Donn groaned and stuck his head between his knees.
“I say I’m going to be sick.” He got up and staggered out of the firelight. Winjah heard the sound of retching. A knock on the head, he said to himself. Do it every time.
But Donn wasn’t sick over the club blow. He had not told Winjah the truth. After Buck threw him the rifle, Donn had panicked. Dawn was screaming beside him. He could not close the bolt—a cartridge had jammed, coming up cockeyed from the receiver, bending against the bore. He had grabbed Dawn’s wrist and run for the donga. Just as they neared the edge, a Tok club caught her on the knee and she fell, pulling loose from his grasp. He turned and worked the bolt once more. Still jammed. The Tok were coming through the grass, short lumpy men, bounding high and scuttling low, spears slashing the brush, glinting in the light, their wide green eyes gleeful at the impending kill. Stones from their slings whistled and cracked overhead. Dawn, looking up at him, her face a mask of horror.
He had thrown down the rifle, plunged into the ravine, over the lip where the bogo had hung, down, down into the vines and thorns and brush. And then, only then, momentary unconsciousness when his head smacked a rock.
But that was not the worst of it.
Creeping up to the top of the donga—how long? Twenty minutes later perhaps—he had seen the Tok exulting over his wife. They had her trussed like a deer, wrists and ankles bound to a bamboo pole, her head twisting and turning, her hair uncoiled now, hanging blonde in the dying light, writhing like pale fire. Bucky limp, unconscious, on another pole. And the rifle, unaccountably, still where Donn had thrown it. He snaked an arm out to recover the weapon, cleared the bore of the bent cartridge, eased another home, and then climbed over the edge of the ravine. The Tok spotted him instantly, his wife a moment later.
“Donn!” she had screamed. “Shoot me! Please, please, please!”
And he had tried. With the last Tok stones whistling past him, with the Tok running off now, carrying Buck and Dawn with them on the poles, he had held for her head, seeing her face huge through the scope, bouncing, concentrating his eyes through the glass as he had through so many camera lenses, knowing that this would be better than what she feared—the rain coming down harder now, the darkness falling, the scarp and the land of the Tok ahead—but when he shot, he missed. As he knew he would.
Her face, the last glimpse he had of it, was empty, fallen in resignation.
Winjah was talking with Lambat and the others, no doubt getting their side of the story. Donn saw the hunter look over at him now and then in the course of the gesticulate narrative, his face somber. He didn’t care what they thought. He was desolate, desperate—no, too wiped out for desperation. Maybe later.
“Bwana.” It was Otiego, hunkering down beside him, his face thoughtful, quiet, perhaps even compassionate. Cruel as they could be to outsiders, Donn realized, these people understood loss within the group, felt it deeply. Otiego fumbled at his shirt pocket and came out with a plastic bag of bhangi. He smiled and gestured back in the direction of the burned-out camp. Must have salvaged it, thank God and Otiego. His Zig Zags were in the bag, too. Donn rolled a bomber and lit up, offering Otiego the first heavy toke. The Turkana smiled and smoked. They finished that one and then did another. Donn would have rolled a third, spreading as he was now on the night surf of euphoria, but a sudden pang of paranoia hit him: He’d better start conserving this stuff. They might be up there on the plateau for quite a while.
“Two of the horses survived the massacre,” Winjah said, walking up to the fire. “If the lions don’t get them tonight, we’ll round them up in the morning. Then you can ride back to White Legs with Red Blanket. Take one of the trucks and make for Palmerville. You can ask the police chief there for army help. Perhaps they’ll have a helicopter in working order. Meanwhile, the boys and I will head up top and see what we can do.”
“Hunh?” said Donn. Winjah stared down at him. More gone than he’d thought.
“Oh, please,” said the hunter. “Well, I’ll explain it all in the morning.”
“But I want to go up there with you,” Donn said, suddenly awake again. “I’ve got to go up there.”
“No,” Winjah said flatly. “Look, we’ll be moving fast and very quietly, and in no great comfort. Cold camps. No tents. Sleeping under hides. Eating biltong if anything at all. Not your style, Bwana. Not a bit of it.”
“Waddaya mean? Waddaya mean?” Donn was fighting the spin of the grass. “I’ve camped cold in the Absaroka, in the Bitterroots. I’ve packed in and gone for days on beans and fried trout, berries and snowmelt. I’m … I’m fit, Bwana. And I have to go up there with you.”
