Day 152 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 31

They stood upon the bow of a hired boat, upon one of two that were purchased for the sole purpose of taking the villagers back to the place they had once called home, and from there, a period of reconstruction could be born, one that would see a new village built, better than the last, stronger than the last, more loving than the last. The natives were mostly below deck, though unlike the last ship on which they had sailed, there were no chains waiting for them there, only open spaces. A few of rattled about topside, as well, marveling at the scenes of the river passing before them. Whelp, however, shared none of the celebration, instead bound to a chair and set in the darkest room they could find.

"Tell me about the diamonds," said Virginia Pear, her shoulder brushing against Huxley's arm, her voice plain and low. "They're real, aren't they?"

"They paid for a new revolver, a believably fashionable new suit for Mr. Westmoreland (which, surprisingly, was far more expensive than the revolver, by the way), and the last of them were able to procure these vessels. Yes. They are very real," said Huxley, taking no joy in the admittance.

"Where did they come from?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"There is a lake near your village. There they litter the ground. We suspect there are much larger deposits beneath the surface, though we had none of the proper equipment to see for ourselves."

"And this is why you came here?"

"It is. We followed rumors, and they led us here."

"Whelp told me all about you, you know. He told me horrible things."

"I would expect nothing less," said Huxley. "The quality of my soul is less than shimmering, my dear. Shall I admit my sins? Is that what you want of me?"

"It is the first step toward forgiveness," she replied.

"Then I've been a rogue and scoundrel."

"And had you been anything else, I would still be in that horrid cesspool of Zanzibar, and all my people would be scattered, traded like cattle, like common goods."

"Are you then thanking me for my wicked ways?" A sly grin appeared on his face, and he turned his head slightly to see a face staring straight ahead, steeped in contemplation.

"I'm conflicted, I'll admit. God works in many ways, Mr. Huxley, and if his will is done by the wicked, then yes. I am thanking you."

"There'll be no maps, you know. I can promise you that I'll never tell another soul about the diamonds."

"Then there may be hope for you yet."

"There's always hope for the wicked, my dear. Always."

She turned to him finally, as if at last passing judgment on him within her own mind and reconciling his actions in a way that she could understand and properly forgive, and so Virginia Pear smiled.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"Help you rebuild, I suppose."

"You'll do no such thing."

Huxley cocked his head in surprise. "Beg your pardon?"

"You had nothing to do with the destruction of our village in the first place, so why share the same penance as Whelp? If it is guilt that you're feeling, then we cannot help you here. Here, you've nothing to be guilty about. Besides, this process will make us stronger, our will and independence greater than ever."

"My goodness, a whole village of Virginia Pears."

"Indeed, sir. If what you say is true--if indeed the powers are coming down to colonize these lands, then we'll need that strength to survive, to make sure no man subjugates us and bends us to his will."

"Then I don't know where I'll go. I've always wanted to travel. Perhaps I could legitimize my own fiction, and do that which I've only pretended to do."

"The world needs maps, Mr. Huxley. And good men to make them."

"I suppose so, and I'll have my art. I'm getting quite better with my paintings, though I do hate to brag."

"No, you don't," she said with a smile.

"I know."

Her smile died like the last bit of sunlight at the end of day, grasping at the world before sinking behind it, down and down, and her attention turned back to the river, rushing against them as if wary to accept them once more.

"Do not ask me to come with you," she said.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I would say yes. Now promise me. Promise me that you will not ask me."

"Then I promise," he replied, and the world appeared just a bit more morose for it.

***

The three men had spent the night in the wilderness, guarded only by the fire that now burned only as embers in ash as the light of morning took hold in the world. They were awake already, rummaging through the packs for salted meat and bits of meal to sustain them for another day. Luckily, their food was still plentiful, for they anticipated days, if not weeks, before reaching another village.

Their camp, packed away, they accepted the burdens upon their backs with determined grunts. Through the pain, beneath their heavy loads, they were growing stronger each and every day. Every possibility was open to them, at their disposal, and the blank parchment and canvas in their packs cried out for fresh ink and oil. An entire world lay before them, waiting to be mapped.

"Are we ready?" asked Akan.

"I believe so," said Westmoreland. "What do you think, sir? Which way should we go today?"

Thomas Huxley smiled and studied the landscape surrounding him. Arbitrarily, he pointed to the east, toward the far horizon of the rising sun, and the wind rushed against him.

"Gentlemen," he said, "let's see what's out there."

Day 151 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 30

"Hello, Thomas. You're looking well."

Whelp held the gun before him, keeping it steadily aimed at the man sitting on the bed, who showed no signs of concern for his welfare, simply content with his comfortable repose. Virginia said nothing, her attention shifting back and forth between the two men as she hoped for a peaceful resolution to the conflict at hand.

"Are you all right?" Huxley asked her. "That's a wonderful dress."

She smiled in response.

"I have to admit, Huxley," said Whelp, "a part of me expected a sort of confrontation like this. I knew the world wouldn't be rid of you that easily."

"Yes, well, it isn't everyday one is knocked unconscious and left to die in a fire. I've had plenty of time to plan this very moment, Edward. I've been obsessing over the things I would say to you when we finally met again."

"And?" said Whelp, gesturing with his revolver as if to draw further attention to it.

"And, I've realized how pointless it is. You know how I am, Edward. You know how I abhor drama and all that Shakespearean claptrap of speeches and dialogue. I suppose I could say something heroic and naive, if that is what you wish. How's this? I'm here to put an end to your villainy!"

"Not bad. Honestly, I expected more of a flair to it. Though I suppose I could tell you that I'm not the villain, as well."

"Again, technically speaking, you did leave me to die."

"Fair enough," Whelp noted. "So what now? Shall I twirl my mustache for you? Because I daresay it isn't quite long enough to twirl."

