by Mel Odom
The span between the tenement they were on and the next was twelve feet. The second tenement was also a story shorter. Ngola and Drury easily leaped the distance, survived the cascade of broken tiles skidding underfoot as they fought to remain balanced, and kept going.
Two buildings farther on, the next structure dropped another story, and they continued on. Three buildings later, with pursuit barely in sight, they reached a low livery well ahead of Botelho and his crew. They made the drop into the small building that stank of hay and horse dung, and jogged into a nearby market crowd, disappearing at once into the ranks of people similarly dressed. The aroma of spices and cooked meat sailed around the vendors’ stalls.
“Well,” Drury said with a smile once he’d caught his breath, “that was fun.”
“We’ve walked into better traps.” Ngola hunched over a little, losing some of his height so he wouldn’t stand out as much. It was a trick he’d learned long ago. Beneath his burnoose, he reloaded the Ketland without looking at the weapon. Since Drury’s hands weren’t visible, he knew the Irishman was reloading his weapon as well.
“True, but the rooftop escape did cut things close.” Drury swung his arm as if testing it. “And I don’t think my shoulder will ever be the same again.”
Ngola looked back the way they’d come and spotted the first of the Portuguese sailors as they reached the marketplace. “We need to get back to the ship.”
He angled toward the nearest alley, staying behind the canvas covered market stalls so they would be out of sight.
“If Machado knew we were dogging his trail, he could attack Mambele,” Drury said. The Irishman kept watch as well and remained beside and slightly behind Ngola.
After taking the ship from the British crew that had sailed her, Ngola had renamed the vessel after his chosen weapon. Both of those things were dedicated to striking into the hearts of slavers.
“If Machado was brave enough to do that, he would have done so already,” Ngola answered. “He doesn’t want to look down our guns. That’s why we didn’t see his ship in the harbor. He’s hidden her while he searches for his prize.”
“What do you think he’s looking for?”
Ngola shook his head as he stepped into the cool shadows of the alley. The fetid stink of garbage filled his nostrils. Cats leaped among the piles of trash.
“Machado likes the idea of treasures, but there are so many stories about such things, I wouldn’t want to guess which one.” Ngola checked the alley behind them and saw no one. “We’ll find this witch woman and see what she knows.”
*
“Captain! Over here!”
Swinging his head to track Joao’s voice, Ngola spotted the young crewman lounging in the shade of small marketplace constructed of felled trees. The building was primitive, but a lot of shoppers milled in front of it, waiting to get in. Ngola had chosen the location as a meeting place because of the high local traffic. Visitors, like the Portuguese, would stay away for the most part.
Ngola started to ask about the young woman he’d directed Joao to follow, then he spotted her sitting on the ground at the young man’s feet. Clad in a burnoose, she looked much different than the defenseless child he’d seen earlier.
“You took her by yourself?” Ngola asked.
Joao was a killer, skilled and merciless, but he was still a young man. Sometimes when Ngola looked at the man, he saw his own son as he would be in a few years. But Ngola prayed that Emeka would never know the harsh life Joao had lived.
“It was the will of the gods,” Joao said solemnly. “There was a gunfight in the town. I took advantage of the distraction and liberated the girl and the man. The man ran away, but the girl remained, so I brought her with me. I thought that was what you would want.”
“It was, but you shouldn’t take so many chances.”
Joao looked troubled, afraid he had disappointed his mentor.
“Don’t mind him,” Drury said with a grin. “Ask the captain who started the gunfight.”
A bright grin turned Joao’s face into youthful exuberance. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”
“Another time.” Ngola clapped the younger man on the shoulder and approached the young woman, who rose to her feet.
She stood silently, her eyes not meeting his.
“What is your name, girl?” Ngola asked.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze then, and Ngola was glad to see that her spirit had not been broken. “I am called Yalua, Captain, and I will not give myself to you simply because you have stolen me away from the man who bought me.”
“I only want you to go free. I am no man who takes a woman against her will.”
After a moment, she nodded, but she did not regard him with any true trust.
“Do you have family nearby?” Ngola asked.
“Not in town, but farther up the river, yes.” Her eyes grew bright. “My home is a long way from here.”
“I’m seeking a woman. A witch named Delfina. Have you heard of her?”
“I have.” Fear tightened Yalua’s face. “She is a bad woman to know. She deals with spirits and evil things that live in the jungle’s shadow.” She shivered.
“Can you tell me how to find her?”
“Yes. Delfina lives not far from my village. I will show you the way to her home, but I will not go there.” The girl shuddered. “They say that once you go there, you never return.”
“Direction to her will be all that I ask, child. Now let’s get you somewhere safe.” Ngola headed toward the harbor and where Mambele lay anchored.
4.
Up the Congo
Before daybreak, Ngola roused and gave orders to put one of Mambele’s longboats into the water. Fully provisioned with a week’s supply of food and fresh water, the craft was near to overfull by the time Ngola clambered aboard with Drury, Joao, and the five other crewmen he’d chosen for the hunt.
