Boboto showed such promise. The way the Bangala Elongó took to him, I foresaw him as an instrumental figure in their community—someone who people would unite over, maybe even become a leader. Certainly a presence who brought joy. Now he’s just a memory.
“You’re not okay,” Sonnet observes. Then she surprises me with, “You need to read me, Uncle Forbes.”
“What?” I’m sure I misunderstood. I have never read either Zed or Sonnet. It’s something much too personal. They’re too close to me, too familiar to me. It would be an unnecessary invasion. Besides, I’ve raised them for much of their entire lives. “What are you talking about?”
“You need to read me,” she repeats. “It’s for your own good. Boboto is close to the final straw for you, I can tell. It’s your mannerisms, your body posture, the look in your eyes, the way you refuse to grieve. You need clearance, Uncle Forbes, something that will rid you of all of the killings, a form of venting.”
“And reading you will accomplish this how?”
“I’m not like you. I’ve adapted differently. What do you see when you look at me? Do I seem happy, well adjusted, solid, strong, unafraid?”
I have to admit I never worried about her mental well-being. She is the most well-adjusted person I know. I always attributed it to her insight into other people and her understanding of situations. “Of course.”
“He probably attributes it to his excellent parenting skills, Sonnet,” Zed jokes.
“Zed, I’m serious. He needs to read me.”
Zed makes a faux shiver of revulsion. “Too intimate, Sonnet.”
“I agree with Zed, Sonnet. You are my brother’s daughter. It’s incestuous.”
“No. We’ll control what you read. Focus on me the day of Boboto’s death. You’ve honed your skill to that level. It’ll be all you need.”
“You sure about this, Sonnet? I think I know what you’re doing. You sure you want to reveal that to him?” Zed asks with genuine concern in his voice.
A look is exchanged between the two of them. Apparently they know something I don’t. “What aren’t the two of you telling me?”
“Read me and see, Uncle Forbes. Read me and be released.” She touches my arm gently. “It’s time you knew, and knowing will bring relief.”
Zed shakes his head slowly and whispers an expletive of disagreement under his breath.
I frown and look from his doubting face to Sonnet’s inviting face. Her eyes are soft and innocent. How can I not trust her instincts? I place my hand on top of hers and begin the read.
I am walking through the dense shrubs behind our compound towards the huge hill that towers over everything around us. Ahead of me, about fifty yards, I see the ancient mango tree that marks the entry to the underground matrix of caves and passageways our African Gi (pronounced Zhee) has called home for eons. The mango, over 140 feet tall with a spread over 60 feet wide, towers over everything around it and is probably at least 300 years old. Lyrical multicolored swallowtail butterflies fill the air between the entry and me. Energetic red African firefinches dart across my path. A curious tiny blue-winged bee hummingbird flies up to my face and hovers a foot from my nose, keeping pace with me as I walk. Then it zips around my head twice and disappears. In the overgrown bush to my left, something large crackles through the shrubs and undergrowth, advancing ahead of me and moving up the hill in the direction I plan to stop and view the countryside. My grey Fujinon Stabilized Day & Night Vision binoculars strapped over my shoulder slap my chest as I walk. The black American-made Glock .45 auto pistol I keep at my waist is securely fastened to my thigh. My water bottle on a strap slung over my shoulder presses against my back. Sweat darkens my camouflage shirt and trousers. The brown leather high-top boots I wear for excursions into the bush firmly grip the loose earth beneath me. My hair is wrapped into a ponytail and tucked under my green cap. The humid hot air around me smells like home.
I pass the magnificent mango tree without glancing towards the foliage-covered opening near it that leads below the hill to Gi. My attention is on an unusual monkey in a tree that appears to be a rare Lesula monkey. It has exceptionally large nonchalant eyes, a pink face, and a gorgeous golden mane. It’s about two feet in height and is chewing on something white. It should not be this far south. I’m guessing it’s an escapee from some poacher. Maybe this will be a good sanctuary for it.