"What have we become, Edward? I the hero, and you the villain--can the world really be that simple, that black and white?"

"One aforementioned incident aside, you know as well as I that I'm no villain, no mastermind, at least," said Whelp. "Certainly, you may take your revenge on me, and I fully expect it of you. Though what will that accomplish? I'm but a face, Thomas, and there are others who will take my place when I am gone. I am a hard truth of this world. I am a dealer of human nature. Shall I be killed? Shall I suffer some ironic comeuppance?"

"That isn't for me to decide," said Huxley, taking no satisfaction.

"Then who will?"

"The villagers you took captive, I suppose. I would imagine they've all been freed by now, and they'll soon converge on this home--a lovely place, by they way."

"Ah, then punishment by the will of the mob."

"I wouldn't worry," said Huxley, peering up at the silent Virginia Pear, now trying hard to blend into the silken draperies that hung over the large windows, "they've been taught compassion."

At that Virginia gave a small grin and eased across the room, passing in-between Huxley, Whelp, and the gun in the latter's hand and settling in a vacant spot on the bed. Whelp turned his attention to his own revolver and, realizing it was no longer needed, tucked it away in his trousers before settling into a plush armchair.

"I must say," said Huxley, "you're taking this better than I expected. I had an entire plan worked out, you know. It would've been spectacular."

"I'm sure, but no, Huxley, I've been anticipating this moment, exploring it from all angles until accepting the simple fact that I cannot run away. Not anymore. I'm to be made an example of, I understand. People will look back at me, wagging their fingers and exclaiming: This is what happens when one dabbles in slavery! This is the consequence! I'm to be punished for giving people what they want. This is mankind slapping itself on the wrist, and I'm but an inconsequential man, forced to bear the burdens society has placed upon itself."

There came a pounding at the door, and the small frame of Terrance Westmoreland appeared at the window, peering within. From outside, those inside the room could hear yelling and laughing, the sounds of scuffling on the streets and the disorganization of a confused mob.

"That'll be them now," said Huxley.

"Do you hear them?" asked Whelp. "They'll tear me apart."

"I suppose I could answer the door, then."

Huxley stood from the bed and slowly crossed the room as the violent pounding on the door and outer walls continued. He pulled back the heavy wooden door, and Akan and Westmoreland burst into the room, followed by a steady stream of the men of the village. Though once they saw their enemy, a broken man hunched over in a chair, they paused, their violent intentions now seemingly meaningless. They'd come expecting a fight and found anything but.

"Tell me, Ms. Pear," said Huxley, in front of the gathering audience, "what would you do?"

"I would go home," said Virginia. "I would start rebuilding our village once again."

Huxley turned to the crowd, standing between them and Whelp, still sitting in his plush chair. He looked into the sea of faces, one that stretched beyond the current room and out into the streets, each one shaded by anger, though gradually tempering.

"You heard the lady," he said. "You could have your revenge, satisfy that part of you that's been so consumed by wrath, or you can go home and rebuild your lives. That choice will be left up to you."

Slowly, the crowd began to move away. Those in the room slowly joined the others still outside, and they huddled in the streets, claiming the spaces they occupied for a state of confusion and wanting nothing more than to go home once again. Akan and Westmoreland were the last to leave, surveying the scene around them before taking action where it was needed.

"Come," said Akan, patting the former porter on the shoulder with his enormous hand, "let's procure a boat or two."

They both disappeared from the room.

"Did he just speak?" asked Virginia. "So he isn't a mute? We've much to discuss, Mr. Huxley."

Huxley suddenly felt like hitting something.

"Are you ready to leave?" he asked Whelp, if for no other reason than to shift attention away from his own deceit.

"Where am I going?"

"With us, I assume. If no one else wishes to devise punishment for you, then I'll do it myself. You're to help these people rebuild the village you burned. Fair enough?"

"Reasonable, I suppose."

"Oh, and Edward, may I have my diamonds back, please?"

Whelp grinned and fetched the pouch from his pocket.

"Magnificent things, I must say. Wherever did you find them?" Whelp asked.

Huxley thought on this a moment before replying with a blank expression on his face.

"They're fake, Edward."

"Ah, well. What is life but one disappointment after another, anyway? If we're to leave, then let's be gone. The smell of this city is beginning to repulse me."

Day 150 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 29

Akan had the advantage of surprise and thus exploited it to the best of his abilities. As Higgins, who most definitely represented the biggest threat of the two men before him, was caught off-guard, Akan took the opportunity to charge him, knocking the revolver from his hand and sending it sliding across the cold stone floor. Whelp, unwilling to risk a physical confrontation such as the one unraveling in front of him, grabbed Virginia tightly by her wrist and pulled her out of the cell and into the dank hallway of the holding house, a construct with the sole purpose of holding slaves prior to a sale. Westmoreland watched the villain's retreat but was blocked by the match now enacted before him like the struggle of two titans of old, having descended from the heavens to make their marks upon a mortal world. Needless to say, he had no place in this fight.

"Will you be all right?" he took the time to ask while the two large men had their hands wrapped around one another's necks, each trying to pin the other to the ground.

"Go!" yelled Akan, evidently in no mood for further conversation.

"Oh, dear God, you can talk! Right," said the former porter, expertly navigating himself around the brawl and extricating himself from the thick violence of the room, the spiderweb of a pulsing vein still throbbing at his temple, clutching him like a miniature net in the unseemly trap of lusty anger.

Left alone now, Akan felt that whatever pent-up fury residing within him could be fully unleashed without fear of injuring anyone else. At long last, the giant could revel in his rage. Higgins, however, was no effete opponent, choosing to shift his weight and use Akan's own as an advantage or, at the very least, to keep the sharp end of the knife away from his own body.

"You are a mercenary, are you not?" Akan asked in the heat of battle, as Higgins attempted to wrest the knife from his hand.

