Gold Trap

by Lilly Maytree

  “That was a big fish,” she said.

  “Not a fish.” the talkative grandson informed her. “Crocodile.”

  Which immediately caused Meg to feel unsafe in the little boat that was only three feet across at its widest point and less than six inches off the water. “How long will it take to get to De Ambe?” she asked.

  “Not long. One hour maybe. It is a nice trip. No bad currents. And sometimes if it is late enough, you can see hippos feeding.”

  “Hippos?” Yesterday, she’d been thrilled to see hippos. But the idea of seeing any number of them from this vantage-point was rather horrifying. “Aren’t they dangerous?”

  “Only if you bump them,” he said lightly. “They don’t like that.”

  “Do you ever lose any boats out here?”

  “We know where we are going.”

  “Tip over, I mean. Do many boats like this tip over?”

  “Some yamheads who drink too much tip over, sometimes.” Then he looked back at her and laughed at the expression he saw on her face, and the young man behind her laughed, too. “But don’t worry, missie.” He teased. “We have been drinking no beer.”

  Meg knew they were playing with her and didn’t respond. Instead, she fixed the eye of her camera on the chocolate-colored water of the river and looked for hippos. A bit farther along, where the river narrowed, the thick humid heat seemed to engulf them like a steaming vat. Not long after that, those wraithlike wisps of fog, called “smokes,” began to filter out through the surrounding forest and lay on top of the water. Recognizing the same oppressive signs of rain as yesterday, she quickly returned the camera to the bag beneath her shawl and set her umbrella in a handy place. Yes, they were going to get caught in the deluge before they even reached De Ambe.

  “What is your name?” Franklin suddenly asked over his shoulder.

  “Meg Jennings,” she replied.

  “Is your father very rich, Meg Jennings?”

  “It depends on what you call rich.” She answered. “He’s the captain of his own tugboat, and has a nice little cabin tucked away on a sheltered island to spend the winters in. He and my mother are very happy. I’d say that was rich.”

  “Do you have brothers?”

  “One. He’s older. How about you?”

  “I think I would like to travel some time to your country. Would you write down the address of your father so that I may know someone there?”

  An odd request, Meg thought. Why didn’t he ask for hers? Then thinking it must simply be a difference in cultural etiquette, she replied, “If you like, Franklin. I’ll write it down for you when we get to De Ambe.”

  “And your husband’s father? Will you write his address down, too?”

  “Did I say I had a husband?” Meg asked warily. “And just who do you think my father-in-law might be? Someone named Professor Anderson, perhaps?”

  “Myself, I don’t know him. But he is a great name. They say he pays for some of us to go to university, if we have the brains and can keep out of trouble. I would like to write him a letter. You are a teacher, so you should help me.”

  “I might be willing to talk to him about you,” Meg offered. “If you take me where he is. Let’s be honest, shall we? I’m sure your grandmother already told you I’m looking for him. And the only way you could know I’m a teacher is if you were spying on Vidalia and me on our way to the river. You could have at least introduced yourselves and helped carry our…”

  A flash of light and a near deafening roar of thunder made her flinch and reach for her umbrella. Like the day before, it was followed by several others in rapid succession. Meg had hardly enough time to even get the umbrella open before the rain began to pour down in torrents. The young man behind her picked up a rusty coffee can and began to bail steadily as water rose around their feet and along the bottom of Meg’s bag.

  A half mile farther upriver, she saw a great streak of forked lightning reach down like a deathly hand and explode the trunk of a giant tree. It was like nothing Meg had ever seen before. Storms here seemed to happen all around instead of up in the sky. She wondered how anyone could ever get used to such wild, unnerving displays of violent nature.

  Now, even the talkative grandson became silent as he lent all his efforts to paddling. Meg spent the next half-hour watching the warm rain run in rivulets down his clinging, blue T-shirt and over his jeans as she sat beneath her makeshift shelter. Which was actually doing quite the nice job of keeping herself and her things fairly dry. She made sure her string bag was pulled close under her shawl and protected, and (once again) wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.

  All at once, the two young men, as if by signal, began paddling swiftly toward a passing shore, and to Meg’s surprise, banked the pirogue on a muddy finger of land that had nothing resembling a town in sight.

  “Where is De Ambe from here?” she asked after they had pulled the boat up onto higher ground, helped her to climb out, and set her duffel down beside her. It seemed to be growing darker by the minute, was it that late, already? Her mind suddenly began to whirl with thoughts of leopards and the hour when not even the locals were out-and-about.

  “You will write the names and addresses, now,” Franklin Hawkins spoke harshly through the pouring rain. “And give us your camera, too. Otherwise we will leave you here.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Meg snapped back. “You’ll take me to De Ambe like you’re supposed to, or I’ll write your name and address to that witchdoctor of yours and let him deal with you.”