When I arrive near the middle of the hill at my boulder that juts out of the surrounding foliage, I see that one of the local female middle-aged bonobos has claimed it for her own at the moment and is grooming her child. Seeing that I intend to occupy the boulder as well, she casually vacates the spot, walking away on all four limbs with her small child hanging onto her underside. I am free to enjoy it alone. I climb up to the flat area I usually perch from, squat down, unstrap my water bottle, open it, and take a long drink. The cold water is a great luxury in this heat. Its chill runs down my throat and I involuntarily shiver for a second.
From where I sit, I can see for miles. The muddy brown turbid Kwango river, east of my boulder, is mostly hidden beneath the rich green cover of riparian trees and wild berry bushes with lush reeds, sedges, and rushes that line its banks as it runs lazily north and south. Our little compound of cleared land between it and here is almost invisible, blocked by interceding trees.
South of our compound, the structures that comprise the Bangala Elongó’s village stand out with their painted orange metal roofs. The low concrete-and-steel water reservoir tank that serves the village sits central to the buildings, like a matron overseeing her brood. A solar array is off to one side, modern and imposing. A thin spiky communications tower juts up high in the air near the water tank. Sets of wind turbines, like great herons in water, poke their heads up above the trees just south of the village. The winding dirt road, the salité nzelá, that is a kilometer from our compound skirts the edge of the Bangala Elongó’s village and then cuts over to the N17 road.
From my vantage point I see a convoy of vehicles trudging along the salité nzelá towards the village. I swing my binoculars off my shoulder and adjust them comfortably over the bridge of my nose. What I see are mostly trucks laden with supplies. Men hang out of the backs of a few of them. A Mercedes Benz SUV leads the way, some Land Rovers follow and trucks trail behind them.
I wonder where they’re headed. They’ve just passed Cité Pont-Kwango, a small city that straddles the Kwango river south of us. Their destination must be something up river. More diamond hunters, maybe, or a geological expedition searching for some new raw material. The Congo always seems to magically have some new resource the modern world needs, much to the region’s detriment. Foreign capital comes in and funds rebels or gangs who promise to safeguard the mining or extraction, legal or illegal, and people die because of it—a never-ending cycle of unrest, death, and environmental destruction.
When I adjust the binoculars to zoom in on the trucks, I notice the last one in the convoy bears two men with rifles strung over their torsos—nothing unusual there. It only becomes noteworthy when the trucks travel closer to our compound and both of the standing men throw boxes off the back of the truck. I continue watching, but see nothing else thrown from the trucks that appear and disappear behind interspersed stands of trees. They continue north, never slowing, just moving at a leisurely pace until they’re completely out of view. I swing my attention back to where the boxes were thrown, but am unable to see much through the trees. I’m not even sure I’m looking in the right place so I pan my view up and down the road, but still see nothing.
Finished with my morning reconnaissance, I climb down off my boulder and make my way to the great mango tree where I pass into the underground entry. Just like the entry in Julian, California at the abandoned gold mine, this entry closes and opens only for Zed, myself, and Forbes.
Once inside, I turn my flashlight on and make the slow journey down to the lake of light that surrounds this African Gi. After I pass through it and climb into Gi, I follow a tu
be to the birthing room where I enter avatar mode.
Unlike Zed, whose avatars are the same as they were for our father, mother—Messenger and Soliloquy—mine consist of a variety of animal species and an avatar version of me, all at the same time. So while Zed looks through multiple flying bat creature eyes, I look through the eyes of my various avatars. One is a huge jaguar, others are silverback gorillas, monkeys, birds, and even insects. I am an army of creatures that I have no problem commanding all at once. It’s always an exhilarating moment when the first of my avatars opens their eyes and I’m looking at the outside of the orb surrounding me because I know that in moments I will be looking through hundreds of eyes, each independent and each with its own intelligence behind it—my intelligence cloned and multiplied. Nothing compares to that sensation.