"Yes," came the answer in the form of a simple grunt.

"Do they pay you much?"

Higgins cried aloud. It was fierce, primeval, the roar of a confident lion.

"Yes."

"Fair enough," said Akan with a shrug, and their game continued.

In those next few moments, Akan was suddenly reminded of a story Huxley had told him. It was, of course, a total fabrication, but it was one that was eventually entangled in Akan's fictional back story, which existed only to assure people that the mute giant was a native African. Once, as a boy, he had lived in a village in the Ashanti Empire, near what came to known as the Gold Coast, and his village had been plagued by disappearances and nerve-shattering roars in the dead of night. As the villagers came to find out, a large man-eating lion was on the loose, so the young giant took it upon himself to rid his village of the monstrosity, striding into the darkness and quite prepared to sacrifice himself for a greater good. The lion appeared with a roar, lunging at him from the shadows, and in that black night they fought. As they rolled across the ground, the entire earth shook with the force of a thousand storms. Trees were up-ended and mountains were raised in their wake. They flattened a forest to a desert and scattered the waters of a lake to the far corners of the world. Sometime, in the fracas, the lion lashed out with its sharp claws and ripped the tongue from the boy's mouth, and then Akan stretched his fingers around the thick neck of the beast, choking it with all his might and slamming the monster's maned head against the ground until it moved no more.

In the end, Higgins lay still on the ground, and Akan rolled over beside him, panting. He reached out across the stone floor and grasped the hilt of the knife and tucked it away on his person. The battle had been one, and what's more: this time the giant kept his tongue.

***

Whelp dashed through the city streets, diving into the crowds that peppered the nearby market with Virginia Pear in tow, unable to shake herself from his grip. When he arrived back at the room he'd hired for Virginia, he paused briefly, taken by the satisfaction of seemingly escaping deadly pursuit. He never even thought to wonder about where his men had gone as he flung his captive into the room and bolted the door behind him.

Virginia abruptly screamed, and Whelp wheeled about to find Thomas Huxley, sitting comfortably on the bed.

"Hello, Edward."

Day 149 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 28

As he sat, caged and shackled, feeling like less of a human being than he ever had before, Akan had plenty of time to reflect on all the mistakes of his life. He was accustomed to being a sort of outcast, of course, having been born a free man within the walls of York, to rather well-to-do parents, and grown inches taller every year, so that by the time children his own age had learned to distinguish themselves from the common element of the street and developed an elitist separation between him and themselves, he was already towering above them by half a meter. By all means, he had become used to the staring and whispering that accompanied him as he walked about the banks of the Ouse in Fishergate. Everyday he made the same journey, never straying from the same route, from his boyhood home, to the Blue Bridge over the Foss, from which he dropped pocketfuls of pebbles into the water below, enjoying each and every splash no matter how minor and insignificant it seemed.

He was still very much a well-mannered young man, even if he felt constantly ostracized from the city surrounding him, and he was somehow able to retain the innocence that was oft lost or corrupted from his youthful contemporaries by the pleasures afforded by the city. Until, at least, he was approached by a band of street urchins that would have put Fagin's troupe to shame. Though at first his friendship seemed advantageous to their own urban ventures, namely as a looming intimidation figure, there grew a certain bond between Akan and the rest of these boys. He cared little about their pick-pocketing and snatching schemes and the rigged wagers they offered to passers-by in the streets, yet they offered him a place to belong, a place where his immense size was not seen as a freakish handicap, but as a simple draw of the cards. Slowly, Akan began to realize that life was little more than a game of chance, and it was at that exact point that what remained of his innocence crumbled to dust, ignored and soon forgotten.

Thus it was that his parents' attempts to persuade him into the good, honest life of one of York's finer missionary societies fell upon deaf ears, and he chose, instead, to travel with his friends to London, with its promise of more targets to dupe and more money to be made. One by one, however, his friends were seduced by traveling recruiters, intent on hiring more and more young scoundrels to sail the sea in a burgeoning, though technically illegal, slave industry. Once again, Akan found himself alone, and it was at this moment that he met young Thomas Huxley, also living his life as a street hustler, though with a stronger moral backbone than his former friends possessed. At that time, Huxley espoused a philosophy that roughly equated Thomas Tusser's infamous adage: a fool and his money are soon parted, and young masters Huxley and Akan found that their personal style suited one another in such a way that a partnership could be formed between them. Even now, as Akan thought back on that day and recalled the thick aroma of Turkish coffee in the air, he realized that this was perhaps the single worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life.

Though they enjoyed moderate success early on in their partnership, the two of them pulling schemes that were told years after in pubs and taverns as if part of some ancient mythology--the incident at Reading came immediately to mind, in which Huxley convinced a group of a dozen young drunken men that their destiny laid with the British Navy, relieved them of all their drinking money, and set them adrift on the River Thames in a rented boat with the implanted notion that they were the preliminary force in a large-scale invasion of France--Huxley was becoming increasingly difficult to work with as his plans became more and more grandiose. This led, of course, to his idea of stealing a rough map traced by Dr. Livingstone, who had become loosened by a constant stream of celebratory beverages purchased by none other than Huxley himself, a plan ultimately leading to Akan's current incarceration and impending sale. He had done his best to stay strong in the preceding days, to never speak a word, though he gave encouraging looks and glances at the captive villagers around him, and through him, they became just as strong--with the will and determination of two men.

Now, as he listened to the approaching footsteps outside his cell, he resolved to keep calm, to not look his captor in the eyes or even acknowledge his existence, much less his own subordinated status. He would give his so-called master no pleasure, only the cold stare of carved onyx.

The door creaked open, and voices carried from beyond the door, including one that seemed some how familiar. It was then that his hardened resolve was broken by sudden hope, and he turned just in time to see none other than Terrance Westmoreland--or at least a man who resembled Terrance Westmoreland, though with none of the quirks he had come to know--step into the cage, followed by Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia Pear, whose welfare he'd known nothing about since being taken captive.

