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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

Day 133 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 12

He was stricken by a sudden recollection--a vague memory, cast in the thin shadow of doubt that dared suggest it had all been a dream and none of it real, yet he remembered it fondly and with some detail. He was a child, walking along the coast, but the coast of where? This place felt like no English coast. The sun was bright and shining, the sky a bright cerulean, and heavy sheets of cloud sailed overhead like the blankets of giants caught in the wind. The weather was warm. His shirt had been abandoned on some half-forgotten pile of sand along with his shoes, and his trouser legs were rolled up around the knobs of his knees as he waded in the water, feeling the push and pull of every wave that lapped against the shore and assaulted his ankles with the grit of sand and salt.

His eyes were cast upon the sand and water at his feet, searching, darting sharply at every glint and discoloration, at which he would grasp and raise victoriously with a clutched hand. He was hunting shells--snatching them with small, quick hands, rinsing them in the retreating waves, and then stowing them in his pockets with wet particles of sand still clinging to the insides that would dry and settle in the bottom seam of the pocket, where they would stay for weeks to come. For now, he tread on across the sand, his pockets filled with abandoned mollusc shells that rattled at every step, his eyes still searching for the sparse treasures offered up by the sand and left behind as mere afterthoughts by the waves like the half-hearted offerings of a placating sea.

"Thomas!" someone called out. "Thomas!"

It was a voice ringing out from some distant place. It was a man's voice. His father's voice.

"Huxley!"

"Yes?"

"Over there!" yelled Akan, pointing at a particularly dark patch of gritty earth on the bank of the crater lake, where a distant glint alerted the keen-eyed giant. "I think I see a few more. Get those, won't you?"

"Yes, of course. How are you faring?" he asked his partner, the memory fading from his mind. Maybe it had been a dream all along--one that he'd forgotten, only to be recalled by the vague similarities of his current actions.

"Very well, sir," replied Akan, a wide smile having rooted on his face. He held aloft a small leather pouch and rattled it so that Huxley could hear the clink of collected diamonds--the fruits of their wildest endeavor to date. "This is a fortune."

"You sound surprised. Are you truly so shocked that I was right?"

"I'll never doubt you again, my friend."

"Good to know. I may yet hold you to that."

Akan paid no mind to his partner's musings, instead focused rather intently on the diamonds in his pouch and the potential luxury that such small things could afford.

"Just imagine," said Akan, "these are just the ones on the surface. There are sure to more hidden beneath in larger deposits."

"I dare say it's a larger fortune than either of us could ever have dreamed. We shall be prepared to live out the remainder of our sad, little lives in extravagance and convenience, never again forced to lift a hand. How dreadfully wonderful all that will be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, really. I'm merely thinking aloud."

Akan focused once more at the ground before him, crouching low to rake his fingers across the loose soil for any hard edges, shrugging away the words of his partner as the maddened speech of a man who had gone far too long without sleep.

"How long do you think it may take?"

"For what?" Huxley asked absently.

"To finish this. To get what we need," said his partner.

Huxley, too, crouched above a patch of dirt and thrust his hand within, his fingers undulating for any solid item to grasp. Every time, however, he pulled his hand free with nothing but thick mud clinging to his palm. He stared intently at his spoils, for the moment forgetting that there were such things as diamonds in this world and realizing that he had been literally grasping for his future, and this thought brought a sort of emptiness, the kind often accompanied by a greater desire to do great, wonderful things and live a life worth leading.

"I suppose I would ask the same question, my friend. In all seriousness, I'd imagine we could be done in three days of solid working--four if we manage to raise any suspicions back in the village."

"Four it is," said Akan with a nod. "You always manage to raise suspicions when you're so fervently attempting to bed a woman."

"I'm not."

"I told you, Huxley. I told you that this would be exactly like the Gold Coast."

"Fine, I am."

"You admit it!" Akan threw his thick arms, larger than the legs of average men, in the air, exasperated.

"Would you rather I lie?"

"I'd rather you not do a thing. Leave the poor girl alone. It sounds as if she's been through enough already. Why torment her more when she finally learns that you're nothing but a common thief."

"Common?" Huxley repeated with disgust. "I'd prefer extraordinary. At least uncommon. That says little about yourself, you know."

"Oh, I know. Believe me, I realize my place in this world, and I do nothing to call it into question."

"Fine, then, and for the record, I shall do my best to leave the lovely Ms. Pear alone, no matter how much of a crime that may seem. She's a woman of great faith, after all, and I have no intention of corrupting that."

"Don't tell me you've become a man of faith, as well."

"Hardly. It's the principle of the thing."

"Since when have you had principles?"

"I thought now would be a good time to start."

They stared silently at one another in the few moments that followed before ultimately deciding to head back to the village before anyone became especially curious of their whereabouts. As they walked through the jungle, Akan traced a line across a blank sheet of paper, one that could be imposed atop their in-progress map to provide an accurate trail to the crater, which they hoped would save them some time in subsequent visits. From time to time, he pulled out the actual map he had sketched and examined lovingly, the way a craftsman admires his own skill and enjoys the comfort of a chair he had just built.

"It's a nice map. It may, in fact, be the best I've ever drawn--accurate, with thin lines and plenty of detail. It's a work of art, if I may be so bold to proclaim."

Huxley continued ahead, never taking his eyes away from the thin trail of broken limbs and trodden ground that they had left behind from the initial journey.

"I'm sure it is," he said. "It's a pity no one will ever use it."