  There was a moment of silence, and Meg thought she detected a flicker of concern in the dark eyes.

  “You do not know him.”

  “I most certainly do. He sings in Kumasi twice a month and runs the tour company. It just so happens I’m on my way to see him. Here, hold this.” She handed him the umbrella and hurriedly retrieved the long-sleeved khaki jacket that matched her skirt, along with the safari hat out of the duffel at her feet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking for me right now.”

  There was another long silence as he dutifully held the umbrella over her while she put on her things, and then took it back again. After which her two companions stepped a few feet away from her and conferred together. Meg could have made a run for it, but two summers’ experience with a camp canoe didn’t give her much confidence in crocodile-infested rivers. And she would much rather take her chances with these two cocky teenagers than be alone in “the bush” at night.

  “All right, boys.” She walked up to them. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re trying to do here?”

  The sound of an engine interrupted her, and she looked up in time to see two headlights of a vehicle pinpoint them from a little knoll a short distance above.

  “Man, how did he find out?” Franklin Hawkins whispered.

  “Miriam must have called him.” The boy who hadn’t spoken until now, gave a disgusted sigh and turned back toward the boat. “Let’s go.”

  “Stay!” A commanding voice boomed from the direction of the lights, but Meg could see only a tall silhouette descending before the brightness.

  There was a heated exchange of words between them that Meg did not understand, and within a few moments, the boys were shoving the pirogue back into the river with much less enthusiasm than they had hauled it ashore. The stranger turned in full view within the lights then, and she could not help the sudden quick intake of her breath when he looked down at her.

  “It is safer if you come with me, Megan Jennings.” He smiled reassuringly as he picked up her duffel. He, too, had shoulder-length hair in many braids, dark arresting eyes, and a handsomeness that was almost radiant. When he walked ahead of Meg up the embankment, it was with a rhythmic stride that held the grace of an athlete, or maybe even a dancer. There was something stately and regal about him, yet his clothes were simple jeans and a dark T-shirt that clung wet and dripping against his muscular body in the pouring rain.

  “Are you…Miriam’s brot
her?” she asked as they neared the jeep. For she had heard the boys say she might have called him, and this man was as strikingly handsome as Miriam was beautiful.

  “No.” He laughed at the thought. “Miriam is my wife. But she is a wild thing who only comes home when she gets tired. Right now, she is off somewhere trying to catch a thief. Miriam is a good huntress. She called me to come and fetch you.”

  “How did she know I would be here instead of De Ambe?”

  “This is the path to De Ambe. And Belle Daube cannot keep her mouth closed very long for any reason.” He opened the door for Meg and motioned her in, then put her duffel in the back before moving around to the driver’s side. “She is the third wife of a man who collects foolish tourists. You should be more careful, Megan Jennings. After dark, on this river, all the pay-boats are run by thieves. A woman alone is always tempting.” He put the red, late-model Jeep into gear and started off on the muddy road.

  “But I had to get here. Especially after I heard about the professor, and the plane crash everyone is…”

  “Who told you there was a plane crash? Belle Daube? That old woman should have been a teller of tales instead of a thief. Then she could have lied with honor.”

  The rain rattled against the metal roof as they slogged along. It was growing too dark to see anything but an outline of towering trees around them, now. Even so, Meg could detect nothing that looked like a town or village up ahead of them.

  “How far is it to De Ambe?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to go to De Ambe,” he replied. “It would be too dangerous for you there. They are in the middle of what you might call…” He paused for a moment, as if trying to decide how to phrase it. “… a small uprising.”

  “But Professor Anderson is somewhere in De Ambe! At the bottom of a goldmine, maybe, and who knows if he’s still even…”

  They came to a sliding stop in the middle of the road. He switched on the interior light, lifted the brim of her hat for a better look at her, and then let it fall into place, again. “How do you know this?”

  “A friend of mine, Vidalia Harbin, only barely escaped the same fate by hiding under a wharf last night. And I’m afraid the professor’s body guard, Gilbert Minelli…”

  “Have you seen Minelli?”

  “Not since the airport in Paris. But Vidalia saw him at the van last night, and Belle Daube…”

  He reached toward her, again, and this time ran a finger around the neck of her blouse.

  “I beg your pardon!” Meg clutched the open collar of her jacket tight against her throat. “There’s no gold chain, if that’s what you’re looking for!”

  “That is exactly what I was looking for. All who wear them are under the influence of the Abdu Sadir. Now, I, at least, know I can trust you.”

  “Which is more than I can say for you at the moment! I am well aware of the kind of person Sol Horn is, and I have no interest in his illegal gold investments, or even smuggling it out by way of alligator chains. I only came to find the professor. I have to find him before Tom gets here!”

