by Andy Briggs
They took short but frequent breaks. The Mbuti sat away, always somber, never complaining, never exhausted. Greystoke sat beside Clark and offered his water bottle. He followed Clark’s gaze to Idra who was stalking around the perimeter of their pit stop, eyeing the trees for danger.
“Don’t you ever put your feet up?” Clark quipped. But Idra stared at him blankly.
“She’s like that with everyone,” Greystoke confided. “Heck of a shot, though. Should we need her.” Clark didn’t reply and Greystoke didn’t appear to enjoy the silence. “I’m sorry about your boy Robert.”
Clark was thoughtful for a moment before speaking up. “Jane was right. Quite a coincidence, Baxter turning up with you.”
“My family’s business interests here are legitimate. Or as legitimate as anything can be as this country tears itself apart with internal feuding. It serves to stay on the right side of people, and Baxter had been applying a certain amount of pressure on the authorities here. I could hardly deny helping a US law enforcer, could I? You believe Robbie is innocent?”
“Yeah. After everythin’ we’ve been through out ’ere, I think Robbie’s shown his real colors. Even if it meant goin’ behind my back.” Clark was still angry that Robbie had interfered with their plans to cash in on the Greystoke estate, but on the other hand, he admired his spirit. It reminded Clark of how he used to act: a young free agent at large in the world. Everything had been at his feet, and an adventure was waiting around every corner. He’d always been chasing fortune and glory; even now, being out in the wilderness searching for a lost city was something he used to dream of doing. But age and his injury were wearing him down. He had hoped that finding Tarzan would be an easy venture, and he prayed that this would be his last hike through the jungle.
“So what will you do with this lost city?” he asked, aiming his question at Werper.
The Belgian broke from his reverie and took a swig from his water bottle before answering. “It’s my life’s quest. Others mocked the idea of a jungle civilization thriving out here.” He indicated to the deep forest. “Here, of all places, the cradle of civilization, where man first stepped down from the trees. Opar will earn me my rightful place amongst scientific circles. Howard Carter and Albert Werper will be the names they teach in history classes.”
“So you ain’t interested in the treasure,” Clark asked calculatingly.
Werper hesitated, just enough for Clark to read the unspoken greed underneath Werper’s ambitions. “Some money would be an advantage. But money doesn’t buy your legacy in the history books, does it?” The last was aimed firmly at Greystoke.
Clark studied Greystoke. For a split second, the loathing he felt for Werper was written all over his face. Greystoke quickly recovered his composure.
“You must forgive Albert. He does not believe in my family’s right to our title.” His gaze never left Werper, as if daring him to speak. “He believes wealth and power should not be handed down through families.” He turned to Werper, treating him to a thin smile. “You forget, Albert, I have always been fascinated with the legend of Opar and am fully financing your passion to be here.” Werper’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t retaliate. Instead he stared at the floor.
Clark turned back to Greystoke. “And Tarzan? How does he fit into the picture? I mean, Opar changes everything, right?”
Werper’s head snapped up and a nasty smile crossed his face. “Ah, yes. The rightful Lord Greystoke. How does he fit into your plans?”
William Greystoke scowled at Werper. But before he could comment, Idra walked across holding a satellite phone.
“I called our position into camp and they have a problem.”
“Need I be there to solve everything for them?”
“The Canler boy escaped from custody. It appears the girl drove a bulldozer through half the cabins to spring him.” There was a hint of admiration in her voice.
Greystoke quickly stood. “What?”
“Edward thinks they’re heading this way.”
Even Werper’s cynical smile vanished. “If they get to Opar before us, it could prove problematic.”
Clark stood up, confused as to why everybody was so concerned. “Why is that a problem? We simply won’t get there in the first place.”
Greystoke was furious. “Those two have done nothing but throw a wrench in the works. Having them roam free will not help us at all.” He snatched the satellite phone from Idra and punched in a number. “Get ready to move out. The rest break is over.”
• • •
The pygmies’ knowledge of the land was invaluable and Robbie and Jane’s progress was swift. Orando stayed with them, but the other pygmies remained unseen, dashing ahead into the jungle to clear the path. They made rapid progress along a network of animal trails, only stopping once when they caught up with a scout who was kneeling, examining broken branches. They talked rapidly, the scout pointing to indentations in the mud. Orando translated.
“People have moved through here very recently.” He indicated to a branch that had been cleanly severed through as somebody had pushed by. “Ten people. One who walks with a stick …”
“Clark,” said Robbie.
“This is Greystoke’s party,” Jane added. “How far ahead are they?”
Orando rubbed the leaking sap from the branch between his fingers, judging how long ago it had been cut. “Not too far. They move slowly, like clumsy elephants. We will overtake today.”
Jane started down the track, following the wake of Greystoke’s safari. “Then we can’t waste any time. Let’s go.”
Orando pointed off at a forty-five-degree angle. “This way. Their trail takes them through the swamp. Faster this way.”
Without another word, he began to follow a faint track through the bush that had been invisible to Jane.