Day 132 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 11

When the sun at long last rose, they abandoned their torches, clattering through the jungle now with only the muted morning light to show the way. The journey was a long one, and one that seemed to mainly consist of fighting the thick, clinging underbrush that reached out for them with thorny tendrils--a constant, tangling threat that served little other purpose besides slowing them down. It was as if the jungle itself was impeding them, attempting to push them away as they drove on toward its darkened heart, where secret things lived that few men had seen. An Englishman had seen them once, thinking nothing of them at the time--mere inconsequential scraps of earth, and he had no idea what lengths others would go to just for the chance to see them, touch them, possess them.

"You're quiet all of the sudden," said Huxley.

"I'm focused. There is a difference," Akan replied.

"Either way, your tongue has surprisingly stopped moving. Speaking of which, you really must stop chewing with your mouth open, else everyone will know you still have a tongue, contrary to everything we tell them."

"Has anyone noticed?"

"Virginia made mention last night. I had to make something up on the spot because of you."

"Fortunately, that's your strength, Huxley. You can make anyone believe anything. Just try not to get too involved with the girl, would you?"

"I'm afraid I can't make any promises, my friend. She simply adores me, and I'd be amiss to let those affections go unacknowledged and unappreciated. I'm a gentleman, after all."

"If you say so. I just don't want a repeat of the incident with the slave trader's daughter in Cape Coast."

"Fair enough, old friend. I believe I can manage myself for your sake."

Akan paused and stood listening intently at the world around him, searching for a particularly flat frequency, as if some spot was void of all the trees that ordinarily sent sound bouncing straight back to him. In a place such as this, where vision does little good when one can see no further than the mass of trees directly in front of him, sometimes the other senses are all that one can count on, and at this particular moment, Akan had placed all his faith in his hearing--or the absence thereof.

"This way," said the giant, pointing toward what was soon revealed to be a massive outcrop of rock, seemingly hiding something from plain sight. Akan scrambled up the loosened jagged slope with Huxley close behind him.

"Here you are, Huxley. Here is your lake."

Huxley reached the summit and was immediately taken aback by the reflection of the once-hidden sunlight, bounding from the still surface of a vast, silvery lake. They stayed there for several moments, staring out across the picturesque water, before descending the opposite bank of the hill.

"So, shall you name this place, too?"

"No, my old friend," said Huxley. "With any luck, no one will ever find this place. Don't stop now. Lead on! I want to see what they look like when they are first found."

With a nod, Akan wound his way to the shore, Huxley nipping at his heels the entire way like a child anxious for Christmas morning.

"Look at this place," Huxley remarked. "See how perfectly rounded the lake is? Do you see the shape of the whole thing?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"It's a crater, my friend. A point of impact where rain collected for millions of years, serving as a basin."

"The impact of what?"

"A falling star. A meteor."

Something caught Huxley's eye along the shore, something that flashed just beneath the dirt at his feet. He knelt and began digging with his hands, scooping away muddy earth that left its traces beneath his fingernails. The object of his desire firmly within his grasp, he pulled it free from the resting place the land had provided and shook it several times in the waters of the lake to rinse away the excess dirt. Then, atop the flattened palm of his hand, like some crowned jewel, he held it aloft for Akan to see. It was a gemstone--cloudy on the surface and dark on the surface. This was one of the rarest forms of gem in the world. This was a black diamond.

"And this--" said Huxley, "--this is stardust."

Day 131 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 10

Just before sunrise, before the first of the villagers stirred in the crisp morning air, Huxley and Akan awoke in their tents and prepared their gear for the long hike ahead of them. They packed lightly with just enough food and water for a few hours. The giant tucked the folded map and a compass into his pockets, and Huxley did the same with a small revolver, the existence of which none but the two men in this tent realized.

Having fully readied themselves, they slipped out into the darkness, sneaking through the village to the opposite end, where they felt confident enough to light their torches with a flint Akan pulled from his satchel. Quickly, they disappeared into the offered obscurity of the jungle.

"This way," said Akan.

"I see you fine."

"Try to keep up. It's a good distance away."

"I know that already."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry. When one goes months only uttering the barest of words, one feels compelled to make certain the voice still works."

"That or to make up for lost time."

"A valid point."

"I've told you," said Huxley. "We haven't long to go. To be honest, I hadn't expected to find the place so soon, so there's a good chance we can cut our projected week down to several days. Then we'll just have the trip home, and oh, it will be so worth it."

"Promises to me little good. It's the actuality of the thing that I desire the most, so keep your anticipations to yourself, if you don't mind."

"Fine, then. I'm simply trying to lighten the mood."

"It'll be lightened enough when we find our quarry. Now follow me, and stay close."

"Yes, yes, fine," Huxley sighed.

The two men, bearing torches like men traipsing through the deepest caves, vanished in the darkness. They had become little more than fireflies, bouncing and rounding through the woods.

Day 130 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 9

Just before sundown, all the men at the camp were accounted for, and they journeyed together to the small chapel to hear Virginia give the night's prayer before supper. The place was crowded, built, it seemed, without any gift of foresight into the numbers the mission might accrue. Traditionally, one this size was meant for little more than baptisms and small marriage ceremonies. It wasn't at all the sort intended to be used for everyday services, yet in a place this remote, this far removed from the promises of England, intention and realism were two very different beasts.

The men stayed outside, listening through the open door with their backs against the outside wall. Westmoreland had dropped to his knees, absorbed in a silent prayer for his family back home. The other men bowed their respective heads and clasped their respective hands, each engaged in their own form of worship--all but Huxley, who simply sat on the ground, removed his hat, and listened intently at every echoed word to leave her lips and reach his ear.