"So what do you think?" asked Whelp.

Westmoreland pretended to look Akan up and down contemplatively, stroking his chin for added dramatic effect.

"I thought he'd be taller, to be honest," said Westmoreland, disappointment coating his words.

"Stand up," Whelp ordered, and Akan, feigning reluctance, obliged.

"Very good. I believe my employers will be very happy with this one. I should like to examine his muscles, though. Unshackle him."

"Pardon?" Whelp asked in disbelief.

"You say he has the strength of two men, and I'd like to be certain he's physically sound. Certainly there's no harm in this, is there? Is he well fed? Have his muscles atrophied? These are questions I must ask before any deal is be made, or else my employers will be extremely displeased," said Westmoreland, matter-of-factly. "You aren't trying to pull a scheme here, are you, Mr. Whelp?"

"No, no, of course not," said Whelp with a false grin, turning then to Higgins. "You heard the man, unshackle him."

"Yes, sir," said Higgins, his voice shaking. As large a man as he was, Akan still stood a few inches higher, and the very idea of an angry giant in an enclosed area sent a shiver down his spine. Nevertheless, he moved hesitantly closer toward Akan's bound wrists.

"Not to worry," Westmoreland said cheerily. "You're both armed, I take it?"

"Yes, of course," said Whelp before he and Higgins immediately drew their forgotten revolvers.

"As am I, just in case." At that, Westmoreland drew the long knife at his belt.

Higgins opened the locks on the giant's shackles, his own hands quivering the entire time, and then stepped quickly back, his gun at the ready.

"All right then, Mr. Akan, please extend your arm forward, and let's have a look at how strong you really are," said Westmoreland.

"Funny thing," remarked Whelp, "how on Earth did you know his name?"

In one swift motion, Westmoreland reached out to Akan's outstretched hand and planted the knife in his massive grip before wheeling himself about and drawing a revolver of his own.

"All right then," said the former porter, "let's be on our way."

Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia all paused, dumbfounded.

Day 148 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 27

After a short wait, Higgins returned to where Whelp and Virginia stood waiting with an invitation to negotiate, which Whelp impetuously and greedily accepted. Thus, Higgins led the way through the streets of Zanzibar, just past one edge of the market, where rows of rough booths lined the streets and the clamor of haggling voices and the ringing of bells around the necks of a small herd of goats filled the air. Virginia was overwhelmed by the foreign smells that surrounded her, penetrating every pore of her skin and clothing--the heavy scent of curried spice, above all, laced with the aroma of jasmine, like a firm, steady thread weaving all these strange sensations together, though the foundation, beneath it all, consisted of the ever-present hint of waste, both animal and human. She wrinkled her nose as they were ushered to a near-vacant tavern, the back room of which was cordoned off by a purple silken sheet suspended from the ceiling.

"In here," said Higgins, pulling the sheet aside and revealing a separate room adorned with a single table, at which sat a solitary figure, though neither Whelp nor Virginia could discern his face from their angle.

"Very good," said Whelp. "Wait here."

"And what of me?" asked Virginia, wrenching her arm free from Whelp's unconscious grip, most likely brought about by his own nerves.

"You're coming in here with me, my dear. Come see the price we've put on a man's life. I believe you may find it enlightening."

"I doubt that," she scoffed. "Exactly what is it that you have against me, Whelp? Why do continually try to damage and destroy my beliefs, my faith?"

Whelp smiled politely. "Have you wondered why I haven't killed you, Ms. Pear? Have you wondered what your fate is to be? Well, this is it. I want only to crush your idealism, to hold your eyes open that you may see how what a horrid, wretched place this world truly is. Tomorrow I leave here, and I leave you behind, and once alone, perhaps, you may witness the way the world operates and how ill-suited such a thing as faith or hope is in this life. Here, there is no God to watch over us; we watch over ourselves. That is your punishment, Ms. Pear. That is your punishment for daring to judge me."

Virginia said nothing in return but now hoped, more than ever, that the man waiting on the other side of the curtain was Thomas Huxley, prepared to take her away from all of this. Whelp pushed her through, and as she stumbled across the threshold, he entered on her heels so that when they saw the face of the man before them, their reactions were simultaneous. Whelp grinned, and Virginia simply stared in astonishment. The fellow at the table was not, in fact, Thomas Huxley. Rather, he was a short, thin man with hair the color of the African desert. A bored, impatient look was fixed on his face, and he ceased rapping his fingers against the table and looked up at his guests with a warm smile.

"Hello," said the man, "my name is Terrance Westmoreland, and I'm here to buy your man."

Whelp nodded with an appraising look in his eye, sizing up the man before him in terms of possible value. He, of course, never had the opportunity to meet Westmoreland the porter. Virginia, on the other hand, was forced to pretend that she had never seen the man before in her entire life. At the sight of Virginia, Westmoreland indeed grew suddenly nervous, praying that she would say nothing to spoil his deception. Quickly, though, a silent bond was formed between the two of them, sealed by the determined looks in their respective eyes. Virginia would say nothing to ruin the plan, and Westmoreland would keep his calm about him at all times.

"I welcome all offers," said Whelp, wringing his hands. "But I feel I must warn you, my giant is not cheap. He's a rarity, after all--a miracle of nature blessed with the strength of two men, and I daresay that any gentleman would be lucky to own him."

"You received my gift, I take it?"

"The diamond? Yes, it was very intriguing, I must admit. It is the first black diamond I've ever seen."

Westmoreland smiled. "You might also be intrigued to know that I sent two of them."

"Ah, well," Whelp replied, "in that case, I'll have to arrange a chat with Mr. Higgins about the retention of my property. Once I'm in more advantageous company, of course. He's quite a large man."

