Slave Safari

by Warren Murphy

Obode looked up at Butler. “In this land we haven’t a chance. Even the Loni could pick us off like flies.”

  “Then what do we do, Mr. President?”

  Obode slammed a ham-sized fist down into the steering wheel of the jeep, cracking the wheel and sending the vehicle rocking back and forth on its wheels.

  “Dammit,” Obode shouted, “we do what armies should always do. We charge.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHILE REMO SLEPT, PRINCESS Saffah slipped out of his hut and went back to the hut where Hillary Butler slept.

  Saffah could not recognize the feeling that gripped her on this day. All her life, she had waited for the legend to come true; now the men of the legend were here; soon the people of the Loni tribe would be restored to power; and yet, she felt a vague feeling of unease.

  Legends were never simple. There were many ways for one to come true. Had they not, for instance, thought that Butler might be the Master of the legend? He had given up his former life in America to become the Loni’s friend, so one might call him a dead man. And his returning to the Loni might fulfill the prophecy of the Loni children coming home. So she had thought, but that was wrong.

  Might not other things be wrong? You are being a fool, child. What of Obode? Do you doubt that he is the evil man of the story? And that Remo must face him today? Yes, yes. And what of the Little Father? Doubt you that he will purify the Loni? No, no, but how? How?

  Saffah ducked into the hut where the young American girl slept. She slid down smoothly onto her heels at the side of the small raised cot. The white girl breathed smoothly and evenly, and the faint trace of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. She would be well, Saffah knew, for one who could dream could live.

  She put her ebony hand out and rested it on Hillary’s pale white arm and looked down at the contrast. Hillary did not stir. Why was it so important, all this concern with color? Skin was skin, black or white or yellow as the Little Father’s. What counted only was what was under the skin; the spirit, the heart, the soul. She looked at Hillary Butler and thought, might it not also be thus with tribes? Could hatred between Loni and Hausa end if they could only consider each other as people, good and bad, but each different?

  She squeezed Hillary Butler’s arm gently, reassuringly.

  · · ·

  Chiun was up early and Remo found him at the pit of fire. The fire had been stoked and allowed to smolder during the night and now dry weeds and twigs were being thrown upon it.

  As Chiun directed, four Loni tribesmen began to cover the unburned wood in the pit with leafy green branches of trees which dripped water, and sizzled and hissed on the white hot stones in the pit. Steam rose and smoke poured out from under the corners of the branches in lazy coils like drunken sated snakes.

  “We going to have a cookout?” Remo asked. “Do you need a duck? I’ll run to the store for hamburger rolls if you want.”

  “Need you go out of your way to appear gross?” Chiun asked. “For certainly, you need no assistance, no more than the duck needs help in quacking.”

  They were interrupted by a roar behind them. Along the trail, around the corner of the huts, striding into the village square came Obode and Butler, Obode leading the way, bellowing like a bull moose taunted by flies and gnats.

  “Cowards and washwomen of the Loni tribe, General Obode is here. Come out, fly swatters and mosquito killers.”

  The village square was deserted as the few Loni men in it seemed to slip away. At one end of the square, near the fire pit, stood Remo and Chiun; at the other end, seventy five feet away, stood Butler and Obode. The four men stood looking at each other.

  Out of a hut halfway between the two pairs came Princess Saffah. She stood black and tall, silent and majestic, wearing her almost-Grecian short robe, staring imperiously at Obode who continued to challenge the Loni men to combat, one at a time or all at once.

  “Silence your mouth, braying beast,” Saffah said finally.

  “Who are you?” Obode shouted, after a moment’s pause in which, Remo saw, he was stunned by Saffah’s beauty.

  “I am Saffah, first princess of the Loni Empire, and I order your silence.”

  “You order? You order? I am General Dada Obode, President of Busati, commander of all this land, and I am the one who orders.”

  “Perhaps in your brothels and in your pig sty of a capital, but here you can be silent. We are glad you came, General.”

  “When I am done,” Obode said, “Perhaps you will not be so glad.”

