Okay, so obviously I haven't updated anything in awhile. Originally I'd started this project thinking it would be a fun, interesting way to improve my writing skills, and for the most part, I'd say it was. Lately, however, I've found that I'm having less and less time to accomplish the writing required to update every single day and still live a normal life, so I'm effectively putting the366.com on hiatus for the foreseeable future.
This doesn't mean that I'm going to stop writing, of course. In fact, my longterm plans include attending graduate school so that I can get an MFA in writing, and right now, I have to focus on getting accepted to the school that would be most beneficial, which means I need to churn out a sample better than anything I've ever written before. Sure this impromptu exercise of barely-planned stories was entertaining (well, for me, at least; I can't speak for you), but it isn't going to take the place of a thorough education.
So if you're reading this, chances are you've read something else on this website, and all I can say is "Thanks." I hope you've enjoyed it. I certainly have. Part of me wishes that I hadn't stopped, that I'd kept on writing even if it meant the complete alienation of my friends and whatever semblance of a life I currently have. I do feel like I've disappointed myself a bit, but I think I'll get over it.
Matt
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Day 152 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 31
They stood upon the bow of a hired boat, upon one of two that were purchased for the sole purpose of taking the villagers back to the place they had once called home, and from there, a period of reconstruction could be born, one that would see a new village built, better than the last, stronger than the last, more loving than the last. The natives were mostly below deck, though unlike the last ship on which they had sailed, there were no chains waiting for them there, only open spaces. A few of rattled about topside, as well, marveling at the scenes of the river passing before them. Whelp, however, shared none of the celebration, instead bound to a chair and set in the darkest room they could find.
"Tell me about the diamonds," said Virginia Pear, her shoulder brushing against Huxley's arm, her voice plain and low. "They're real, aren't they?"
"They paid for a new revolver, a believably fashionable new suit for Mr. Westmoreland (which, surprisingly, was far more expensive than the revolver, by the way), and the last of them were able to procure these vessels. Yes. They are very real," said Huxley, taking no joy in the admittance.
"Where did they come from?" she asked, already dreading the answer.
"There is a lake near your village. There they litter the ground. We suspect there are much larger deposits beneath the surface, though we had none of the proper equipment to see for ourselves."
"And this is why you came here?"
"It is. We followed rumors, and they led us here."
"Whelp told me all about you, you know. He told me horrible things."
"I would expect nothing less," said Huxley. "The quality of my soul is less than shimmering, my dear. Shall I admit my sins? Is that what you want of me?"
"It is the first step toward forgiveness," she replied.
"Then I've been a rogue and scoundrel."
"And had you been anything else, I would still be in that horrid cesspool of Zanzibar, and all my people would be scattered, traded like cattle, like common goods."
"Are you then thanking me for my wicked ways?" A sly grin appeared on his face, and he turned his head slightly to see a face staring straight ahead, steeped in contemplation.
"I'm conflicted, I'll admit. God works in many ways, Mr. Huxley, and if his will is done by the wicked, then yes. I am thanking you."
"There'll be no maps, you know. I can promise you that I'll never tell another soul about the diamonds."
"Then there may be hope for you yet."
"There's always hope for the wicked, my dear. Always."
She turned to him finally, as if at last passing judgment on him within her own mind and reconciling his actions in a way that she could understand and properly forgive, and so Virginia Pear smiled.
"What will you do now?" she asked.
"Help you rebuild, I suppose."
"You'll do no such thing."
Huxley cocked his head in surprise. "Beg your pardon?"
"You had nothing to do with the destruction of our village in the first place, so why share the same penance as Whelp? If it is guilt that you're feeling, then we cannot help you here. Here, you've nothing to be guilty about. Besides, this process will make us stronger, our will and independence greater than ever."
"My goodness, a whole village of Virginia Pears."
"Indeed, sir. If what you say is true--if indeed the powers are coming down to colonize these lands, then we'll need that strength to survive, to make sure no man subjugates us and bends us to his will."
"Then I don't know where I'll go. I've always wanted to travel. Perhaps I could legitimize my own fiction, and do that which I've only pretended to do."
"The world needs maps, Mr. Huxley. And good men to make them."
"I suppose so, and I'll have my art. I'm getting quite better with my paintings, though I do hate to brag."
"No, you don't," she said with a smile.
"I know."
Her smile died like the last bit of sunlight at the end of day, grasping at the world before sinking behind it, down and down, and her attention turned back to the river, rushing against them as if wary to accept them once more.
"Do not ask me to come with you," she said.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because I would say yes. Now promise me. Promise me that you will not ask me."
"Then I promise," he replied, and the world appeared just a bit more morose for it.
The three men had spent the night in the wilderness, guarded only by the fire that now burned only as embers in ash as the light of morning took hold in the world. They were awake already, rummaging through the packs for salted meat and bits of meal to sustain them for another day. Luckily, their food was still plentiful, for they anticipated days, if not weeks, before reaching another village.
Their camp, packed away, they accepted the burdens upon their backs with determined grunts. Through the pain, beneath their heavy loads, they were growing stronger each and every day. Every possibility was open to them, at their disposal, and the blank parchment and canvas in their packs cried out for fresh ink and oil. An entire world lay before them, waiting to be mapped.
"Are we ready?" asked Akan.
"I believe so," said Westmoreland. "What do you think, sir? Which way should we go today?"
Thomas Huxley smiled and studied the landscape surrounding him. Arbitrarily, he pointed to the east, toward the far horizon of the rising sun, and the wind rushed against him.
"Gentlemen," he said, "let's see what's out there."
"Tell me about the diamonds," said Virginia Pear, her shoulder brushing against Huxley's arm, her voice plain and low. "They're real, aren't they?"
"They paid for a new revolver, a believably fashionable new suit for Mr. Westmoreland (which, surprisingly, was far more expensive than the revolver, by the way), and the last of them were able to procure these vessels. Yes. They are very real," said Huxley, taking no joy in the admittance.
"Where did they come from?" she asked, already dreading the answer.
"There is a lake near your village. There they litter the ground. We suspect there are much larger deposits beneath the surface, though we had none of the proper equipment to see for ourselves."
"And this is why you came here?"
"It is. We followed rumors, and they led us here."
"Whelp told me all about you, you know. He told me horrible things."
"I would expect nothing less," said Huxley. "The quality of my soul is less than shimmering, my dear. Shall I admit my sins? Is that what you want of me?"
"It is the first step toward forgiveness," she replied.
"Then I've been a rogue and scoundrel."
"And had you been anything else, I would still be in that horrid cesspool of Zanzibar, and all my people would be scattered, traded like cattle, like common goods."
"Are you then thanking me for my wicked ways?" A sly grin appeared on his face, and he turned his head slightly to see a face staring straight ahead, steeped in contemplation.
"I'm conflicted, I'll admit. God works in many ways, Mr. Huxley, and if his will is done by the wicked, then yes. I am thanking you."
"There'll be no maps, you know. I can promise you that I'll never tell another soul about the diamonds."
"Then there may be hope for you yet."
"There's always hope for the wicked, my dear. Always."
She turned to him finally, as if at last passing judgment on him within her own mind and reconciling his actions in a way that she could understand and properly forgive, and so Virginia Pear smiled.
"What will you do now?" she asked.
"Help you rebuild, I suppose."
"You'll do no such thing."
Huxley cocked his head in surprise. "Beg your pardon?"
"You had nothing to do with the destruction of our village in the first place, so why share the same penance as Whelp? If it is guilt that you're feeling, then we cannot help you here. Here, you've nothing to be guilty about. Besides, this process will make us stronger, our will and independence greater than ever."
"My goodness, a whole village of Virginia Pears."
"Indeed, sir. If what you say is true--if indeed the powers are coming down to colonize these lands, then we'll need that strength to survive, to make sure no man subjugates us and bends us to his will."
"Then I don't know where I'll go. I've always wanted to travel. Perhaps I could legitimize my own fiction, and do that which I've only pretended to do."
"The world needs maps, Mr. Huxley. And good men to make them."
"I suppose so, and I'll have my art. I'm getting quite better with my paintings, though I do hate to brag."
"No, you don't," she said with a smile.
"I know."
Her smile died like the last bit of sunlight at the end of day, grasping at the world before sinking behind it, down and down, and her attention turned back to the river, rushing against them as if wary to accept them once more.
"Do not ask me to come with you," she said.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because I would say yes. Now promise me. Promise me that you will not ask me."
"Then I promise," he replied, and the world appeared just a bit more morose for it.
***
The three men had spent the night in the wilderness, guarded only by the fire that now burned only as embers in ash as the light of morning took hold in the world. They were awake already, rummaging through the packs for salted meat and bits of meal to sustain them for another day. Luckily, their food was still plentiful, for they anticipated days, if not weeks, before reaching another village.
Their camp, packed away, they accepted the burdens upon their backs with determined grunts. Through the pain, beneath their heavy loads, they were growing stronger each and every day. Every possibility was open to them, at their disposal, and the blank parchment and canvas in their packs cried out for fresh ink and oil. An entire world lay before them, waiting to be mapped.
"Are we ready?" asked Akan.
"I believe so," said Westmoreland. "What do you think, sir? Which way should we go today?"
Thomas Huxley smiled and studied the landscape surrounding him. Arbitrarily, he pointed to the east, toward the far horizon of the rising sun, and the wind rushed against him.
"Gentlemen," he said, "let's see what's out there."
Monday, June 9, 2008
Day 151 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 30
"Hello, Thomas. You're looking well."
Whelp held the gun before him, keeping it steadily aimed at the man sitting on the bed, who showed no signs of concern for his welfare, simply content with his comfortable repose. Virginia said nothing, her attention shifting back and forth between the two men as she hoped for a peaceful resolution to the conflict at hand.
"Are you all right?" Huxley asked her. "That's a wonderful dress."
She smiled in response.
"I have to admit, Huxley," said Whelp, "a part of me expected a sort of confrontation like this. I knew the world wouldn't be rid of you that easily."
"Yes, well, it isn't everyday one is knocked unconscious and left to die in a fire. I've had plenty of time to plan this very moment, Edward. I've been obsessing over the things I would say to you when we finally met again."
"And?" said Whelp, gesturing with his revolver as if to draw further attention to it.
"And, I've realized how pointless it is. You know how I am, Edward. You know how I abhor drama and all that Shakespearean claptrap of speeches and dialogue. I suppose I could say something heroic and naive, if that is what you wish. How's this? I'm here to put an end to your villainy!"
"Not bad. Honestly, I expected more of a flair to it. Though I suppose I could tell you that I'm not the villain, as well."
"Again, technically speaking, you did leave me to die."
"Fair enough," Whelp noted. "So what now? Shall I twirl my mustache for you? Because I daresay it isn't quite long enough to twirl."
"What have we become, Edward? I the hero, and you the villain--can the world really be that simple, that black and white?"
"One aforementioned incident aside, you know as well as I that I'm no villain, no mastermind, at least," said Whelp. "Certainly, you may take your revenge on me, and I fully expect it of you. Though what will that accomplish? I'm but a face, Thomas, and there are others who will take my place when I am gone. I am a hard truth of this world. I am a dealer of human nature. Shall I be killed? Shall I suffer some ironic comeuppance?"
"That isn't for me to decide," said Huxley, taking no satisfaction.
"Then who will?"
"The villagers you took captive, I suppose. I would imagine they've all been freed by now, and they'll soon converge on this home--a lovely place, by they way."
"Ah, then punishment by the will of the mob."
"I wouldn't worry," said Huxley, peering up at the silent Virginia Pear, now trying hard to blend into the silken draperies that hung over the large windows, "they've been taught compassion."
At that Virginia gave a small grin and eased across the room, passing in-between Huxley, Whelp, and the gun in the latter's hand and settling in a vacant spot on the bed. Whelp turned his attention to his own revolver and, realizing it was no longer needed, tucked it away in his trousers before settling into a plush armchair.
"I must say," said Huxley, "you're taking this better than I expected. I had an entire plan worked out, you know. It would've been spectacular."
"I'm sure, but no, Huxley, I've been anticipating this moment, exploring it from all angles until accepting the simple fact that I cannot run away. Not anymore. I'm to be made an example of, I understand. People will look back at me, wagging their fingers and exclaiming: This is what happens when one dabbles in slavery! This is the consequence! I'm to be punished for giving people what they want. This is mankind slapping itself on the wrist, and I'm but an inconsequential man, forced to bear the burdens society has placed upon itself."
There came a pounding at the door, and the small frame of Terrance Westmoreland appeared at the window, peering within. From outside, those inside the room could hear yelling and laughing, the sounds of scuffling on the streets and the disorganization of a confused mob.
"That'll be them now," said Huxley.
"Do you hear them?" asked Whelp. "They'll tear me apart."
"I suppose I could answer the door, then."
Huxley stood from the bed and slowly crossed the room as the violent pounding on the door and outer walls continued. He pulled back the heavy wooden door, and Akan and Westmoreland burst into the room, followed by a steady stream of the men of the village. Though once they saw their enemy, a broken man hunched over in a chair, they paused, their violent intentions now seemingly meaningless. They'd come expecting a fight and found anything but.
"Tell me, Ms. Pear," said Huxley, in front of the gathering audience, "what would you do?"
"I would go home," said Virginia. "I would start rebuilding our village once again."
Huxley turned to the crowd, standing between them and Whelp, still sitting in his plush chair. He looked into the sea of faces, one that stretched beyond the current room and out into the streets, each one shaded by anger, though gradually tempering.
"You heard the lady," he said. "You could have your revenge, satisfy that part of you that's been so consumed by wrath, or you can go home and rebuild your lives. That choice will be left up to you."
Slowly, the crowd began to move away. Those in the room slowly joined the others still outside, and they huddled in the streets, claiming the spaces they occupied for a state of confusion and wanting nothing more than to go home once again. Akan and Westmoreland were the last to leave, surveying the scene around them before taking action where it was needed.
"Come," said Akan, patting the former porter on the shoulder with his enormous hand, "let's procure a boat or two."
They both disappeared from the room.
"Did he just speak?" asked Virginia. "So he isn't a mute? We've much to discuss, Mr. Huxley."
Huxley suddenly felt like hitting something.
"Are you ready to leave?" he asked Whelp, if for no other reason than to shift attention away from his own deceit.
"Where am I going?"
"With us, I assume. If no one else wishes to devise punishment for you, then I'll do it myself. You're to help these people rebuild the village you burned. Fair enough?"
"Reasonable, I suppose."
"Oh, and Edward, may I have my diamonds back, please?"
Whelp grinned and fetched the pouch from his pocket.
"Magnificent things, I must say. Wherever did you find them?" Whelp asked.
Huxley thought on this a moment before replying with a blank expression on his face.
"They're fake, Edward."
"Ah, well. What is life but one disappointment after another, anyway? If we're to leave, then let's be gone. The smell of this city is beginning to repulse me."
Whelp held the gun before him, keeping it steadily aimed at the man sitting on the bed, who showed no signs of concern for his welfare, simply content with his comfortable repose. Virginia said nothing, her attention shifting back and forth between the two men as she hoped for a peaceful resolution to the conflict at hand.
"Are you all right?" Huxley asked her. "That's a wonderful dress."
She smiled in response.
"I have to admit, Huxley," said Whelp, "a part of me expected a sort of confrontation like this. I knew the world wouldn't be rid of you that easily."
"Yes, well, it isn't everyday one is knocked unconscious and left to die in a fire. I've had plenty of time to plan this very moment, Edward. I've been obsessing over the things I would say to you when we finally met again."
"And?" said Whelp, gesturing with his revolver as if to draw further attention to it.
"And, I've realized how pointless it is. You know how I am, Edward. You know how I abhor drama and all that Shakespearean claptrap of speeches and dialogue. I suppose I could say something heroic and naive, if that is what you wish. How's this? I'm here to put an end to your villainy!"
"Not bad. Honestly, I expected more of a flair to it. Though I suppose I could tell you that I'm not the villain, as well."
"Again, technically speaking, you did leave me to die."
"Fair enough," Whelp noted. "So what now? Shall I twirl my mustache for you? Because I daresay it isn't quite long enough to twirl."
"What have we become, Edward? I the hero, and you the villain--can the world really be that simple, that black and white?"
"One aforementioned incident aside, you know as well as I that I'm no villain, no mastermind, at least," said Whelp. "Certainly, you may take your revenge on me, and I fully expect it of you. Though what will that accomplish? I'm but a face, Thomas, and there are others who will take my place when I am gone. I am a hard truth of this world. I am a dealer of human nature. Shall I be killed? Shall I suffer some ironic comeuppance?"
"That isn't for me to decide," said Huxley, taking no satisfaction.
"Then who will?"
"The villagers you took captive, I suppose. I would imagine they've all been freed by now, and they'll soon converge on this home--a lovely place, by they way."
"Ah, then punishment by the will of the mob."
"I wouldn't worry," said Huxley, peering up at the silent Virginia Pear, now trying hard to blend into the silken draperies that hung over the large windows, "they've been taught compassion."
At that Virginia gave a small grin and eased across the room, passing in-between Huxley, Whelp, and the gun in the latter's hand and settling in a vacant spot on the bed. Whelp turned his attention to his own revolver and, realizing it was no longer needed, tucked it away in his trousers before settling into a plush armchair.
"I must say," said Huxley, "you're taking this better than I expected. I had an entire plan worked out, you know. It would've been spectacular."
"I'm sure, but no, Huxley, I've been anticipating this moment, exploring it from all angles until accepting the simple fact that I cannot run away. Not anymore. I'm to be made an example of, I understand. People will look back at me, wagging their fingers and exclaiming: This is what happens when one dabbles in slavery! This is the consequence! I'm to be punished for giving people what they want. This is mankind slapping itself on the wrist, and I'm but an inconsequential man, forced to bear the burdens society has placed upon itself."