Yalua, clad in breeches and a blouse that were too big for her, sat in the boat’s stern. Ngola didn’t know how much the girl had managed to sleep aboard a ship filled with hardened and near-savage sailors like Mambele’s crew, though none would dare touch her while she was under the captain’s protection, but she looked better for it. Her face was clean and unblemished, and she appeared hopeful.
“Fair winds, Captain,” Olamilekan called from Mambele’s railing overhead. He was old and broad, gray haired and gray bearded, a warrior on land and sea with the scars to show for it. “Safe travels till your return.”
Ngola didn’t bother to point out to Drury that the Irishman should have stayed with the ship since he was the second in command. When Drury had shown up with his kit, Ngola had known he would lose any argument in that regard. Olamilekan wasn’t a captain, but he was a good sailor, and no one would capture Mambele while he still breathed.
“Make sure you care of my ship, you old pirate,” Ngola replied.
Olamilekan laughed, and the full sound of his humor rolled over the water. “Of course I will. If you do not come back, she will be my ship.”
Ngola grinned and set his feet as he took up his oar. At his command, the crew stroked for the mouth of the Congo River to the north of the port city. Gulls flashed white against the blue sky and their cries pierced the quiet rush of the sea and the splash of water against the longboat’s hull. He pulled through on the oar and looked forward to catching Machado. Mambele was in good hands, but he knew he and his hand-picked crew were risking their lives on his chosen venture.
*
“Do you think she’s lost?” Drury sat with his back to a tall tree at the campsite. He held his Baker flintlock rifle across his knees as he kept watch over the night’s shadows draped over the surrounding jungle.
“No.” Ngola drank from the cup of stew he held. The tin was still hot in his hands. “I think she doesn’t remember the route home accurately because when she was taken she was terrified. And by her own admission, she never traveled far from her village. We’ll give our journey another d
ay and see where we are.”
“The problem is that all the tributaries feed the river.” The Irishman scowled and the flickering flames of the campfire barely lifted the expression from the encroaching darkness. “There are far too many to ease my mind. If we get twisted up out here, we might not find our way home again without some serious searching.” He slapped his arm. “And that’s if the blasted mosquitos haven’t drained us down to the bone.”
Ngola chuckled at his friend’s plight. “Living on the ship has made you soft.”
Drury sighed. “I have to admit, I miss my bed.”
Ngola drank down the remnants of the stew and glanced at the campsite. The girl slept alone under an A-frame tent scarcely big enough to hold her. The other sailors from Mambele slept under similar structures. The tents were staked in place, scattered around the campfire. To the south, the longboat rested on dry land, well up out of the dark river that rolled endlessly to the sea.
They’d spent two days rowing against the slow current, and Ngola knew that Drury wasn’t the only one growing reluctant about the journey. His sailors didn’t care for being too far from the ship in unknown lands filled with stories of devils and demons and mysterious creatures. Even Ngola had noticed the chill that filled the dark jungle filled with unseen eyes.
Drury stood and took up his rifle. “You should get some sleep. I’m coming to get you for your watch in a few hours.”
Ngola nodded and got up as well. He bade his friend good night, then made his way to his bed. He tried to lull himself to sleep with thoughts of his wife and child, but all the old tales of Africa and Haiti rolled through his thoughts instead.
Monsters existed, and some were fiercer than the murdering Portuguese captain he now trailed. He did not doubt that some lurked in the surrounding shadows.
*
“Captain.”
Surprised at the girl’s voice interrupting the quiet eddying river, Ngola glanced back to where she sat in the longboat’s stern. Even though it was day, the trees were so thick overhead that only errant rays of sun pierced the foliage. Everything was green, even the water he pulled the oar through.
“Aye, girl. What do you want?”
Yalua pointed at yet another tributary that branched off the one they currently followed. Her mouth was set in a hard line and fright gleamed in her dark eyes. “That is the way you must go.”
“How do you know?” Drury’s patience had worn thin, rubbed raw by the reluctance that grew within him, and he frowned. “All of these water troughs look the same.”
“Because of that tree.” Yalua wrapped her arms around herself and stared at a lightning blasted red ironwood tree that once might have towered over a hundred feet tall.
The tree trunk was at least three feet thick, but the tree ended abruptly sixty feet or so up. Over the years since the lightning strike, the red-brown bark had fallen away in many places, leaving the dulled yellow flesh exposed to the elements.
About thirty feet from the ground, someone had carved an old woman’s face and stained it white. The image was at least three or four feet tall. In addition to the corpse-like skin, the face had large eyes ringed in bright green that matched the irises. Her hair, also white, lay in a weave above her ears, which were adorned with large hoops. Her neck was just a spine pillowed in loose flesh and a gray and black snake wound around her shoulders.
All of the men stopped rowing, staring at the apparition in astonishment.
“Well,” Drury said, “she certainly believes in advertising.”
“This is not a welcome,” Yalua whispered. “It is a warning. The witch controls the jungle in this place. She kills those who earn her wrath, which is a thing very easy to do.”
“We’re only here to talk with her,” Ngola said, more for his crew than for the girl. They needed to believe in his words. “She will point us the way to Machado, and we will kill the slaver captain. We will accomplish our task.” He put his oar back into the water. “Now pull, you dogs.”
5.
“She Will Break Your Bones!”
