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."
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."
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