Today my avatars head out into the forest, fields, and river bank to perform the usual surveillance for alien markers. This morning I also fly a few eyes out to the road to search for whatever was dropped from the back of the truck. When I finally locate what I was looking for, I spy little Boboto inspecting two boxes down off to the side of the road. I hover and watch, then perch in a tree to see how the find will play out for him. Inwardly, I smile. Boboto is a child discovering the new world around him. His reactions are always amusing.
He tries to lift the lids from the boxes, but they are secured by steel bands that encircle them. Then an object wrapped in a blanket about fifteen feet from the boxes catches his attention. He runs over to it. His back is to me and the object is hidden by him. I wait while he inspects whatever he’s found. He lets out a yell of delight and then races off towards our compound, carrying the object with him. I follow and then watch as Uncle Forbes and Zed greet him, inspect the automatic rifle, hide it in the latrine and then march through the bush to the boxes.
I do not let them out of my sight when they carry the boxes from the road and then bury them outside of the compound. But I am suspicious of a vehicle I, with other eyes, notice that grinds along the road, coming from the south and headed north towards where the boxes had been offloaded.
In preparation for trouble, I bring some of my cotillion of creatures to where the boxes were buried. With different eyes, I watch as the men who came to reclaim them catch Boboto, slap him around and force him to reveal that he and Forbes and Zed took the boxes. Armed as the men are, I expect trouble.
When Zed and Uncle Forbes lead the men to the boxes and they see my Sonnet avatar with my jaguar avatar sitting on top of the mound where the boxes are buried, I tense. This is what I look forward to, this litmus test for the men. It’s a dance of sorts where I anticipate the seduction of my base self; that fire in my belly that needs appeasing.
Their instinct to kill the jaguar is a mistake for them. It woos me, makes me hunger for them. When they inadvertently shoot my Sonnet avatar, the jaguar me springs forward. When the man shoots little Boboto, all my avatars explode and launch into them with a joy that would shame even the worst serial killer. They are mine and I shall destroy them. I am freed from all inhibitions. My infuriated silverback avatar charges past Uncle Forbes. I smash the man closest to me in one fluid movement of rage, then like a choreographed dancer, I swing my bestial might into the other two and, too quickly, they drop dead to the ground. Still frenzied, ignoring Zed and Uncle Forbes, I grab the men by their collars and drag them roughly back through the bush, fracturing and ripping them against impeding rocks and branches. By the time I enter Gi’s orchid grounds, underground down below the hill, with their bodies still in my massive hands, they are a bloody mess.
I throw two of them to the side and then dive into dismembering the first one who killed little Boboto. I bite down and tear the skin from his face with my teeth, exposing crimson meat underneath. Using my teeth again, I rip his throat out and then sever his head from his body, shooting blood everywhere. I shred his clothes from his body and bite and tear the rest of him apart, flinging body parts into the mulch bed and spitting his blood and meat after him while savoring the heated texture of gore in my mouth. It’s a gourmet delight for me. The blood is sweet and tinged with a gunmetal tang. I cannibalize, but do not swallow. My teeth and hands are used only to disassemble.
After I finish with the first, I tear the other men apart in the same fashion, working myself into a frenzy of destruction and hate and bloodlust until they are completely shredded, dismembered and strewn about the mulch bed. Without pause, I hop into the bed and wrench up the soil with my massive hands and bury the body parts until nothing of the men remain visible. When the task is completed, I sit back on my haunches and survey the absence of them with great satisfaction. They are wiped from the face of the earth. My hatred ebbs slowly and I grunt loudly, contented and appeased. All hail justice and redress. A great shudder rolls through my body and I am completely clear of all the anger I felt toward them. Vengeance is mine. Boboto’s murder has been redressed. Equilibrium has been attained. The peace I feel is nirvana achieved. I am now in a transcendent state of neither suffering, nor desire, nor sense of self.
I end the read and am back with Zed and Sonnet where I am stunned by the revelation of being inside Sonnet. She draws her hand away from mine and goes back to casually stirring her tea.
“How long was I in for?” I ask, dazed by the experience
“Couple minutes,” Zed says quietly. His eyes are narrowed. His face is wary.
