Slave Safari

by Warren Murphy

  Chiun turned then and folded his hands in front of him.

  “The legend is the truth,” he intoned. “The Loni children are coming home.

  “But wait! Are the Loni home? Are the Loni I see today the Loni that my ancestor served many years ago? Are these Loni, these Hausa-hating, elephant-fearing cowards who run like children in the night from noises they cannot see? Are these the Loni, whose bravest souls are their women?

  “Are these the Loni that brought light and justice and knowledge to a dark world so many years ago?”

  Chiun stopped and looked slowly, silently around the vast crowd, seeming to stop at each and every face, as if seeking an answer.

  No one spoke and Chiun went on.

  “The legend says that the Loni children will come home. And then the man who walks in the shoes of death must destroy the man who would enslave the Loni. And then the Master of Sinanju must purify the Loni people in the rites of fire.

  “But this Master looks and wonders if these Loni can be redeemed.”

  Remo and Butler stood side by side, watching Chiun with equal intensity, thinking vastly different thoughts. He’s going to renege, Remo thought. Did the House of Sinanju give refunds? Butler was exploring the depths of his satisfaction. Nothing had gone exactly as he had planned but no matter. It seemed clear that before the day’s events were over, Obode would be dead. The Loni would support the leadership of Butler; so would most of Obode’s cabinet and most of the Army leaders. It would be a fine day for William Forsythe Butler, next President of Busati.

  “Where is the nobility that once filled the hearts of the Loni people?” Chiun was saying.

  “Gone like the fire goes,” Chiun said, and as the crowd gasped, he reached his hands down into the golden brazier and brought out two handfuls of coals. Slowly, not even seeming to feel the heat, he scattered the coals around the ground. “Together, coals are a fire, but singly, they are but coals and soon die. It is thus with people; their greatness comes because each shares in the tradition of their greatness.” He dropped again to his haunches, and began scattering with his hands the coals from the brazier.

  Behind him, the leaves and twigs still smoldered, the heat waves rising from the pit like steam from a subway grating.

  Inside the hut, Hillary Butler could no longer sleep. She got to her feet, happily surprised that she wore so sparkling clean a blue robe. She knew now that she was going to be all right. That evil house; the man on the ship; it was all behind her now. She would soon be home; she would be married as she had planned; somehow she knew that everything would be all right.

  She moved toward the entrance to the hut, her steps weak and slightly shaky.

  Outside the hut, Remo stood next to General Butler. “Willie,” Remo said, putting his arm conspiratorially around the other man’s shoulder, “you were a good one. But that was a good team you played for. Tell me something I always wanted to know. Did you guys shave the point spread? I remember, you guys were always like five-point favorites and you always wound up winning by three. You cost me a lot of bucks, Willie. I never could figure why you guys would shave. I mean, you were making the big dough already; it just wouldn’t seem to be worth the risk. You know, it’s not like you were slaves or anything, Willie.”

  Hillary Butler stepped out of the hut and blinked in the bright sunshine. Just ahead of her, she saw Remo, and she smiled. He had been so nice. His arm was around that black man in the white uniform and they were talking.

  “Get out of here, for Christ’s sake, will you?” William Forsythe Butler said to Remo. He raised his right hand to Remo’s shoulder and pushed. Something on his hand glinted in the sun. It was a ring. A gold ring. A gold ring formed in the links of a small chain.

  Hillary Butler had seen that ring before. Just once, when the heavy black hand holding the chloroform pad had lowered over her face.

  Hillary Butler screamed.

  Remo turned, as silence descended over the entire village. The white girl stood there in the entrance to the hut, her mouth open, her finger slowly raising to point. Remo came to her side.

  “Oh, Remo,” she said. “You’ve got him.”

  “Got him? Oh yeah, right. Obode,” Remo said. “He’s tied up down there.”

  “No, no, not Obode. That one,” she said, pointing to Butler. “He was the one who took me from my house. He kidnaped me.”

  “Him?” Remo said, pointing to Butler.

  She nodded and shuddered.

  “Old Willie?” Remo asked.

  “That one,” she said pointing.