“Well, the crone’s certainly staked her claim.” Drury sat in the longboat and stared at the yellowing skeletons hanging from wooden crosses leaning haphazardly along the bank.
Ngola’s hand rested firmly on the Baker rifle at his side. He identified the rotted remains of seven humans, three alligators, and at least a dozen snakes tied to the crosses with leather straps. The straps had been secured while wet, and as the leather had dried, the straps had drawn up tight. The bands dug deeply into the bloated flesh that stubbornly clung to the bodies of men and animals.
Other dead things hung there as well, but the gathering darkness made identifying them all but impossible. Ngola was more concerned about living things that would harm them.
“Are you certain you still want to do this, Captain?” Drury gazed around as they drifted toward shore. He had one hand on his rifle.
“Aye. We’ve come too far to turn back now.” Ngola gave the order and they steered for the bank.
The dense foliage above almost rendered the jungle in full darkness. Sunset was only minutes away and would strip whatever light remained. Ngola had pressed on primarily because there had been no suitable campsites until this clearing. Brambles and brush choked the riverbanks, grown so thick a man equipped with a machete would have taken hours to break through, and most of the ground appeared to be drowned in foul-smelling swamp water.
A moment later, the longboat scraped along the bank in the shallows. Ngola pulled his oar into the boat and got out, helping the crew drag the craft onto dry land. After they hid the craft under thick brush as well as they could, Ngola ordered the men to take up their weapons and packs of food and water.
“I can stay with the boat.” Yalua stood by the hidden boat and held herself tight.
She remained angry that Ngola had not allowed her to leave the crew earlier. The captain hadn’t been comfortable with releasing the girl into such inhospitable lands. He had promised her that he would return her to her village once he’d finished his mission.
“You’re coming with us,” Ngola said.
“I do not wish too.”
Ngola narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going to leave you behind to be eaten by whatever may live in this place.”
“Better to be eaten by a beast than to face the witch.” Her chin tilted up stubbornly.
Irritation flared inside Ngola and he knew he wasn’t going to allow her to do as she wanted. Before he could speak, Drury walked toward the young woman.
“It would be in your best interests to do as the captain has suggested,” the Irishman said. “Otherwise, I will tie you up, gag you, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you. I won’t trouble myself to be gentle. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The acknowledgement came thin and hard, chipped out between her teeth. She stepped forward as if her feet were made of lead.
“Captain,” Joao called from a short distance down the riverbank. He stood near a copse of trees and pulled them aside to reveal three longboats hidden among the brush.
Joining Joao, Ngola searched the boats, finding nothing but trash and a couple of Portuguese wine bottles. It was enough to convince him Machado had found his way to the witch as well.
“Well, it appears we’ve come in the right direction,” Drury commented in a dry voice.
“Perhaps.” Ngola glanced at the bodies on the crosses. There was no way to tell if the dead men had been white or black at this point. “Or they were left here by visitors who came before us.”
“The witch has killed them,” Yalua said. “She kills everyone who troubles her. She will break your bones and suck the marrow.”
Ngola reached into his boot and pulled out one of these knives he carried there. The eight-inch long blade, sharpened on both sides, jutted out from a slim bone handle yellow with age. “Here.” He offered the weapon to the young woman.
Eying the knife, Yalua hesitated.
“Take it,” Ngola sa
id. “In case whatever lurks in this place gets by us. You’ll need to defend yourself.”
Taking the knife carefully by the hilt, Yalua balanced it in her hands for a moment and tested the edge with her thumb. Yelping in surprise when the steel cut into her flesh, she drew her hand away and licked the drop of blood from her wounded thumb.
“Be careful with it and the knife will serve you well.” Turning then, Ngola nodded to Joao and the lithe young warrior took up the lead.
*
Joao followed game trails through the thick tangles of trees and brush, much of which insisted on having thorns. He kept an arrow nocked in the short bow he carried. His blunderbuss, loaded with shot, hung over his left shoulder.
Only a few feet behind the younger man, Ngola moved quietly with his cutlass naked in one hand and a pistol in the other. Unseen things slithered on the ground, hid in the dark foliage, and scurried through the treetops.
His crew used their cutlasses and rifle barrels to shift through the jungle as they tried to remain small and wary. The stink of fear hung in a fog over them, like the relentless cloud of mosquitoes that pursued them, but they foraged on. None of them would dare leave Ngola. They didn’t fear his wrath as much as they did not want to lose his protection. There was safety in numbers, and they had seen their captain fight in dozens of battles.
Only a short time later, Joao halted and pointed.
Pausing beside the younger man, Ngola squinted through the darkness and spotted the small campfire flickering gold and crimson tongues in a tiny clearing. The burning coals and twisting flames barely illuminated much beyond the campfire, but the outlines of the hut gradually emerged.
Made of sticks and bundles of dried grasses, the hut measured about ten feet to a side and stood two feet off the ground so it would not be within easy reach of snakes, lizards, and crocodiles. Something moved along the front roof and Ngola barely made out the white-backed vulture as it swiveled its light gray head so that it could eye him better. The carrion feeder was large, and usually the adults had wingspreads of six and seven feet.