There came a pounding at the door, and the small frame of Terrance Westmoreland appeared at the window, peering within. From outside, those inside the room could hear yelling and laughing, the sounds of scuffling on the streets and the disorganization of a confused mob.
"That'll be them now," said Huxley.
"Do you hear them?" asked Whelp. "They'll tear me apart."
"I suppose I could answer the door, then."
Huxley stood from the bed and slowly crossed the room as the violent pounding on the door and outer walls continued. He pulled back the heavy wooden door, and Akan and Westmoreland burst into the room, followed by a steady stream of the men of the village. Though once they saw their enemy, a broken man hunched over in a chair, they paused, their violent intentions now seemingly meaningless. They'd come expecting a fight and found anything but.
"Tell me, Ms. Pear," said Huxley, in front of the gathering audience, "what would you do?"
"I would go home," said Virginia. "I would start rebuilding our village once again."
Huxley turned to the crowd, standing between them and Whelp, still sitting in his plush chair. He looked into the sea of faces, one that stretched beyond the current room and out into the streets, each one shaded by anger, though gradually tempering.
"You heard the lady," he said. "You could have your revenge, satisfy that part of you that's been so consumed by wrath, or you can go home and rebuild your lives. That choice will be left up to you."
Slowly, the crowd began to move away. Those in the room slowly joined the others still outside, and they huddled in the streets, claiming the spaces they occupied for a state of confusion and wanting nothing more than to go home once again. Akan and Westmoreland were the last to leave, surveying the scene around them before taking action where it was needed.
"Come," said Akan, patting the former porter on the shoulder with his enormous hand, "let's procure a boat or two."
They both disappeared from the room.
"Did he just speak?" asked Virginia. "So he isn't a mute? We've much to discuss, Mr. Huxley."
Huxley suddenly felt like hitting something.
"Are you ready to leave?" he asked Whelp, if for no other reason than to shift attention away from his own deceit.
"Where am I going?"
"With us, I assume. If no one else wishes to devise punishment for you, then I'll do it myself. You're to help these people rebuild the village you burned. Fair enough?"
"Reasonable, I suppose."
"Oh, and Edward, may I have my diamonds back, please?"
Whelp grinned and fetched the pouch from his pocket.
"Magnificent things, I must say. Wherever did you find them?" Whelp asked.
Huxley thought on this a moment before replying with a blank expression on his face.
"They're fake, Edward."
"Ah, well. What is life but one disappointment after another, anyway? If we're to leave, then let's be gone. The smell of this city is beginning to repulse me."
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Day 150 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 29
Akan had the advantage of surprise and thus exploited it to the best of his abilities. As Higgins, who most definitely represented the biggest threat of the two men before him, was caught off-guard, Akan took the opportunity to charge him, knocking the revolver from his hand and sending it sliding across the cold stone floor. Whelp, unwilling to risk a physical confrontation such as the one unraveling in front of him, grabbed Virginia tightly by her wrist and pulled her out of the cell and into the dank hallway of the holding house, a construct with the sole purpose of holding slaves prior to a sale. Westmoreland watched the villain's retreat but was blocked by the match now enacted before him like the struggle of two titans of old, having descended from the heavens to make their marks upon a mortal world. Needless to say, he had no place in this fight.
"Will you be all right?" he took the time to ask while the two large men had their hands wrapped around one another's necks, each trying to pin the other to the ground.
"Go!" yelled Akan, evidently in no mood for further conversation.
"Oh, dear God, you can talk! Right," said the former porter, expertly navigating himself around the brawl and extricating himself from the thick violence of the room, the spiderweb of a pulsing vein still throbbing at his temple, clutching him like a miniature net in the unseemly trap of lusty anger.
Left alone now, Akan felt that whatever pent-up fury residing within him could be fully unleashed without fear of injuring anyone else. At long last, the giant could revel in his rage. Higgins, however, was no effete opponent, choosing to shift his weight and use Akan's own as an advantage or, at the very least, to keep the sharp end of the knife away from his own body.
"You are a mercenary, are you not?" Akan asked in the heat of battle, as Higgins attempted to wrest the knife from his hand.
"Yes," came the answer in the form of a simple grunt.
"Do they pay you much?"
Higgins cried aloud. It was fierce, primeval, the roar of a confident lion.
"Yes."
"Fair enough," said Akan with a shrug, and their game continued.
In those next few moments, Akan was suddenly reminded of a story Huxley had told him. It was, of course, a total fabrication, but it was one that was eventually entangled in Akan's fictional back story, which existed only to assure people that the mute giant was a native African. Once, as a boy, he had lived in a village in the Ashanti Empire, near what came to known as the Gold Coast, and his village had been plagued by disappearances and nerve-shattering roars in the dead of night. As the villagers came to find out, a large man-eating lion was on the loose, so the young giant took it upon himself to rid his village of the monstrosity, striding into the darkness and quite prepared to sacrifice himself for a greater good. The lion appeared with a roar, lunging at him from the shadows, and in that black night they fought. As they rolled across the ground, the entire earth shook with the force of a thousand storms. Trees were up-ended and mountains were raised in their wake. They flattened a forest to a desert and scattered the waters of a lake to the far corners of the world. Sometime, in the fracas, the lion lashed out with its sharp claws and ripped the tongue from the boy's mouth, and then Akan stretched his fingers around the thick neck of the beast, choking it with all his might and slamming the monster's maned head against the ground until it moved no more.
In the end, Higgins lay still on the ground, and Akan rolled over beside him, panting. He reached out across the stone floor and grasped the hilt of the knife and tucked it away on his person. The battle had been one, and what's more: this time the giant kept his tongue.
Whelp dashed through the city streets, diving into the crowds that peppered the nearby market with Virginia Pear in tow, unable to shake herself from his grip. When he arrived back at the room he'd hired for Virginia, he paused briefly, taken by the satisfaction of seemingly escaping deadly pursuit. He never even thought to wonder about where his men had gone as he flung his captive into the room and bolted the door behind him.
Virginia abruptly screamed, and Whelp wheeled about to find Thomas Huxley, sitting comfortably on the bed.
"Hello, Edward."
"Will you be all right?" he took the time to ask while the two large men had their hands wrapped around one another's necks, each trying to pin the other to the ground.
"Go!" yelled Akan, evidently in no mood for further conversation.
"Oh, dear God, you can talk! Right," said the former porter, expertly navigating himself around the brawl and extricating himself from the thick violence of the room, the spiderweb of a pulsing vein still throbbing at his temple, clutching him like a miniature net in the unseemly trap of lusty anger.
Left alone now, Akan felt that whatever pent-up fury residing within him could be fully unleashed without fear of injuring anyone else. At long last, the giant could revel in his rage. Higgins, however, was no effete opponent, choosing to shift his weight and use Akan's own as an advantage or, at the very least, to keep the sharp end of the knife away from his own body.
"You are a mercenary, are you not?" Akan asked in the heat of battle, as Higgins attempted to wrest the knife from his hand.
"Yes," came the answer in the form of a simple grunt.
"Do they pay you much?"
Higgins cried aloud. It was fierce, primeval, the roar of a confident lion.
"Yes."
"Fair enough," said Akan with a shrug, and their game continued.
In those next few moments, Akan was suddenly reminded of a story Huxley had told him. It was, of course, a total fabrication, but it was one that was eventually entangled in Akan's fictional back story, which existed only to assure people that the mute giant was a native African. Once, as a boy, he had lived in a village in the Ashanti Empire, near what came to known as the Gold Coast, and his village had been plagued by disappearances and nerve-shattering roars in the dead of night. As the villagers came to find out, a large man-eating lion was on the loose, so the young giant took it upon himself to rid his village of the monstrosity, striding into the darkness and quite prepared to sacrifice himself for a greater good. The lion appeared with a roar, lunging at him from the shadows, and in that black night they fought. As they rolled across the ground, the entire earth shook with the force of a thousand storms. Trees were up-ended and mountains were raised in their wake. They flattened a forest to a desert and scattered the waters of a lake to the far corners of the world. Sometime, in the fracas, the lion lashed out with its sharp claws and ripped the tongue from the boy's mouth, and then Akan stretched his fingers around the thick neck of the beast, choking it with all his might and slamming the monster's maned head against the ground until it moved no more.
In the end, Higgins lay still on the ground, and Akan rolled over beside him, panting. He reached out across the stone floor and grasped the hilt of the knife and tucked it away on his person. The battle had been one, and what's more: this time the giant kept his tongue.
***
Whelp dashed through the city streets, diving into the crowds that peppered the nearby market with Virginia Pear in tow, unable to shake herself from his grip. When he arrived back at the room he'd hired for Virginia, he paused briefly, taken by the satisfaction of seemingly escaping deadly pursuit. He never even thought to wonder about where his men had gone as he flung his captive into the room and bolted the door behind him.
Virginia abruptly screamed, and Whelp wheeled about to find Thomas Huxley, sitting comfortably on the bed.
"Hello, Edward."
Day 149 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 28
As he sat, caged and shackled, feeling like less of a human being than he ever had before, Akan had plenty of time to reflect on all the mistakes of his life. He was accustomed to being a sort of outcast, of course, having been born a free man within the walls of York, to rather well-to-do parents, and grown inches taller every year, so that by the time children his own age had learned to distinguish themselves from the common element of the street and developed an elitist separation between him and themselves, he was already towering above them by half a meter. By all means, he had become used to the staring and whispering that accompanied him as he walked about the banks of the Ouse in Fishergate. Everyday he made the same journey, never straying from the same route, from his boyhood home, to the Blue Bridge over the Foss, from which he dropped pocketfuls of pebbles into the water below, enjoying each and every splash no matter how minor and insignificant it seemed.
He was still very much a well-mannered young man, even if he felt constantly ostracized from the city surrounding him, and he was somehow able to retain the innocence that was oft lost or corrupted from his youthful contemporaries by the pleasures afforded by the city. Until, at least, he was approached by a band of street urchins that would have put Fagin's troupe to shame. Though at first his friendship seemed advantageous to their own urban ventures, namely as a looming intimidation figure, there grew a certain bond between Akan and the rest of these boys. He cared little about their pick-pocketing and snatching schemes and the rigged wagers they offered to passers-by in the streets, yet they offered him a place to belong, a place where his immense size was not seen as a freakish handicap, but as a simple draw of the cards. Slowly, Akan began to realize that life was little more than a game of chance, and it was at that exact point that what remained of his innocence crumbled to dust, ignored and soon forgotten.
Thus it was that his parents' attempts to persuade him into the good, honest life of one of York's finer missionary societies fell upon deaf ears, and he chose, instead, to travel with his friends to London, with its promise of more targets to dupe and more money to be made. One by one, however, his friends were seduced by traveling recruiters, intent on hiring more and more young scoundrels to sail the sea in a burgeoning, though technically illegal, slave industry. Once again, Akan found himself alone, and it was at this moment that he met young Thomas Huxley, also living his life as a street hustler, though with a stronger moral backbone than his former friends possessed. At that time, Huxley espoused a philosophy that roughly equated Thomas Tusser's infamous adage: a fool and his money are soon parted, and young masters Huxley and Akan found that their personal style suited one another in such a way that a partnership could be formed between them. Even now, as Akan thought back on that day and recalled the thick aroma of Turkish coffee in the air, he realized that this was perhaps the single worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life.
Though they enjoyed moderate success early on in their partnership, the two of them pulling schemes that were told years after in pubs and taverns as if part of some ancient mythology--the incident at Reading came immediately to mind, in which Huxley convinced a group of a dozen young drunken men that their destiny laid with the British Navy, relieved them of all their drinking money, and set them adrift on the River Thames in a rented boat with the implanted notion that they were the preliminary force in a large-scale invasion of France--Huxley was becoming increasingly difficult to work with as his plans became more and more grandiose. This led, of course, to his idea of stealing a rough map traced by Dr. Livingstone, who had become loosened by a constant stream of celebratory beverages purchased by none other than Huxley himself, a plan ultimately leading to Akan's current incarceration and impending sale. He had done his best to stay strong in the preceding days, to never speak a word, though he gave encouraging looks and glances at the captive villagers around him, and through him, they became just as strong--with the will and determination of two men.
Now, as he listened to the approaching footsteps outside his cell, he resolved to keep calm, to not look his captor in the eyes or even acknowledge his existence, much less his own subordinated status. He would give his so-called master no pleasure, only the cold stare of carved onyx.
The door creaked open, and voices carried from beyond the door, including one that seemed some how familiar. It was then that his hardened resolve was broken by sudden hope, and he turned just in time to see none other than Terrance Westmoreland--or at least a man who resembled Terrance Westmoreland, though with none of the quirks he had come to know--step into the cage, followed by Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia Pear, whose welfare he'd known nothing about since being taken captive.
"So what do you think?" asked Whelp.
Westmoreland pretended to look Akan up and down contemplatively, stroking his chin for added dramatic effect.
"I thought he'd be taller, to be honest," said Westmoreland, disappointment coating his words.
"Stand up," Whelp ordered, and Akan, feigning reluctance, obliged.
"Very good. I believe my employers will be very happy with this one. I should like to examine his muscles, though. Unshackle him."
"Pardon?" Whelp asked in disbelief.
"You say he has the strength of two men, and I'd like to be certain he's physically sound. Certainly there's no harm in this, is there? Is he well fed? Have his muscles atrophied? These are questions I must ask before any deal is be made, or else my employers will be extremely displeased," said Westmoreland, matter-of-factly. "You aren't trying to pull a scheme here, are you, Mr. Whelp?"
"No, no, of course not," said Whelp with a false grin, turning then to Higgins. "You heard the man, unshackle him."
"Yes, sir," said Higgins, his voice shaking. As large a man as he was, Akan still stood a few inches higher, and the very idea of an angry giant in an enclosed area sent a shiver down his spine. Nevertheless, he moved hesitantly closer toward Akan's bound wrists.
"Not to worry," Westmoreland said cheerily. "You're both armed, I take it?"
"Yes, of course," said Whelp before he and Higgins immediately drew their forgotten revolvers.
"As am I, just in case." At that, Westmoreland drew the long knife at his belt.
Higgins opened the locks on the giant's shackles, his own hands quivering the entire time, and then stepped quickly back, his gun at the ready.
"All right then, Mr. Akan, please extend your arm forward, and let's have a look at how strong you really are," said Westmoreland.
"Funny thing," remarked Whelp, "how on Earth did you know his name?"
In one swift motion, Westmoreland reached out to Akan's outstretched hand and planted the knife in his massive grip before wheeling himself about and drawing a revolver of his own.
"All right then," said the former porter, "let's be on our way."
Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia all paused, dumbfounded.
He was still very much a well-mannered young man, even if he felt constantly ostracized from the city surrounding him, and he was somehow able to retain the innocence that was oft lost or corrupted from his youthful contemporaries by the pleasures afforded by the city. Until, at least, he was approached by a band of street urchins that would have put Fagin's troupe to shame. Though at first his friendship seemed advantageous to their own urban ventures, namely as a looming intimidation figure, there grew a certain bond between Akan and the rest of these boys. He cared little about their pick-pocketing and snatching schemes and the rigged wagers they offered to passers-by in the streets, yet they offered him a place to belong, a place where his immense size was not seen as a freakish handicap, but as a simple draw of the cards. Slowly, Akan began to realize that life was little more than a game of chance, and it was at that exact point that what remained of his innocence crumbled to dust, ignored and soon forgotten.
Thus it was that his parents' attempts to persuade him into the good, honest life of one of York's finer missionary societies fell upon deaf ears, and he chose, instead, to travel with his friends to London, with its promise of more targets to dupe and more money to be made. One by one, however, his friends were seduced by traveling recruiters, intent on hiring more and more young scoundrels to sail the sea in a burgeoning, though technically illegal, slave industry. Once again, Akan found himself alone, and it was at this moment that he met young Thomas Huxley, also living his life as a street hustler, though with a stronger moral backbone than his former friends possessed. At that time, Huxley espoused a philosophy that roughly equated Thomas Tusser's infamous adage: a fool and his money are soon parted, and young masters Huxley and Akan found that their personal style suited one another in such a way that a partnership could be formed between them. Even now, as Akan thought back on that day and recalled the thick aroma of Turkish coffee in the air, he realized that this was perhaps the single worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life.
Though they enjoyed moderate success early on in their partnership, the two of them pulling schemes that were told years after in pubs and taverns as if part of some ancient mythology--the incident at Reading came immediately to mind, in which Huxley convinced a group of a dozen young drunken men that their destiny laid with the British Navy, relieved them of all their drinking money, and set them adrift on the River Thames in a rented boat with the implanted notion that they were the preliminary force in a large-scale invasion of France--Huxley was becoming increasingly difficult to work with as his plans became more and more grandiose. This led, of course, to his idea of stealing a rough map traced by Dr. Livingstone, who had become loosened by a constant stream of celebratory beverages purchased by none other than Huxley himself, a plan ultimately leading to Akan's current incarceration and impending sale. He had done his best to stay strong in the preceding days, to never speak a word, though he gave encouraging looks and glances at the captive villagers around him, and through him, they became just as strong--with the will and determination of two men.
Now, as he listened to the approaching footsteps outside his cell, he resolved to keep calm, to not look his captor in the eyes or even acknowledge his existence, much less his own subordinated status. He would give his so-called master no pleasure, only the cold stare of carved onyx.
The door creaked open, and voices carried from beyond the door, including one that seemed some how familiar. It was then that his hardened resolve was broken by sudden hope, and he turned just in time to see none other than Terrance Westmoreland--or at least a man who resembled Terrance Westmoreland, though with none of the quirks he had come to know--step into the cage, followed by Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia Pear, whose welfare he'd known nothing about since being taken captive.
"So what do you think?" asked Whelp.
Westmoreland pretended to look Akan up and down contemplatively, stroking his chin for added dramatic effect.
"I thought he'd be taller, to be honest," said Westmoreland, disappointment coating his words.