• • •
Midges circled Clark’s head with a monotonous buzz. He swatted at them and slapped his neck, killing another blood-hungry pest, but his cheek and the right side of his neck were already covered in itchy bite marks after five minutes of being in the swamp.
After a several hours’ march, the trees petered out into a wide area of marshland. Greystoke told them it was part of the river where they had been airlifted from the day before, but they were farther upstream in a tributary. Once through the marsh, he promised they would have some relief, as he had called in the floatplane to meet them at the river. They would have to find a clear stretch of water for it to land on, but Greystoke was gambling that, if it could take them even just five miles farther, they would have enough of a lead over Robbie and Jane.
As Clark waded through the foul water that came above his knees and stank like dirty laundry, he was beginning to think Robbie and Jane would have no trouble overtaking them. The others were struggling too, but none more than the Mbuti porters who were up to their midriffs and constantly getting bogged down with the heavy equipment.
“We should break the boats out,” said Werper as he stumbled through the mire, briefly sinking his arm into the water and lifting it out with three leeches the size of his fingers clinging to his arm. He swore in French and yanked one off, only succeeding in ripping the soft body in half, leaving the head anchored to his skin.
“Leave it,” Clark cautioned. “You’ll only get another bite, an’ you don’t wanna infect the wound with this dirty water.”
Greystoke ignored Werper’s discomfort; he was focused only on his own. “We can’t break the boats out yet. We need solid ground to inflate them, and the engines will just get choked up in this stuff.”
They pressed on, everybody muttering in a variety of languages as they stumbled through. Several times, Clark saw movement in the water, the still surface rippling menacingly. He feared a crocodile attack, but nothing happened.
After hours of toil, the water became shallower and they saw solid ground ahead, bathed in
the red hues of the lowering sun. They all clambered out and dropped to the ground, exhausted, removing the leeches still clinging to them. A pair of cigarette lighters were passed around the group and used to burn the leeches’ heads so their jaws unlocked and they fell off with ease. Idra broke out a large first-aid kit filled with field dressings, anti-venom, and a range of medicine to keep an army afloat. She disinfected her wounds, then tended to Greystoke and Clark. She clearly had no fondness for Werper or the Mbuti because she handed the antiseptic and gauze to them so they could tend to their own problems.
Only when they had cleaned up and were ready to press on did Clark glance back at the swamp and notice a huge crocodile basking in the dying light. It was the largest specimen he had ever seen, the armor-plated skin and mouthful of jagged teeth hinting at its prehistoric heritage. It was a lethal predator and they had been fortunate it hadn’t been hunting them.
They headed upstream, keen to get away from the midges and stench of the swamp, before finally settling down on the bank and lighting a fire so they could eat and dry out. Greystoke radioed the floatplane and everybody settled back, exhausted and in pain.
• • •
Clark had nodded off, only waking when the sound of the plane buzzed into his consciousness. Idra had identified a length of water she judged to be deep enough and she guided the aircraft in with glowing batons so the pilot could judge the touchdown.
The aircraft banked low and lined itself up to the straight section of river, startling a flock of long-necked wading birds on the riverbank. With minimal fuss, the pilot landed, the two pontoons skimming along the surface as the plane came to a graceful stop. The pilot idled the twin engines, steering the aircraft toward the bank. In the late afternoon, the two propellers sounded like buzz saws and Clark could hear the blood pulsing in his ears the moment they stopped.
Greystoke took the rope offered by the copilot and, with the porters’ help, they dragged the aircraft closer to the bank and secured it on a log that had washed ashore.
Clark watched as the discussion between the pilots and Lord Greystoke grew heated.
“They don’t wanna fly tonight,” he guessed, sharing his thoughts with Werper. But the Belgian wasn’t listening. He was looking around for Idra, who had vanished into the jungle with a box of equipment. Greystoke stalked back to the others, gesturing helplessly.
“They say we can’t fly until dawn!”
Clark didn’t blame them. “If you don’t know if there’s any suitable landing place, then it would be suicide.” He could see Greystoke accepted the logic, but could tell he just didn’t like it. “I, for one, feel safer with my feet on the ground at night.”
“If they get ahead …”
Clark held up his hand to try to calm Greystoke. “If they get ahead, so what? We can hop farther across the jungle in this, and it won’t have to be much farther to stay ahead. Besides, I can’t see them crossing this river at night, can you?”
Greystoke sighed then ordered the porters to set the tents up. They would be spending the night on the riverbank after all.
• • •
Jane didn’t find the darkness of the jungle frightening. The constant hum of the insects and frogs that populated the night felt like a comforting blanket. They had stopped to make camp as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting deep shadows across the jungle.
Six pygmy scouts joined Orando at the fire, and Jane wondered how many remained unseen. They had hunted a small buck that they roasted over the fire, and soon everybody had eaten their fill and relaxed, warmed by the flames. During the hike, Jane had thought of yet more questions regarding the pygmies and Tarzan.
“How long have you known Tarzan?” she asked. The question had distracted her for most of the journey.
