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."
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."
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