"Stand up," Whelp ordered, and Akan, feigning reluctance, obliged.
"Very good. I believe my employers will be very happy with this one. I should like to examine his muscles, though. Unshackle him."
"Pardon?" Whelp asked in disbelief.
"You say he has the strength of two men, and I'd like to be certain he's physically sound. Certainly there's no harm in this, is there? Is he well fed? Have his muscles atrophied? These are questions I must ask before any deal is be made, or else my employers will be extremely displeased," said Westmoreland, matter-of-factly. "You aren't trying to pull a scheme here, are you, Mr. Whelp?"
"No, no, of course not," said Whelp with a false grin, turning then to Higgins. "You heard the man, unshackle him."
"Yes, sir," said Higgins, his voice shaking. As large a man as he was, Akan still stood a few inches higher, and the very idea of an angry giant in an enclosed area sent a shiver down his spine. Nevertheless, he moved hesitantly closer toward Akan's bound wrists.
"Not to worry," Westmoreland said cheerily. "You're both armed, I take it?"
"Yes, of course," said Whelp before he and Higgins immediately drew their forgotten revolvers.
"As am I, just in case." At that, Westmoreland drew the long knife at his belt.
Higgins opened the locks on the giant's shackles, his own hands quivering the entire time, and then stepped quickly back, his gun at the ready.
"All right then, Mr. Akan, please extend your arm forward, and let's have a look at how strong you really are," said Westmoreland.
"Funny thing," remarked Whelp, "how on Earth did you know his name?"
In one swift motion, Westmoreland reached out to Akan's outstretched hand and planted the knife in his massive grip before wheeling himself about and drawing a revolver of his own.
"All right then," said the former porter, "let's be on our way."
Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia all paused, dumbfounded.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Day 148 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 27
After a short wait, Higgins returned to where Whelp and Virginia stood waiting with an invitation to negotiate, which Whelp impetuously and greedily accepted. Thus, Higgins led the way through the streets of Zanzibar, just past one edge of the market, where rows of rough booths lined the streets and the clamor of haggling voices and the ringing of bells around the necks of a small herd of goats filled the air. Virginia was overwhelmed by the foreign smells that surrounded her, penetrating every pore of her skin and clothing--the heavy scent of curried spice, above all, laced with the aroma of jasmine, like a firm, steady thread weaving all these strange sensations together, though the foundation, beneath it all, consisted of the ever-present hint of waste, both animal and human. She wrinkled her nose as they were ushered to a near-vacant tavern, the back room of which was cordoned off by a purple silken sheet suspended from the ceiling.
"In here," said Higgins, pulling the sheet aside and revealing a separate room adorned with a single table, at which sat a solitary figure, though neither Whelp nor Virginia could discern his face from their angle.
"Very good," said Whelp. "Wait here."
"And what of me?" asked Virginia, wrenching her arm free from Whelp's unconscious grip, most likely brought about by his own nerves.
"You're coming in here with me, my dear. Come see the price we've put on a man's life. I believe you may find it enlightening."
"I doubt that," she scoffed. "Exactly what is it that you have against me, Whelp? Why do continually try to damage and destroy my beliefs, my faith?"
Whelp smiled politely. "Have you wondered why I haven't killed you, Ms. Pear? Have you wondered what your fate is to be? Well, this is it. I want only to crush your idealism, to hold your eyes open that you may see how what a horrid, wretched place this world truly is. Tomorrow I leave here, and I leave you behind, and once alone, perhaps, you may witness the way the world operates and how ill-suited such a thing as faith or hope is in this life. Here, there is no God to watch over us; we watch over ourselves. That is your punishment, Ms. Pear. That is your punishment for daring to judge me."
Virginia said nothing in return but now hoped, more than ever, that the man waiting on the other side of the curtain was Thomas Huxley, prepared to take her away from all of this. Whelp pushed her through, and as she stumbled across the threshold, he entered on her heels so that when they saw the face of the man before them, their reactions were simultaneous. Whelp grinned, and Virginia simply stared in astonishment. The fellow at the table was not, in fact, Thomas Huxley. Rather, he was a short, thin man with hair the color of the African desert. A bored, impatient look was fixed on his face, and he ceased rapping his fingers against the table and looked up at his guests with a warm smile.
"Hello," said the man, "my name is Terrance Westmoreland, and I'm here to buy your man."
Whelp nodded with an appraising look in his eye, sizing up the man before him in terms of possible value. He, of course, never had the opportunity to meet Westmoreland the porter. Virginia, on the other hand, was forced to pretend that she had never seen the man before in her entire life. At the sight of Virginia, Westmoreland indeed grew suddenly nervous, praying that she would say nothing to spoil his deception. Quickly, though, a silent bond was formed between the two of them, sealed by the determined looks in their respective eyes. Virginia would say nothing to ruin the plan, and Westmoreland would keep his calm about him at all times.
"I welcome all offers," said Whelp, wringing his hands. "But I feel I must warn you, my giant is not cheap. He's a rarity, after all--a miracle of nature blessed with the strength of two men, and I daresay that any gentleman would be lucky to own him."
"You received my gift, I take it?"
"The diamond? Yes, it was very intriguing, I must admit. It is the first black diamond I've ever seen."
Westmoreland smiled. "You might also be intrigued to know that I sent two of them."
"Ah, well," Whelp replied, "in that case, I'll have to arrange a chat with Mr. Higgins about the retention of my property. Once I'm in more advantageous company, of course. He's quite a large man."
"Indeed. So shall we get down to business?"
"Very well, I'm a merchant first and foremost. Legitimate, I might add," he said, flashing an arrogant glance toward Virginia. "First, may I ask, whom do you represent? It isn't everyday that I run across another Englishman here in Zanzibar. Particularly one in my industry."
"My employers are Turks, sir, and I'll say no more about them. Though believe me when I say they are very wealthy men. They've sent me simply because they knew with whom they were dealing. Perhaps they thought the face of a countryman would be less disconcerting." Westmoreland sat back comfortably, obviously taking some amount of joy in his imposture. With a furtive smile he recalled his boyhood dream of becoming an actor and now felt that, if nothing else, a small parts of said dream had come true. He had adopted a higher class accent, very similar to Huxley's, to which he took naturally.
"Indeed," said Whelp. "Very well, then, what is your offer?"
Westmoreland pulled a small pouch from his pocket and emptied the contents on the surface of the table. Whelp and Virginia's eyes both grew wide as they watched the black diamonds scatter, only to be swept into a single heap by Westmoreland's quick hands.
"That is very impressive," Whelp stuttered.
Virginia stared at him, questioning with her eyes about where such remarkable gems had come, but Westmoreland ignored her completely, focused only on his job.
"This, Mr. Whelp, is just a down-payment. Think of it as an advance, in good faith. There are more where these came from. I will need a favor first, however."
"And what might that be?"
"I want to see your giant," said Westmoreland with a sly grin. "Up close."
"In here," said Higgins, pulling the sheet aside and revealing a separate room adorned with a single table, at which sat a solitary figure, though neither Whelp nor Virginia could discern his face from their angle.
"Very good," said Whelp. "Wait here."
"And what of me?" asked Virginia, wrenching her arm free from Whelp's unconscious grip, most likely brought about by his own nerves.
"You're coming in here with me, my dear. Come see the price we've put on a man's life. I believe you may find it enlightening."
"I doubt that," she scoffed. "Exactly what is it that you have against me, Whelp? Why do continually try to damage and destroy my beliefs, my faith?"
Whelp smiled politely. "Have you wondered why I haven't killed you, Ms. Pear? Have you wondered what your fate is to be? Well, this is it. I want only to crush your idealism, to hold your eyes open that you may see how what a horrid, wretched place this world truly is. Tomorrow I leave here, and I leave you behind, and once alone, perhaps, you may witness the way the world operates and how ill-suited such a thing as faith or hope is in this life. Here, there is no God to watch over us; we watch over ourselves. That is your punishment, Ms. Pear. That is your punishment for daring to judge me."
Virginia said nothing in return but now hoped, more than ever, that the man waiting on the other side of the curtain was Thomas Huxley, prepared to take her away from all of this. Whelp pushed her through, and as she stumbled across the threshold, he entered on her heels so that when they saw the face of the man before them, their reactions were simultaneous. Whelp grinned, and Virginia simply stared in astonishment. The fellow at the table was not, in fact, Thomas Huxley. Rather, he was a short, thin man with hair the color of the African desert. A bored, impatient look was fixed on his face, and he ceased rapping his fingers against the table and looked up at his guests with a warm smile.
"Hello," said the man, "my name is Terrance Westmoreland, and I'm here to buy your man."
Whelp nodded with an appraising look in his eye, sizing up the man before him in terms of possible value. He, of course, never had the opportunity to meet Westmoreland the porter. Virginia, on the other hand, was forced to pretend that she had never seen the man before in her entire life. At the sight of Virginia, Westmoreland indeed grew suddenly nervous, praying that she would say nothing to spoil his deception. Quickly, though, a silent bond was formed between the two of them, sealed by the determined looks in their respective eyes. Virginia would say nothing to ruin the plan, and Westmoreland would keep his calm about him at all times.
"I welcome all offers," said Whelp, wringing his hands. "But I feel I must warn you, my giant is not cheap. He's a rarity, after all--a miracle of nature blessed with the strength of two men, and I daresay that any gentleman would be lucky to own him."
"You received my gift, I take it?"
"The diamond? Yes, it was very intriguing, I must admit. It is the first black diamond I've ever seen."
Westmoreland smiled. "You might also be intrigued to know that I sent two of them."
"Ah, well," Whelp replied, "in that case, I'll have to arrange a chat with Mr. Higgins about the retention of my property. Once I'm in more advantageous company, of course. He's quite a large man."
"Indeed. So shall we get down to business?"
"Very well, I'm a merchant first and foremost. Legitimate, I might add," he said, flashing an arrogant glance toward Virginia. "First, may I ask, whom do you represent? It isn't everyday that I run across another Englishman here in Zanzibar. Particularly one in my industry."
"My employers are Turks, sir, and I'll say no more about them. Though believe me when I say they are very wealthy men. They've sent me simply because they knew with whom they were dealing. Perhaps they thought the face of a countryman would be less disconcerting." Westmoreland sat back comfortably, obviously taking some amount of joy in his imposture. With a furtive smile he recalled his boyhood dream of becoming an actor and now felt that, if nothing else, a small parts of said dream had come true. He had adopted a higher class accent, very similar to Huxley's, to which he took naturally.
"Indeed," said Whelp. "Very well, then, what is your offer?"
Westmoreland pulled a small pouch from his pocket and emptied the contents on the surface of the table. Whelp and Virginia's eyes both grew wide as they watched the black diamonds scatter, only to be swept into a single heap by Westmoreland's quick hands.
"That is very impressive," Whelp stuttered.
Virginia stared at him, questioning with her eyes about where such remarkable gems had come, but Westmoreland ignored her completely, focused only on his job.
"This, Mr. Whelp, is just a down-payment. Think of it as an advance, in good faith. There are more where these came from. I will need a favor first, however."
"And what might that be?"
"I want to see your giant," said Westmoreland with a sly grin. "Up close."
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Day 147 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 26
Virginia Pear lost track of time. It seemed like weeks since she had been snatched from the village with all of its people, bound in rope, and forced to endure a long journey by boat from the top deck, though she felt even worse for the Africans being kept below deck, knowing that they would almost certainly face a life of utter servitude in the ownership of the highest bidder. Frustrated by her own inabilities, both to help the people she had sworn to protect and discern which day of the week it now was, Virginia sulked in the room she had been given. It was a fine place, with plush furniture, intricately shaped pottery, and silk draperies that adorned the bed and windows, outside of which lay a bustling, busy town with the strong odor of mingled perfumes and spices. This, all along, had been Whelp's ultimate destination, a port called Zanzibar.
"The west is becoming an increasingly unwelcome place for men in my particular vocation," he had explained, "but the east--ah, the east!--is the gateway to the Arab world. Among the great Turks and in more distant reaches of the Orient, slaves are still fine commodities and worth their weight in barter."
Not long after arriving and procuring this particular room, which was under scrutinous guard at all times by no fewer than two of his men, Whelp made a point of venturing to the market, the heart of Zanzibar, and returning with several fineries for her presumed pleasure, but Virginia found no happiness in the soft, welcoming dresses. In their fabrics, she saw only the colors of blood and gold, yet she was forced to wear them, as if Whelp could force her to enjoy such a moment. Even as she sulked, she wore one, unwilling to take what comfort it afforded. She saw it all as an effort to buy her soul, a simple trade of the pious life to which she was once so devoted for a life of luxury, and that was all that it was. In Whelp she saw no romantic intention, no true evidence that he wanted her in any shape or form. He wanted only to see the gleeful smile on her face as she finally gave into the greed that lies in wait in the heart of every man and woman, a force that sometimes must be cajoled, if only to illuminate her own hypocrisy, but Virginia Pear was a strong woman, both in faith and mind, and was not so easily swayed.
Thus came the day that Whelp had been anxiously awaiting: the day that his newly acquired slaves were to be marketed, and as he milled through the busy streets, his body practically vibrated with excitement, imagining the amount he would make on the giant alone. Already, he'd had several whispered offers, all of which he immediately rejected with demeaning laughter, though he had heard rumors of others with interest and far greater things to offer than silk and spice. First, however, he meant to collect Virginia, so that she could be there to see all her hard work sold off for mere coin. It wasn't exactly that Edward Whelp was a cruel man--he was, honestly, nothing more than a spiteful man who abhorred the notion that he was inherently evil. When he finally reached her room, retrieving her with a wide grin on his face, she went solemnly with him, her mouth firmly shut and tongue stilled.
It was then, as they made their way back toward the market, that Whelp was approached by one of his own men, a tall brute he knew only as Higgins, who bent low, cupping his hand to Whelp's ear and whispering in confidence.
"There's a man who'd like to make you an offer," he said.
"Is that so? I imagine there are many men in his position. Tell him he can make a public offer like the rest of them."
"He said you might say that. He also said that he can offer you something far greater than the rest of them."
"Did he? Well, now I'm intrigued. Did he happen to mention exactly what this offer is?"
"No."
"Well, do you have a name? A description? Anything?"
"Well, that's the thing. See, he's an Englishman."
"An Englishman? Here?" Whelp's eyes went wide, and his lower lip began to quiver ever so slightly. Virginia, listening in on the otherwise private conversation, smiled smugly.
"No," said Whelp. "It can't be. Tell me it wasn't Huxley."
"I can't say for sure, sir. Never saw him rightly back in the jungle. He did, though, say to give you this."
Higgins opened a meaty paw, and tucked in the crevices of his palm was a small, dark jewel. Whelp swiped it quickly and held it up to the light, admiring the black clouds frozen beneath the hard surface of the gem.
"My God, what is this? It looks like a black diamond," Whelp remarked. "Is there such a thing? There must be. After all, here it is."
"He said this one's for you no matter what, and that there's a whole lot more where it came from."
"Well, then, Mr. Higgins, why don't you go find our new friend? I believe we have some business to discuss."
"The west is becoming an increasingly unwelcome place for men in my particular vocation," he had explained, "but the east--ah, the east!--is the gateway to the Arab world. Among the great Turks and in more distant reaches of the Orient, slaves are still fine commodities and worth their weight in barter."
Not long after arriving and procuring this particular room, which was under scrutinous guard at all times by no fewer than two of his men, Whelp made a point of venturing to the market, the heart of Zanzibar, and returning with several fineries for her presumed pleasure, but Virginia found no happiness in the soft, welcoming dresses. In their fabrics, she saw only the colors of blood and gold, yet she was forced to wear them, as if Whelp could force her to enjoy such a moment. Even as she sulked, she wore one, unwilling to take what comfort it afforded. She saw it all as an effort to buy her soul, a simple trade of the pious life to which she was once so devoted for a life of luxury, and that was all that it was. In Whelp she saw no romantic intention, no true evidence that he wanted her in any shape or form. He wanted only to see the gleeful smile on her face as she finally gave into the greed that lies in wait in the heart of every man and woman, a force that sometimes must be cajoled, if only to illuminate her own hypocrisy, but Virginia Pear was a strong woman, both in faith and mind, and was not so easily swayed.
Thus came the day that Whelp had been anxiously awaiting: the day that his newly acquired slaves were to be marketed, and as he milled through the busy streets, his body practically vibrated with excitement, imagining the amount he would make on the giant alone. Already, he'd had several whispered offers, all of which he immediately rejected with demeaning laughter, though he had heard rumors of others with interest and far greater things to offer than silk and spice. First, however, he meant to collect Virginia, so that she could be there to see all her hard work sold off for mere coin. It wasn't exactly that Edward Whelp was a cruel man--he was, honestly, nothing more than a spiteful man who abhorred the notion that he was inherently evil. When he finally reached her room, retrieving her with a wide grin on his face, she went solemnly with him, her mouth firmly shut and tongue stilled.
It was then, as they made their way back toward the market, that Whelp was approached by one of his own men, a tall brute he knew only as Higgins, who bent low, cupping his hand to Whelp's ear and whispering in confidence.
"There's a man who'd like to make you an offer," he said.
"Is that so? I imagine there are many men in his position. Tell him he can make a public offer like the rest of them."
"He said you might say that. He also said that he can offer you something far greater than the rest of them."
"Did he? Well, now I'm intrigued. Did he happen to mention exactly what this offer is?"
"No."
"Well, do you have a name? A description? Anything?"
"Well, that's the thing. See, he's an Englishman."
"An Englishman? Here?" Whelp's eyes went wide, and his lower lip began to quiver ever so slightly. Virginia, listening in on the otherwise private conversation, smiled smugly.
"No," said Whelp. "It can't be. Tell me it wasn't Huxley."
"I can't say for sure, sir. Never saw him rightly back in the jungle. He did, though, say to give you this."