“Look, Donn. I’m trained to this sort of thing. This is my profession. And more than that, my responsibility.” Once more the rage at having been suckered by the Tok, suckered into leaving what they clearly were after all along, unprotected save by one rifle in the hands of a besotted journalist—the rage swept through Winjah like a grass fire. “And anyway, you can’t shoot.”
“I can shoot!”
“The boys told me.” He stuck that one into Donn, with his eyes, and turned the handle.
“But I couldn’t shoot her, Bwana. Not my wife. Not even with her pleading that way. And I was shook, shocked, knocked back on my haunches by the way they came at us. I’m over that now.” He saw them again behind his eyelids, squat and quick, the spears and the swaying erections. “I just … I just …”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Winjah said, rising. “Right now I’ve got to get the lads to work drying out some biltong. You catch some sleep. I’ll send Red Blanket with half the bogo hide, once he’s scraped the hair and the dried shit off of it.”
Donn lay back with his boots under his head as a pillow, his right side toasted by the fire, his left wet with the dew. The rain clouds had piled higher now over the scarp, black mounds that shifted and rumbled against the stars, lit occasionally from deep within by green lightning. He dozed and dreamed of Tok. Then he heard Red Blanket come, felt the heavy limp hide fall over his chest, and fell finally to sleep with the smell of raw meat in his nostrils.
19
PRIAPIC PIPSQUEAK
Some shvantzes, thought Buck. So that’s where all the legends of Priapus come from. They’re an old, old people, sure enough, but they just as sure ain’t us. Bucky had regained consciousness halfway up the scarp, his head split with pain from the knobkerrie blow, gagging with the hurt of it, feeling the rawhide thongs cutting into his wrists and ankles with every lurching step of his bearers. One of the Tok had stuffed a wad of bitter herbs into his mouth and aped a chewing motion. Buck chewed—what the hell, he thought—and felt the pain ease quickly. Even the bonds no longer hurt.
Hanging head backward, he saw Dawn, trussed as he was, bouncing along just ahead of him, head uphill, her pert, pear-shaped butt swaying to the pole ride. At least she wasn’t screaming. At the top of the scarp, the Tok had unbound them, then resecured their wrists and ankles with loose hobbles that permitted a reasonable walking stride and hand movement, but precluded any attempt at escape or attack. With the herb still at work in him, Buck felt pretty good, back on his pins, headache gone, enjoying the cool beat of the rain, the sweeter, greener smell of the high plain. It was dark now, but the ground underfoot seemed smooth and well worn, a wide game trail no doubt. The Tok trudged along all around them, straight-walking little men, their huge heads wobbling, top-heavy, as they plugged along. The tallest of them only came to Dawn’s shoulder, yet they were all heavily muscled, deep of chest and broad of shoulder, with narrow hips and melonlike, protuberant buttocks. Most of them had leather slings wrapped around their foreheads and waists. Some wore animal hides—bushbuck, serval cat, what looked like lesser kudu—over their shoulders, but otherwise were stone naked. Yeah, Buck thought, stone naked—with those weird dinguses of theirs waving in the breeze. Strange damned phenomenon. But that’s the source of the legends, I’ll bet.
“Priapus,” he said aloud.
Dawn, stumbling ahead of him, turned her head and stared back. He explained his theory, but she was beyond hearing. Her eyes were dull, her steps automatic.
“Did they give you any of that weed to eat?” Buck asked her. She shook her head, then tripped over her hobbles and almost fell. Bucky whistled and two of the Tok looked over at him. He mimicked eating and pointed to the skin pouches on their hip belts, then at Dawn. One of them nodded and took a handful of the weed from his pouch.
“Chew it up and swallow the juice,” Bucky told her. “It’s bitter, but it will take away the weariness. They gave me some on the way up the hill and I feel like I had twelve hours’ sleep. Come on, try it.”
She chewed as they walked, choking once on the bitter leaves and stems but getting most of it down. The Tok who had given her the weed smiled—a wide, thin-lipped, even-toothed smile, not a Dracula fang in the mouthful, Bucky thought—then patted her on the shoulder and clicked. Yes, Bucky thought, the click language. We’re going to have a hell of a time communicating with them.