After a recitation of the Lord's Prayer and a collective Amen, the villagers filed out of the chapel, one-by-one, followed by Ms. Pear, who lingered long enough to invite Huxley and his men to dinner, an invitation that was quickly and graciously accepted.

The fires were soon lit, and the men of the expedition gathered their supplies and made for the dining area, where Virginia sat waiting. She watched as they prepared a small amount of meal for each of them.

"Meal?" she said in disbelief.

"That's right," Huxley replied. "We've plenty of the stuff to last us a while yet."

"You can't survive on meal alone, Thomas. You should barter with the villagers. They'd be more than happy to share some of their native cuisine in exchange for whatever foreign baubles you possess."

"We've nothing to barter with," Huxley simply said.

"Nothing to barter with? That's ridiculous! Certainly you know how one survives in Africa, Mr. Huxley. You seem to have done it well enough so far."

"Yes, well, we've run out."

"Even Dr. Livingstone could gauge the amount and sort of tender he would need for wandering through the wild. You really should have expected as much."

At the mention of the name Livingstone, Huxley became exasperated. One can only go so long with the constant comparisons against a man so highly regarded, he might've descended from Olympus to slay a giant.

"Fine, if you must know, we do have items with which to barter, but I would prefer not."

"And why's that? Isn't this village good enough for your trinkets?"

"Westmoreland!" Huxley called aloud to the head porter slowly and reluctantly chewing away at the meal in his mouth, his fingers coated in a thick dust of the stuff. "Westmoreland, bring the Baliol!"

"Baliol? What do you have, Mr. Huxley?" Virginia Pear asked, concerned enough to discard her rough wooden plate of soft, cooked roots.

Westmoreland approached laden with a heavy pack, which he set down at his feet beside the fire. He opened it wide, that she could see inside. A dozen bottles were gathered, each labeled in a gaudy golden wrapper. She plucked one from the bag and held it against the light.

"Whiskey?" she said. "You're bartering whiskey?"

"No, I'm not," he replied. "I told you that I wouldn't."

"Though you've done it before, I'm assuming."

"Yes, of course. How else do you think I hired the native porter from the north?"

Virginia peered down the line along the fire, where the young, dark-skinned porter shoveled a handful of meal into his mouth and washed it down with a shallow gulp from a bottle he kept at his side.

"That boy certainly loves his whiskey," Huxley remarked.

"So why do you refuse to trade it now?"

"Because, I didn't know you were here. I'm not about to corrupt a devoted congregation with liquor, Ms. Pear."

"Oh," she said, the stern look in her eye faltering. "I suppose I should thank you, then. I have to admit, though, the very idea of poisoning any innocent African with alcohol appalls me."

"I won't do it again," he replied, staring earnestly into her fire-lit face. "I promise."

"Honestly, Mr. Huxley, you perplex me horribly."

"How so?"

"You act the scoundrel (and often, I'd wager), yet in the next breath you can express such nobility and such artistic talent. It's as if there are two men inside you, both fighting to get out. Why is that?"

"I'm a man of the modern age, madam. I regret to inform you that we are terribly vexing."

She smiled, radiantly, her perfect white teeth caught in firelight like the treasures of some hidden temple. "If you insist. Nevermind that now, tell me about your work."

"I did promise, didn't I? Well, I'd hate to play the scoundrel."

"Where were you last--before you came here?"

"Last time around, I spent some time along the Gold Coast, roaming the Empire of Ashanti."

"That's where you found Akan?"

"Right... have I told you this already?"

"No, you made some mention last night, something dreadful about a tiger tearing out his tongue, which seems a bit odd now, considering he's opening his mouth to eat his meal with a perfect tongue resting within," she said, staring oddly at him from across the fire. Akan, having heard none of this, kept eating, even using his tongue to lick the remaining meal from the palm of his hand.

"That, well, I wasn't being literal... clearly. As you can tell, though, he lacks the linguistic tongue to go about any sort of conversation. The rest is merely a story, albeit one that tends to distill a certain intimidating factor in our dear friend. Besides, it was a lion."

"If you say so," she replied, unable to take her eyes off the giant.

"Anyway, it was there among the Ashanti that I perfected my art," he said, desperate to turn the tide of conversation away from any of his other misspoken and misinterpreted words. "I make certain to carry two sets of paint with me at all times: one watercolors, and the other oils. For my everyday observations, I ordinarily make use of the watercolors. They're far simpler and quick to fill in the dull spaces of my initial sketches."

"And what of the oils? If I'm not mistaken, you were using them to capture your alleged orchid earlier this morning."

"You've wonderful eyes," he began, quickly realizing how such a statement could be misconstrued, "in every sense of the words, actually. No, the oils are for my personal collection. If I happen across something I find especially beautiful, I feel a deep, urging desire to paint it, to steal that scene and flaunt it for the entire world to see."

He edged closer toward her, gesturing passionately with his hands, intoxicating her to the point that she stared into the fire and saw the beauty, the art of the thing. The heat of the flames brushed against her flesh, and beads of sweat began forming, trickling down her skin.

"Have you ever had your portrait painted, Ms. Pear?"

"No, sir. I can't say that I have."

"That may have to change. I have a fresh canvas just begging for a vision of beauty such as yours to be embedded upon it. Would you do me the honor?"

"Perhaps, when I have the time."

"Excellent," he said with a smile. "I simply must have you in my collection."

Day 129 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 8

Morning dawned, yet in this part of Africa, the thick, green forests clotted the sky, the branches of every individual tree becoming linked to its neighbor's like a spider's woven web, keeping the rays of the sun at bay so that the ground below still saw no light. The warmth, however, the sweltering heat that sprung up in the heart of the jungle, was enough to tell the shadowed land that, indeed, the day had finally arrived.