Orando smiled enigmatically. “Munango-Keewati fell from the sky and was raised by the Mangani. Our paths crossed when he was young. He has always been a friend of my people.”
Jane pictured the airplane crashing into the jungle and tried to imagine what it must have been like for the pygmies, who had never encountered civilization.
Robbie poked the fire with a stick, watching a flurry of embers dance into the night sky. He attempted the word, “Munango-cutie …”
“Keewati,” Orando corrected with a smile.
“Keewati,” repeated Robbie carefully. “The Jungle God. You mean like a spirit?”
“There are spirits and gods all around us,” said Orando simply. “Some we see, some we fear, and some guide us.”
“But that name,” persisted Robbie. “Is that a pygmy name?”
The question confused Orando. “It has always been handed from shaman to shaman, father to son. A name discovered by our ancestors.”
Robbie looked calculating. “Would they be from Opar?” Jane didn’t like Robbie’s line of questioning. She wondered just how much the stories of lost treasure were playing on his mind, but knew the subject had to come up at some point. “From the Savage Lands?”
Orando looked grim. “The Savage Lands are a place no man is meant to walk.”
“But that’s where we’re headed,” said Jane.
“Yes!” Orando nodded, then he smiled and looked at Jane. “But you are no man.”
Robbie laughed, absently batting away a mosquito. “That’s right, you’re a goddess.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jane whispered back playfully.
Orando caught the light glimmering from the cuffs on Robbie’s wrists. He leaned forward and examined them.
“You like them?” Robbie asked. “You can have them if you can get them off.”
“You are no god,” said Orando. “Just a man.” Robbie shrugged amiably; it was a statement rather than an insult. “But you walk with gods.”
“That’s how I like to roll,” said Robbie with a smile.
Suddenly, a scout sprinted into clearing and spoke urgently. Orando intently listened to the scout. Then he turned to Jane. “They have found Greystoke’s camp an hour from here.” He pointed into the darkness. “If we leave now, we can overtake them.”
11
Clark found it almost impossible to sleep in the tent. The humidity had risen to unbearable levels and, when he flicked his camp lantern on, he saw the silhouette of hundreds of bugs clinging to his mosquito net.
He lay on his back and stared at the curved roof, wishing he could get some rest before the arduous trek tomorrow. After what seemed like an hour, his eyes began to flutter as he felt the welcoming wave of slumber smother him. He was just on the edge of consciousness when a piercing scream suddenly rang across the jungle. It was so high and constant he jolted upright, immediately awake. Through the fabric of the tent he could see a bright light burning. Then he heard raised voices—Greystoke and Werper shouting. He scrambled for the tent zip and, with some difficulty, clambered out.
Powerful floodlights illuminated the trees and what Clark had thought was a scream was an electronic alarm. Its warble abruptly cut off. Greystoke and Werper stared into the trees, while the Mbuti porters kept a safe distance away, unsure what was happening. The pilots hung close to the floatplane in which they were sleeping; the copilot had a pistol drawn.
“What’s goin’ on?” said Clark in a hushed voice as he drew level to Greystoke.
Greystoke kept his gaze on the trees as he spoke. “Something tripped Idra’s security.”
That answered Clark’s question about what was in the case she had hauled into the jungle. Remembering Greystoke’s reaction to the pygmies, Clark assumed he was probably frightened for his own life more than the lives of his expedition members.
Clark saw movement. He had to shield his eyes against the floodlights, which had now attracted a tornado of insects. Figures emerged from the light, but he couldn’t make out any detail until they had cleared the trees—and he was shocked to see Jane and Robbie with their
hands on their heads. Idra walked behind, prompting them forward with the barrel of her hunting rifle.
“Look what I caught snooping around,” she said.
Clark was alarmed, but refrained from making any comment. He was thankful Archie had been sent back to the logging camp. Too much was riding on his deal with Greystoke and he was relying on the Englishman for more than he cared to admit. At least Robbie and Jane didn’t appear to be hurt.
Greystoke marched over, openly angry. “Do you know what damage you have caused?” He slapped Jane hard across the face, leaving a nasty red mark. Robbie moved to intercept, but was restrained as Idra jammed the barrel of her rifle into his ribs.
Clark clenched his fingers, ready to strike the man, but he held back. He could get his revenge on Greystoke after the Englishman paid up.
“You could have killed people with the stunt you pulled to free this … this criminal!” spittle flew from Greystoke’s lips. Jane stared at him coolly. He raised his hand to strike her again.
Clark couldn’t stand by and do nothing. “William … easy.”
He saw Greystoke’s hand tremble, but he lowered it as Clark’s warning sank in. He turned to Robbie, treating him to a cold sneer.
“I shouldn’t expect anything else from a reprobate like you.” He looked between Jane and Robbie. “I’ll have you both shipped back to where you belong.” Then he looked quizzical. “You made it all the way here on your own?” He clearly didn’t believe that. He turned to Idra and walked a few paces back, talking quietly. Idra’s gun never moved from her captives. Clark wasn’t sure she would shoot Robbie or Jane, but could tell from the look on Robbie’s face that he believed she would.