“What was that you said about Priapus?” the Tok asked. “I couldn’t help overhearing you and the young lady.” He nodded deferentially, with a shy smile. “As I understand it, the Priapic myth concerned the Greco-Roman god of gardens and vineyards. We’re essentially a hunting people, though we practice some rather intensive horticulture, yet I suppose it’s possible that the early Hellenes had dim racial memories of the days when our species dominated Eurasia and merely transposed the myth.”
“What?” said Bucky.
The Tok began to repeat what he had said in simpler language. Buck gawped.
“No, no,” he said, interrupting. “It’s … You speak English?”
“Yes,” said the Tok. “Me spik English good, no?” He grinned impishly and punched Buckly lightly on the shoulder. Then he winked. “We’ll continue the conversation later. Right now I have to go to the head of the column and look for a campsite.” He trotted ahead into the dark.
Buck looked at Dawn. Dawn looked at Buck. “Did you hear what I heard?” he asked her. She nodded.
They marched for what felt like another hour, cutting off from the main game trail to the right, into a maze of lesser tracks and paths, walking now through high wet grass that slashed at their arms and legs and soaked their clothes. Yet they felt neither the cuts nor the cold. Dawn had revived, thanks to the drug, and walked smoothly, steadily, her eyes still grave but not as deadly glazed as they had been earlier. The cloud cover had blown over and the sky was clear, a fragmentary moon straight overhead, stars blazing in many colors. Ahead Buck saw a fringe of forest and a low rise of rock. Some of the Tok shook out into a skirmish line and moved into the trees, spearpoints forward, while the rest of them waited. After a short while, a bone whistle shrilled from the woods and the main body moved in.
A small fire was already popping in the shadow of the rocks. Bucky and Dawn sat backs to a boulder, feeling the yellow warmth pound against them. Now that he was finally sitting, Buck realized how tired he actually was. His thigh muscles fluttered uncontrollably, and one of his feet had cramped. Dawn pulled off his desert boots and massaged his feet. Tok ran in from all sides, carrying more firewood, and soon the blaze illuminated the entire scene. They were in a natural bowl of rocks at the top of a low hillock, surrounded on all sides by forest. Guards stood at the top of the hill, watching their back trail for pursuit.
After the fire had burned for a while, a Tok came up with a green branch and raked coals into a shallow depression in the rock to one side of the main blaze. Then another came out of the darkness lugging something big and oblong and shiny. As he came into the light, Bucky saw that it was a horse’s head, coated thickly with mud and green leaves. Strands of the mane bristled through the mud in places, and the coating had flaked clear of one eye, which stared bulbous and wet in the firelight. The Tok laid the mud-coated head in the coals, and another Tok threw green, leafy branches on top of it. Then the third Tok scraped more red-hot coals over the already-steaming mound. A smell of singed hair and cooking meat wafted outward on the smoke.
“Yes,” came a voice from beside them, “a bit of dinner would be in order about now.” It was the Tok who had spoken to them earlier. He rubbed his hands and squatted down. “Horse, or punda as they call it in Kiswahili, isn’t actually the tastiest of meats, but then soldiers can’t be choosers, can they?” He smiled affably. Bucky noticed now in the firelight that his shoulder-length, lank hair was shot with gray, as was the wispy moustache on his long upper lip. His eyes, wide, slightly Oriental in cast, were a lively dark green. A shiny scar ran down his face from ear to chin on the right side. The hide over his shoulders, poncho-style, was of leopard skin, as was the strip of hide that held his hair back.
“How is it you speak such perfect English?” Bucky asked, ignoring the horsemeat pleasantry. He wasn’t all that hungry now, anyway.
“We’ve had other prisoners over the years,” the Tok replied. “We get lonely up here in the clouds, and since so few people from the outside world come up here willingly, we have to procure our company betimes by radical means. Actually, we’re all quite good at languages. The click tongue, I hope you realize, is the most elaborate language on earth. Your simpler sounds are child’s play to us—ah, but I wax boastful. Forgive me.” Again he ducked his head deferentially.
“Oh, no,” said Buck. “That’s quite all right.” What in the hell is this? he thought wildly. Am I going nuts? Or is it that weed they made me eat—a hallucinogen?