Higgins opened a meaty paw, and tucked in the crevices of his palm was a small, dark jewel. Whelp swiped it quickly and held it up to the light, admiring the black clouds frozen beneath the hard surface of the gem.
"My God, what is this? It looks like a black diamond," Whelp remarked. "Is there such a thing? There must be. After all, here it is."
"He said this one's for you no matter what, and that there's a whole lot more where it came from."
"Well, then, Mr. Higgins, why don't you go find our new friend? I believe we have some business to discuss."
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Day 146 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 25
Huxley awoke to the smell of smoke, thick and pungent. His nostrils flared, and he let out a cough that shook his entire body, which then lay limp once again on the ground. Summoning all the strength he could, he lifted himself from the dirt and looked about, finding himself mysteriously by the bank of the river, from which he could see the flickering flames and thick plumes of black smoke emanating from the village. He began to wonder if he had somehow been able to drag himself to safety when there came a rustle from the brush, and out stepped Terrance Westmoreland, heading from the direction where the village had once been.
"You're awake, sir!" said the former porter, genuine surprise evident in his voice.
"Westmoreland? What are you doing here?"
"Well, sir, the other men didn't need me so much. They were quite anxious to get away, you understand, so they went on toward the northern river. Don't get me wrong, I very much would've liked to have run along with them, but I thought, sir, that I might be of more assistance to you than you yourself may have guessed."
"Did you pull me from the village?"
"Yes, sir. I did. What's happened here?" asked Westmoreland, marveling at the enormous fire burning in the distance.
"The slavers--they were too many for us. I thought my initial plan had some merit, though I fully expected at least a few casualties on our side, but instead, things seemed to have gone to hell. Have you found anyone? Any sign of other survivors in the village?"
"Not a one, sir. No bodies, either, for that matter."
Tears had formed in his eyes, not out of any emotional response but, rather, due to the intense sting of polluted smoke. He wiped them away and sat still for a moment, his eyes completely closed and growing tighter and tighter in a firm grip of resolve.
"They must have taken Virginia with them, and Akan--they must have Akan, also."
"What do you propose we do, sir?"
Huxley opened his eyes and stared curiously at his former porter.
"We?" he asked. "Mr. Westmoreland, are you certain you're up to this? You have no obligations here now. Do you understand?"
"Of course I do, sir, but I'll not go home just to say that I've let down one of the finest explorers to ever hail from London, sir."
"Is that so?" Huxley muttered, rubbing a particularly sore scratch in his chin and wondering if the injury stemmed from his initial encounter with the ground after being knocked unconscious by Whelp's rifle butt or from being dragged a quarter of a kilometer across rough terrain.
"That's so, sir. I don't believe I could live with myself any other way."
"In that case, do you still have your pack, Westmoreland?"
"Of course, sir." He pointed to a lump on the ground, one that was barely recognizable in the distant firelight. He immediately collected it and sat it gently on the ground beside Huxley.
Huxley then rummaged through the pack, searching for anything he deemed helpful. Within were several scraps of food, some bandages, and a few fresh blankets; it wasn't much, but Huxley planned to use them all the same.
"Have you anything else?"
"Like what, sir?"
"Do you have any weapons? My revolver seems to be missing."
"I haven't seen it, I'm afraid, sir, and as far as guns go, I haven't anything with me. I've a long knife, though. It isn't much, but it'll cut through the thickest brush you can imagine."
Westmoreland unsheathed the knife from his belt and passed it to Huxley, who examined it in the sparse light, his eyes lingering upon it with the ferocious desire of a knight contemplating his sword.
"Brilliant," said Huxley. "I have a plan."
"You're awake, sir!" said the former porter, genuine surprise evident in his voice.
"Westmoreland? What are you doing here?"
"Well, sir, the other men didn't need me so much. They were quite anxious to get away, you understand, so they went on toward the northern river. Don't get me wrong, I very much would've liked to have run along with them, but I thought, sir, that I might be of more assistance to you than you yourself may have guessed."
"Did you pull me from the village?"
"Yes, sir. I did. What's happened here?" asked Westmoreland, marveling at the enormous fire burning in the distance.
"The slavers--they were too many for us. I thought my initial plan had some merit, though I fully expected at least a few casualties on our side, but instead, things seemed to have gone to hell. Have you found anyone? Any sign of other survivors in the village?"
"Not a one, sir. No bodies, either, for that matter."
Tears had formed in his eyes, not out of any emotional response but, rather, due to the intense sting of polluted smoke. He wiped them away and sat still for a moment, his eyes completely closed and growing tighter and tighter in a firm grip of resolve.
"They must have taken Virginia with them, and Akan--they must have Akan, also."
"What do you propose we do, sir?"
Huxley opened his eyes and stared curiously at his former porter.
"We?" he asked. "Mr. Westmoreland, are you certain you're up to this? You have no obligations here now. Do you understand?"
"Of course I do, sir, but I'll not go home just to say that I've let down one of the finest explorers to ever hail from London, sir."
"Is that so?" Huxley muttered, rubbing a particularly sore scratch in his chin and wondering if the injury stemmed from his initial encounter with the ground after being knocked unconscious by Whelp's rifle butt or from being dragged a quarter of a kilometer across rough terrain.
"That's so, sir. I don't believe I could live with myself any other way."
"In that case, do you still have your pack, Westmoreland?"
"Of course, sir." He pointed to a lump on the ground, one that was barely recognizable in the distant firelight. He immediately collected it and sat it gently on the ground beside Huxley.
Huxley then rummaged through the pack, searching for anything he deemed helpful. Within were several scraps of food, some bandages, and a few fresh blankets; it wasn't much, but Huxley planned to use them all the same.
"Have you anything else?"
"Like what, sir?"
"Do you have any weapons? My revolver seems to be missing."
"I haven't seen it, I'm afraid, sir, and as far as guns go, I haven't anything with me. I've a long knife, though. It isn't much, but it'll cut through the thickest brush you can imagine."
Westmoreland unsheathed the knife from his belt and passed it to Huxley, who examined it in the sparse light, his eyes lingering upon it with the ferocious desire of a knight contemplating his sword.
"Brilliant," said Huxley. "I have a plan."
Day 145 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 24
"What do you think?" asked Whelp.
Virginia Pear had a fiery look in her eyes as she spat out her words.
"I think you're a very sick man."
She sat bound in a chair upon the top deck on Whelp's private boat, an old steamship that had been smuggled piece by piece and assembled on the central rivers of the Dark Continent, roaming them like a wayward serpent in need of constant prey.
"Yes, yes, I know, but I'm talking about my boat. It's custom made, you know, with a larger cargo space than you would typically find on vessels of this size."
"That isn't cargo you carry. They're human beings."
"Dear madam, I don't engage in this business for reasons of hatred and immorality. I care nothing about socio-political climates and the current fashions in domestic aid and human rights. No, you see, I'm in this purely for the money."
"You disgust me," replied Virginia with a snarl upon her lips.
"As you've reminded me several times already, but that doesn't change the fact that slave trading is still a very lucrative business. Even now, when the major European powers are busy outlawing the practice, there are still private citizens abroad who wish to deal with my kind, and they pay large sums of money for the product that I offer."
"And what are you to do with me? Sell me to the highest bidder? Throw my body to the wild animals of this continent? Force me to become your bride?"
"All very tempting, but no. I'm not one for such melodrama. To be perfectly honest, I haven't quite decided your fate yet. I do hope you won't be joining dear Thomas, though. That was such a shame, and I took no joy in leaving him to die like that."
"He'll survive," she muttered. "He'll survive, and he'll come after you."
A smile crept slowly upon Whelp's face, starting first as a light twitch in one corner of his mouth and broadly expanding as the lips parted and a roaring laugh burst from his maw.
"Tell me, Ms. Pear, how much do you know about Thomas Huxley?"
"Only what he's told me."
"Then every word was a lie," he said, taking great joy at the expulsion of his own words. It was a feeling he desperately attempted to savor, like the aftertaste of a fine wine fading rapidly from the tongue. "Thomas Huxley is--pardon me, was--an old associate of mine. We had our fair share of dealings and run-ins and, frankly, I'm legitimately surprised he never made it into the slave trade himself. He's a wicked man, Ms. Pear. Your hero is little more than a common thief."
Virginia said nothing. Her breaths became deep and rapid, as if a sudden jolt of fear or panic had stricken her chest. Beneath the tightly strung ropes, her body expanded and contracted.
"You're awfully quiet, Ms. Pear. Have you come to realize that what I'm saying is true? Have you put together all those little pieces, all those little mysteries that he left behind, those fragments of his stories that never quite seemed to fit into a singular frame? You've been had, my dear, though do take some comfort in knowing you were had by one of the best."
Whelp paced across the deck, circling around Virginia with a smile on his face as he watched his crew busy themselves with the navigation and propulsion of his boat. He quite felt like the commander of a navy, no matter how small. It was a feeling of utter power.
"I do wish I knew what he'd been up to here. There was an angle to it, I'm sure. Thomas could always play the angles, but then he had to be stupid. Oh well, it's a pity, and they say you should never speak ill of the dead."
Virginia Pear had a fiery look in her eyes as she spat out her words.
"I think you're a very sick man."
She sat bound in a chair upon the top deck on Whelp's private boat, an old steamship that had been smuggled piece by piece and assembled on the central rivers of the Dark Continent, roaming them like a wayward serpent in need of constant prey.
"Yes, yes, I know, but I'm talking about my boat. It's custom made, you know, with a larger cargo space than you would typically find on vessels of this size."
"That isn't cargo you carry. They're human beings."
"Dear madam, I don't engage in this business for reasons of hatred and immorality. I care nothing about socio-political climates and the current fashions in domestic aid and human rights. No, you see, I'm in this purely for the money."
"You disgust me," replied Virginia with a snarl upon her lips.
"As you've reminded me several times already, but that doesn't change the fact that slave trading is still a very lucrative business. Even now, when the major European powers are busy outlawing the practice, there are still private citizens abroad who wish to deal with my kind, and they pay large sums of money for the product that I offer."
"And what are you to do with me? Sell me to the highest bidder? Throw my body to the wild animals of this continent? Force me to become your bride?"
"All very tempting, but no. I'm not one for such melodrama. To be perfectly honest, I haven't quite decided your fate yet. I do hope you won't be joining dear Thomas, though. That was such a shame, and I took no joy in leaving him to die like that."
"He'll survive," she muttered. "He'll survive, and he'll come after you."
A smile crept slowly upon Whelp's face, starting first as a light twitch in one corner of his mouth and broadly expanding as the lips parted and a roaring laugh burst from his maw.
"Tell me, Ms. Pear, how much do you know about Thomas Huxley?"
"Only what he's told me."
"Then every word was a lie," he said, taking great joy at the expulsion of his own words. It was a feeling he desperately attempted to savor, like the aftertaste of a fine wine fading rapidly from the tongue. "Thomas Huxley is--pardon me, was--an old associate of mine. We had our fair share of dealings and run-ins and, frankly, I'm legitimately surprised he never made it into the slave trade himself. He's a wicked man, Ms. Pear. Your hero is little more than a common thief."
Virginia said nothing. Her breaths became deep and rapid, as if a sudden jolt of fear or panic had stricken her chest. Beneath the tightly strung ropes, her body expanded and contracted.
"You're awfully quiet, Ms. Pear. Have you come to realize that what I'm saying is true? Have you put together all those little pieces, all those little mysteries that he left behind, those fragments of his stories that never quite seemed to fit into a singular frame? You've been had, my dear, though do take some comfort in knowing you were had by one of the best."
Whelp paced across the deck, circling around Virginia with a smile on his face as he watched his crew busy themselves with the navigation and propulsion of his boat. He quite felt like the commander of a navy, no matter how small. It was a feeling of utter power.
"I do wish I knew what he'd been up to here. There was an angle to it, I'm sure. Thomas could always play the angles, but then he had to be stupid. Oh well, it's a pity, and they say you should never speak ill of the dead."
Monday, June 2, 2008
Day 144 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 23
"Huxley, is that really you?"
"Edward Whelp?" said Huxley, attempting to confirm the seemingly improbable series of events that had occurred before his eyes.
"Yes, man! Yes! Good lord, it's been ages!"
"Yes, it has," Huxley simply replied.
"My God, man, when was the last time I saw you? Barcelona, was it?"
"Lisbon, actually." His voice was solemn, showing no surprise nor reciprocating the enthusiasm apparent in Edward Whelp's own words.
"Right, Lisbon. Right. What in God's name are you doing here?"
"I'm visiting, Edward."
"I didn't know you were here, honestly. If I had, we wouldn't have come marching in so soon. We could've at least given you a few days to clear out first! What's your racket this time, eh? I've been quite taken in the slave trade, myself. Pay isn't as grand as it was in the old days, they say, but I've gathered enough pennies to satiate my own needs, for sure. Same for you, I imagine?"
"Not quite, Edward. There's no racket this time."
"No racket?" Whelp exclaimed. "When you're around, Huxley, there's always a racket."
Huxley lowered his head and felt the heat of the fire collide against his forehead, and he prayed that Virginia could not hear this conversation from her hiding spot.
"Come now, Thomas, what are you playing at?"
"I've gone perfectly legitimate, and I'm asking you now to turn your men around and leave this village."
"What? What are you talking about?" The look on Whelp's face was a contorted mouth, hung agape, trying to make sense of the situation the only way he knew how--by applying the logic of a thief and scoundrel to everything around him. "Have you laid a claim to this place, Huxley? I'm all for competition, but I don't take well to threats."
"I'm not threatening you, and I am not your competition. I'm asking you politely to leave these people alone," said Huxley, and he could see the spite in the eyes of the men surrounding the fire, their rifles clenched tightly in their hands. "By all means, continue your activities, but not here--anywhere but here."
"Sorry, mate, but I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, we've run the figures. We're a professional enterprise, after all, and what with the illegality of our profession, we're forced to abide by our figures, and they're telling us that this is the best place to hit. This village isn't on any map, Huxley. Only the natives know it's here."
"That's not quite true," Huxley interjected, seeking any opportunity to knock holes in his former friend's argument.
"What do you mean?" Whelp asked with eyes as narrow as slits.
"Well, first of all, I'm obviously here, and I'm obviously not a native, am I?"
"No, I suppose not."
"That raises an interesting question, though," said one of Whelp's men, a lumbering fellow with only one eye. "What exactly are you doing here?"
"An interesting question, indeed!" said Whelp. "How do you know about this place, Huxley?"
"Livingstone. He passed through a few years back, and believe me, it's on a map, rough though it may be. There's even a mission here."
"What?"
"See for yourself. It's just down that path. They have a chapel."
Whelp stared incredulously, both at Huxley and at the darkened path that led further to the south, where the empty husk of the small chapel became visible in the torchlight after a scant few paces.
"So you see, Edward, if you do anything here, people will know, and they will come looking for you and your little band."
"Well, then, that does change things a bit," said Whelp, weighing his options carefully in his head. "I suppose that instead of simply taking a few of the natives, we'll have to take them all and leave a nice big scorch mark where this village used to be."
"No!" came a shout from the bushes, and the sound of a rifle being fired rang in the night like the roar of a lion. One of Whelp's men cried aloud and collapsed to the ground, his torch smothered by the scattering dirt in his wake.
"Look alive!" Whelp shouted, grabbing Huxley by the arm before he could slip away. "Forgive me for this, Huxley, but you must understand: it's business. Now get down on your knees."
With the clatter of two dozen rifles around him, Huxley hastily complied.
"Come out!" Whelp shouted. "Everyone out, or Huxley dies!"
After a moment, the bushes rattled, and two figures emerged from varied positions in the tree line. Virginia Pear and Akan stepped within light of the torches, their rifles held aloft before tossing them to the ground in an unmitigated act of surrender. The invaders marveled in turn at the woman and the giant before them.
"My God, Huxley, the size of this one! Do you have any idea how much he'll fetch on the open market? And the woman--ah, the woman!--you have fine taste, Huxley. You always have. Who is she?"
"I'm the missionary," she replied herself, her voice raw and spiteful.
"The missionary? There's only one, and it's a woman? Lord, Huxley, you certainly had me going there for a moment! Honest to God, I was legitimately worried!"
"Then you'll leave the village intact?" Huxley asked.
"Heavens, no, but I won't feel so bad about torching the place now," said Whelp with an unsettling grin. "I'll be taking your friends with me, along with all the natives. You know, Huxley, it's a pity our reunion had to go so poorly, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
Whelp grimaced and circled around Huxley's crouched frame. "I'm a fair man, though, Thomas, and you'll be given at least a fighting chance. Try not to sleep too long, old friend."
"What if I made you an offer? What if--" Huxley reached for the gems in his pocket, feeling their cold edges against his leg, and turned his head slightly when he felt the impact, the crushing blow of a rifle butt against the back of his head, and he slumped forward groggily, struggling to see through blurred eyes. As his body collapsed completely against the solid ground, the world around him went black.
"Edward Whelp?" said Huxley, attempting to confirm the seemingly improbable series of events that had occurred before his eyes.
"Yes, man! Yes! Good lord, it's been ages!"
"Yes, it has," Huxley simply replied.
"My God, man, when was the last time I saw you? Barcelona, was it?"
"Lisbon, actually." His voice was solemn, showing no surprise nor reciprocating the enthusiasm apparent in Edward Whelp's own words.
"Right, Lisbon. Right. What in God's name are you doing here?"
"I'm visiting, Edward."
"I didn't know you were here, honestly. If I had, we wouldn't have come marching in so soon. We could've at least given you a few days to clear out first! What's your racket this time, eh? I've been quite taken in the slave trade, myself. Pay isn't as grand as it was in the old days, they say, but I've gathered enough pennies to satiate my own needs, for sure. Same for you, I imagine?"
"Not quite, Edward. There's no racket this time."