Huxley's men awoke to find that their leader and his towering partner had both vanished. Their tent was empty, and their day packs, containing small amounts of dry food and artistic supplies, were gone. The men didn't seem to care. They were being paid to simply stay in their camp, free to ration out food and do whatever they wished, as long as they didn't interfere with the everyday life of the village. In a week's time, once their job had come to an end and they were set to return to England, they were to be paid again for time and trouble. Westmoreland alone saw his duties as more than a summation of the rigors of a temporary job. For him, this was a way of life--a trial of character that would determine the sort of man he truly was, so while the others laughed and wore away at their stocks of dry food, Terrance Westmoreland waited patiently for someone to tell him what to do.

By mid-morning, Virginia Pear, having noticed that Huxley and Akan had both been missing from their camp for hours now, set out to find them. As much as Huxley infuriated her with his uncouth behavior and poor social skills, she found herself worried that something might have happened to him. The village itself was rather small. Population-wise, it contained twenty-three families. Their particular location was on an open spot by the side of the river, where the soil possessed a sandy consistency, yet surrounded on all sides by the forest. She asked among the villagers, many of whom traveled in and out of the jungle on a regular basis, for any indication of where the men might have gone. Several of the locals reported hearing someone singing not far from the village, near the crest of an adjacent hill.

Huxley stood among the trees, sunlight splattered on the ground around him like shimmering pools of water. There was a break in the trees above, where the boughs were thin, allowing the streaming light to penetrate the canopy and illuminate the perfect place to begin his work. A thick canvas was set before him on an easel, and Huxley pressed his brush firmly upon it, sweeping away to reveal a vibrant streak of green, which in itself well represented the surrounding still life of the humid forest. It was a shade of green that invoked nature itself, one indiscernible from his environment, one that conjured images of primeval life, untouched by the meddling hand of man.

Before him stood a near-solid wall of vines that hung from the lower branches of the trees, and somewhere on this screen of groping, expanding tendrils grew a particular plant with a pale white blossom, its petal drooping daintily toward the ground like a pair of dangling legs. Huxley wiped the clinging clumps of green paint from his brush, blending what remained with a dab of white, creating a color just as pallid as the blooming flower caught in his eyes, as a weakened creature is hunted by a fiercer predator. In a blank space on his canvas, surrounded by a sea of deep green, he captured its image perfectly in a scant amount of strokes, disturbed only by the rustling of branches nearby as Virginia Pear approached him from behind.

"That's remarkable," she said, her eyes first falling upon the painting and then the actual flower as she emerged from the thick brush.

Huxley continued with his painting, perfecting the rounded edges of every petal and filling in the details with a smaller brush and a dab of solid black paint. When he finished, he reapplied the deepest green to fill the remaining area around the blossom's portrait.

"Thank you," he said, reluctant to turn himself away from his work. "Do you know what this is?"

"Pardon?"

"This flower, do you know what it is?"

"No, I don't. Unfortunately, botany is not my strongest suit."

"A pity," said Huxley. "I suppose if nothing else, the honor of naming it belongs to me, should it have no name it all."

"Have you seen anything like it before?"

"It's an orchid, I believe, though I've never seen one quite like this."

"And what would you name it?"

"If I had my choice," he began, turning his full attention to her with appraising eyes and a smile curling in the corner of his mouth, "I'd call it a Pear. I seem to recall, however, that name being claimed already."

Virginia grinned, hiding blushing cheeks with her hands. "I suppose you could name it in honor of the queen. That seems to be in fashion with your sort."

"As I'm reminded at every turn, ever since Livingstone found that damnable waterfall."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," she quickly replied.

"You haven't. That's an inadequacy, I suppose, that comes in living in the shadow of giants."

"You must admit, though, he is a great man."

"I suppose so," said Huxley.

"After all, he's done a lot of good for the Society."

At once, Huxley paused, his hand frozen in mid air, inches away from his canvas. He turned his head ever so slightly, just enough to read the expression on Virginia's face. It was sincerity, not the mocking self-satisfaction he had initially expected.

"Beg your pardon?"

"The London Missionary Society, of which Dr. Livingstone is a member. Surely you knew that."

"No, actually. Have you ever met the man?" Huxley asked.

"Just once, but it was at an official sort of dinner. I never had the chance to speak directly with him, though I've heard his stories in great detail. Why else would I have taken you at your word so readily?"

"Of course. David is one of the most remarkable men I've ever met. Perhaps I'll tell you some stories about him tonight around the campfire."

"That would be wonderful, Mr. Huxley."

"You best head back to the village, Ms. Pear. I'm sure you'll be needed before long. I've wasted enough of your time already."

"I suppose I should he going back."

"Don't worry, madam. I promise to be back by sundown."

"Then you should also promise to be careful. The jungle is a dangerous place to be, even at midday."

"I'll remember that, my dear. Thank you for the consideration."

With a smile still lingering on her lips, Virginia Pear retreated into the forest, the sound of brushed-aside branches giving him a distinct picture of her movements. There was, however, another faint rustle originating from a space just beyond that occupied by the former subject of Huxley's attention.

"She's gone," he said.

Akan emerged warily from the trees, pushing aside the mass of vines and the pale blossom resting upon them. He clutched something in his hand.

"Well?" Huxley asked.

"I've found them," the giant replied proudly. "Just where the map said they were."

"Good. We'll return tomorrow to gather as many as we can. This is going to be an easier job than I imagined."