  Suddenly everything had come undone for William Forsythe Butler, but perhaps there was still a chance. He broke through the crowd, pulling the pistol from his holster, running toward Obode. He might yet manage it. Kill Obode, then say he took the girl under Obode’s orders.

  He raised the gun to fire. Then the gun was gone from his hand, thudding softly, sending up a little puff of dust where it hit the ground and Chiun stood alongside him.

  Butler stopped in his tracks.

  “You have done evil to the Loni people,” Chiun said. “Did you hope someday to be king of this land? To one day enslave not only Hausa but Loni too?” Chiun’s voice rose in pitch.

  Butler slowly backed away from him.

  “You have disgraced the Loni people. You are not fit to live.”

  Butler turned to try to run, but there was no break in the crowd. He turned. Then Chiun turned his back on him and was walking away.

  Remo moved out into the clearing.

  “It was you, Willie?”

  “Yes,” Butler hissed, the Loni click in his throat chattering his anger. “I would repay in kind what the whites did to me. What they did to the Loni people.”

  “Sorry, Willie,” Remo said, remembering the girls he had been forced to kill. “You were a good cornerback but you know how it is: you can’t argue with a legend.”

  He moved toward Butler, who drew himself up to his full height. He was bigger than Remo, heavier, probably stronger. The white bastard had never been able to forget for one minute that he had been Willie Butler. All right. So be it. Now he would show him what Willie Butler could do if he had wanted to play the white man’s game.

  He crouched down and from deep in his throat growled at Remo: “Your ball, honkey.”

  “I’m going to flood your zone with receivers,” Remo said. “That always confused you goons.”

  Remo began trotting toward Butler who went wide-legged into a tackling stance. When Remo was within reach, he sprang, leaving his feet, rolling on his side toward Remo. Remo skipped lightly over him and Butler quickly rolled up onto his feet.

  “First and ten,” Remo said.

  He came back toward Butler who assumed the same stance, but this time as Remo drew near, Butler straightened up, leaped into the air and let fly a kick at Remo’s face. Remo caught the heel of the foot in both hands and continued pushing it upward, tumbling Butler back over onto his back.

  “Unsportsmanlike conduct, Willie. That’ll cost you fifteen yards.”

  Butler got up again and charged now in a rage at Remo, who dodged away.

  “Tell me, Willie, what was it you were trying to prove? What’d you need the girls for?”

  “How could you know? That accursed family…the Butlers, the Forsythes, the Lippincotts…they bought my family as slaves. I was collecting a debt.”

  “And you think that poor little girl over there had something to do with it?”

  “Blood of blood,” Butler grunted, as he wrapped his arms around Remo’s waist. “The bad seed has to be uprooted, no matter how big it’s grown.” He slid off Remo to the ground as Remo skipped away.

  “It’s people like you, Willie, that give racism a bad name.”

  Butler had edged around, slowly facing Remo, moving in a circle. He widened the circle gradually until his back was against the line of Lonis who were quietly watching this contest, so unlike anything they had ever seen.

  Without warning, Butl
er reached behind him, grabbed a spear from one of the Loni men and jumped back into the squared arena.

  “At last, your true colors come out,” Remo said. “You’re just another dirty player.”

  Butler moved toward him with the spear, holding it like a javelin, his hand on its middle, its weight poised over his right shoulder, ready to throw.

  “Now you tell me something, white man. The legend says a dead man comes with the Master. How are you a dead man?”

  “Sorry, Willie, it’s true. I died ten years ago. Now you can worry about the legend.”

  “Well, dying didn’t seem to take. So I think you ought to try it again.”

  Butler was only six feet from Remo now and he reared back with the spear and let it fly. Its point flew straight at Remo’s chest and Remo collapsed backwards out of its way and as the spear passed over his head, Remo’s hand flashed out and cracked the center of the shaft. The spear snapped in two, both halves clattering across the ground toward Chiun, who stood quietly watching.

  Remo slowly regained his feet “Sorry, Willie, you just lost the ball on downs.”

  And then Remo moved toward him with a leap.

  “This one’s for the Gipper,” Remo said.

