"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.
"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.
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