Day 128 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 7

"Tell me about yourself, Ms. Pear," said Huxley, as they sat around the fire.

Virginia Pear, much to her chagrin, failed to find proper shelter for all of the expedition's men. Huxley assured her that this was no problem and elected to set up their camp at the edge of the village, out of everyone's way. Just before dark, though, they were invited back into the village for the evening prayer and a shared supper, which they gladly took. Virginia herself led the prayer and organized the night's dinner, which exhausted Huxley just by watching. He found it especially curious that she was alone. There were no other missionaries in the village, no other white Europeans to share the work, only a handful of devoted native converts that followed her every instruction.

"There isn't much to tell, Mr. Huxley. You see me here? You see what I do? This is my life's work, the culmination of all my efforts. I joined the London Missionary Society at the age of nineteen."

"And you've been doing this all by yourself? It seems a bit lonesome, if you ask me."

"Perhaps now, but I wasn't always alone. When we were young, my husband and I were thrilled to go off to strange, new places and do God's work."

"You have a husband?" Huxley asked nervously.

"I did, once. Christophe was his name. Honestly, I never would have survived the trip if it had not been for him."

"Christophe? Am I to guess that he was the one responsible for the villagers' knowledge of the French language?"

"That's right."

"Ah, so what happened to him?"

"He died," she said, matter-of-factly. "Two years ago, he took ill with some fever from the jungle. When the first signs came upon him, he believed it was a disease spread by the mosquitos, and I'm inclined to believe him. He was a doctor, after all, and he usually understood these sorts of conditions. Unfortunately, he relented, feeling resigned to his fate. He was gone within a week."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.

"I've moved on since, and I've learned to accept it. Some things are simply beyond our control."

"So you're here by yourself?"

"Not quite. I like to think I've become a part of the village. The men and women here are my family now. I was a nurse back in London, and I've become the closest thing to a physician these people have had since Christophe passed away. You'd be surprised how much good one can do by simply applying bandages the correct way or sterilizing instruments to prevent the spread of infection. In a place like this, even the small things can save lives."

"How very noble of you."

"I do what I can, Mr. Huxley. What about yourself?"

Huxley prodded the fire with a long, dry stick and stared into the flames. He could feel the sweltering heat sting the flesh of his hand as he held it close to the fire. The smell of heavy smoke filled his nostrils and seeped down his throat, which would have choked him had he not been so accustomed to inhaling various types of smoke already.

"I'm but a hired hand, Ms. Pear. I've long been a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, though my true talent lies not in exploration, but in art."

"Art? What sort of art?"

"Flora and fauna, mostly. While we do make maps, I'm no cartographer. We sketch our routes as best we can, but the result is often little more than a rough guide. I examine the native species of a particular area--study them closely, carefully, and I record my observations along with detailed paintings and illustrations."

"That sounds lovely."

"I assure you, it is. Remind me in the morning, once it's light, and I'll display some of my earlier work."

"Oh, I will, and what then? What do you do with your art?"

"As I hastily mentioned in our initial conversation, I make guides for the missions back home. Imagine knowing all of the plants and animals that existed here before you made that arduous journey. Imagine if you had already known what was safe to eat, and what should be avoided at all costs. Imagine if you could name every blossom or identify every predator lurking in the dark places. Imagine if you had known all the dangers, with the opportunity to plan everything well ahead of time."

Virginia smiled, and her teeth looked like pearls in the flickering fire light.

"In your own way, you do God's work, as well. Someone has to give a name to His creations, after all."

"Yes," said Huxley. "I suppose so."

"Well, then, Mr. Huxley, forgive me, but I must be going to bed. There will be a service at sunrise tomorrow morning, and your men are welcome to join us."

"Thank you, Ms. Pear. We may take you up on that offer. Oh, and speaking of beds, you aren't a nun, are you?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean to say: you aren't a member of some monastic order, are you?"

"No, just a simple missionary."

"So you haven't taken a vow of chastity or anything of the sort?" Huxley asked flippantly.

"Good night, Mr. Huxley," she sighed, a trace amount of disgust hanging from her words.

Day 127 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 6

The native women were kind enough to lead Huxley and his men the rest of the way to the village. The two riflemen, normally reserved and inclined to leave their guns hanging loosely across their shoulders, then held them with a firm grip, though Huxley was eventually able to convince them that weapons were not necessary.

"We're all friends here, gentlemen, and friends do not point weapons at friends. All right? Be at ease, and you'll be perfectly fine," he told them.

Again, Akan led the way, followed by the native porter, then the remaining white men, and as they marched into town, the villagers fled the main path, staying close to their huts and, in some cases, taking shelter within.

"It's almost as if they're afraid of us," Huxley remarked.

"Slavers, sir," said Westmoreland. "They're afraid we're slavers."

Yet not all of the attention was focused on the white men, with their guns and bizarre facial hair. A larger portion of the villagers stared with a great deal of interest in Akan, the giant walking in their midst. He was as flattered as he was self-conscious.

The woman in red stopped after a moment and pointed up the path with a smile on her face. Ahead lay a small, crudely constructed building that bore no similarities to the surrounding huts. This was tall, rectangular--a good European style in Huxley's eyes.

"Church," she said.

"Thank you, dear. For your troubles--" Huxley handed her one of the larger coins from his pouch, which she examined thoughtfully as she walked away, the rest of her cadre of gossiping women right behind her.

They continued on toward the church, even as the door swung open, and a white woman in a blue dress stepped outside, her hands draped loosely atop her hips, to see what the commotion was. Her shapely frame and seemingly tempestuous hair, temporarily bound by a leather thong, caught Huxley's eyes immediately.