"No racket?" Whelp exclaimed. "When you're around, Huxley, there's always a racket."
Huxley lowered his head and felt the heat of the fire collide against his forehead, and he prayed that Virginia could not hear this conversation from her hiding spot.
"Come now, Thomas, what are you playing at?"
"I've gone perfectly legitimate, and I'm asking you now to turn your men around and leave this village."
"What? What are you talking about?" The look on Whelp's face was a contorted mouth, hung agape, trying to make sense of the situation the only way he knew how--by applying the logic of a thief and scoundrel to everything around him. "Have you laid a claim to this place, Huxley? I'm all for competition, but I don't take well to threats."
"I'm not threatening you, and I am not your competition. I'm asking you politely to leave these people alone," said Huxley, and he could see the spite in the eyes of the men surrounding the fire, their rifles clenched tightly in their hands. "By all means, continue your activities, but not here--anywhere but here."
"Sorry, mate, but I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, we've run the figures. We're a professional enterprise, after all, and what with the illegality of our profession, we're forced to abide by our figures, and they're telling us that this is the best place to hit. This village isn't on any map, Huxley. Only the natives know it's here."
"That's not quite true," Huxley interjected, seeking any opportunity to knock holes in his former friend's argument.
"What do you mean?" Whelp asked with eyes as narrow as slits.
"Well, first of all, I'm obviously here, and I'm obviously not a native, am I?"
"No, I suppose not."
"That raises an interesting question, though," said one of Whelp's men, a lumbering fellow with only one eye. "What exactly are you doing here?"
"An interesting question, indeed!" said Whelp. "How do you know about this place, Huxley?"
"Livingstone. He passed through a few years back, and believe me, it's on a map, rough though it may be. There's even a mission here."
"What?"
"See for yourself. It's just down that path. They have a chapel."
Whelp stared incredulously, both at Huxley and at the darkened path that led further to the south, where the empty husk of the small chapel became visible in the torchlight after a scant few paces.
"So you see, Edward, if you do anything here, people will know, and they will come looking for you and your little band."
"Well, then, that does change things a bit," said Whelp, weighing his options carefully in his head. "I suppose that instead of simply taking a few of the natives, we'll have to take them all and leave a nice big scorch mark where this village used to be."
"No!" came a shout from the bushes, and the sound of a rifle being fired rang in the night like the roar of a lion. One of Whelp's men cried aloud and collapsed to the ground, his torch smothered by the scattering dirt in his wake.
"Look alive!" Whelp shouted, grabbing Huxley by the arm before he could slip away. "Forgive me for this, Huxley, but you must understand: it's business. Now get down on your knees."
With the clatter of two dozen rifles around him, Huxley hastily complied.
"Come out!" Whelp shouted. "Everyone out, or Huxley dies!"
After a moment, the bushes rattled, and two figures emerged from varied positions in the tree line. Virginia Pear and Akan stepped within light of the torches, their rifles held aloft before tossing them to the ground in an unmitigated act of surrender. The invaders marveled in turn at the woman and the giant before them.
"My God, Huxley, the size of this one! Do you have any idea how much he'll fetch on the open market? And the woman--ah, the woman!--you have fine taste, Huxley. You always have. Who is she?"
"I'm the missionary," she replied herself, her voice raw and spiteful.
"The missionary? There's only one, and it's a woman? Lord, Huxley, you certainly had me going there for a moment! Honest to God, I was legitimately worried!"
"Then you'll leave the village intact?" Huxley asked.
"Heavens, no, but I won't feel so bad about torching the place now," said Whelp with an unsettling grin. "I'll be taking your friends with me, along with all the natives. You know, Huxley, it's a pity our reunion had to go so poorly, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
Whelp grimaced and circled around Huxley's crouched frame. "I'm a fair man, though, Thomas, and you'll be given at least a fighting chance. Try not to sleep too long, old friend."
"What if I made you an offer? What if--" Huxley reached for the gems in his pocket, feeling their cold edges against his leg, and turned his head slightly when he felt the impact, the crushing blow of a rifle butt against the back of his head, and he slumped forward groggily, struggling to see through blurred eyes. As his body collapsed completely against the solid ground, the world around him went black.
Day 143 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 22
There, in an isolated section of the African jungle, existed no reliable device by which one could gauge time. Nevertheless, it was shortly after midnight when Akan, Huxley, and Virginia's waiting came to an end. It all began with the apparition of a torchlight on the northernmost edge of the town, just off the path leading to the river. It was a solitary torch, intended only to light the path for a single scout to slip into the village for a preliminary glance at any forms of defense that may lay in wait there. Finding no apparent, immediate cause for concern, the lone scout sounded a shrill whistle that would have sounded haunting and beautiful to Huxley, like the song of a distant bird never before seen by human eyes, had he no prior knowledge of the malicious intent of those who would reply to such a call.
Soon the single torch was joined by a host of others--a dozen altogether, each shared by two men, all of whom were armed with long rifles, the metal barrels of which reflected a matted sheen. They strode into the village silently, though with the outwardly confident demeanor of men who had already achieved the victory they sought. From his seat on the dirt in the middle of the village, tending the only lit campfire in the entire area, Huxley listened. He could hear their words echoing without effort through the paths of the village and around the rounded edges of the huts in which all the natives were now huddled, and he wondered how long it might be until he was spotted and confronted.
"This way. I think I see a fire," came a voice, wafting like smoke in the air.
Apparently, Huxley's wait was not a long one.
"There's someone there. Circle around him! Let's catch him off-guard."
"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," Huxley announced. "I already know you're there."
The invaders, surprised by the sudden outburst, especially in such an unexpected language as proper English, lowered their raised rifles and stood dumbfounded, confused, and awaiting further instruction.
A single, small figure pushed its way through the mass of idle men, cursing all the while about their lack of discipline and overgrown feet, and it emerged in the firelight, standing across from Huxley with a dark, bushy mustache and ill-fitted clothes that betrayed a round belly beneath tight, constricting fabrics that were intended to give the illusion of a better, more manlier fitness. When his eyes met Huxley's, the stranger was taken aback, now imitating the men he had just chided.
"Thomas?" said the stranger. "Thomas Huxley?"
"I'll be damned," Huxley muttered in return.
Soon the single torch was joined by a host of others--a dozen altogether, each shared by two men, all of whom were armed with long rifles, the metal barrels of which reflected a matted sheen. They strode into the village silently, though with the outwardly confident demeanor of men who had already achieved the victory they sought. From his seat on the dirt in the middle of the village, tending the only lit campfire in the entire area, Huxley listened. He could hear their words echoing without effort through the paths of the village and around the rounded edges of the huts in which all the natives were now huddled, and he wondered how long it might be until he was spotted and confronted.
"This way. I think I see a fire," came a voice, wafting like smoke in the air.
Apparently, Huxley's wait was not a long one.
"There's someone there. Circle around him! Let's catch him off-guard."
"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," Huxley announced. "I already know you're there."
The invaders, surprised by the sudden outburst, especially in such an unexpected language as proper English, lowered their raised rifles and stood dumbfounded, confused, and awaiting further instruction.
A single, small figure pushed its way through the mass of idle men, cursing all the while about their lack of discipline and overgrown feet, and it emerged in the firelight, standing across from Huxley with a dark, bushy mustache and ill-fitted clothes that betrayed a round belly beneath tight, constricting fabrics that were intended to give the illusion of a better, more manlier fitness. When his eyes met Huxley's, the stranger was taken aback, now imitating the men he had just chided.
"Thomas?" said the stranger. "Thomas Huxley?"
"I'll be damned," Huxley muttered in return.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Day 142 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 21
"What?"
Huxley cleared his throat nervously. "They've all gone," he repeated.
"All?" she asked, her voice bordering on a plea.
"I'm afraid so."
"Have they at least left their weapons?"
"The rifles? No, apparently I don't own them. Well, either that or I've just been robbed, but this isn't the time and place to complain about such a thing."
"It is when we've been left defenseless!" she cried.
"Point taken. Perhaps I should have pressed them somewhat harder."
"No," she said, wiping her eyes. In the fire glow, Huxley could discern the redness within them, and the glistening tears that clung in their corners. "You were right to give them a choice."
"Tell me, then. What do we have?"
"I've my two rifles, and you've your pistol."
"You, Akan, and me--three guns for three men."
Virginia flashed a look that Huxley barely caught in the flickering light.
"Sorry, three persons, I meant to say. Better?"
"Much."
"You'll have to forgive me; I'm not accustomed to the sight of a lady with a rifle. It seems quite foreign, exotic."
"I'm a lady of the modern age, sir," she replied, a look of calm determination taking hold of her face. "I regret to inform you that we are terribly vexing."
"Ah. Brilliant."
"You say you have a plan, Mr. Huxley? Let's here it, then."
"Very well, my dear. How well-versed are you in the history of dear Mother England?"
She considered this for a moment before retorting with: "Somewhat, though I fail to see what this has to do with anything."
"Well, then, walk with me," he said with a grin, taking off through the village to find Akan and the small collection of weapons that they collectively owned. "You see, Ms. Pear, they say one must look to the past for answers to the present."
"Who says that? I've never heard it before."
"Bear with me, madam."
"Right. Sorry."
"As I was about to say, there is much to be learned from England's past, including her losses. Now, I've never been to America myself. It sounds like a wretched place, by all accounts, thus I've traded one jungle for another. Ah, there he is! Quickly, Ms. Pear, this way."
They headed toward the site of the expedition's former camp, where an enormous figure sat patiently by a fire--a darkened silhouette of a man that now contemplated his own silence and the possible repercussions of his lies should he at last speak up.
"Their war for independence, however," Huxley continued, "was supposedly a sight to behold. After all, they had but loose militias of farmers and laborers--no unified, standing army to speak of, at least at the onset. So how was it that they were able to match the sheer power of the British army?"
"You tell me, Mr. Huxley. I'm afraid I don't keep up with military history."
The truth was: neither did Thomas Huxley, but he hoped his small fragment of knowledge at least sounded convincing.
"Say what you will about Americans, their hygiene, and what passes for literature in their nation, but they can be exceedingly clever. They adopted non-traditional forms of combat. The British army was still being trained to travel and fight in strict regimental form. They were used to more geometric warfare, if you will. The Americans, however, used their landscape to their own advantage, hiding behind trees and taking shots at the enemy and that sort of thing."
"So you want us to hide and hopefully shoot all the slavers from cover, then, right?"
"Well, yes," Huxley replied, rather irritated that he didn't have the chance to explain his plan himself.
"Why didn't you just say that to begin with? It would've saved the both of us some time."
"Well, Ms. Pear, if you haven't noticed by now, I am quite in love with the sound of my own voice."
"Obviously," she scoffed.
"Come, Akan," called Huxley as they reached the camp, causing his friend to lift himself from the makeshift bench. "Care to hear the plan?"
"We're to take shots at the enemy from hiding," Virginia said plainly.
"Good Lord, Virginia," Huxley sighed.
"What?"
"Can I please detail my own plan at least once?"
She shook her head. "Fine."
"Oh, it's no use now. The moment has passed. Though a correction is in order: the two of you are going to take shots at the enemy from hiding. I, on the other hand, have something else in mind."
"And what would that be?" Virginia asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"I'm going to use my most powerful weapon, of course. I'm going to talk to them, my dear."
"Are you mad?"
"No, but we've only the two rifles. I have my revolver, but it will do little good from so far a distance. I want the both of you to listen closely, and the moment things turn sour, open fire. Hopefully that'll prove enough of a distraction to allow me to find shelter and take a few down in the process. How's that?"
Akan stared at him grimly, in a silence not born of lies, rather out of a lack of anything meaningful to say.
"I suppose that will work," said Virginia. "I've no better idea, at any rate."
"Good. Let's hope they come soon or not at all. I've no desire to waste an entire night sitting out here awake and alone."
"Neither do I."
"Well, then, my friends, to your positions."
Huxley cleared his throat nervously. "They've all gone," he repeated.
"All?" she asked, her voice bordering on a plea.
"I'm afraid so."
"Have they at least left their weapons?"
"The rifles? No, apparently I don't own them. Well, either that or I've just been robbed, but this isn't the time and place to complain about such a thing."
"It is when we've been left defenseless!" she cried.
"Point taken. Perhaps I should have pressed them somewhat harder."
"No," she said, wiping her eyes. In the fire glow, Huxley could discern the redness within them, and the glistening tears that clung in their corners. "You were right to give them a choice."
"Tell me, then. What do we have?"
"I've my two rifles, and you've your pistol."
"You, Akan, and me--three guns for three men."
Virginia flashed a look that Huxley barely caught in the flickering light.
"Sorry, three persons, I meant to say. Better?"
"Much."
"You'll have to forgive me; I'm not accustomed to the sight of a lady with a rifle. It seems quite foreign, exotic."
"I'm a lady of the modern age, sir," she replied, a look of calm determination taking hold of her face. "I regret to inform you that we are terribly vexing."
"Ah. Brilliant."
"You say you have a plan, Mr. Huxley? Let's here it, then."
"Very well, my dear. How well-versed are you in the history of dear Mother England?"
She considered this for a moment before retorting with: "Somewhat, though I fail to see what this has to do with anything."
"Well, then, walk with me," he said with a grin, taking off through the village to find Akan and the small collection of weapons that they collectively owned. "You see, Ms. Pear, they say one must look to the past for answers to the present."
"Who says that? I've never heard it before."
"Bear with me, madam."
"Right. Sorry."
"As I was about to say, there is much to be learned from England's past, including her losses. Now, I've never been to America myself. It sounds like a wretched place, by all accounts, thus I've traded one jungle for another. Ah, there he is! Quickly, Ms. Pear, this way."
They headed toward the site of the expedition's former camp, where an enormous figure sat patiently by a fire--a darkened silhouette of a man that now contemplated his own silence and the possible repercussions of his lies should he at last speak up.
"Their war for independence, however," Huxley continued, "was supposedly a sight to behold. After all, they had but loose militias of farmers and laborers--no unified, standing army to speak of, at least at the onset. So how was it that they were able to match the sheer power of the British army?"
"You tell me, Mr. Huxley. I'm afraid I don't keep up with military history."
The truth was: neither did Thomas Huxley, but he hoped his small fragment of knowledge at least sounded convincing.
"Say what you will about Americans, their hygiene, and what passes for literature in their nation, but they can be exceedingly clever. They adopted non-traditional forms of combat. The British army was still being trained to travel and fight in strict regimental form. They were used to more geometric warfare, if you will. The Americans, however, used their landscape to their own advantage, hiding behind trees and taking shots at the enemy and that sort of thing."
"So you want us to hide and hopefully shoot all the slavers from cover, then, right?"
"Well, yes," Huxley replied, rather irritated that he didn't have the chance to explain his plan himself.
"Why didn't you just say that to begin with? It would've saved the both of us some time."
"Well, Ms. Pear, if you haven't noticed by now, I am quite in love with the sound of my own voice."
"Obviously," she scoffed.
"Come, Akan," called Huxley as they reached the camp, causing his friend to lift himself from the makeshift bench. "Care to hear the plan?"
"We're to take shots at the enemy from hiding," Virginia said plainly.
"Good Lord, Virginia," Huxley sighed.
"What?"
"Can I please detail my own plan at least once?"
She shook her head. "Fine."
"Oh, it's no use now. The moment has passed. Though a correction is in order: the two of you are going to take shots at the enemy from hiding. I, on the other hand, have something else in mind."
"And what would that be?" Virginia asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"I'm going to use my most powerful weapon, of course. I'm going to talk to them, my dear."
"Are you mad?"
"No, but we've only the two rifles. I have my revolver, but it will do little good from so far a distance. I want the both of you to listen closely, and the moment things turn sour, open fire. Hopefully that'll prove enough of a distraction to allow me to find shelter and take a few down in the process. How's that?"
Akan stared at him grimly, in a silence not born of lies, rather out of a lack of anything meaningful to say.
"I suppose that will work," said Virginia. "I've no better idea, at any rate."
"Good. Let's hope they come soon or not at all. I've no desire to waste an entire night sitting out here awake and alone."
"Neither do I."
"Well, then, my friends, to your positions."
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Day 141 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 20
The two men slowly but surely stumbled their way back to the village, blanketed by the dark night, and though their journey consisted of several missteps, a few of which caused their boots to plunge in the river itself, where they were caked by the mud and settled silt that formed the bottom, they arrived unharmed and ready to spring into action.
Virginia Pear still occupied a central space in the village, occasionally wandering from her post to be certain that the villagers were all accounted for and secure in their homes. True to his word, Westmoreland stayed at her side the entire time while the rest of the expedition's men formed a home base of sorts. None of them had any notion of what was happening, of course, yet they remained quiet, for the most part, staring at the silent village around them--the eeriness of the scene broken only by the occasional shout of Virginia somewhere in the village as she took a crude roll of its inhabitants.
When Huxley and Akan properly returned, they emerged from the shadows into the light of several large fires burning throughout the village, spreading a constant glow from border to border. Virginia saw them coming, and her heart beat faster as they approached her solemnly, Huxley's rifle slung over his shoulder.
"What did you see?" she asked. "Have you found anything?"
The men shared a look--one of regret, of mutual dread. Huxley, of course, was the one to speak, though Akan no longer felt the need to play the mute.
"Men. Lots of them."
Virginia swallowed audibly.
"How many?"
"Perhaps a dozen that we could distinguish, but my guess would be double that. They've a camp set up downriver, but we saw no sign of a boat. That means they're on the march, and whomever they may be, they're headed this way."
Virginia sighed and placed a hand against her face, feeling absolutely overwhelmed by a situation she never dreamed she might face, though the idea haunted her like a phantasm, preying upon her imagined inadequacies each and every night.
"Are you sure about them, Virginia?" Huxley asked. "Are you sure they can't be anyone else?"
"I'm sure," she replied. "They've come for the people. They've come for my people."
