by Peter Ponzo
Chapter 3
It took all of my divinity to avoid gang rape, but when the last Chokli wandered off to join the lineup at the red mud hut occupied by Pelvis, Charles breathed a sigh of relief.
"Miss Fleetsmith, we really must attempt to leave before—"
"Mmm, yes," I whispered, stuffing the weeds into my jeans, then into my shirt which was now pushed into my belt and buttoned at the collar. I was rather pleased with the enhanced geometry and stuck out my chest. "Well?" I said. "What do you think?"
Charles stared, wide-eyed. "Really, Miss—"
"Charlie, grab what's left of these weeds. Fill your pockets. We leave with nothing but our clothes—and these plants." I stared at the knapsacks we had carried throughout our journey. Except for some flynet, plastic sheets and a few scraps of food there was little reason to bring them with us. The Smith and Wesson revolver would have been helpful, but the natives had confiscated the weapon the minute they found us, obviously understanding its significance. It wasn't clear what we'd do for food after we left the village, but what the hell, if the animals of the jungle could survive without a Walmart Supercenter then so could we.
There was a commotion in the village and I crept to the door to see the plump girl, Pelvis, carried on the backs of several natives, from her red mud hut to the jungle. The girl did not seem pleased, and struggled violently. Something important was about to happen.
I whispered as the last native vanished into the shadows. "C'mon Charlie. We're leaving now." Then I crawled out the door, stood and began to stretch and jog-on-the-spot, my arms dangling, flapping by my side, pretending to be unconcerned with the environment, a standard morning ritual. Didn't all guests do this? Charles followed suit, half-heartedly, but when I began to jog toward the point where the natives had left the village, he stopped.
"Miss Fleetsmith, a diametrically opposed exit is to be preferred."
"Follow me!" I shouted loudly over my shoulder—and Charles followed, reluctantly. There seemed to be no one left in the village except the hairy old hag who's probably only twenty, and she ignored us. Any others must have been in their huts. In any case we had no difficulty leaving. In a way I was somewhat disturbed. The natives had left without a word. That was no way to treat their goddess.
When we neared the jungle clearing—the one surrounded by the red-stemmed bushes covered in tiny green and purple leaves—we could hear the natives chanting. Charles had kept up a continous whispered chatter, pleading to move in the opposite direction. Now he was quiet. Together, he and I crept to the edge of the clearing and watched the ceremony.
Some forty small black men sat wrinkled and old, in a large circle. Many natives squatted at the edge of the clearing. Twenty other younger native men echoed the semicircular arrangement of the recumbent, smooth stone statues, lying prostrate between them. Two dozen others, just boys of perhaps ten or twelve, stood stiff-legged and bushy-tailed about the central stone statue of the naked woman, in concentric circles, centred on the statue, but something about the statue had changed: there was no stone child in her arms. Instead, Pelvis had been lashed to the statue, thin cords of liana vine wrapped about her naked body, her heavy breasts quilted by the vine. I don't think she was too happy. She was crying softly, but didn't struggle. It was as though she was resigned to her fate—whatever that was.
The forty older men chanted in staccato harmony, the young men remained on the ground and the two dozen stiff-legged boys moved forward, their hands outstretched, touching, caressing. The girl struggled ... and Charles stared wide-eyed, not having breathed for some time. I left him and crept into the shadows. This was too good an opportunity to miss.
Imagine the scene. Dark natives encircling a naked young woman, tied to a stone statue. Suddenly, above the young girl's head, above the head of the stone lady, there arises the cold figure of a child made of stone.
The chanting stops and the young boys fall back and the plump girl strains to see what lies above her head. The stone child-figure rises until it hovers, suspended above the stone matron. All is silence, for the stone child has begun to speak.
"Hear this, all ye people, give ear, all ye inhabitants of this world. My mouth shall speak of wisdom and the meditation of my heart shall be of understanding."
I figure that's a good enough beginning. I don't want to give it all away. I imagined Charles sucking his breath, closing his eyes. It had the required effect; the natives were silent. I think of a poem, a joke, a speech—yes, a speech. The stone child-figure continues its chant:
"To be or not to be. That is the question. Whether t'is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or, by opposing, end them."
That's the first speech that came to mind. This is no time to go through my repertoire of speeches.
Charles opens his eyes, first one then the other. He strains his neck, and sees the trembling white hands which hold the small child-figure above the head of the stone woman. They were my hands trembling, and the trembling wasn't fear. Hell, no. The bloody child weighed like a rock. Well, it was a rock, right?
Charles looks about and sees that I'm gone. He moans softly, pushes himself to his feet then staggers through the bush, around the clearing, beyond the statue, joining me behind the statue. He takes a deep breath and joins right in. Together now:
"... to die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub …."
Slowly the natives back out of the clearing, bowing, raising their tails, until the plump girl is left alone, shivering, the voices of the stone child wailing above her head. When I'm convinced that the natives have left I drop the heavy stone child unceremoniously at the feet of the statue. Charles appears at the feet of the bound girl and begins, too eagerly, to untie the cord. When she's free and slips to the ground I stand back and examine the scene then lift the stone child to place it again in the lap of the stone goddess. Charles is carefully smoothing the bruised skin about the native girl's breasts. Nonchalantly, he says, "You know, Miss Fleetsmith, you have misquoted Mr. Shakespeare." He continues to massage the girl's breasts.
"Careful, Charlie boy," I grunt. "No time for that. Let's go."
"And leave her here?" Charles whispered. "To be molested by those ... those—"
I looked at the young girl, now on her knees and weeping. "If she follows us, we won't object," I said half-heartedly. If she did follow, I had no idea what we'd do with her.
I jogged out of the clearing, away from the Chokli village, toward the Pellita mountains. Charles followed, as did the young girl.
I had no doubt that the natives would return to the clearing. They'd find a stone woman holding a stone child once again in her lap, and they'd fall to the ground and they'd worship—but their White Goddess would be long gone.
PART TWO