologize for his behavior and send gift. This is Lana, one of his wives. She keep you warm for the night.”
John stared back, his mind racing to find an excuse that wouldn’t offend the chief. After a few awkward moments, he broke his silence. “No . . . no thank you. I don’t think my wife back home would appreciate it too much.” John thought wryly, that sociopath I used to be married to would be the last person on earth I’d want to please. But it did make for a convincing excuse.
Kota turned his attention to Brad, who was already looking her up and down. John watched nervously as Brad studied her shapely body, small grass skirt, and tight animal-skin top that hid very little. He could see his eyes slowly working their way up her body as torchlight danced off her perfect dark skin.
She is gorgeous, thought John. Come on Brad. Be strong . . . don’t do it.
Then the girl smiled, revealing the teeth of a badly carved jack-o-lantern.
Ooooh, that just might have done the trick. After giving her another long look, Brad finally answered, “Not a bad-looking goose you got there, mate. Afraid my old lady wouldn’t think too much of it either. But thanks for asking.”