"Then I will stay, and I will stand at your side. I will fight for you, as will Akan."
"Thank you," she said tearfully, attempting to hide the glistening streaks that ran down her face. "You are good men."
Those were words they had never before heard. Words that were somehow warm, even though words, by nature, have no feel, only the intentions behind them. Nevertheless, these were warm words, emboldening words--words that reminded them that they were not relegated solely to the ranks of rogues and scoundrels, that they could be better men, that they could, indeed, be good men.
"Thank you, madam," said Huxley. "I will, of course, have to speak to the rest of my men. I cannot promise you their service. They are, after all, free men."
"Of course," she said with a nod. "I understand."
Huxley marched toward the rest of his men, all of whom stared intensely at him as though he possessed the answer to the riddle of what was currently happening. Huxley cleared his throat several times, stalling as he quickly tried to think of a way to convince his men to stay and help in this, their hour of need.
"All of you have a decision to make," he announced.
"What decision would that be, sir?"
"Excellent question, Westmoreland."
"Thank you, sir."
"Men, look around you. Look at the village and all the people within it. They need our help, and we can make a legitimate difference in what happens to them here tonight."
The men, particularly the porters, stared dumbfounded, waiting for their leader to go into further depth, which he eventually did, once he carefully thought out his words.
"Tonight, this village faces a threat. Armed men are on their way here, and we have every reason to believe that they mean to capture everyone living here?"
"What kind of men?" asked one of the porters.
"Slavers, we believe."
"Slavers? Why's that our problem?" asked another, immediately generating a dirty look from the native porter who knew all too well what illegal slavers had done to the surrounding populations. "No offense, mate," he added to the whiskey-loving youth.
"Perhaps it isn't, but we have a responsibility to help those in need, do we not? I know the majority of you are fine Christian men, so I'll understand if you feel a particular compulsion to come forward and stand beside me."
"Wait, now, so we get to make a choice, right?"
"That's right. You may exercise your free will, but I ask you to look into your hearts and realize what the right thing to do may be."
"How many men are we talking about?"
Huxley sighed. "Oh, I don't know for certain. A dozen men, maybe. Two dozen at most."
"Two dozen armed men?" repeated a porter. "I didn't come all this way to get shot at. I came here for the money!"
The rest of the men, save Westmoreland alone, echoed the porter's thoughts, immediately raising a doubting clamor. After a heated discussion among themselves, shouted in an indistinguishable mass in which the only words Huxley could properly identify were rather powerful expletives, the men immediately broke their makeshift camp and stormed away, lighting torches in their great exodus.
"Come on, gentlemen! Please rethink this!" Huxley called after them. "At least leave those rifles. I'm fairly certain I paid for those rifles! Fine, leave then! You'll not get the rest of the money promised to you! And you've had your last bottle of whiskey, young native man whose name I never bothered to properly learn!"
After the men were swallowed up by the night, Huxley could only sigh and shake his head sadly, disappointed that he had let Virginia down.
"I'm still here, sir," piped Westmoreland.
"Of course you are, brave Westmoreland. You are loyal to the end, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go with them?"
"What?"
Akan made a facial expression that, while silent, also suggested the somewhat surprising exclamation of: "What?"
"Those men may not have your loyalty, but they need to be looked after. Besides, it will be safer for you."
"Are you positive, sir?"
"I am."
"Then I'll go, sir. For you."
"You're a good man, Westmoreland. Come here, I've something to add to your pack."
Huxley withdrew the small pouch of black diamonds from his person, palming several to keep in his own pocket as he tucked the remainder into Westmoreland's pack, the porter unsuspecting of the treasure he now carried.
"Goodbye, sir."
With that, Westmoreland followed the rest of the men, disappearing into the dark night.
"Well, now what?" Akan asked.
"Now we go tell Virginia that it's down to just us."
"And?"
"Are you asking me if I have a plan?"
"Yes."
"It's a work in process. Have a little faith, my enormous friend. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve."
Virginia Pear still occupied a central space in the village, occasionally wandering from her post to be certain that the villagers were all accounted for and secure in their homes. True to his word, Westmoreland stayed at her side the entire time while the rest of the expedition's men formed a home base of sorts. None of them had any notion of what was happening, of course, yet they remained quiet, for the most part, staring at the silent village around them--the eeriness of the scene broken only by the occasional shout of Virginia somewhere in the village as she took a crude roll of its inhabitants.
When Huxley and Akan properly returned, they emerged from the shadows into the light of several large fires burning throughout the village, spreading a constant glow from border to border. Virginia saw them coming, and her heart beat faster as they approached her solemnly, Huxley's rifle slung over his shoulder.
"What did you see?" she asked. "Have you found anything?"
The men shared a look--one of regret, of mutual dread. Huxley, of course, was the one to speak, though Akan no longer felt the need to play the mute.
"Men. Lots of them."
Virginia swallowed audibly.
"How many?"
"Perhaps a dozen that we could distinguish, but my guess would be double that. They've a camp set up downriver, but we saw no sign of a boat. That means they're on the march, and whomever they may be, they're headed this way."
Virginia sighed and placed a hand against her face, feeling absolutely overwhelmed by a situation she never dreamed she might face, though the idea haunted her like a phantasm, preying upon her imagined inadequacies each and every night.
"Are you sure about them, Virginia?" Huxley asked. "Are you sure they can't be anyone else?"
"I'm sure," she replied. "They've come for the people. They've come for my people."
"Then I will stay, and I will stand at your side. I will fight for you, as will Akan."
"Thank you," she said tearfully, attempting to hide the glistening streaks that ran down her face. "You are good men."
Those were words they had never before heard. Words that were somehow warm, even though words, by nature, have no feel, only the intentions behind them. Nevertheless, these were warm words, emboldening words--words that reminded them that they were not relegated solely to the ranks of rogues and scoundrels, that they could be better men, that they could, indeed, be good men.
"Thank you, madam," said Huxley. "I will, of course, have to speak to the rest of my men. I cannot promise you their service. They are, after all, free men."
"Of course," she said with a nod. "I understand."
Huxley marched toward the rest of his men, all of whom stared intensely at him as though he possessed the answer to the riddle of what was currently happening. Huxley cleared his throat several times, stalling as he quickly tried to think of a way to convince his men to stay and help in this, their hour of need.
"All of you have a decision to make," he announced.
"What decision would that be, sir?"
"Excellent question, Westmoreland."
"Thank you, sir."
"Men, look around you. Look at the village and all the people within it. They need our help, and we can make a legitimate difference in what happens to them here tonight."
The men, particularly the porters, stared dumbfounded, waiting for their leader to go into further depth, which he eventually did, once he carefully thought out his words.
"Tonight, this village faces a threat. Armed men are on their way here, and we have every reason to believe that they mean to capture everyone living here?"
"What kind of men?" asked one of the porters.
"Slavers, we believe."
"Slavers? Why's that our problem?" asked another, immediately generating a dirty look from the native porter who knew all too well what illegal slavers had done to the surrounding populations. "No offense, mate," he added to the whiskey-loving youth.
"Perhaps it isn't, but we have a responsibility to help those in need, do we not? I know the majority of you are fine Christian men, so I'll understand if you feel a particular compulsion to come forward and stand beside me."
"Wait, now, so we get to make a choice, right?"
"That's right. You may exercise your free will, but I ask you to look into your hearts and realize what the right thing to do may be."
"How many men are we talking about?"
Huxley sighed. "Oh, I don't know for certain. A dozen men, maybe. Two dozen at most."
"Two dozen armed men?" repeated a porter. "I didn't come all this way to get shot at. I came here for the money!"
The rest of the men, save Westmoreland alone, echoed the porter's thoughts, immediately raising a doubting clamor. After a heated discussion among themselves, shouted in an indistinguishable mass in which the only words Huxley could properly identify were rather powerful expletives, the men immediately broke their makeshift camp and stormed away, lighting torches in their great exodus.
"Come on, gentlemen! Please rethink this!" Huxley called after them. "At least leave those rifles. I'm fairly certain I paid for those rifles! Fine, leave then! You'll not get the rest of the money promised to you! And you've had your last bottle of whiskey, young native man whose name I never bothered to properly learn!"
After the men were swallowed up by the night, Huxley could only sigh and shake his head sadly, disappointed that he had let Virginia down.
"I'm still here, sir," piped Westmoreland.
"Of course you are, brave Westmoreland. You are loyal to the end, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go with them?"
"What?"
Akan made a facial expression that, while silent, also suggested the somewhat surprising exclamation of: "What?"
"Those men may not have your loyalty, but they need to be looked after. Besides, it will be safer for you."
"Are you positive, sir?"
"I am."
"Then I'll go, sir. For you."
"You're a good man, Westmoreland. Come here, I've something to add to your pack."
Huxley withdrew the small pouch of black diamonds from his person, palming several to keep in his own pocket as he tucked the remainder into Westmoreland's pack, the porter unsuspecting of the treasure he now carried.
"Goodbye, sir."
With that, Westmoreland followed the rest of the men, disappearing into the dark night.
"Well, now what?" Akan asked.
"Now we go tell Virginia that it's down to just us."
"And?"
"Are you asking me if I have a plan?"
"Yes."
"It's a work in process. Have a little faith, my enormous friend. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve."
Monday, May 26, 2008
Day 140 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 19
Akan and Huxley followed the river, staying near the tree line and confident only in the knowledge that no dangerous creatures roamed this part of the jungle at night. They could hear only the constant drone of insects perched high in the trees and the occasional rustle of small nocturnal primate rituals. They carried a single torch, held low to the ground by the onyx-skinned giant, leading the way while crouched low to the ground, that his enormous height would not immediately betray their position and intentions.
"Have you seen anything yet?" Huxley asked, staying carefully behind his partner with his hat clutched tightly against his head, keeping his head warm from the cool air that came in off the river.
"No, not yet. I smell fire, though."
"You are aware that you're carrying a torch, aren't you?"
Akan replied only by pausing in his tracks and turning back to his partner, the torch burning mere inches from both of their faces. The look on his face was straight and grave, his eyes squinting from lack of humor.
"I smell a campfire," he added, qualifying his statement to a more specific degree that seemed to completely satisfy Huxley's wild pedantry. "Someone is cooking meat--great quantities from the scent of it. Can you smell it?"
Huxley sniffed the air. "Yes, and that's no wild jungle meat."
They continued their improvised trail, their keen eyes ever on the lookout for signs of a camp. Before long, they both believed they could discern a faint wisp that hung in the air, set against the dark night in such a way that screened what few stars they could see above them in that thin strip of sky provided by the river. The smoke seemed to emanate from a slight indention on the same bank they were now following, tucked away in a small pocket that was not immediately visible from their current path.
"There, up ahead," said Akan, gesturing with the torch.
"Put it out," Huxley ordered.
"Beg your pardon?"
"The torch--put it out. I'll not risk being seen, and we can find our way back to the village easily enough. So please put it out."
Wordlessly, Akan stooped at the river's edge, plunging the flame beneath the surface so that it scraped the loose soil that lined the bank, and they were plunged into near total darkness, with only the stingy light of the stars above to guide them, yet as they continued forward, slowly and more carefully, they soon discovered a warm, orange glow that intensified with every step, revealing the heart of a camp, toward which they crept ever nearer, eager to see what exactly waited for them there.
Nearly a dozen men sat around it, with the evidence of several more just out of view. They spoke with loud, boisterous voices, laughing and filling the air with extended curses and fine examples of foul language that they never before heard. Akan and Huxley peeked through the bushes and saw the skin--white, reflecting the orange and red of the fire, bathed in dark shadows. They were white men just the same, and all signs pointed toward them being slavers.
"What now?" Akan asked.
"Now we go back to the village, and we go very quickly."
"What of everything else? What of the diamonds and all our plans?"
"At this moment, do those things really matter so much to you?"
"No," said Akan, "they don't."
"Then we go back to the village and tell the people there that there worst fears have come to light. Count yourself among the lucky if we make it through this night without trouble."
Silently, they retreated to the sheltering shadows and stole away in the night, walking against the river's surging path. They never stopped to consider the sort of men they were--the sort of men they had once been and those that they had become. They set out to protect those they once sought to exploit, and the world churned ever on.
"Have you seen anything yet?" Huxley asked, staying carefully behind his partner with his hat clutched tightly against his head, keeping his head warm from the cool air that came in off the river.
"No, not yet. I smell fire, though."
"You are aware that you're carrying a torch, aren't you?"
Akan replied only by pausing in his tracks and turning back to his partner, the torch burning mere inches from both of their faces. The look on his face was straight and grave, his eyes squinting from lack of humor.
"I smell a campfire," he added, qualifying his statement to a more specific degree that seemed to completely satisfy Huxley's wild pedantry. "Someone is cooking meat--great quantities from the scent of it. Can you smell it?"
Huxley sniffed the air. "Yes, and that's no wild jungle meat."
They continued their improvised trail, their keen eyes ever on the lookout for signs of a camp. Before long, they both believed they could discern a faint wisp that hung in the air, set against the dark night in such a way that screened what few stars they could see above them in that thin strip of sky provided by the river. The smoke seemed to emanate from a slight indention on the same bank they were now following, tucked away in a small pocket that was not immediately visible from their current path.
"There, up ahead," said Akan, gesturing with the torch.
"Put it out," Huxley ordered.
"Beg your pardon?"
"The torch--put it out. I'll not risk being seen, and we can find our way back to the village easily enough. So please put it out."
Wordlessly, Akan stooped at the river's edge, plunging the flame beneath the surface so that it scraped the loose soil that lined the bank, and they were plunged into near total darkness, with only the stingy light of the stars above to guide them, yet as they continued forward, slowly and more carefully, they soon discovered a warm, orange glow that intensified with every step, revealing the heart of a camp, toward which they crept ever nearer, eager to see what exactly waited for them there.
Nearly a dozen men sat around it, with the evidence of several more just out of view. They spoke with loud, boisterous voices, laughing and filling the air with extended curses and fine examples of foul language that they never before heard. Akan and Huxley peeked through the bushes and saw the skin--white, reflecting the orange and red of the fire, bathed in dark shadows. They were white men just the same, and all signs pointed toward them being slavers.
"What now?" Akan asked.
"Now we go back to the village, and we go very quickly."
"What of everything else? What of the diamonds and all our plans?"
"At this moment, do those things really matter so much to you?"
"No," said Akan, "they don't."
"Then we go back to the village and tell the people there that there worst fears have come to light. Count yourself among the lucky if we make it through this night without trouble."
Silently, they retreated to the sheltering shadows and stole away in the night, walking against the river's surging path. They never stopped to consider the sort of men they were--the sort of men they had once been and those that they had become. They set out to protect those they once sought to exploit, and the world churned ever on.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Day 139 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 18
On the village streets, Virginia immediately began barking orders like a commander ordering her troops. Her instructions were urgent without being frightening. After all, unless she was absolutely certain of the danger the village faced, she wasn't willing to risk scaring the villagers further.
"Get inside your homes!" she told them. "Be sure your families are accounted for!"
"Ms. Pear, what can I do?" Huxley asked. He walked up beside her, the barrel of his rifle cocked assuredly atop his shoulder.
"Can you be stealthy, Mr. Huxley?"
"Indeed I can--as stealthy as a stalking cat."
She sighed nervously. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. I realize you had our best interests at heart, and I had no right to act the way I did. It's easy for one to become frustrated when everything one has worked for stands on the edge of destruction."
"Ms. Pear, as much as I love indulging in a good, well-intentioned apology, particularly one aimed in my direction, we really must take action."
"Of course," she said, drawing one hand up to her throbbing temple and ever-so-slightly massaging the tender area. "If you're up to it, I need a few men to patrol down the river. If there is indeed someone with ill intentions in the area, there will still be a boat. We must know this for certain or else risk living in fear."
"I'm up to it, madam. I'll take Akan with me, and we'll return before you know it."
He turned away, facing his camp, where Akan was no doubt patiently awaiting his arrival, the rifle now poised carefully in both his hands.
"Do be careful, Mr. Huxley," Virginia said sincerely as he walked away. "God be with you."
"There's a first time for everything, Ms. Pear."
He walked quickly toward the camp, intercepted at the outskirts by Westmoreland, appearing like a ghost from the shadows. The look on his face was, at first, the look of a man with a simple question on his mind, yet it grew more and more complex as he wondered why Huxley was holding a rifle.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, choosing to the ignore the gun altogether.
"Yes?"
"I was wondering, sir, if I could start telling the men to get ready for the trip. It didn't feel appropriate, telling them when you weren't around and such."
"There's been a slight change of plans, Westmoreland. We aren't going anywhere. Round the men up with torches and our rifles. Take them into the village, find Ms. Pear, and do whatever she tells you. Do you understand?"
"Of course, sir," replied the porter, nodding fervently with a strained look across his brow. He felt like questioning Huxley's orders, but ultimately felt such subordination to be unseemly. He did as instructed and began gathering the men, starting with the other porters, who had become so indolent and sedentary over the past few days that anything requiring the slightest bit of effort immediately caused an endless stream of mumbled whines and complaints.
Huxley, meanwhile, stepped into the tent he shared with his partner, where Akan now stood waiting examining the pistol Huxley had kept hidden. Immediately, his large, dark eyes fell upon the rifle in his friend's hands, and from there, his eyes wandered to meet Huxley's.
"Bring that with you, won't you?" said Huxley.
Akan looked about, making certain that no one else was about or within range to hear his voice.
"Where are we going?"
"For a little walk," said Huxley, disappearing back outside and leaving the flap of the tent to settle back in its hanged position, wavering subtly in the night breeze.
"Get inside your homes!" she told them. "Be sure your families are accounted for!"
"Ms. Pear, what can I do?" Huxley asked. He walked up beside her, the barrel of his rifle cocked assuredly atop his shoulder.
"Can you be stealthy, Mr. Huxley?"
"Indeed I can--as stealthy as a stalking cat."
