Part 8 (1/2)
The three girls stopped, having spotted Brandon and Sam at the top of the hill. They quieted instantly and spent the next seconds staring across the remaining distance. Their black hair formed thin hoods around the tops of their heads, and they had exotic faces with eyes s.p.a.ced far apart. They carried baskets with twigs and branches sticking out of the sides. They seemed at least as shocked to see Sam and Brandon standing there as she was to see them. Brandon raised his right hand to wave.
The lead girl repeated the gesture and Sam saw the friendly grin on her face. She yelled out a greeting that Sam didn't recognize. The second girl joined in, but the third remained silent, standing shyly behind the lead girl.
These are pygmies, she realized. The next few moments were awkward, as the two groups stared at each other. Sam took a few steps forward and pointed to her chest. ”Sam,” she said, enunciating as carefully as possible.
”Sam,” the lead girl repeated. She introduced herself and the two others. Sam did her best to repeat the names back at them, but she could tell by the laughter that followed that she had gotten them horribly wrong.
”Do you know if there is a village near here?” Brandon asked.
The girls didn't seem to understand what he was asking. They turned to each other, talking and giggling amongst themselves.
”Ou est la ville la plus proche?” Sam asked.
”Ville?” the lead girl repeated.
She nodded. ”Oui. Une ville.”
The lead girl nodded back encouragingly and asked a question. The second girl widened her eyes in surprise when she heard and the two turned to each other and began arguing. Their language had a strange tonal quality that made the words sound like singing.
The second girl threw up her hands and backed away, looking as though she might cry. The lead girl turned back to Sam and asked, ”Perdu?”
She nodded. Yes, they were lost, she explained in French.
The girl grinned wide. Standing closer, she saw the woman's smile up close for the first time, and she struggled to hide her revulsion. The girl's smile exposed a row of sharpened, jagged teeth.
The girl pointed to the two of them, before turning the finger on herself. ”Ville,” she announced rea.s.suringly and pointed at the trail behind them. She walked slowly in that direction, then turned to look at them, and gestured for them to follow.
Sam got the point ”She's going to lead us to a town,” she said to Brandon. ”I think we should follow them.”
”Right,” he agreed.
The three pygmy girls, the tallest barely reaching Sam's chest, skipped off down the trail, starting them off at a brisk pace. They shouted back words of encouragement in their own language, as Brandon and Sam struggled to keep up.
Njia Nya Siri.
(The Secret Path).
”He who asks questions cannot avoid the answers.”
-African proverb.
8.
Jean bit through the ripe red skin and tasted the sweet juices of the fresh tomato as they poured into his mouth and dribbled down his chin. The fruit was one of many treasures plundered from the conquered village. The Askari Nahuru had settled in after trapping and executing their Mai-Mai enemies. Now they would enjoy the spoils until their warlord instructed them to pack up and move out.
Certain treasures, like the freshly picked tomatoes, would only be enjoyed for a while, but others, like Jean's new Glock, would still be on his hip when he left the ruined village behind.
The sound of shouting in KiSwahili drew his attention away from his meal. From outside the baraza, he gazed past the thatched huts at the dirt road leading into the village. He stood up, his hand resting against the new automatic machine pistol.
An olive green truck, rusting brown in places, burst around the corner. Clouds of brown dust billowed out and settled amid the green trees.
Jean lifted his hand from his weapon, but he did not relax. His muscles grew tense as a string of trucks, Jeeps, and motorbikes followed.
Halfway down the procession, he spotted a Jeep filled with heavily-armed soldiers. Leopard skins draped over the sides of the Jeep. A small flag, reminiscent of the Ugandan flag, with stripes of black, amber, and crimson fluttered at the end of a long antenna.
A stern, round-faced man, missing his left eye, sat in the backseat. He wore a black beret and a small half-cape, cut from the striped hide of an okapi.
The men stationed throughout the village got up, shouldered their firearms, and filtered toward the open lot at the end of the road. All were eager to see their general's face when they informed him that all of the Mai-Mais had been killed.
Jean stepped into the lot, saluting the oncoming Jeep. The soldiers in the front seat, the army's best, returned crisp salutes of their own. Even General Adrian Zadu raised his hand to his temple, showing respect for the man who had just conducted a nearly flawless raid.
The Jeep stopped in front of Jean. One of his lieutenants stepped beside him, remaining slightly back in respect of his rank. As Zadu and his bodyguards climbed out of the backseat, the first of two ma.s.sive trucks rolled into view. Each truck pulled a trailer and each trailer carried a pair of Jeeps and a.s.sorted weapons and supplies. The whole procession served as a base on wheels for the vagrant militia.
The motorbikes buzzed around them and the trucks' diesel engines rumbled like angry monsters.
The general stepped forward. On his feet he looked elephantine, as any good leader should. Although he limped slightly from an old back injury, his enormous barrel chest and round face were menacing. His hands were thick and gnarled, a reminder that he did not always rely on others to do his work for him.
”Everything looks handled,” the general noted in KiSwahili. His voice was sonorous and crisp.
Lutalo, the general's favorite bodyguard, nodded grimly as he gazed around. His eyes were always wide and his jaw set firm. He wore a black beret, like the general's. But instead of a mere okapi cape as a trophy, a string of finger bones hung from his left ear.
The story said that he had constructed the gruesome ornament from the fingers of the men he had killed. But when it threatened to get too long, he took them only from those he had killed with his bare hands.
Looking at Lutalo, Jean believed every facet of the tale. The bodyguard's arms were like tree trunks. To Jean, who was skinny and a better shot than a brawler, Lutalo was a man to stay clear of. His eyes drifted down to the large knife sheathed at the bodyguard's belt, the killing instrument that was also used to cut off the fingers for his earring.
”Where is Michanga?” the general asked.
”He is in his hut.”
”Alive?”
Jean nodded, hoping that was what Zadu wanted. ”He's under guard.”
The general curled his bottom lip as if he meant to spit in disgust. ”He betrayed us to the Mai-Mais. Put his head on a stick in the middle of the village. Understand?”
The general spun on his heels as the trucks finished parking and the engines were silenced. Soldiers poured out of every vehicle, many carrying rifles or other weapons.
”There is more,” Jean began hesitantly. ”When we arrived, there was a group of Europeans in Michanga's house. We chased them away and one of their Jeeps crashed several kilometers from here.”
A strained look pa.s.sed over the general's face. He did not like to hear about Europeans or Americans. The Ugandan government had denied supporting the Askari Nahuru, uncomfortable with Zadu's tactics. More bad publicity could spell trouble for the renegade militia group. ”They are still alive?”