"Perhaps I should speak to her alone," he suggested to his men with an innocent shrug. Akan, however, refused to be excluded and followed just behind as Huxley strode away from his party and approached the unflinching young woman at the church door.

"What do you want?" the woman asked before Huxley could properly introduce himself.

"I mean no harm, madam. Honestly. We're a mere band of mapmakers come to chart this territory and humbly ask for board. My name is Tho--"

"Mapmakers? With rifles?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the two riflemen at the rear of his party.

"You can be certain about nothing in this world, I've found. I'm an associate of Dr. Livingstone's, if you recognize the name. We have the same peaceful intentions he possessed, though our purpose is slightly diverged. We make guides for fine charitable organizations as your own, to better assist them as their missions are dispersed to the ends of the world."

"You know Dr. Livingstone?"

"Yes. In fact, I shared supper with him just before I left England. Charming old man, that one."

The stern look on her face dissipated, and a broad smile took its place, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead and stared at Huxley with bright blue eyes.

"You'll have to forgive me," she said. "I've learned that you can't always trust other Europeans you meet in this part of the world."

"I understand completely. As I was saying, my name is Thomas Huxley."

"Virginia Pear."

Akan, having been forgotten at Huxley's back, tapped his associate on the shoulder.

"Ah, and this is my partner, Akan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Akan," she replied, smiling up at the face above her, which politely smiled back. "I trust you have official papers?"

"A few. I'm afraid they've become a bit tattered in our journeys."

"Well, then, they'll have to do. Come, Mr. Huxley, Mr. Akan, we'll find beds for the lot of you tonight."

"I'm looking forward to it," said Huxley with a lingering grin as he followed Virginia back to the rest of his party and, from there, across the village.

Day 126 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 5

The expeditionary party decided to approach slowly, showing that they clearly meant no harm and wished only to make contact. Akan led the way, followed closely by the native porter, who had the best chance of initiating communication, provided his mother tongue in any way resembled the speech of the villagers.

It did not. The women stared curiously at the party, laughing every so often but showing absolutely no indication that they were in any way afraid.

"What should we do now, sir?" Westmoreland asked.

"Fortunately, there is another language. This is a common tongue that all men speak," Huxley replied. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small leather pouch containing loose change from back home, along with several shiny gold coins, which he fished out with his dirty fingers and held out, placed carefully on his palm, for the women to see and admire, but that held their interest only momentarily. They were back to their jokes and linguistically obscured comments in a very short amount of time.

"I wasn't expecting that," said Huxley, tucking the gold safely back into his pocket. "Maybe we should find the men. They may be more negotiable."

At this, the foremost woman, who wore a deep red wrapper and a matching headscarf, flashed an offended look, though Westmoreland was the only one to immediately catch it.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Westmoreland?"

"I think she understood you."

"What? That's impossible!"

Huxley immediately turned his full attention back to the small group of women. The foremost gave a slight nod.

"Do you understand me? Do you speak English?"

The woman grinned, exposing several gaps in her mouth where teeth should have been.

"Un peu," she replied.

"What? What did you say? What did she say?" he asked, looking at every member of his own party as if they held some secret knowledge.

"I believe that's French, sir," said Westmoreland.

"French? I can understand teaching a native English. That's a highly dignified manner of civilizing the natives, after all, but to teach them French. That just seems cruel and rather unconscionable. Honestly, what kind of person would do such a thing?"

"True as that may be, sir, perhaps you should be asking her the question."

"Right, thanks. So you speak English?" he asked the woman, turning back to her.

The woman nodded.

"How? Who taught you?"

"Church," said the girl.

"Church? Damn it all. That means they've already been here. There's a mission nearby, no doubt, if not in the village proper."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Does that make our expedition obsolete?"

"No, Westmoreland. Not yet, at least."

Westmoreland's words still hung off of him, like the swollen sting of a bee once the insect itself had moved on, and for a brief moment, he felt like a very old, very unnecessary piece of the greater machine--a cog once taken from the system as a whole, failed to impede the intended machinations. But Huxley's actual intentions had little to do with mapping out the gradually decreasing hidden places of the world, for his true trade was manipulation.

Day 125 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 4

It was well into the afternoon when they found the waterfall. Westmoreland was the first to hear the sound of crashing water, and they followed the noise until emerging on a steep ridge, which they were forced to descend. The waterfall itself was quite small--dwarfed by the grandiosity and magnificence of Livingstone's Victoria Falls--but it was enough of a landmark to assure them that their journey was almost complete.

"Keep in mind, gentlemen," Huxley called out to the rest of his party, "this entire region is thus far devoid of good English names for our maps, so when the time comes, have some good suggestions in mind, won't you?"

This invigorated the men, sending a small wave of guffaws down the procession. The white porters in particular seemed optimistic.

"Wait till my mum here's about this one. Just imagine if this were called the Chesterwick River, eh? People from all over would come just to see it, and they'd know that it were my river," said one.

"That'd get us in the Society for sure, wouldn't it? Rivers of our very own! Aye, that'd show those high-class trollops in Kensington what's what," said the other.

"First of all, halfwits, you wouldn't own the river. Second, I was hoping for suggestions of a more nationalistic sentiment. I wouldn't dare name dogs after the two of you, fearing that they would throw themselves in front of moving carriages rather than suffer the embarrassment of nominal association."

By the time Huxley had finished his rant, the porters were back to their usual grumbling and evil eyes. Westmoreland, obviously deep in thought, sucked on his teeth and shook his head.