  Saffah clapped her hands, three times, sharply. Slowly, obviously reluctantly, the Loni began to come from their huts, first women and children, and then men.

  “We are glad you came nevertheless,” she said smiling, as Loni men drew near Obode and Butler. “And you, Butler,” she added, “you have done well to get the gross beast into our camp.”

  Butler gave a slight bow and Obode’s head snapped toward him as if on a rubber band. Suddenly, so many things made sense. Butler was his traitor. Obode roared and lunged with both hands for Butler’s throat. Butler was surprised by the attack and fell back before Obode’s weight until Obode, at a signal from Saffah, was pulled away and restrained by six Loni tribesmen.

  Chiun and Remo walked slowly down the length of the plaza toward Obode who still glared at Butler. “Coward, traitor, Loni dog,” Obode spat.

  “Welcome to my people, fat pig,” Butler said.

  “You have not even the courage of the assassin,” Obode said. “For you feared to take my life by yourself as you could have many times because I trusted you. Instead, you waited until you could deliver me into the hands of this flock of sheep.”

  “Discretion, General, discretion.”

  “Cowardice,” Obode roared. “The armies I have known would have shot you like the dog you are.”

  Into the chaos, above the voices, rose the command of Chiun: “Silence. The Master of Sinanju says stop your tongues of women.”

  Obode turned toward Chiun who now stood directly in front of him and looked him over, as if he had just noticed him for the first time. The Busati President towered over the aged Korean by a foot and a half. His weight was three times Chiun’s.

  “And you are the Master of the Loni legend?”

  Chiun nodded.

  Obode laughed, tipping his head back to offer his laughter to the sky. “Mosquito, stay out of Dada’s way before I swat you.”

  Chiun folded his arms and stared at Obode. Behind Chiun, the square was now packed with people and they were hushed as if listening through thin walls to a family arguing next door.

  Remo stood next to Chiun, peering coldly at Obode. Finally, the President’s eyes met his.

  Contemptuously, he asked: “And you? Another of the fortune-telling fairies?”

  “No,” Remo said. “I’m the chief elephant trainer and jeep repairman around here. Have a nice walk?”

  Obode began to speak, then stopped, as if realizing for the first time, that he was the prisoner of an overwhelmingly large number of enemies. Not as lowest recruit, not as British sergeant major, not as commander in chief of the Busati; but now, for the first time in his long career, he realized that death might be a real possibility.

  “Kill him,” Butler said. “Let us kill him and end this ancient curse on the Loni.”

  “Old ant,” Obode said to Chiun, “since this is your party, I ask that when you kill me you do it like a man.”

  “Do you deserve the death of a man?”

  “Yes,” Obode said. “Because I have always given a man a man’s death and I have tried to be fair. In my day, I wrestled regiments and no man feared to try to beat me because of my rank or station.”

  “Wrestling is very good for the teaching of humility,” Chiun said. “It is the weakness of you Hausa that the most developed muscle in your body is your tongue. Come. I will teach you humility.”

  He walked back into the center of the open plaza, then turned to face Obode again. Remo came up alongside Chiun. “Chi
un, he’s mine. We agreed.”

  “Silence,” Chiun ordered. “Do you think I would deprive you of your pleasure? It is written in the legend what you must do. You will do that; you will do no more.”

  He called to the Loni holding Obode:

  “Release him.”

  Chiun wore his white ge the shin-length pants and white jacket known in America as a karate uniform. The jacket was tied with a white belt, which Remo recognized as an act of humility on Chiun’s part. In the Westernization of the Oriental combat arts, the white belt was the lowest grading. Black belts were highest and there were various degrees of them. And then, beyond the black belt, beyond the knowledge of simple experts, there was the red belt, awarded to a handful of men of great courage, wisdom and distinction. The Master of Sinanju, foremost among the men of the world, was entitled to wear such a belt. Chiun instead had chosen beginner’s white, and, as a beginner would, he wore it tied tightly around his waist.

  He stood now in front of the fire pit where the continually dampened leaves and branches still steamed and smoldered, and beckoned to Obode.