"Indeed. So shall we get down to business?"

"Very well, I'm a merchant first and foremost. Legitimate, I might add," he said, flashing an arrogant glance toward Virginia. "First, may I ask, whom do you represent? It isn't everyday that I run across another Englishman here in Zanzibar. Particularly one in my industry."

"My employers are Turks, sir, and I'll say no more about them. Though believe me when I say they are very wealthy men. They've sent me simply because they knew with whom they were dealing. Perhaps they thought the face of a countryman would be less disconcerting." Westmoreland sat back comfortably, obviously taking some amount of joy in his imposture. With a furtive smile he recalled his boyhood dream of becoming an actor and now felt that, if nothing else, a small parts of said dream had come true. He had adopted a higher class accent, very similar to Huxley's, to which he took naturally.

"Indeed," said Whelp. "Very well, then, what is your offer?"

Westmoreland pulled a small pouch from his pocket and emptied the contents on the surface of the table. Whelp and Virginia's eyes both grew wide as they watched the black diamonds scatter, only to be swept into a single heap by Westmoreland's quick hands.

"That is very impressive," Whelp stuttered.

Virginia stared at him, questioning with her eyes about where such remarkable gems had come, but Westmoreland ignored her completely, focused only on his job.

"This, Mr. Whelp, is just a down-payment. Think of it as an advance, in good faith. There are more where these came from. I will need a favor first, however."

"And what might that be?"

"I want to see your giant," said Westmoreland with a sly grin. "Up close."

Day 147 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 26

Virginia Pear lost track of time. It seemed like weeks since she had been snatched from the village with all of its people, bound in rope, and forced to endure a long journey by boat from the top deck, though she felt even worse for the Africans being kept below deck, knowing that they would almost certainly face a life of utter servitude in the ownership of the highest bidder. Frustrated by her own inabilities, both to help the people she had sworn to protect and discern which day of the week it now was, Virginia sulked in the room she had been given. It was a fine place, with plush furniture, intricately shaped pottery, and silk draperies that adorned the bed and windows, outside of which lay a bustling, busy town with the strong odor of mingled perfumes and spices. This, all along, had been Whelp's ultimate destination, a port called Zanzibar.

"The west is becoming an increasingly unwelcome place for men in my particular vocation," he had explained, "but the east--ah, the east!--is the gateway to the Arab world. Among the great Turks and in more distant reaches of the Orient, slaves are still fine commodities and worth their weight in barter."

Not long after arriving and procuring this particular room, which was under scrutinous guard at all times by no fewer than two of his men, Whelp made a point of venturing to the market, the heart of Zanzibar, and returning with several fineries for her presumed pleasure, but Virginia found no happiness in the soft, welcoming dresses. In their fabrics, she saw only the colors of blood and gold, yet she was forced to wear them, as if Whelp could force her to enjoy such a moment. Even as she sulked, she wore one, unwilling to take what comfort it afforded. She saw it all as an effort to buy her soul, a simple trade of the pious life to which she was once so devoted for a life of luxury, and that was all that it was. In Whelp she saw no romantic intention, no true evidence that he wanted her in any shape or form. He wanted only to see the gleeful smile on her face as she finally gave into the greed that lies in wait in the heart of every man and woman, a force that sometimes must be cajoled, if only to illuminate her own hypocrisy, but Virginia Pear was a strong woman, both in faith and mind, and was not so easily swayed.

Thus came the day that Whelp had been anxiously awaiting: the day that his newly acquired slaves were to be marketed, and as he milled through the busy streets, his body practically vibrated with excitement, imagining the amount he would make on the giant alone. Already, he'd had several whispered offers, all of which he immediately rejected with demeaning laughter, though he had heard rumors of others with interest and far greater things to offer than silk and spice. First, however, he meant to collect Virginia, so that she could be there to see all her hard work sold off for mere coin. It wasn't exactly that Edward Whelp was a cruel man--he was, honestly, nothing more than a spiteful man who abhorred the notion that he was inherently evil. When he finally reached her room, retrieving her with a wide grin on his face, she went solemnly with him, her mouth firmly shut and tongue stilled.

It was then, as they made their way back toward the market, that Whelp was approached by one of his own men, a tall brute he knew only as Higgins, who bent low, cupping his hand to Whelp's ear and whispering in confidence.

"There's a man who'd like to make you an offer," he said.

"Is that so? I imagine there are many men in his position. Tell him he can make a public offer like the rest of them."

"He said you might say that. He also said that he can offer you something far greater than the rest of them."

"Did he? Well, now I'm intrigued. Did he happen to mention exactly what this offer is?"

"No."

"Well, do you have a name? A description? Anything?"

"Well, that's the thing. See, he's an Englishman."

"An Englishman? Here?" Whelp's eyes went wide, and his lower lip began to quiver ever so slightly. Virginia, listening in on the otherwise private conversation, smiled smugly.

"No," said Whelp. "It can't be. Tell me it wasn't Huxley."

"I can't say for sure, sir. Never saw him rightly back in the jungle. He did, though, say to give you this."

Higgins opened a meaty paw, and tucked in the crevices of his palm was a small, dark jewel. Whelp swiped it quickly and held it up to the light, admiring the black clouds frozen beneath the hard surface of the gem.

"My God, what is this? It looks like a black diamond," Whelp remarked. "Is there such a thing? There must be. After all, here it is."

"He said this one's for you no matter what, and that there's a whole lot more where it came from."

"Well, then, Mr. Higgins, why don't you go find our new friend? I believe we have some business to discuss."

Day 146 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 25

Huxley awoke to the smell of smoke, thick and pungent. His nostrils flared, and he let out a cough that shook his entire body, which then lay limp once again on the ground. Summoning all the strength he could, he lifted himself from the dirt and looked about, finding himself mysteriously by the bank of the river, from which he could see the flickering flames and thick plumes of black smoke emanating from the village. He began to wonder if he had somehow been able to drag himself to safety when there came a rustle from the brush, and out stepped Terrance Westmoreland, heading from the direction where the village had once been.

