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."
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."
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