  “Come, one of the great mouth.”

  His arms free suddenly, Obode lunged forward, then slowed down and stopped. “This isn’t right,” he said to Chiun. “I’m too big. How about your friend? I wrestle him.”

  “He has no more humility than you. The Master must teach you,” Chiun said grandly. “Come. If you can.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OBODE MOVED FORWARD SLOWLY, almost unwillingly, his heavy booted shoes kicking up little puffs of tan dust as he came.

  He put a hand up in front of him, gesturing peace to Chiun. Chiun shook his head. “It is said the Hausa are brave and courageous. Are you the exception to that rule? Come. I will make the contest more even.”

  From under his sash, Chiun pulled a square of white silk, no more than eighteen inches on a side. He carefully placed it on the ground in front of him and stepped onto it, his body so light that his bare feet seemed not even to crinkle the cloth. “Come, loud one,” he said.

  Obode shrugged, a big heavy moving of his massive shoulders, and then he unbuttoned and stripped off his white uniform shirt. The sight of his shoulder muscle rippling black and sleek, almost purple under the hot African sun, drew a murmur from the crowd. And against him was arrayed only poor pathetic old Chiun, eighty years old, never having seen one hundred pounds, but standing, facing Obode, impassive, arms folded, his eyes like fiery hazel coals burning into the big man’s face.

  Obode tossed his shirt to the ground and Remo picked it up and moved past Obode to the rear of the square where General William Forsythe Butler stood. Obode kicked off his shoes; he wore no socks.

  Remo turned to Butler. “Two bucks on the little guy, Willie,” he said.

  Butler refused to answer.

  “I’ll take it easy on you, old man.”

  Obode said that and lunged toward Chiun, his powerful arms spread wide. Chiun stood still, unmoving on his square of silk and let Obode engulf him in the black coils of muscles. Obode locked his hands behind Chiun’s back, then arched his own back to lift Chiun off the ground, snapping as he would if lifting a heavy garbage pail. But Chiun’s feet remained planted on the ground. Obode lurched again and almost fell backwards as Chiun remained rooted to the spot.

  Then Chiun unfolded his arms, with delicate, slow majesty. He reached forward with both hands and touched two spots on the underside of Obode’s arms. As if torched by electricity, Obode’s arms released Chiun and flew wide apart.

  He shook his head to clear it from the sudden jolt of nerve pain, then moved forward again toward Chiun, his left hand sorting air in front of him, seeking the classic wrestler’s finger lock.

  Chiun let Obode’s hand approach his shoulder and then the President was flying through the air. Chiun had not seemed to move. His hands had not touched Obode, but the shift of Obode’s weight was across Chiun’s standing line of force, and Obode went somersaulting through the air to land with a thud on his back behind Chiun.

  “Ooooof,” he exploded.

  Chiun turned slowly on the silken square until he was facing the fallen Obode. Ripples of laughter went through the Loni men, standing around, as Obode raised himself to a kneeling position.

  “Silence! Silence!” Chiun demanded. “Unless there is one among you who would take his place.”

  The noise subsided. Remo whispered to Butler, “Willie, you saved yourself two bucks.” Privately, Remo was just a tinge surprised at how easily Chiun was handling Obode. Not that Obode represented any real danger. But Chiun was an assassin and how often had he told Remo that an assassin who could not, for some reason, enter combat prepared to kill his opponent was even more defenseless than the average man because the focus of his energy was dissipated and some of it must turn back upon himself. Yet, Chiun was obviously keeping Obode alive, and it did not seem to pose any special danger for Chiun. Oh well, Remo thought, that is why there is only one Master of Sinanju.

  Obode was now on his feet. He turned toward Chiun, a questioning look on his face, and then lurched forward toward him. The old man stood in place, but when Obode neared him, Chiun shot out a silent swift hand. It planted itself near Obode’s collarbone and Obode dropped as if he were a ball rolling off the end of a table. Except a ball bounces. The President of Busati didn’t. He lay there in a dust-covered crumpled heap.