"You're awake, sir!" said the former porter, genuine surprise evident in his voice.

"Westmoreland? What are you doing here?"

"Well, sir, the other men didn't need me so much. They were quite anxious to get away, you understand, so they went on toward the northern river. Don't get me wrong, I very much would've liked to have run along with them, but I thought, sir, that I might be of more assistance to you than you yourself may have guessed."

"Did you pull me from the village?"

"Yes, sir. I did. What's happened here?" asked Westmoreland, marveling at the enormous fire burning in the distance.

"The slavers--they were too many for us. I thought my initial plan had some merit, though I fully expected at least a few casualties on our side, but instead, things seemed to have gone to hell. Have you found anyone? Any sign of other survivors in the village?"

"Not a one, sir. No bodies, either, for that matter."

Tears had formed in his eyes, not out of any emotional response but, rather, due to the intense sting of polluted smoke. He wiped them away and sat still for a moment, his eyes completely closed and growing tighter and tighter in a firm grip of resolve.

"They must have taken Virginia with them, and Akan--they must have Akan, also."

"What do you propose we do, sir?"

Huxley opened his eyes and stared curiously at his former porter.

"We?" he asked. "Mr. Westmoreland, are you certain you're up to this? You have no obligations here now. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do, sir, but I'll not go home just to say that I've let down one of the finest explorers to ever hail from London, sir."

"Is that so?" Huxley muttered, rubbing a particularly sore scratch in his chin and wondering if the injury stemmed from his initial encounter with the ground after being knocked unconscious by Whelp's rifle butt or from being dragged a quarter of a kilometer across rough terrain.

"That's so, sir. I don't believe I could live with myself any other way."

"In that case, do you still have your pack, Westmoreland?"

"Of course, sir." He pointed to a lump on the ground, one that was barely recognizable in the distant firelight. He immediately collected it and sat it gently on the ground beside Huxley.

Huxley then rummaged through the pack, searching for anything he deemed helpful. Within were several scraps of food, some bandages, and a few fresh blankets; it wasn't much, but Huxley planned to use them all the same.

"Have you anything else?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Do you have any weapons? My revolver seems to be missing."

"I haven't seen it, I'm afraid, sir, and as far as guns go, I haven't anything with me. I've a long knife, though. It isn't much, but it'll cut through the thickest brush you can imagine."

Westmoreland unsheathed the knife from his belt and passed it to Huxley, who examined it in the sparse light, his eyes lingering upon it with the ferocious desire of a knight contemplating his sword.

"Brilliant," said Huxley. "I have a plan."

Day 145 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 24

"What do you think?" asked Whelp.

Virginia Pear had a fiery look in her eyes as she spat out her words.

"I think you're a very sick man."

She sat bound in a chair upon the top deck on Whelp's private boat, an old steamship that had been smuggled piece by piece and assembled on the central rivers of the Dark Continent, roaming them like a wayward serpent in need of constant prey.

"Yes, yes, I know, but I'm talking about my boat. It's custom made, you know, with a larger cargo space than you would typically find on vessels of this size."

"That isn't cargo you carry. They're human beings."

"Dear madam, I don't engage in this business for reasons of hatred and immorality. I care nothing about socio-political climates and the current fashions in domestic aid and human rights. No, you see, I'm in this purely for the money."

"You disgust me," replied Virginia with a snarl upon her lips.

"As you've reminded me several times already, but that doesn't change the fact that slave trading is still a very lucrative business. Even now, when the major European powers are busy outlawing the practice, there are still private citizens abroad who wish to deal with my kind, and they pay large sums of money for the product that I offer."

"And what are you to do with me? Sell me to the highest bidder? Throw my body to the wild animals of this continent? Force me to become your bride?"

"All very tempting, but no. I'm not one for such melodrama. To be perfectly honest, I haven't quite decided your fate yet. I do hope you won't be joining dear Thomas, though. That was such a shame, and I took no joy in leaving him to die like that."

"He'll survive," she muttered. "He'll survive, and he'll come after you."

A smile crept slowly upon Whelp's face, starting first as a light twitch in one corner of his mouth and broadly expanding as the lips parted and a roaring laugh burst from his maw.

"Tell me, Ms. Pear, how much do you know about Thomas Huxley?"

"Only what he's told me."

"Then every word was a lie," he said, taking great joy at the expulsion of his own words. It was a feeling he desperately attempted to savor, like the aftertaste of a fine wine fading rapidly from the tongue. "Thomas Huxley is--pardon me, was--an old associate of mine. We had our fair share of dealings and run-ins and, frankly, I'm legitimately surprised he never made it into the slave trade himself. He's a wicked man, Ms. Pear. Your hero is little more than a common thief."

Virginia said nothing. Her breaths became deep and rapid, as if a sudden jolt of fear or panic had stricken her chest. Beneath the tightly strung ropes, her body expanded and contracted.

"You're awfully quiet, Ms. Pear. Have you come to realize that what I'm saying is true? Have you put together all those little pieces, all those little mysteries that he left behind, those fragments of his stories that never quite seemed to fit into a singular frame? You've been had, my dear, though do take some comfort in knowing you were had by one of the best."

Whelp paced across the deck, circling around Virginia with a smile on his face as he watched his crew busy themselves with the navigation and propulsion of his boat. He quite felt like the commander of a navy, no matter how small. It was a feeling of utter power.

"I do wish I knew what he'd been up to here. There was an angle to it, I'm sure. Thomas could always play the angles, but then he had to be stupid. Oh well, it's a pity, and they say you should never speak ill of the dead."

Day 144 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 23

"Huxley, is that really you?"