"That is a terrible shame, sir. I would've suggested Huxley Falls for this place here. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Of course, that was before that caveat of yours."

Huxley pondered the hypothetical suggestion. He had to admit, there was a nice sound to it, especially the way it simply rolled off the tongue with a thick, robust flavor like Turkish coffee. He said it aloud several times with varying intonations, as if trying on a pair of shoes.

"Huxley Falls. You know, I suppose we could make a single exception. Very natural sound to it, that one. Have you got that, Akan? Huxley Falls," he called out before anyone could raise an objection.

Akan nodded half-heartedly and withdrew a thick pad of paper from his pack, along with a short, square pencil, which he held up with a questioning look on his face.

"Yes, you may start the mapping now, thank you," Huxley replied. "For those of you who were not paying attention, we have been heading due south the entire trip, ever since we first stepped off the boat. I cannot hazard a guess on the exact number of miles we've traveled, but we can be more precise on the return trip. Welcome, my friends, to uncharted territory. Breathe in the air, see the sights, for it is about to become charted."

"What about the villagers, sir?"

"What about them?"

"Well, for starters, are we prepared to negotiate with them? Can we communicate with them at all?"

"All good questions, Westmoreland, though I would have appreciated you bringing your concerns to me away from the rest of the group. Nevertheless, you should all know that I am prepared to barter for safe passage and, perhaps, lodging."

"Well, that's good to hear, sir. Just in time, too."

"What? Why's that?"

Westmoreland pointed down the river, where a small group of black-skinned women were staring cautiously at the gathered party.

"Oh," said Huxley. "Right, then. Let's say hello."

Day 124 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 3

Just before dawn, before the first glimpse of the sun and before the dark sky gave way to a glow that would, for the most part, still be obscured by the cluttered canopy of tall, unnaturally natural green boughed trees, the party made ready to leave once again, just as Huxley had instructed. Say what you will about a porter's work ethic in the middle of the God-forsaken jungle, given the proper motivation, anyone will do just as he or she is told. In this case, the proper motivation was the barrel of a rifle and a promise that those who refused to perform their share of their work or who in anyway obstructed the expedition further would be left behind to fend for himself. In short time, therefore, torches were lit, the tents were packed away, and the fire was doused with water that had been gathered from the river the day before. Before Huxley's eyes, the camp collapsed, and his men stood before him, begrudgingly ready to continue their journey.

When daylight finally broke and the torches were extinguished and packed away, the expedition was grateful to bid farewell to the enormous moths that flitted and dove around the burning orange light, normally resulting in collisions with the men's hair and faces and the subsequent fluttering against their exposed parts that tickled and annoyed them to great lengths, only to reluctantly welcome the swarms of flies that emerged with the morning heat and had the tendency of biting or stinging the men on their sweat-covered hands and faces.

"How much further do you imagine, sir?" asked Westmoreland, swatting away a particularly persistent cloud of midges that seemed to trouble him more than anything else since he last left London.

"I wish I could say. That seems to be the major problem when one is seeking a place few outsiders have even seen before--the directions aren't always the most accurate."

"You've a map, though, don't you?"

"A rough one, yes. As it turns out, though, the famous Dr. Livingstone indeed has at least one fallibility: the inability to draw a straight line," said Huxley, pulling the wide brim of his hat as far down on his face as possible and hoping that bare heads and faces of his compatriots were more enticing to the seemingly famished African arthropods.

"Even so, would it hurt to check, sir? And I say this while fully prepared to spend the rest of my life in this jungle or, preferably, assign such a fate to one of my higher-paid porters."

"I suppose you're right, Westmoreland. Akan, come ahead, won't you?"

The giant, who had brought up the rear of the procession and remarkably suffered no trouble from the swarming flies, rushed ahead and opened the pack he carried on his back. Huxley reached inside and withdrew a thin, carefully folded piece of cloth, which he then unfurled and examined in a huddle with his towering partner, who served as a mighty obstacle for any prying eyes. This served two purposes: it assured that Huxley alone possessed any tangible instruction for locating the village, and it hid the fact that the map had been roughly scribbled on a pub napkin.

"All right, this is the river," Huxley whispered, pointing to a swerving line that divided the map in half.

Akan nodded in agreement.

"What is this?"

Akan searched the area his partner was now pointing toward and flashed a quizzical look.

"This right here. See? Is that... is it supposed to be a pile of rocks?"

Akan shrugged.

"Do you remember seeing any rocks? I don't remember seeing any rocks."

Akan thought about this for a moment and then drew a line in the air with his finger, creating an upward-sweeping contour that once again settled on what Huxley assumed to be ground level.

"Ah, a hill? I suppose that makes more sense. Have we passed a hill?"

Akan nodded, pointing in the direction from which they had come.

"Oh. Strange that I don't recall, isn't it?"

Akan shook his head.

"Nevermind that. Well, it looks like we're drawing near. Let's pretend that I knew exactly where we were at all times, shall we?"

Akan rolled his eyes and marched back to the rear of the expedition as Huxley led wordlessly on, his face now wearing a fixed look of determination and smug self-satisfaction.

"Any luck with Livingstone's map, sir?" Westmoreland asked from behind when it became clear that Huxley had no intention of sharing whatever conclusions he had just drawn.

"Of course, Mr. Westmoreland. It was simply a matter of sorting out the good doctor's intentions. Rest assured, should we encounter out here in the wild, you have my full permission to throttle him for any setbacks we've suffered, national hero or no."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir. We're close, then?"