  Butler rammed a forearm toward the bridge of Remo’s nose but the arm struck only air and then Willie Butler felt a biting pain in his chest that turned to fire and the fire was flashing red and pure and it burned worse than all the fires he’d ever seen and in that last flash of flame, he thought back, and his mind said, it’s me, Sis, it’s Billie, I really can run fast because I know it, and someday I’m gonna be a big man and his sister was saying no Tomming swamp nigger ever gonna amount to anything, but Sis, you were wrong, I was wrong, hate and violence isn’t the way, it just doesn’t work, but his sister didn’t answer and suddenly Willie Butler didn’t care anymore because he was dead.

  Remo stood up and rolled Butler over with his foot so his face was buried in the dust.

  “That’s the biz, sweetheart,” he said.

  The Loni were still silently watching. Chiun moved toward Remo, put his hand on Remo’s arm and said loudly: “Two parts of the legend are now completed.”

  He looked slowly around the circle of Loni, confused and staring, then at Obode who had regained his dignity and stood erect, his arms yanked high up over his head, determined to die like a British soldier.

  “The evil in the world is not always Hausa evil,” Chiun said. “The Loni curse has not been the Hausa, but the Loni people who have no heart. We must give you back your heart.”

  Chiun released Remo’s arm and turned toward the fire pit. Almost as if by signal, the last of the water evaporated, and the pit went aflame with a searing whoosh that seemed to swallow the oxygen in the arena and that moved Obode back, cringing slightly.

  From a bowl alongside the pit, Chiun took salt and began sprinkling it at the end of the pit, seemingly oblivious to the heat. While Chiun’s ritual went on, Saffah and her two sisters moved forward behind Chiun.

  The flames died quickly as the dried-out wood almost exploded into fire and Chiun motioned to the two Loni men who stood near the rear corners of the pit. Using long staves, they began to spread the fire, shaking the twigs and embers loose, and exposing through the fire the giant ostrich egg-sized rocks, now glistening white hot from their two-day baking.

  Remo came up alongside Chiun.

  “What the hell are you up to?” he demanded.

  “One does not worry about the Master. One only observes and learns.” Chiun looked at Remo, seemed to understand his concern and said, “No matter what happens you must promise not to interfere. No matter what.”

  “Chiun, I won’t let you do anything foolish.”

  “You will do as I say. You will not interfere. My House’s debt to the Loni has been a family disgrace. You dishonor me if you stop me from discharging that debt. Do nothing.”

  Remo searched Chiun’s eyes for any weakness, any hint, but there was none.

  “I don’t like it,” Remo said glumly, even as he started moving back.

  “Your preferences are of little interest to my ancestors. They like what I do.”

  The entire pit had now been raked until it was an evil mix of white hot stones and red hot embers.

  Chiun looked around him at the Loni people. “The Lonis must again be taught of bravery.”

  He nodded to Princess Saffah and her sisters and they slowly walked forward in a single line toward the pit. Remo stood alongside and watched them, a procession of three proud and beautiful women. He could understand why once this land had great kings and queens. Saffah and her sisters were royalty in any land in any day. Traditional royalty was a gift of governments or an accident of heritage, but real royalty came from the soul. The sisters had soul.

  Saffah stepped into the ritual bed of salt Chiun had prepared, then folding her arms, without hesitation, she placed her right foot into the bed of hot coals and began to walk into the pit of fire. The Loni gasped. Remo stood stunned. Obode appeared in a state of shock.

  But oblivious to all their feelings was Saffah, who was now walking, resolute step after resolute step, down the center line of the pit. Her feet kicked up little clouds of sparks and heat shimmered around her bare ankles. When she was halfway across, the next sister stepped through the salt pit and out into the coals. And a few moments later, the third sister followed.

  Remo watched their faces carefully; not a sign of pain or concern showed. It was some kind of trick. Cheapie old Chiun had done some finagling with the fire. Unworthy, Remo decided. Definitely unworthy of a Master of Sinanju. He would have to tell him.

  The three sisters now stood in a row near Obode at the far end of the fire pit.

  “Your princesses have shown you that the Loni can still breed courage,” Chiun said, “but that is not enough to purify you.”

  Chiun stepped his bare wrinkled yellow feet into the small salt bed and then he too stepped out into the field of flame and fire and heat

  As he walked, he intoned a chant softly to himself. “Kufa tutakufa wote.” Remo had never heard it before but recognized it as part of the Loni tongue.

