Zed is out of his seat and into the building. In a moment he returns with a first aid kit, saying, “Did you have to be so damn melodramatic?”
She shrugs her usual shrug and casually remarks, “I had to make my point.”
Zed cleans her hand and then bandages the wound while I sit by, silently mulling the implications.
“What does Gi indicate about your newfound abilities?”
She shrugs again. The avatar Sonnet pulls a chair up to the real Sonnet and they both watch me, waiting for my reaction.
“I can’t think. It’s too much to take in at one sitting.”
Both Sonnets smile kindly, both reach out and touch my arm. Both say in stereo, “I understand, Uncle Forbes. Take as much time as you need.”
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 4
The Next Day
Our resident African preacher, Diomo, has called for services today to memorialize little Boboto and bring the Bangala Elongó together in a ceremony to celebrate life and pay tribute to the life force that is in all beings, big and small. While walking towards the center of the village where the small makeshift church resides, Zed, Sonnet, and I encounter a group of children huddled over something on the ground. In the center of the children is a black Congo cobra over seven feet long, limp and dead. One child, using a stick, lifts its head up for all to see. Then, like any mischievous child, he lunges it toward adjacent children who scream and recoil. Laughing, he lunges it at other children who scream and back away, also laughing.
There isn’t much the villagers fear more than snakes. All snakes of all kinds and species are killed whenever they’re encountered. The cobra species they’re playing with is relatively timid and not known for aggression. It seems to do its best to avoid contact with humans. But when cornered or stepped on, its bite is deadly and can kill a human in a matter of hours. I’m guessing someone encountered it at the river and dragged the carcass here to show it off. The kids are certainly putting it to use.
In the air, the aroma of cooked brush-tailed porcupine wafts around us. Someone must have gotten lucky. This type of porcupine is highly favored for its meat.
When I hear what sounds like the cry of a small baby, I look to its origin and see that one of the villagers has a Demidoff’s galago, a small nocturnal primate notable for its crying baby call. It’s on the man’s shoulder with a string around its neck that trails to the man’s wrist. Just what we need, crying baby sounds in the night. The galagos live in the deep equatorial forest 500 miles north of here, so I have to assume this one came from an animal market in Kinshasa. If the villager is new to the galago, he’ll likely tire of its nocturnal antics. They mark territory with a maple syrup scent and they bite fingers. Not the best pets to keep around.
Ahead of us, Kitoko emerges with Kinshasa from a crowd of people and approaches. Holding hands, they both radiate smiles. She is excited to bring Kinshasa to us and almost skips as she nears.
“Incoming,” Zed remarks, sotto voce to Sonnet.
“Molingami, Sonnet,” Kitoko greets us in Lingala.
“Molingami,” Sonnet replies to Kitoko, repeating the Lingala word that means beloved. “How are the two of you getting along?” To Kinshasa, she says, “Have Kitoko’s parents found a place for you in their home?”
Kitoko enthuses, “She and I share bed. There is no problem. My parents make room for her at the table. We share food. She is happy with us. She feels us, she warms to us, she hears us, she is one of the Bangala Elongó now.”
“Different, but the same,” I think to myself. Since I am outside of what Zed and Sonnet share with the Bangala Elongó I can only take her at face value. Zed and Sonnet will have more insight into her now that she is one of them, one of the Bangala Elongó.
Sonnet strokes Kinshasa’s hair and says, “We are glad to have you among us. Your stay with us will be memorable, I think, especially with Kitoko as your friend and guardian.”
Kinshasa smiles demurely and looks askance at Zed and me.
Zed, the ever-present clown, takes Kinshasa’s hand, kneels down, kisses the top of it and says smiling, “We are at your service, oh great African princess. Whatever your needs are, we shall accommodate them. Your wish is our command.”
Kitoko slaps his hand from Kinshasa’s and commands in mock seriousness, “Do not touch the girl without permission. She will advise you of her needs when necessary.” This is a well-established game between Zed and Kitoko that Sonnet and I are familiar with. Kinshasa is at first surprised by the exchange but smiles when she realizes that it’s just for fun.
“You bring Kinshasa to the service?” Sonnet asks.
“She will prosper from it greatly. The Bangala Elongó must get to know her better. She will become part of the ‘we’,” Kitoko tells us.
Preacher Diomo calls to the Bangala Elongó outside of the church to come inside so services can begin. Together we all follow the crowd into the building that has multiple ceiling fans spinning languidly. But even with the front doors and side windows open it’s still hot and muggy. Thankfully it’s early morning. The few times services were held later in the day, everyone complained and that pretty much ended that.
Preacher Diomo takes his place at the front and launches into a sermon best described as an amalgam of Christian, Moslem, Hindu, Kimbanguist, and mysticism. There’s something for everyone. He closes with a small speech celebrating the life force that is in everything. A woman at the front of the church commences with familiar chants the Bangala Elongó have taken from other sources and made their own. The chants always strike me as an interesting cross between Buddhist and Baptist. Even Zed and Sonnet join in. The chanting progresses from solemn monotone pieces to more colorful rhythmic verses to finally evolve into lively foot-stomping, hand-clapping cheerful rhythm, and lyrics. By the time the congregation finishes, everyone is smiling and laughing and patting each other and embracing. It’s quite remarkable and I never tire of its effects. Barriers break down and mild differences fade away. If it were a drug that could be bottled and distributed, world peace would be the result. The Bangala Elongó are a unique community.