“Couple of minutes,” I repeat lamely, “couple of minutes.”
“Just enough,” Sonnet comments coolly as her spoon clinks against the porcelain cup.
I breathe deep and sit down to the table, my eyes not meeting hers, my shock still unprocessed. They both wait for me to speak, neither taking an initiative. Finally, I give voice to what stunned me. “You enjoyed it. You actually looked forward to it. You immersed yourself in it with relish. You were like a racehorse that finally gets to race; you anticipated the killing and dismemberment and then when you were released from constraint, you were performing what you were born for. You are a killing machine, just like what I became when I destroyed the aliens in the desert. You are me back then, only more so...much more so. When you were biting and tearing the men apart it was the pinnacle of joy for you, like an aphrodisiac, the more you destroyed the better it felt.”
After a pause and a moment of introspection, I note with alarm, “It was sexual for you!” And that is the bitter pill to be swallowed because I realize that it was the same for me back when I was a child only I was too young to understand it at the time.
“You are a whore for killing,” I say quietly.
Sonnet never flinches nor shows the slightest bit of embarrassment. She just stirs her tea and waits for me, maintaining her cool demeanor. Zed doesn’t take his eyes from me.
“Uncle Forbes, remember when we were small and you took us to a cattle ranch where they were rounding up the cattle and I was worried about one that got away, concerned for its safety and then I found out that they were all being led to slaughter? Humans are no different. Everything lives to eventually die and be eaten, even us. We all get digested in the end.”
“You fed on their destruction,” I tell her. “You were nourished just as a hungry person is nourished. It’s shocking. With their death you grew stronger, I felt it.”
“Now you know. But tell me, how do you now feel about little Boboto’s death? Do you still feel it gnawing at your intestines? Or, having lived through the rapture I experienced, do you not feel cleansed, maybe even reinvigorated?”
“I...” I couldn’t say. I didn’t want to say. I should not say. Yet she was absolutely correct. “It’s gone, but it’s wrong.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right? That old cliché? Would we be better off living in guilt over every murderer and rapist and thief and torturer that we removed from the face of the earth? Would that make it more palatable—to live in the constant pain of regret and maybe even shame?” Sonnet asks mildly. She is so sure of herself.
“I thought I knew you
,” I mumble. I thought I knew myself.
“Now you know even more, and you will be a better man for it, Uncle Forbes. Give it a few days to sink in. Look within yourself and you know that what I am, is what you were in the California desert:—a creature of necessity, a being that must be. I protect the Bangala Elongó for the future of the earth as we know it. Someday I may be forced to turn on the aliens just as you did when you were a child. But you know now I will be a much greater force when that moment arrives.”
Just then out of the corner of my eye I notice a figure standing at the edge of the building. When I turn to it, I am startled to see it is Sonnet’s avatar. Blood stains her clothes from when she was shot. She walks to us and stops next to the sitting Sonnet. This is something new. We have never been able to control our avatars while we were outside of the orbs inside of Gi.
“As I grow stronger, the extent of my powers surprises even me,” the Sonnet avatar says and then undoes her ponytail. She shakes her head and lets her dark crimson hair fall free.
“I resurrected my avatar when she was inside Gi. I gave her new life and there is something more I discovered. Watch,” Sonnet tells me. She places her left hand on the table and then the Sonnet avatar places her right hand next to Sonnet’s hand. With her right hand, Sonnet withdraws a knife from her belt and stabs it into the Sonnet avatar hand. Blood forms around the point of penetration, but neither Sonnet nor the avatar flinch even slightly.
“Amazing, is it not? I feel the violence, but am able to block the pain.” She pulls the knife from her avatar’s hand, and then holds it above her own. “Now watch my avatar’s face. Watch her reaction to this.” She plunges the knife down into the meat between her thumb and her index finger and yells in pain immediately. The avatar registers nothing. Sonnet pulls the knife from her hand, curses and then wipes the blood onto her pants. “Damn, that hurts. Zed can you...?”
Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series Page 27