"Edward Whelp?" said Huxley, attempting to confirm the seemingly improbable series of events that had occurred before his eyes.

"Yes, man! Yes! Good lord, it's been ages!"

"Yes, it has," Huxley simply replied.

"My God, man, when was the last time I saw you? Barcelona, was it?"

"Lisbon, actually." His voice was solemn, showing no surprise nor reciprocating the enthusiasm apparent in Edward Whelp's own words.

"Right, Lisbon. Right. What in God's name are you doing here?"

"I'm visiting, Edward."

"I didn't know you were here, honestly. If I had, we wouldn't have come marching in so soon. We could've at least given you a few days to clear out first! What's your racket this time, eh? I've been quite taken in the slave trade, myself. Pay isn't as grand as it was in the old days, they say, but I've gathered enough pennies to satiate my own needs, for sure. Same for you, I imagine?"

"Not quite, Edward. There's no racket this time."

"No racket?" Whelp exclaimed. "When you're around, Huxley, there's always a racket."

Huxley lowered his head and felt the heat of the fire collide against his forehead, and he prayed that Virginia could not hear this conversation from her hiding spot.

"Come now, Thomas, what are you playing at?"

"I've gone perfectly legitimate, and I'm asking you now to turn your men around and leave this village."

"What? What are you talking about?" The look on Whelp's face was a contorted mouth, hung agape, trying to make sense of the situation the only way he knew how--by applying the logic of a thief and scoundrel to everything around him. "Have you laid a claim to this place, Huxley? I'm all for competition, but I don't take well to threats."

"I'm not threatening you, and I am not your competition. I'm asking you politely to leave these people alone," said Huxley, and he could see the spite in the eyes of the men surrounding the fire, their rifles clenched tightly in their hands. "By all means, continue your activities, but not here--anywhere but here."

"Sorry, mate, but I'm afraid I can't do that. You see, we've run the figures. We're a professional enterprise, after all, and what with the illegality of our profession, we're forced to abide by our figures, and they're telling us that this is the best place to hit. This village isn't on any map, Huxley. Only the natives know it's here."

"That's not quite true," Huxley interjected, seeking any opportunity to knock holes in his former friend's argument.

"What do you mean?" Whelp asked with eyes as narrow as slits.

"Well, first of all, I'm obviously here, and I'm obviously not a native, am I?"

"No, I suppose not."

"That raises an interesting question, though," said one of Whelp's men, a lumbering fellow with only one eye. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"An interesting question, indeed!" said Whelp. "How do you know about this place, Huxley?"

"Livingstone. He passed through a few years back, and believe me, it's on a map, rough though it may be. There's even a mission here."

"What?"

"See for yourself. It's just down that path. They have a chapel."

Whelp stared incredulously, both at Huxley and at the darkened path that led further to the south, where the empty husk of the small chapel became visible in the torchlight after a scant few paces.

"So you see, Edward, if you do anything here, people will know, and they will come looking for you and your little band."

"Well, then, that does change things a bit," said Whelp, weighing his options carefully in his head. "I suppose that instead of simply taking a few of the natives, we'll have to take them all and leave a nice big scorch mark where this village used to be."

"No!" came a shout from the bushes, and the sound of a rifle being fired rang in the night like the roar of a lion. One of Whelp's men cried aloud and collapsed to the ground, his torch smothered by the scattering dirt in his wake.

"Look alive!" Whelp shouted, grabbing Huxley by the arm before he could slip away. "Forgive me for this, Huxley, but you must understand: it's business. Now get down on your knees."

With the clatter of two dozen rifles around him, Huxley hastily complied.

"Come out!" Whelp shouted. "Everyone out, or Huxley dies!"

After a moment, the bushes rattled, and two figures emerged from varied positions in the tree line. Virginia Pear and Akan stepped within light of the torches, their rifles held aloft before tossing them to the ground in an unmitigated act of surrender. The invaders marveled in turn at the woman and the giant before them.

"My God, Huxley, the size of this one! Do you have any idea how much he'll fetch on the open market? And the woman--ah, the woman!--you have fine taste, Huxley. You always have. Who is she?"

"I'm the missionary," she replied herself, her voice raw and spiteful.

"The missionary? There's only one, and it's a woman? Lord, Huxley, you certainly had me going there for a moment! Honest to God, I was legitimately worried!"

"Then you'll leave the village intact?" Huxley asked.

"Heavens, no, but I won't feel so bad about torching the place now," said Whelp with an unsettling grin. "I'll be taking your friends with me, along with all the natives. You know, Huxley, it's a pity our reunion had to go so poorly, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

Whelp grimaced and circled around Huxley's crouched frame. "I'm a fair man, though, Thomas, and you'll be given at least a fighting chance. Try not to sleep too long, old friend."

"What if I made you an offer? What if--" Huxley reached for the gems in his pocket, feeling their cold edges against his leg, and turned his head slightly when he felt the impact, the crushing blow of a rifle butt against the back of his head, and he slumped forward groggily, struggling to see through blurred eyes. As his body collapsed completely against the solid ground, the world around him went black.

Day 143 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 22

There, in an isolated section of the African jungle, existed no reliable device by which one could gauge time. Nevertheless, it was shortly after midnight when Akan, Huxley, and Virginia's waiting came to an end. It all began with the apparition of a torchlight on the northernmost edge of the town, just off the path leading to the river. It was a solitary torch, intended only to light the path for a single scout to slip into the village for a preliminary glance at any forms of defense that may lay in wait there. Finding no apparent, immediate cause for concern, the lone scout sounded a shrill whistle that would have sounded haunting and beautiful to Huxley, like the song of a distant bird never before seen by human eyes, had he no prior knowledge of the malicious intent of those who would reply to such a call.