She sighed nervously. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. I realize you had our best interests at heart, and I had no right to act the way I did. It's easy for one to become frustrated when everything one has worked for stands on the edge of destruction."
"Ms. Pear, as much as I love indulging in a good, well-intentioned apology, particularly one aimed in my direction, we really must take action."
"Of course," she said, drawing one hand up to her throbbing temple and ever-so-slightly massaging the tender area. "If you're up to it, I need a few men to patrol down the river. If there is indeed someone with ill intentions in the area, there will still be a boat. We must know this for certain or else risk living in fear."
"I'm up to it, madam. I'll take Akan with me, and we'll return before you know it."
He turned away, facing his camp, where Akan was no doubt patiently awaiting his arrival, the rifle now poised carefully in both his hands.
"Do be careful, Mr. Huxley," Virginia said sincerely as he walked away. "God be with you."
"There's a first time for everything, Ms. Pear."
He walked quickly toward the camp, intercepted at the outskirts by Westmoreland, appearing like a ghost from the shadows. The look on his face was, at first, the look of a man with a simple question on his mind, yet it grew more and more complex as he wondered why Huxley was holding a rifle.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, choosing to the ignore the gun altogether.
"Yes?"
"I was wondering, sir, if I could start telling the men to get ready for the trip. It didn't feel appropriate, telling them when you weren't around and such."
"There's been a slight change of plans, Westmoreland. We aren't going anywhere. Round the men up with torches and our rifles. Take them into the village, find Ms. Pear, and do whatever she tells you. Do you understand?"
"Of course, sir," replied the porter, nodding fervently with a strained look across his brow. He felt like questioning Huxley's orders, but ultimately felt such subordination to be unseemly. He did as instructed and began gathering the men, starting with the other porters, who had become so indolent and sedentary over the past few days that anything requiring the slightest bit of effort immediately caused an endless stream of mumbled whines and complaints.
Huxley, meanwhile, stepped into the tent he shared with his partner, where Akan now stood waiting examining the pistol Huxley had kept hidden. Immediately, his large, dark eyes fell upon the rifle in his friend's hands, and from there, his eyes wandered to meet Huxley's.
"Bring that with you, won't you?" said Huxley.
Akan looked about, making certain that no one else was about or within range to hear his voice.
"Where are we going?"
"For a little walk," said Huxley, disappearing back outside and leaving the flap of the tent to settle back in its hanged position, wavering subtly in the night breeze.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Day 138 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 17
As the service ended and the villagers filed out with blank looks upon their faces, Huxley began to wonder how whole-hearted their conversions had been. The certainly attended the nightly recitation and prayer, but where they doing so out of actual faith? The point of religion, as he understood it, was to fill one with hope and joy, yet he saw neither of those empty from the chapel pews. It strangely concerned him, yet he hadn't the heart to touch upon that subject with Virginia Pear. Now, especially, he had other matters to discuss, and he waited patiently outside the chapel door for her appearance.
"Mr. Huxley, this is a surprise. May I help you?" she asked, closing the door firmly behind her after making certain the candles were out and the Bibles returned to their proper places on the pews.
"Yes, actually. I'd like to speak with you in private, if I may."
"Certainly," she replied. "I haven't yet shown you my home, have I? Forgive me. I must make a terrible hostess."
"One woman can only do so much," said Huxley. Virginia escorted him through the village, and he found that in its entirety, it was much larger than he originally realized. "Exactly how many people are there here?"
She thought this over for a moment before responding. "In total, I'd estimate just under a hundred."
"That's interesting. To be honest, I never would have expected that many. I hardly ever see them out and about."
"That isn't surprising, Mr. Huxley. There's hardly anywhere to go. There is a regular route from the village to the river, and those who make the journey are constantly returning fresh water for the entire village to share. For food, there is a rough farmland on the far side of the village, where we've perfected the cultivation of several types of root vegetable and plantains. There is rarely a need to go venturing off into the jungle, especially with the fear of capture so heavy in the people's hearts."
"You believe the stories are true, then? That there are roving bands of slavers that catch wandering Africans and drag them away to a life of bondage?"
"Absolutely."
"Have you any idea who they are?"
"None. They must be rogue traders, of course. I can't think of a single European power that still actively condones the trade. Especially now, with this so-called Scramble that would see colonization as a more humane option, though I have my doubts on that particular claim."
They came to a hut that looked like any other, unremarkable in every way. Virginia stopped in front of it and pointed proudly.
"Here we are," she said. "Welcome to my humble cottage."
Inside was a cot set to one side, one no different than Huxley himself had slept on only mere days before, as his expedition sailed down the northernmost river. Beside that, set on the ground was an oil lamp, already lit and spilling forth enough light to illuminate the empty remainder of the small, dreary room. The only other furnishing was a rough bookshelf, containing what appeared to be several Bibles, a leather-bound journal, and a large book of maps that protruded far beyond the others--all of them compacted by two heavy stones, serving as bookends.
"It's a lovely place," Huxley remarked, his face and voice vacant of the scathing sarcasm he ordinarily would have employed.
"It's enough for my needs and nothing more," she said. He could detect a trace of wistful longing on her voice, though, and he clearly understood that she missed having someone with which to share her home. "Now then, you had something you wished to discuss?"
"Yes, and actually, we were soon arriving at this particular topic, anyway."
"Oh?" She stared at him quizzically, trying to recall exactly what they had been speaking of before they entered the hut.
"About the slavers," he reminded her.
"Ah, do go on."
"Do you remember earlier when you asked me whether I had seen a boat, and I said no?"
"Yes," she replied, stretching the word to an exaggerated length.
"I wasn't being entirely accurate."
"Good Lord!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Huxley, have you seen a boat?"
"No," he assured her.
"Oh, thank goodness," she sighed, her tensed neck loosening and drooping that her chin rested against her chest.
"Though Akan believes he did."
"What? Be frank with me, Mr. Huxley: has one among you seen a boat?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly? Possibly? How does one possibly see a boat? One either sees it, or one doesn't!" she yelled, and the flimsy walls of the hut seemed to vibrate with her voice.
"Clearly, you're upset, Ms. Pear, but if my partner is correct, we must take action."
"I agree," she said a moment later, having regained her composure. "If only you hadn't waited so long to speak up about it. For your sake, you best hope that none of my people are missing."
"Madam, I am excruciatingly sorry. I didn't wish to say anything until I was certain."
"And are you certain now?"
Huxley's eyes darted off to one side as he contemplated his reply, fueled by the contemptuous glance being flung in his direction. "Possibly--I mean yes! Yes. Definitely."
Virginia calmly strode to her cot and then kneeled down at its side. For a moment, it seemed to Huxley that she was praying. Instead, she pulled two hunting rifles from beneath it, quickly stood up, passed one of the rifles to him, and left her abode, abandoning it to the coming night.
"Mr. Huxley, this is a surprise. May I help you?" she asked, closing the door firmly behind her after making certain the candles were out and the Bibles returned to their proper places on the pews.
"Yes, actually. I'd like to speak with you in private, if I may."
"Certainly," she replied. "I haven't yet shown you my home, have I? Forgive me. I must make a terrible hostess."
"One woman can only do so much," said Huxley. Virginia escorted him through the village, and he found that in its entirety, it was much larger than he originally realized. "Exactly how many people are there here?"
She thought this over for a moment before responding. "In total, I'd estimate just under a hundred."
"That's interesting. To be honest, I never would have expected that many. I hardly ever see them out and about."
"That isn't surprising, Mr. Huxley. There's hardly anywhere to go. There is a regular route from the village to the river, and those who make the journey are constantly returning fresh water for the entire village to share. For food, there is a rough farmland on the far side of the village, where we've perfected the cultivation of several types of root vegetable and plantains. There is rarely a need to go venturing off into the jungle, especially with the fear of capture so heavy in the people's hearts."
"You believe the stories are true, then? That there are roving bands of slavers that catch wandering Africans and drag them away to a life of bondage?"
"Absolutely."
"Have you any idea who they are?"
"None. They must be rogue traders, of course. I can't think of a single European power that still actively condones the trade. Especially now, with this so-called Scramble that would see colonization as a more humane option, though I have my doubts on that particular claim."
They came to a hut that looked like any other, unremarkable in every way. Virginia stopped in front of it and pointed proudly.
"Here we are," she said. "Welcome to my humble cottage."
Inside was a cot set to one side, one no different than Huxley himself had slept on only mere days before, as his expedition sailed down the northernmost river. Beside that, set on the ground was an oil lamp, already lit and spilling forth enough light to illuminate the empty remainder of the small, dreary room. The only other furnishing was a rough bookshelf, containing what appeared to be several Bibles, a leather-bound journal, and a large book of maps that protruded far beyond the others--all of them compacted by two heavy stones, serving as bookends.
"It's a lovely place," Huxley remarked, his face and voice vacant of the scathing sarcasm he ordinarily would have employed.
"It's enough for my needs and nothing more," she said. He could detect a trace of wistful longing on her voice, though, and he clearly understood that she missed having someone with which to share her home. "Now then, you had something you wished to discuss?"
"Yes, and actually, we were soon arriving at this particular topic, anyway."
"Oh?" She stared at him quizzically, trying to recall exactly what they had been speaking of before they entered the hut.
"About the slavers," he reminded her.
"Ah, do go on."
"Do you remember earlier when you asked me whether I had seen a boat, and I said no?"
"Yes," she replied, stretching the word to an exaggerated length.
"I wasn't being entirely accurate."
"Good Lord!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Huxley, have you seen a boat?"
"No," he assured her.
"Oh, thank goodness," she sighed, her tensed neck loosening and drooping that her chin rested against her chest.
"Though Akan believes he did."
"What? Be frank with me, Mr. Huxley: has one among you seen a boat?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly? Possibly? How does one possibly see a boat? One either sees it, or one doesn't!" she yelled, and the flimsy walls of the hut seemed to vibrate with her voice.
"Clearly, you're upset, Ms. Pear, but if my partner is correct, we must take action."
"I agree," she said a moment later, having regained her composure. "If only you hadn't waited so long to speak up about it. For your sake, you best hope that none of my people are missing."
"Madam, I am excruciatingly sorry. I didn't wish to say anything until I was certain."
"And are you certain now?"
Huxley's eyes darted off to one side as he contemplated his reply, fueled by the contemptuous glance being flung in his direction. "Possibly--I mean yes! Yes. Definitely."
Virginia calmly strode to her cot and then kneeled down at its side. For a moment, it seemed to Huxley that she was praying. Instead, she pulled two hunting rifles from beneath it, quickly stood up, passed one of the rifles to him, and left her abode, abandoning it to the coming night.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Day 137 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 16
"'Again the word of the Lord came unto me,'" recited Virginia Pear, standing before the simple altar of her simple chapel. She read from her open Bible, the pages worn and tattered at the edges, and though he watched from the open door, crowded beside the rest of his men, Huxley could not help but stare at the loose curls of her hair that fell across her forehead and the way her mouth curled as she spoke. "'Son of man, speak to the children of thy people, and say unto them, When I bring the sword upon a land, if the people of the land take a man of their coasts and set him for their watchman: if when he seeth the sword come upon the land, he blow the trumpet and warn the people; then whosoever heareth the sound of the trumpet and taketh not warning; if the sword come and take him away, his blood shall be upon his own head. He heard the sound of the trumpet and took not warning; his blood shall be upon him. But he that taketh warning shall deliver his soul.
"'But if the watchman see the sword come and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come and take any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity, but his blood will I require at the watchman's hand.
"'So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, O wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand. Nevertheless, if thou warn the wicked of his way to turn from it; if he do not turn from his way, he shall die in his iniquity; but thou hast delivered thy soul.
"'Therefore, O thou son of man, speak unto the house of Israel; thus ye speak, saying, If our transgressions and our sins be upon us, and we pine away in them, how should we then live?'"
Westmoreland, being a man of faith who never failed to wear a small crucifix about his neck recognized the recitation immediately, placing it from the book of Ezekiel. Huxley, on the other hand, had never before heard those words uttered, and in that moment, as he listened intently, unable to turn away from the girl, her fallen curls, or the words from her lips, he was certain that they were written solely for him, for this one moment in time. It was as if she knew exactly what was happening, what Akan had seen through the binding trees of the jungle, and if not her, than some higher power now using her as a vessel. Huxley had never been a religious man, yet he was certain that God was watching him.
"Before we part tonight and indulge in a warm meal," said Virginia, a loving smile planted firmly upon her face, "I'd like to say another word about responsibility, both to your family and to yourself. As a community, we share in the responsibility for taking care of one another. When one of us is hungry, another will given him food. When one of us falls ill, another will tend his bed. When one of us falls down, another will pick him up."
She went on, but Huxley could bear no more. He walked a few paces away from his men, turning the corner of the chapel and leaning back against the rough wall, flustered and sweating. For the first time in his life, he felt conflicted, overcome by a sense of morality he had long forgotten existed.
Akan followed him, slinking around the corner so that none of the other men would notice. Fortunately, they were all far too captivated by the continued message to pay attention to anything else around them.
"You feel it, too, don't you?" Akan whispered.
"What are you talking about?"
"I see it in your eyes, Huxley. I see doubt. I never see doubt when you're around."
"It's nothing."
"I know what it is you want. We aren't leaving. We're going to stay, aren't we?"
"Yes," sputtered Huxley. "God help us."
"'But if the watchman see the sword come and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come and take any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity, but his blood will I require at the watchman's hand.
"'So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, O wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand. Nevertheless, if thou warn the wicked of his way to turn from it; if he do not turn from his way, he shall die in his iniquity; but thou hast delivered thy soul.
"'Therefore, O thou son of man, speak unto the house of Israel; thus ye speak, saying, If our transgressions and our sins be upon us, and we pine away in them, how should we then live?'"
Westmoreland, being a man of faith who never failed to wear a small crucifix about his neck recognized the recitation immediately, placing it from the book of Ezekiel. Huxley, on the other hand, had never before heard those words uttered, and in that moment, as he listened intently, unable to turn away from the girl, her fallen curls, or the words from her lips, he was certain that they were written solely for him, for this one moment in time. It was as if she knew exactly what was happening, what Akan had seen through the binding trees of the jungle, and if not her, than some higher power now using her as a vessel. Huxley had never been a religious man, yet he was certain that God was watching him.
"Before we part tonight and indulge in a warm meal," said Virginia, a loving smile planted firmly upon her face, "I'd like to say another word about responsibility, both to your family and to yourself. As a community, we share in the responsibility for taking care of one another. When one of us is hungry, another will given him food. When one of us falls ill, another will tend his bed. When one of us falls down, another will pick him up."
She went on, but Huxley could bear no more. He walked a few paces away from his men, turning the corner of the chapel and leaning back against the rough wall, flustered and sweating. For the first time in his life, he felt conflicted, overcome by a sense of morality he had long forgotten existed.
Akan followed him, slinking around the corner so that none of the other men would notice. Fortunately, they were all far too captivated by the continued message to pay attention to anything else around them.
"You feel it, too, don't you?" Akan whispered.
"What are you talking about?"
"I see it in your eyes, Huxley. I see doubt. I never see doubt when you're around."
"It's nothing."
"I know what it is you want. We aren't leaving. We're going to stay, aren't we?"
"Yes," sputtered Huxley. "God help us."
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Day 136 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 15
They returned to the village just before dark, as the natives were milling about and preparing for the evening's service. The villagers waved cheerfully, welcoming them back from the perpetual darkness of the jungle. Some of the children ran up to Akan and offered him a sweet mashed root, carefully and attractively placed on a crude handmade plate. The giant accepted the gift with a smile and scooped the mash with his fingertips into his mouth.
"Careful with that smile," whispered Huxley. "You wouldn't want to give the impression that you like this place."
"You're just jealous that they don't treat you with the same respect," sputtered Akan, mash clinging to his mouth and fingers.
"You call that respect? That's fear, my friend. You're enormous, if you haven't noticed, and maybe you've forgotten, but you're supposed to be mute. So keep your voice down. Anyway, they probably think you're some sort of god."
"Need I remind you that they are Christians?"
"Yes, well... converted. Still, don't tell me you don't feel even the slightest bit of concern for these people."
"And what if I do? Is it really worth so much trouble to force me to admit it?"
"Yes. Yes, it is."
Akan was preparing a reply laced with several horrible expletives and terrible insults concerning Huxley's mother and the validity of his father's identity when Virginia approached, making all of his efforts a complete waste of his time.
"There you are," she said with a cheerful smile. "And what dark corners have the two of you been exploring today?"
"Ah, we were up near the river," said Huxley, "west--"
Akan interrupted and corrected him by pointing a long finger off to the east.
"East--thank you--of the village. I have a sketch of the loveliest flower I must show you sometime."
"That sounds wonderful," said Virginia, "but it will have to wait until after services. Would you care to walk me to the chapel, Mr. Huxley?"
Huxley wavered at the sudden intense look Akan gave him, one that wordlessly warned him to hold true to the promise he had made and abandon all romantic intentions with the lovely, young missionary.
"I'd be delighted, Ms. Pear," he said politely, offering his arm and returning a furtive glance to his partner, who could only shake his head in perpetual disappointment. Thus the two began stepping lightly across the dusty ground, crossing the village to the snickering and staring of the younger native inhabitants and leaving the towering partner to return to the camp alone.
"How much longer will you be staying with us?" asked Virginia.
"Not long. Only a few days more, and then we must move on, seeking out other unmapped regions and their hidden flora and fauna to be sketched and cataloged. It's a pity, though."
"Why is that?"
"It's such a lovely village you have here, and I find it so hard to call all I've done here work when it feels much more like a holiday."
"Ah, well, I'm afraid you haven't taken a deep enough look into our troubled little land. It isn't the plants and animals you should be worried about here. It's the people."