Two of the younger Tok snaked the horse head out of the coals and kicked the fire-hardened mud from it with their horny heels. Then they bowed to the older man and withdrew. He in turn took from its hide sheath at his side a long thornwood club and prepared to split the cooked head open. From the knob of the club projected a large, clear, gleaming stone—a diamond, Bucky thought. And a huge one! The Tok tapped the horse head smartly between the eye sockets, from which tendrils of sweet steam wisped away, and the skull split neatly lengthwise, exposing a pink lobed, smoking mass of cooked brain. He cleaned and sheathed the club, then withdrew a wooden spoon from his belt pouch.
“I say,” he began, “I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Let me introduce myself. My name is …” and he rattled off a long string of clicks and rasps, smiling amusedly the while, “but you may call me Clickrasp. I’m chief of the Tok and your humble servant.” He bowed from the waist.
“I’m Bucky Blackrod, American journalist, and this is Mrs. Dawn McGavern, housewife,” said Buck. He offered his hand. Clickrasp took it. His hand was wide and strong, though short-fingered. The shake was dry and firm. They smiled at one another. Dawn dropped a curtsy and blushed.
“All right,” said Clickrasp, “dinner is served. Sorry I can’t offer you better cutlery, but after all …”
“Yes,” said Bucky. “We’re quite used to roughing it.”
“Of course,” Clickrasp agreed. “Mrs. McGavern, would you care to begin?” He offered her the wooden spoon.
“Is there perhaps a place where I might, well, powder my nose?” Dawn asked. Clickrasp said there was a spring behind the boulder. She excused herself.
“I don’t think she cares for horse brains,” Bucky whispered. “She’s an avid equestrienne back home.”
“I understand,” said Clickrasp. “The excitement and all. It’s not every day that one so beautiful gets kidnaped by Stone Age savages.” He seemed a bit miffed.
“Well,” said Bucky, “it’s just the brains. We don’t eat them regularly in our culture. Oh, you still see calves’ brains in the butcher shops now and then, and in the French restaurants. However, I’m a brain-picker from way back. If you don’t mind, I’ll dig in.” He picked up the spoon and scooped a steaming mouthful. “Yum, yum,” he mumbled as he chewed, rubbing his tummy and rolling his eyeballs in mock joy. Actually, the brains tasted sweet, a bit soft, but not at all gluey, as most horsemeat did. He passed the spoon to Clickrasp, who shoveled a mountainous scoop into his mout
h. They finished off the brains and then Clickrasp stuck a thumb into the horse’s eye socket. He pulled out a steaming eyeball, big as a pear. He crunched on it, the hot aqueous humor running down the sides of his mouth, swallowed, then spat out the lens.
“Looks good,” said Buck, grubbing in the opposite eye socket. He ate and swallowed, but forgot about the lens.
“It won’t hurt you,” said Clickrasp. “Roughage, you know.” With a short knife, bladed in diamond, he sawed at the horse’s cheeks, extracting lumps of firm pink flesh, which he and Buck shared. Dawn was still behind the rock.
“I say, Mrs. McGavern, are you all right?” called Clickrasp. “Shall I save you the tongue? It’s quite good, you know.”
“No, thank you …”
“She’ll probably feel better in the morning,” Clickrasp said. He sliced chunks of tongue and popped them back into the coals to crisp. “It always amazes me,” he added, reclining again beside the fire, “how different cultures react to different foods. Over along the Nile River and the Great Lakes, the locals won’t eat a fish until it’s running with rot, yet they think us beasts for eating brains.”
“But of course, you eat other brains than horse brains,” Bucky said, as gently as possible.
“Brains are brains,” yelled Clickrasp, suddenly angry. “They’re good for you! All kinds of brains. Horse brains, eland brains, elephant brains, people brains. I couldn’t help but notice, Mr. Blackrod, that you and your party were engaged in a bit of headhunting of your own down below. Yes, you slay those animals and actually save their heads. You stick them on your walls at home for the amusement of your guests and the elevation of your own egos. Yet you throw away the best part of the head. The brains!” He leaped to his feet and began dancing madly around the fire, his shaggy erect phallus flailing in the smoke. Then he peered at the rock where Dawn’s dim shape could be discerned. “I’ll be back in a minute,” said Clickrasp.
The Diamond Bogo Page 11
