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."
"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."
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