  Chiun stepped back, retrieved his silk handkerchief, dusted it, folded it neatly and tucked it back in under his waistband.

  “Take him,” he said to no one in particular. “Tie him to that post.”

  Four Loni tribesmen dropped their spears and came out into the arena. They grabbed Obode by his hands and feet and tugged him, sliding along the ground, past the ceremonial fire pit which was still steaming and smoking, and to an eight-foot stake planted in the ground at the far end. Two of them propped the unconscious Obode up, while two more lifted his arms high and tied them with a rope through the large iron ring at the top of the eight-foot post.

  Obode hung there, slowly regaining consciousness, hanging by his wrists. Chiun meanwhile had turned from him and looked to Saffah.

  From the ground behind her, she lifted a golden brazier, shaped like a Japanese hibachi, and carried it by its handles toward Chiun. Heat waves shimmered off the bowl and the red-glow of the burning coals it contained cast an aura around the golden dish. She placed it at the feet of Chiun.

  Chiun looked down at the burning coals.

  The silence of the moment was interrupted by a call from a sentry posted on the north side of the hill over the small encampment.

  “Loni! Loni! Loni!” he called, obviously in great agitation. Remo turned and looked up toward him. He was waving an arm toward the hills to the north.

  Remo moved to the edge of the camp and looked north. Coming up the hillsides, toward the encampment, were other natives, and Remo placed them instantly as Loni. The men were tall and lean and strong-looking; the women lithe and beautiful…two of them in particular.

  The long chain of people was now only a hundred yards from the camp and the two women led the band of Loni men and women and children as if they were generals reviewing a parade. They were tall—black as night, their faces impassive and strong-boned, and Remo knew immediately these were the two younger sisters of Saffah, crown princess of the Loni.

  Remo glanced back at Chiun. Chiun sat in the center of the small square, his legs twisted into a full lotus, his fingertips in front of him in praying position. His eyes were closed and his face leaned forward toward the brazier of hot coals on the ground before him.

  Remo looked at Chiun hard, but there was no way to tell what he was thinking or doing. The whole thing had confused Remo. Remo was to kill the evil man, but why had Chiun insisted upon playing with Obode first? Why not just give him to Remo? And what was this ritual purification by fire that Chiun was to do? And this nonsense about Chiun perhaps sacrificing his life? If it was anything dangerous, Remo would not let
him do it. That was that; case closed. No crap about it either.

  And then the Loni were streaming into the village. There were hundreds of them, led by the two beautiful black women. As they came into camp, their impassiveness melted as they saw Saffah and each ran forward to be embraced by her.

  It took fifteen minutes before the procession had ended; the square was now filled with all three existing Loni bands. Remo looked around. From what was once the greatest empire in all the history of Africa, this was left. Five hundred men, women and children. Hardly enough to fill a Newark tenement, much less create a new empire.

  And still Chiun sat. The Loni looked at him silently as they crowded in around the village square, enclosing the pit of fire and an area the size of a large boxing ring.

  They buzzed to themselves as they saw General Obode tied to the post at the far end of the pit of fire.

  Obode was now awake, clearly wondering what was happening. His face darted from side to side, looking for an explanation, seeking a friendly face. He saw General William Forsythe Butler at the far end of the field and spat viciously onto the ground near his feet.

  Inside a hut outside the square of people, Hillary Butler stirred. There was so much noise and it was so hot. But it was a nice hot; the kind of hot that makes your muscles work and your bones swing loose and easy. For the first time since she had entered the Loni village, Hillary Butler decided she would get up and walk outside and see what kind of place she was in. But first she would nap just a few minutes more.

  Saffah walked forward now to Chiun and stood in front of him, looking down at him across the heat waves rising from the brazier of coals.

  “It is a great moment, Little Father. The legend has begun. The Loni children are home.”

  Chiun rose to his feet in one smooth fluid movement and opened his eyes. He turned and looked at the Loni men who continued to water down the leafy branches covering the fire pit, and nodded. They put down their containers of water and almost instantly the smoke from the pit grew heavier.