"Relatively. I would estimate a bare minimum of three more hours. Of course, it's all conjecture at this point. Even Livingstone wasn't able to penetrate this region of the jungle straight to the heart."

"That's comforting to know, sir. I wonder how many of his men were eaten alive by the flies."

"Just the one, I heard. I believe lions took the rest."

"As always, sir, you remain an enormous source of inspiration to your men."

"Well, I do try."

Day 123 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 2

Two hours had barely passed since the moment the party set foot on dry land when the first of the porters began to demand rest. These complaints first came in the form of quiet mumbles and whispered curses, passed among themselves until they reached the ears of Westmoreland, whose job it was to relay these concerns to Huxley.

"What's that?" Huxley replied once Westmoreland whispered the request into his ear. "But we've only just started!"

"I know, sir, but it is quite dark, and we have nothing but these torches to light the way. Believe me, I know a thing or two about traipsing through the jungle, and we'll be much safer if we find a good place to set up camp before we lose sight of the path altogether."

"Fine," he replied with a relenting sigh. "But I want us all ready to move out by first light. No, make that just before first light. We must reach the village as soon as we possibly can."

"As you wish, sir, though I can't rightly understand what the hurry is about."

"It's rather simple, dear Westmoreland. The quicker we find the way to the village and map the whole thing out, the quicker our friends back in London will be able to penetrate the jungles and illuminate the natives."

"And the profit, sir?"

Huxley furrowed his brow.

"What profit would that be?"

"Well, sir, it seems to me that the first man to have a thorough look at this area and map it out would stand to make quite a bit of money from those looking to pay a visit. I imagine you could earn a few pounds from the missions looking to proselytize."

"Oh, I'm sure there's a pittance to be made, but I don't do this for the money. No, for me, it's all about the enlightenment. The exploration is the thing, I always say, and I'm better able to sleep at night when I can look out at all the dark-skinned natives and imagine how many souls we can save here. Wouldn't you agree?"

"If you say so, sir," Westmoreland replied.

"Remind me never to underestimate you."

"I'll try, sir."

Thus the very porters that had grumbled about rest were the ones ordered to set up camp, and they did so while continually grumbling the entire time. Before long, the tents were set and a campfire had been struck, around which almost the entire party gathered and ate a late dinner that consisted of their last bits of dried, salted meat and meal they had bartered from a village upriver. In all, the expedition consisted of eight men: Huxley, Akan, Westmoreland, two white porters (both of whom were Englishmen longing for the slightest chance to apply to the Royal Geographical Society) and one native, all of whom were tasked with carrying the bulk of the food and supplies needed for the arduous trek through the jungle, and two hired men whose only job was to follow the party with heavy rifles slung across their shoulders and, God willing, use them in only the direst situations. Of them all, the lone figure conspicuously absent from the circle around the fire was the black-skinned giant, Akan, who chose to take his meal away from the wide, disbelieving eyes of the others.

"What of him?" asked one of the porters, gesturing in Akan's general direction with fingers encrusted with meal and saliva.

"He's my partner," Huxley replied. "Is that a problem?"

"No, he just don't seem right, is all. A bit unnatural how tall he is, and you say he don't speak a word?"

"That's right. He's a mute."

"How'd you come to find a creature like him, eh?"

"First of all, you will not refer to my partner as a creature. Understood? Now, then, if you'd really care to hear his story, I'll be glad to tell it."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"Good." Huxley grinned and inched closer to the fire, so that his face could be seen in the flickering light by all those around him. "I'll have you know that this man is a warrior of the Ashanti Empire. There are stories still of a towering giant that linger on the western coast, where I first found him. The people there told of a boy taller than most full-grown men who defended his village from an enormous lion. Every night, this lion crept around the edge of the village, intent on pulling children from their huts and devouring them in the darkness, where no man dared to tread. No man save Akan, that is. Every night, the boy and the lion would wrestle outside the village as his people cowered in their huts, and every night, the boy drove the beast away.

"One night, however, the beast got the better of him. They had just completed their match for the night, and as Akan yelled his victory cry, telling the villagers that all was safe, the lion dug his claws into the boy's mouth, pulling out his tongue and rendering him unable to speak. The boy, enraged, chased the beast through the dark jungle, and when he returned to the village the next morning, he bore the lion's tongue in his hands. When I came across him, his entire village had been unlawfully enslaved by a group of rogue traders, and I had just enough money and goods to barter for his sale, whereupon I released him from his bonds and offered him a partnership. I've not regretted it a moment since, unlike other recent employments."

The porter stared blankly into the fire, unsure of how to respond.

"Are we finished with the gossip, now?" Huxley asked, but no one answered. "Very well, finish your supper and get your precious rest. I want one man awake and alert at all times to watch the camp and keep the fire going. Decide the schedule among yourselves."

"Good night, sir," said Westmoreland as Huxley retired to the large tent that had been prepared for him.

Akan slipped in just behind, watching the men from the flap to make certain all were accounted for.

"Did they believe you?" the giant asked in a perfect Yorkshire accent.

"Yes, yes. Now quiet down. I've never met a mute that talks quite as much as you."

"Fine, next time you can be the mute."

"That would be foolish. It doesn't even make sense."

"I don't care. I'm tired of always being a mute."

"Ah, so you want the whole of Africa to know that you were born and bred in England? Where would our advantage be there?"

"Let's just be done with this quickly."

"My friend, in a matter of days we'll both be rich and on our way back to merry old England. Who could ask for anything more?" said Huxley with a sly grin. Finally satisfied with their progress for this day and anxiously awaiting the next, they settled in separate spots on the ground and lay in wait for dreams to come.