"Really? I haven't given them much thought, to be honest. Good heavens, they aren't cannibals, are they?" Huxley asked, suddenly peering at the villagers around him with a certain degree of paranoia.
"Not these people. Other white men, Mr. Huxley. They travel down from Europe with sweet words on their tongues, but they seek only to plunder."
Huxley's heart began beating slightly faster, and the perspiration on his brow, which he claimed came only from a day's worth of hard work and wandering through the jungle, began streaming down his face at a much greater pace.
"Is that so?"
"Not you, of course. Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound so accusing. I'm talking about slavers, Mr. Huxley. We've been hearing stories from the surrounding villages about camps of white men springing up in the jungle and innocent men and women disappearing from their huts."
"That's terrible," said Huxley with a sincerity that surprised even himself. "What do the other missionaries have to say about this?"
"Other missionaries?"
"That's right."
"Mr. Huxley, there are no other missionaries in this area. There is only me."
Huxley meditated on this carefully, wondering if Akan had actually seen that boat on the river. "These slavers--I'd imagine they would travel by steamboat, yes? They would have to navigate the rivers to move quickly through the area."
"Almost certainly. Why do you ask? Have you seen a boat?" she asked with a sudden urgency.
"No, I haven't."
"My, that's a relief," she sighed. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Huxley, I must prepare my sermon."
After parting ways at the chapel door, Huxley's demeanor took on a chilling darkness, and he marched quickly back toward the camp, meeting Akan along with the other members of the expeditionary party as they made their way across the village for the evening service. He tried to pull his partner to the side for a quick word when Westmoreland appeared at his side.
"Good evening, sir."
"Westmoreland."
"Any luck today, sir?"
"Oh, yes, I've made some wonderful sketches."
"That's brilliant, sir, but may I ask you a question? Aside from that one, of course."
"Go ahead."
"It's just that we haven't had much to do these last few days," said the small porter in a somewhat reluctant voice, "and, well, the men are getting a bit restless, and they tend to turn a bit unbearable when they become restless. So I must ask: is there anything that you need us to do?"
"Like what?"
"Like anything, sir. I'd just like to keep them busy, is all. I was wondering if you needed any help, what with your plotting and sketching and all."
"No, I believe we have that covered, Westmoreland. Thank you."
"Ah, in that case: is there any chance that we'll be moving along sometime soon?"
"Yes, actually," Huxley said, drawing Akan's attention with a particularly grave look in his eyes. "We're leaving a bit sooner than anticipated."
"How soon, sir?"
"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
"Brilliant, sir. I'll spread the word at supper tonight."
Westmoreland shuffled away, leaving Akan and Huxley alone to stare in silent contemplation, and without the use of words, Akan understood that something was about to happen. His intuition had been right all along.
"Careful with that smile," whispered Huxley. "You wouldn't want to give the impression that you like this place."
"You're just jealous that they don't treat you with the same respect," sputtered Akan, mash clinging to his mouth and fingers.
"You call that respect? That's fear, my friend. You're enormous, if you haven't noticed, and maybe you've forgotten, but you're supposed to be mute. So keep your voice down. Anyway, they probably think you're some sort of god."
"Need I remind you that they are Christians?"
"Yes, well... converted. Still, don't tell me you don't feel even the slightest bit of concern for these people."
"And what if I do? Is it really worth so much trouble to force me to admit it?"
"Yes. Yes, it is."
Akan was preparing a reply laced with several horrible expletives and terrible insults concerning Huxley's mother and the validity of his father's identity when Virginia approached, making all of his efforts a complete waste of his time.
"There you are," she said with a cheerful smile. "And what dark corners have the two of you been exploring today?"
"Ah, we were up near the river," said Huxley, "west--"
Akan interrupted and corrected him by pointing a long finger off to the east.
"East--thank you--of the village. I have a sketch of the loveliest flower I must show you sometime."
"That sounds wonderful," said Virginia, "but it will have to wait until after services. Would you care to walk me to the chapel, Mr. Huxley?"
Huxley wavered at the sudden intense look Akan gave him, one that wordlessly warned him to hold true to the promise he had made and abandon all romantic intentions with the lovely, young missionary.
"I'd be delighted, Ms. Pear," he said politely, offering his arm and returning a furtive glance to his partner, who could only shake his head in perpetual disappointment. Thus the two began stepping lightly across the dusty ground, crossing the village to the snickering and staring of the younger native inhabitants and leaving the towering partner to return to the camp alone.
"How much longer will you be staying with us?" asked Virginia.
"Not long. Only a few days more, and then we must move on, seeking out other unmapped regions and their hidden flora and fauna to be sketched and cataloged. It's a pity, though."
"Why is that?"
"It's such a lovely village you have here, and I find it so hard to call all I've done here work when it feels much more like a holiday."
"Ah, well, I'm afraid you haven't taken a deep enough look into our troubled little land. It isn't the plants and animals you should be worried about here. It's the people."
"Really? I haven't given them much thought, to be honest. Good heavens, they aren't cannibals, are they?" Huxley asked, suddenly peering at the villagers around him with a certain degree of paranoia.
"Not these people. Other white men, Mr. Huxley. They travel down from Europe with sweet words on their tongues, but they seek only to plunder."
Huxley's heart began beating slightly faster, and the perspiration on his brow, which he claimed came only from a day's worth of hard work and wandering through the jungle, began streaming down his face at a much greater pace.
"Is that so?"
"Not you, of course. Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound so accusing. I'm talking about slavers, Mr. Huxley. We've been hearing stories from the surrounding villages about camps of white men springing up in the jungle and innocent men and women disappearing from their huts."
"That's terrible," said Huxley with a sincerity that surprised even himself. "What do the other missionaries have to say about this?"
"Other missionaries?"
"That's right."
"Mr. Huxley, there are no other missionaries in this area. There is only me."
Huxley meditated on this carefully, wondering if Akan had actually seen that boat on the river. "These slavers--I'd imagine they would travel by steamboat, yes? They would have to navigate the rivers to move quickly through the area."
"Almost certainly. Why do you ask? Have you seen a boat?" she asked with a sudden urgency.
"No, I haven't."
"My, that's a relief," she sighed. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Huxley, I must prepare my sermon."
After parting ways at the chapel door, Huxley's demeanor took on a chilling darkness, and he marched quickly back toward the camp, meeting Akan along with the other members of the expeditionary party as they made their way across the village for the evening service. He tried to pull his partner to the side for a quick word when Westmoreland appeared at his side.
"Good evening, sir."
"Westmoreland."
"Any luck today, sir?"
"Oh, yes, I've made some wonderful sketches."
"That's brilliant, sir, but may I ask you a question? Aside from that one, of course."
"Go ahead."
"It's just that we haven't had much to do these last few days," said the small porter in a somewhat reluctant voice, "and, well, the men are getting a bit restless, and they tend to turn a bit unbearable when they become restless. So I must ask: is there anything that you need us to do?"
"Like what?"
"Like anything, sir. I'd just like to keep them busy, is all. I was wondering if you needed any help, what with your plotting and sketching and all."
"No, I believe we have that covered, Westmoreland. Thank you."
"Ah, in that case: is there any chance that we'll be moving along sometime soon?"
"Yes, actually," Huxley said, drawing Akan's attention with a particularly grave look in his eyes. "We're leaving a bit sooner than anticipated."
"How soon, sir?"
"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
"Brilliant, sir. I'll spread the word at supper tonight."
Westmoreland shuffled away, leaving Akan and Huxley alone to stare in silent contemplation, and without the use of words, Akan understood that something was about to happen. His intuition had been right all along.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Day 135 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 14
As the afternoon waned on and the hour approached for an inconspicuous journey back to the village, their work slowed a considerable amount. Eventually, Huxley, satisfied with his collection for the day, gave up altogether and sat waiting for Akan to tire himself out, a feat that seemed increasingly unlikely as he toiled about on his knees with the mud-encrusted spade firmly planted in his hands. Therefore, he passed the time by retrieving a small leather-bound sketchbook from his satchel and drawing the surrounding flora that caught his eye.
"What's that for?" asked Akan upon witnessing his partner's activity.
"For one, it gives us a modicum of proof if we are questioned about what we were doing today without raising any further queries. For another, I find it somewhat relaxing. I believe I'm getting better with my sketches, and have you seen my recent painting? The last was marvelous, I must admit."
"Ah," said Akan, satisfied as he returned to his digging.
"Perhaps this is what I'll do with my share. I'll take up the life I've been pretending to lead."
"But you aren't a real artist."
"Maybe not, but I could be. I've posed as men of many professions in my lifetime, and for once I'd fancy one of them to be legitimate."
"Whatever you say," mumbled Akan, only half paying attention to the rambling words of his partner.
"Finish up, won't you? We should be heading back soon, and you'll have plenty of time tomorrow to pick up where you left off."
"Fine," said the giant, reluctantly climbing to his feet and strapping the sack full of diamonds securely to his body. "Let's be on our way."
They made their way back through the jungle, sticking closely to their initial path, now marked with the telltale signs of tracks and well-positioned landmarks. As they drew near the river, however, Akan let out a cry, pointing off in the direction of the water. Huxley's view, however, was completely obscured by thick clusters of trees.
"What?" asked Huxley. "What is it?"
"Maybe nothing," said Akan, "but for a moment there, I believed I saw a boat on the river. That's impossible, though, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily. It may very well be other missionaries in the area. After all, we hadn't the slightest idea we'd find the lovely Ms. Virginia Pear in an area we were assured would be tucked safely away from the scraps of civilization that are slowly littering the entirety of Africa."
"Maybe so. The only thing I'm certain of is that they are heading for the village--our village."
"Our village? Really? Since when did you become so concerned about the state and safety of our village?"
"All my equipment is there," said Akan, "and most of my best clothing."
"Ah, that's more like it."
"I'm serious, Huxley. Where else would that boat be heading?"
"If there even was a boat. You say you only caught a fleeting glimpse, isn't that right?"
"Well, yes--"
"You've been working long and hard, and there is always the possibility that you've begun seeing things that aren't there, and say there is a boat--why should that worry you? Do you assume there must be some malevolent intent on sailing a boat upriver?"
"There's nowhere to go upriver, except for the village. They'll hit the falls if they go any further."
"Huxley Falls."
Akan sighed. "I simply don't see a reason for anyone journeying to the village unless they have similar intentions to our own. Perhaps they're delivering supplies or something of that sort. Fine, but the village seems to sustain itself well enough on its own. What if someone else is after the diamonds? We should make a run for it, I imagine--sometime in the middle of the night."
"Calm down. Let's not leap to any hasty conclusions. We aren't far from the village now, and we can sort everything out once we've spoken to Virginia. Agreed?"
"Agreed," said Akan, though as they continued through the jungle, he could not escape the feeling that trembled in the pit of his stomach, warning him that all was not well.
"What's that for?" asked Akan upon witnessing his partner's activity.
"For one, it gives us a modicum of proof if we are questioned about what we were doing today without raising any further queries. For another, I find it somewhat relaxing. I believe I'm getting better with my sketches, and have you seen my recent painting? The last was marvelous, I must admit."
"Ah," said Akan, satisfied as he returned to his digging.
"Perhaps this is what I'll do with my share. I'll take up the life I've been pretending to lead."
"But you aren't a real artist."
"Maybe not, but I could be. I've posed as men of many professions in my lifetime, and for once I'd fancy one of them to be legitimate."
"Whatever you say," mumbled Akan, only half paying attention to the rambling words of his partner.
"Finish up, won't you? We should be heading back soon, and you'll have plenty of time tomorrow to pick up where you left off."
"Fine," said the giant, reluctantly climbing to his feet and strapping the sack full of diamonds securely to his body. "Let's be on our way."
They made their way back through the jungle, sticking closely to their initial path, now marked with the telltale signs of tracks and well-positioned landmarks. As they drew near the river, however, Akan let out a cry, pointing off in the direction of the water. Huxley's view, however, was completely obscured by thick clusters of trees.
"What?" asked Huxley. "What is it?"
"Maybe nothing," said Akan, "but for a moment there, I believed I saw a boat on the river. That's impossible, though, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily. It may very well be other missionaries in the area. After all, we hadn't the slightest idea we'd find the lovely Ms. Virginia Pear in an area we were assured would be tucked safely away from the scraps of civilization that are slowly littering the entirety of Africa."
"Maybe so. The only thing I'm certain of is that they are heading for the village--our village."
"Our village? Really? Since when did you become so concerned about the state and safety of our village?"
"All my equipment is there," said Akan, "and most of my best clothing."
"Ah, that's more like it."
"I'm serious, Huxley. Where else would that boat be heading?"
"If there even was a boat. You say you only caught a fleeting glimpse, isn't that right?"
"Well, yes--"
"You've been working long and hard, and there is always the possibility that you've begun seeing things that aren't there, and say there is a boat--why should that worry you? Do you assume there must be some malevolent intent on sailing a boat upriver?"
"There's nowhere to go upriver, except for the village. They'll hit the falls if they go any further."
"Huxley Falls."
Akan sighed. "I simply don't see a reason for anyone journeying to the village unless they have similar intentions to our own. Perhaps they're delivering supplies or something of that sort. Fine, but the village seems to sustain itself well enough on its own. What if someone else is after the diamonds? We should make a run for it, I imagine--sometime in the middle of the night."
"Calm down. Let's not leap to any hasty conclusions. We aren't far from the village now, and we can sort everything out once we've spoken to Virginia. Agreed?"
"Agreed," said Akan, though as they continued through the jungle, he could not escape the feeling that trembled in the pit of his stomach, warning him that all was not well.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Day 134 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 13
They returned again the next morning, this time with small spades hidden away beneath their gear. In the days since they had first reached the village, Huxley's attire had gradually evolved from the proper sweat-stained suit of the gentleman-explorer to looser, more rugged clothing unbecoming of a man with his supposed status, yet in a place where traditional status held no bearing, utilitarian comfort reigned supreme. Both he and Akan wore flowing shirts that had been thoroughly dulled from their initial bright whites, and though they were mostly open, exposing their skin to the swarms of insects that patrolled the jungle and the shore of the lake, they vastly preferred taking their chances over the possibility of collapse due to overheated exhaustion. They kept torches lit and stuck in the mud surrounding their respective work spaces, hoping that the flame would either keep the pests occupied or drive them away, and for the most part, this worked.
Their packs were light and stuffed with empty canvas sacks they hoped to fill with the precious black diamonds they recovered from the mud. In all their preparations, they took great care to hide all true intentions from the rest of their party, which lingered around their camp waiting for anything to happen, and the villagers, including the lovely Virginia Pear, who seemed particularly interested in Huxley's work.
With spades in hand, they began digging through the mud, staining the knees of their trousers while tunneling deeper within the earth in search of gems, which they found in greater number and size mere feet below.
"Look at this," said Akan, marveling at the contents of his canvas sack, the bottom of which was now completely covered in dark diamonds. "Didn't I tell you? I knew we'd find more here. Lots and lots."
Huxley said nothing in reply. Instead, he simply kept on working, shoveling spadefuls of soggy earth onto a single pile.
"Huxley?"
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. I'm afraid my mind is elsewhere."
"You aren't thinking about the girl again, are you?"
"No, no. Not that. I'm simply deciding in advance upon what to spend my forthcoming fortune."
"And? Have you any ideas yet?"
"Travel, I thought," said Huxley.
"Travel? That's all we've ever done! Huxley, in the past ten years, we've barely been home at all. Our traveling days are over--no more stealing, no more scamming. Finally, we can retire and do all the things we've ever dreamed about!"
"There lies the problem: I don't dream about anything. Not a single thing. All I've ever wanted, I've found on the road with you. I'm not a man for settling down, Akan. I've no wish to start a family or run a business, no great longing to sit and read a book and eat a normal breakfast in a normal house. That isn't the sort of life for me."
Akan shook his head and went back to shoveling, scooping a fresh layer of mud from the ground and then crouching down to sort through the loosened remains.
"I'll never understand you, you know. You may feel a lost soul now, Huxley, but once we return home, women falling at our feet, opportunities opening up to us, you may yet change your mind."
"Maybe," said Huxley. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."
Their packs were light and stuffed with empty canvas sacks they hoped to fill with the precious black diamonds they recovered from the mud. In all their preparations, they took great care to hide all true intentions from the rest of their party, which lingered around their camp waiting for anything to happen, and the villagers, including the lovely Virginia Pear, who seemed particularly interested in Huxley's work.
With spades in hand, they began digging through the mud, staining the knees of their trousers while tunneling deeper within the earth in search of gems, which they found in greater number and size mere feet below.
"Look at this," said Akan, marveling at the contents of his canvas sack, the bottom of which was now completely covered in dark diamonds. "Didn't I tell you? I knew we'd find more here. Lots and lots."
Huxley said nothing in reply. Instead, he simply kept on working, shoveling spadefuls of soggy earth onto a single pile.
"Huxley?"
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. I'm afraid my mind is elsewhere."
"You aren't thinking about the girl again, are you?"
"No, no. Not that. I'm simply deciding in advance upon what to spend my forthcoming fortune."
"And? Have you any ideas yet?"
"Travel, I thought," said Huxley.
"Travel? That's all we've ever done! Huxley, in the past ten years, we've barely been home at all. Our traveling days are over--no more stealing, no more scamming. Finally, we can retire and do all the things we've ever dreamed about!"
"There lies the problem: I don't dream about anything. Not a single thing. All I've ever wanted, I've found on the road with you. I'm not a man for settling down, Akan. I've no wish to start a family or run a business, no great longing to sit and read a book and eat a normal breakfast in a normal house. That isn't the sort of life for me."
Akan shook his head and went back to shoveling, scooping a fresh layer of mud from the ground and then crouching down to sort through the loosened remains.
"I'll never understand you, you know. You may feel a lost soul now, Huxley, but once we return home, women falling at our feet, opportunities opening up to us, you may yet change your mind."
"Maybe," said Huxley. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."
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