After the service, we file out of the building to gather around more Bangala Elongó who set up instruments. One man with the help of others lays out a set of steel drums. Three young men remove acoustical guitars from their cases. Another drags wooden logs of different sizes to a spot where he can bang away on them. Two men set up some conga drums next to another who has pulled a big base from its case and is testing the bow. Six or seven women wearing dresses of vibrant colors gather to one side. The main singer, a male with a large cap and dark sunglasses and carrying a tambourine, steps to the center and starts to croon a cappella about the beauty of soukous music. After a few verses, the women join in and then, when he gives the signal, the rest of the musicians cut loose. Instantly, it becomes a raucous rumba of joy. The infectious rhythm gets more than half of the crowd dancing and humming to the beat while the remainder simply smile and sway to the music. A group of girls pirouette and sway, their arms waving from side to side, their heads bouncing in cadence, their garments fluttering and swishing through the air. Young men kick their legs out and gyrate to the beat, flapping their arms and waving their hands. Two women flow about gracefully, their limbs in constant motion describing the music with their movement.
Zed and I stand at the periphery nodding our heads to the rhythm. Sonnet joins in the dancing, taking a young preteen boy for her dance partner. She twirls and sways, keeping her young man tethered to her hand, slinging him in and out gracefully. Kitoko and Kinshasa hold hands and dance like sisters caught in a ballet performance—simple, sweet, and elegant. Boboto’s mother slow dances with her husband on the fringe of the crowd. Their steps are skilled and refined like clockwork pieces in a Swiss mechanism.
“When’s the last time you cut a rug, Uncle Forbes?” Zed yells over the music.
“Two months ago when I was in San Diego, Don Juan took me to a bar and introduced me to some women
my age. I couldn’t resist after a few margaritas. Great fun!”
“Don Juan didn’t send us blackmail videos of you on the dance floor? I’m going to have to have a talk with that man. That’s not right, missing a golden opportunity like that.”
“He was busy polishing the dance floor with his own señorita. No time for a clunky guy like me.”
“You had fun?”
“It was long overdue,” I remark wistfully.
When the music breaks up an hour later, the kids split off to a cleared area to play soccer. Many of the adults follow just to watch.
Sonnet approaches us with the youngster she was dancing with. He’s agitated and is trying to pull away from her, but she won’t let go. “Think I should let him join the others playing soccer? Is he soccer worthy?” she laughs.
“Yes,” he laughs. “Yes, I am soccer worthy. Let me go! Please, I beg you, let me go. My team needs me.” He breaks loose and is off and running after the other boys.
“You are Cruella de Sonnet once again, the scourge of little boydom,” Zed teases.
She laughs, “They love the attention.”
“And the embarrassment,” Zed adds. “How much did you pay him to dance with you?”
She punches him in the shoulder. “You know I don’t have to pay anyone to dance with me. They love it. They stand in line for the chance,” she faux brags.
He kneels and tries to take her hand to kiss it. She swats his hand away and says in good humor, “Enough with the princess stuff. Save that for the kids.” Then she looks at me and says in a serious voice, “You need to go with me to Gi. I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“I need to show you. Describing isn’t enough. You too, Zed, we all go.”
“Good news or bad news?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.”
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 5
As we enter Gi, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. What should be cool crisp air is instead warm and tinged with a sweet rotting odor, subtle and barely noticeable. It’s an indication something is amiss inside of Gi. What Sonnet has for us is not going to be good news. When she leads us to something like a canker or open sore in the wall of one of the tubes inside of Gi, my fears are confirmed. It measures a couple of feet in one direction and about three in the other. Its edges are angry red with grey, purple, and green veins shooting towards the center. It’s concave and gelatinous looking.
“Touch it,” she says.
Zed grimaces and then carefully places his finger on the surface near the edge. “Gooey,” he observes.
“This is just the start. Follow me.” She leads us to another part of the tube where a gaping hole is edged by the same colors and goo.
“It’s spreading. I’ve found more instances of it in other tubes.”
“Gi is diseased? What do you get from Gi?” Zed asks.
“Nothing—a very scary nothing. It’s like Gi is asleep or gone.”
“Gi isn’t gone. We’re standing inside of Gi,” Zed notes.
“Or it’s dead,” Sonnet says grimly.
“Can’t be. Gi controls everything around us. If Gi were dead we would not have had access to the entry or any of the rest of this. Gi has to be alive.”
“Or maybe it’s just reflexes, like a chicken who runs with its head cut off,” Sonnet offers.
“Or maybe Gi is simply sick,” I add, “sick and uncommunicative. Regardless, this is disturbing and we have no way of helping.”
“This Gi is the oldest that we know of in existence. This is the original as far as we can tell. What happens when it dies? How do we find the other Gis? We know they’re out there, but I’ve never seen one,” Zed remarks.