  Carefully, yet decisively, Chiun walked straight along the length of the fire bed.

  And then in the middle he stopped.

  Good trick, Remo thought. A real showstopper,

  Chiun stood there, feet not moving, arms folded, face impassive as ever, still mouthing his chant. “ Kufa tutakufa wote.”

  “What’s that mean?” Remo said to a Loni standing behind him.

  “It means, As for dying, we shall all die.”

  The Loni watched Chiun and their small buzzings turned to silence as the seconds ticked on and Chiun stood still in the middle of the fiery pit, the heat waves rising around him, making his body seem to shimmer and shake even though he did not move.

  Then a small wisp of smoke began to curl up the side of Chiun’s leg. Remo could see that Chiun’s shin-length white pants had singed at the bottom. A little speck turned brown, then black, then broadened, and now gave out thin trails of smoke. An orange dot appeared at the edge of one leg as the overheated fabric neared its flash point. A tiny lick of flame puffed up.

  The Loni gasped. Remo took a step forward, then stopped, indecisive, not knowing what to do.

  And over the gasping and the whispers roared the voice of General Obode.

  “Will no one help that man?”

  The roar was an anguished cry.

  Yet no one moved.

  “Help him,” Obode demanded at the top of his voice.

  Still no one moved.

  With a bellow of rage and anger, Obode wrenched at the eight-foot post to which he was tied.

  The force of his huge body tore the iron ring from its mounting and his hands came loose, still tied together with the ring now suspended on the rope connecting his wrists.

  Chiun’s ge was breaking into flame at the shins, at the waist.

  Without hesitation, Obode raced
forward the two steps separating him from the fire pit, seemed to pause momentarily, and then, barefooted, ran through the pit to the place Chiun, stood. Each step he took, he screamed. Yet he ran on. When he reached Chiun, he scooped with both hands together and lifted Chiun in his giant arms like a baby, then ran the short distance across the pit to exit at the side. He put Chiun down gently and with his hands began to beat out the flames of Chiun’s uniform. Only when they were out, did he roll onto his back and begin to try wiping away the glowing bits of wood and rock that still stuck to his burned-black feet. He was still screaming in pain.

  The Loni watched quietly as Chiun sat unconcerned and Obode ministered to his feet.

  And then, a full-throated cheer went up from the watching crowd. Hands clapped in the peculiarly rhythmic African manner. Women shouted approval. Children whistled. The Loni princesses left their places and came running toward Obode and Chiun. Saffah snapped her fingers and shouted some words. In a seeming split second, women were back with leaves and buckets that appeared filled with mud and Saffah began making a poultice for Obode’s feet.

  Remo came over and as he moved in front of Chiun, he saw with astonishment that Chiun’s feet were unmarked and so were his legs and hands. His uniform was singed and scorched, in places crisped away into hard flecks of black charcoal, but Chiun was unhurt.

  As Remo stood there, Chiun moved to his feet and stood over the figures of the three princesses ministering to General Obode.

  “People of the Loni, hear me now and hear me well because I have traveled many miles to bring you these words.” He waved a hand toward Obode, writhing on the ground in pain.

  “You have learned through this man today that the Hausa may have courage. It is the beginning of wisdom. You have applauded his courage, and that is the beginning of self-worth. The Loni did not lose an empire because of the Hausa. They lost it because they were not fit to hold it. Today, your people have regained their fitness. The legend has been redeemed. The debt of the House of Sinanju has been paid.”

  One voice piped out of the crowd. “But our return to power. What of that?” Several voices mumbled in concert with him.

  Chiun raised his hands for silence. “No man bestows power, not even the Master of Sinanju. Power is earned by deeds and works. The President of the Hausa has learned something today. He has learned that the Loni no longer hate him because he is a Hausa. They have hated him because he has been unjust. Today he is going to become a great leader because he will now bring the Loni into the palaces of government to build again a great land. The Loni will not be sergeants and servants; they will be generals and counselors.” Chiun looked down at Obode whose eyes met his. They locked momentarily and Obode nodded in agreement, then looked away, back at the head of Princess Saffah who still ministered to his burned feet, her long black silken hair splashing about his blistering ankles.