Soon the single torch was joined by a host of others--a dozen altogether, each shared by two men, all of whom were armed with long rifles, the metal barrels of which reflected a matted sheen. They strode into the village silently, though with the outwardly confident demeanor of men who had already achieved the victory they sought. From his seat on the dirt in the middle of the village, tending the only lit campfire in the entire area, Huxley listened. He could hear their words echoing without effort through the paths of the village and around the rounded edges of the huts in which all the natives were now huddled, and he wondered how long it might be until he was spotted and confronted.

"This way. I think I see a fire," came a voice, wafting like smoke in the air.

Apparently, Huxley's wait was not a long one.

"There's someone there. Circle around him! Let's catch him off-guard."

"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," Huxley announced. "I already know you're there."

The invaders, surprised by the sudden outburst, especially in such an unexpected language as proper English, lowered their raised rifles and stood dumbfounded, confused, and awaiting further instruction.

A single, small figure pushed its way through the mass of idle men, cursing all the while about their lack of discipline and overgrown feet, and it emerged in the firelight, standing across from Huxley with a dark, bushy mustache and ill-fitted clothes that betrayed a round belly beneath tight, constricting fabrics that were intended to give the illusion of a better, more manlier fitness. When his eyes met Huxley's, the stranger was taken aback, now imitating the men he had just chided.

"Thomas?" said the stranger. "Thomas Huxley?"

"I'll be damned," Huxley muttered in return.

Day 142 - Huxley's Guide to the Dark Continent - Part 21

"What?"

Huxley cleared his throat nervously. "They've all gone," he repeated.

"All?" she asked, her voice bordering on a plea.

"I'm afraid so."

"Have they at least left their weapons?"

"The rifles? No, apparently I don't own them. Well, either that or I've just been robbed, but this isn't the time and place to complain about such a thing."

"It is when we've been left defenseless!" she cried.

"Point taken. Perhaps I should have pressed them somewhat harder."

"No," she said, wiping her eyes. In the fire glow, Huxley could discern the redness within them, and the glistening tears that clung in their corners. "You were right to give them a choice."

"Tell me, then. What do we have?"

"I've my two rifles, and you've your pistol."

"You, Akan, and me--three guns for three men."

Virginia flashed a look that Huxley barely caught in the flickering light.

"Sorry, three persons, I meant to say. Better?"

"Much."

"You'll have to forgive me; I'm not accustomed to the sight of a lady with a rifle. It seems quite foreign, exotic."

"I'm a lady of the modern age, sir," she replied, a look of calm determination taking hold of her face. "I regret to inform you that we are terribly vexing."

"Ah. Brilliant."

"You say you have a plan, Mr. Huxley? Let's here it, then."

"Very well, my dear. How well-versed are you in the history of dear Mother England?"

She considered this for a moment before retorting with: "Somewhat, though I fail to see what this has to do with anything."

"Well, then, walk with me," he said with a grin, taking off through the village to find Akan and the small collection of weapons that they collectively owned. "You see, Ms. Pear, they say one must look to the past for answers to the present."

"Who says that? I've never heard it before."

"Bear with me, madam."

"Right. Sorry."

"As I was about to say, there is much to be learned from England's past, including her losses. Now, I've never been to America myself. It sounds like a wretched place, by all accounts, thus I've traded one jungle for another. Ah, there he is! Quickly, Ms. Pear, this way."

They headed toward the site of the expedition's former camp, where an enormous figure sat patiently by a fire--a darkened silhouette of a man that now contemplated his own silence and the possible repercussions of his lies should he at last speak up.

"Their war for independence, however," Huxley continued, "was supposedly a sight to behold. After all, they had but loose militias of farmers and laborers--no unified, standing army to speak of, at least at the onset. So how was it that they were able to match the sheer power of the British army?"

"You tell me, Mr. Huxley. I'm afraid I don't keep up with military history."

The truth was: neither did Thomas Huxley, but he hoped his small fragment of knowledge at least sounded convincing.

"Say what you will about Americans, their hygiene, and what passes for literature in their nation, but they can be exceedingly clever. They adopted non-traditional forms of combat. The British army was still being trained to travel and fight in strict regimental form. They were used to more geometric warfare, if you will. The Americans, however, used their landscape to their own advantage, hiding behind trees and taking shots at the enemy and that sort of thing."

"So you want us to hide and hopefully shoot all the slavers from cover, then, right?"

"Well, yes," Huxley replied, rather irritated that he didn't have the chance to explain his plan himself.

"Why didn't you just say that to begin with? It would've saved the both of us some time."

"Well, Ms. Pear, if you haven't noticed by now, I am quite in love with the sound of my own voice."

"Obviously," she scoffed.

"Come, Akan," called Huxley as they reached the camp, causing his friend to lift himself from the makeshift bench. "Care to hear the plan?"

"We're to take shots at the enemy from hiding," Virginia said plainly.

"Good Lord, Virginia," Huxley sighed.

"What?"

"Can I please detail my own plan at least once?"

She shook her head. "Fine."

"Oh, it's no use now. The moment has passed. Though a correction is in order: the two of you are going to take shots at the enemy from hiding. I, on the other hand, have something else in mind."

"And what would that be?" Virginia asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I'm going to use my most powerful weapon, of course. I'm going to talk to them, my dear."

"Are you mad?"

"No, but we've only the two rifles. I have my revolver, but it will do little good from so far a distance. I want the both of you to listen closely, and the moment things turn sour, open fire. Hopefully that'll prove enough of a distraction to allow me to find shelter and take a few down in the process. How's that?"

Akan stared at him grimly, in a silence not born of lies, rather out of a lack of anything meaningful to say.

"I suppose that will work," said Virginia. "I've no better idea, at any rate."

"Good. Let's hope they come soon or not at all. I've no desire to waste an entire night sitting out here awake and alone."

"Neither do I."

"Well, then, my friends, to your positions."