“I have,” Sonnet tells us, “near Mount Mikeno.”
“Volcan Mikeno?” Zed asks.
“One and the same.”
An ominous shiver runs through the walls and floors around us.
“When you were in avatar mode yesterday, you didn’t feel Gi?” I ask her.
“I haven’t felt Gi for a while.”
“Neither have I,” Zed adds. “I really didn’t think about it because it’s been so gradual. I just assumed it was cyclical or something. Gi seems to make itself known mostly in times of crisis.”
“Which is all the more reason to be concerned. This seems like a crisis in my book. And where is Gi?” Sonnet voices our shared concern.
“You’ve seen no alien markers in your surveys so we know this is not alien-caused.”
“Which means I need to make direct contact with the Mikeno Gi,” Sonnet declares.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the other Gi?” Zed questions.
“Because it was just an impression along with a fleeting image once when I was in avatar mode. When it registered, we were busy with marauding government soldiers.”
“Ugh! I remember that well. Terrible times,” Zed recalls.
“So you’ve never been there, never made contact. Are you even sure you can find it?” I ask.
“Everything is connected. Once I’m in the area, I should be able to tap into whatever trace of it is out there. I’ll hone in on its strength and work from there. I estimate I can make contact within a week’s effort. I don’t need to be in the orb. I can work from anywhere once I bring up the avatars.”
“IF you can bring them up,” I comment, and we all realize the huge problem. If this Gi is dead or unable to produce avatars, then our time here is at an end. They are crucial to our work. “Did you notice any hesitation the last time you entered avatar mode?” I ask.
Sonnet shakes her head “No.” “Let’s not delay. The decision is made to seek out the Mikeno Gi. Agreed?”
Zed and I both nod in agreement, but I’m deeply worried. Even if Sonnet is able to conjure up her avatars, what happens to them as Gi weakens or worse yet, dies. The avatars will surely weaken as Gi does and will surely die as Gi dies.
We follow Sonnet through the tubes to the birther room where she takes her place in one of the light-filled indentations on the floor.
“Wait,” Zed cautions. “Your avatars aren’t made for long distance. Mine are. It should be me who searches.”
“But you don’t know what you’re looking for. At least I had an image and impression.”
“Won’t matter. I can scour every inch of the area as if I were looking for alien signature. We’re talking about something hundreds of miles from here. Your bird avatars don’t have the defenses mine have and mine are much quicker than yours.”
Sonnet gives him a doubtful look, but gestures for him to step into one of the indentations filled with light things. He walks into the nearest pool, stops and turns towards us and says, “Wish me luck.”
Nothing happens. The lights do not migrate up his legs and no orb is created. “Uh-oh,” he says.
I mutter an expletive as Sonnet whispers, “No” in disbelief.
Zed kicks at the lights, but still, nothing happens. He hops out of the pool and into another pool. Nothing. “We’re too late. It’s already happened,” he says, distraught.
My mind starts racing, trying to assemble recent events to make sense of this. “Sonnet, you had no problem the day of Boboto’s murder?”
“Correct.”
“And the two of you scan the countryside two or three times a week and have not had problems before this.”
In unison, they affirm, “Correct.”
“So what is different? What has happened between Boboto’s murder and now?”
“Are you thinking that the bodies of the men I turned into mulch may have spread disease to Gi?” Sonnet suggests.
“That’s never been a problem before. But it’s a consideration. If that’s so, then your avatar would carry the disease.”
“My avatars are dissolved like they always are when I let them go outside of Gi. There are no remnants of them in here.”
“Even your Sonnet avatar?”
“Dissolved.”
“What else happened si
nce the murder?”
“Kinshasa arrived. But I don’t see how that could affect Gi. Kitoko does not have access to Gi.”
“Are you sure? She’s a kid with a kid’s curiosity. Have you ever noticed her following you to Gi?”
“Of course, but Gi would not open for her. Only us.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s never mentioned anything about being inside of Gi.”
“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
Sonnet blanches and Zed grimaces. “That’s...that’s pretty serious. You could alienate her for life if it came down to that,” Zed cautions.
“Tough measures for tough times,” I contribute.
“Let me speak to her before we resort to you reading her. If she confesses, then there’ll be no need for invasive measures.”
I nod in agreement.
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 6
Kitoko and Kinshasa, seated on a patch of grass, face each other. Their legs are crossed and they hold hands. Their torsos are inclined toward each other to the point where they almost touch foreheads. As we near them, I see that while they stare at each other, their eyes blink rapidly and independently, and their cheeks twitch discordantly. So deeply involved in each other are they that they appear oblivious to our approach until Zed, Sonnet, and I stop a few feet from them and just watch in curiosity.
Moments later Kitoko breaks from the game and releases Kinshasa’s hand. She turns to us and says in Lingala, “You wish our attention?”
Sonnet asks, “What were the two of you doing just now? I’ve never seen that before.”
Kitoko shrugs as if it were a trivial matter that needs no explaining, “We share.”
“But you were silent and I’ve never seen the blinking.”
“We share in shared language. This is her native language. She teaches me. I learn quickly.”
Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series Page 28