  “Tom isn’t coming here. He is headed farther upriver to the Little De Ambe, because he thinks his father is already there. And now…” He switched off the interior light and they were in the dark, again. “I must decide what to do with you.”

  Gold Trap

  21

  Thief Town

  “Tell the chief,” I said, “that I hear this town of his is thief town.”

  Mary Kingsley

  Meg had a sudden feeling of dismay. “What to do with me? I told you I have to go to De Ambe!”

  “And I told you it was dangerous.”

  “You can at least take me to the goldmine. I have to find the professor before it’s too late!”

  “There are more than twenty goldmines between here and Little De Ambe. It could take days to find the right one. We will have to find someone who is part of the plot, instead. It is the only way.”

  “Then we will have to go to De Ambe!”

  “You have the words of a bossy mama.” He put the jeep in gear and turned it around as he spoke. “You want De Ambe? I will take you to De Ambe, mama.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s just that…”

  “It’s just that you will have what you will have.” Then he laughed, as if he would enjoy the adventure, and accelerated until the jeep was fairly flying over the rough, wet road.

  Meg held onto the dash and tried not to let the wild ride get the better of her. They barreled along through the dark tropical forest, and it wasn’t until he rolled the windows down from a central control that she realized that it was no longer raining. The breeze generated by their movement was refreshing after the airless humidity of the closed cab, and she instinctively reached a hand outside.

  Then, as they slowed down for a bend in the road, a figure suddenly darted out and ran along beside them, shouting a loud, long, beautiful cadence of words that Meg couldn’t understand. A few moments later there was a glow of open fires ahead, and the headlights picked up a row of brick and mud plaster buildings as people began to emerge and converge on their approaching vehicle.

  An arresting volley of drums and chanting started up all around them. Manly voices were punctuated with the higher-pitched shouts of feminine laughter and delight. Excitement mounted like something alive and physical, to course through the jubilant crowd and invade even Meg, with the primitive rhythms.

  “Come,” said her companion as he pulled the jeep to a stop beside the nearest fire. Then he laid a warning hand on her arm as she opened the door. “But do not become separated from me, mama. If something happens to you, I will never hear the end of it.”

  It was as if they had been waiting for him. The crowd surged around them with the adoration of a celebrity. “Ashanti, Asantehene! Ashanti, Asantehene!” They chanted as he moved through, smiling, shaking hands, and touching the heads of children whose mothers pressed them close.

  Near the fire he and Meg were offered deck chairs to sit in (that mysteriously resembled the ones she had seen on the Volta Queen). After that, plates, cups, and calabashes were passed to them. “You don’t have to eat all, but take something from each one. It is the polite thing,” he whispered.

  “Why are they doing this?” Meg whispered back. She took a small taste of a spicy concoction of meat and vegetables, and then smiled in appreciation at the young woman who had offered it.

  “It is their right to celebrate me.” He exchanged her plate for a calabash that had just been passed along to him. “Little sips of this, or you will be on your ear.”

  It was some kind of strong homemade beer. Meg merely touched her lips to it, and then quickly passed it along to eager, outstretched hands that were reaching to her. The next offering was sweet potatoes. Delicious. “You should have told me you were a chief or something. I’d have tried to be more respectful. If you’re a chief, why don’t you dress like one?”

  “It is better if a man shows who he is from within, than without. But I am no chief.”

  “Not a witchdoctor, I hope.”

  “No. I am the son of Aram Fada. The warrior king of a once great nation these people wish to see restored. I don’t necessarily agree, but the responsibility has been thrust upon me by my ancestors. Personally…” He smiled his radiant smile and reached out to touch the face of a shy young girl who offered him her bowl. “I think the answers to our problems lie in education and world peace.”

  “But you still go along with them?”

  “It has been thrust upon me.”

  “And if there have been murders, do you go along with them, too?”

  “I told you before. There is an uprising in De Ambe that has become dangerous. But, as you can see, not all the people here are involved in it. We cannot insult the entire town for the few that have gone bad.”

  “But we’re wasting precious time. When will you ask them about the mines?”

  “First, we must eat and be polite.”

  What foll
owed next reminded her of a neighborhood block party. There was music and dancing, much of which she recognized as the sort of popular western culture depicted through movies and radio. But over all there was the distinct African hum of ancient rhythms that held it all together like some primitive heartbeat. All this was mingled with an immense common happiness in the simplest of pleasures, which Meg could not help but admire.

  The son of a warrior king, though, always kept a watchful eye on her. He laughed and danced with every pretty girl who was brave enough to come up to him, and never once refused anything offered to him.

  In the meanwhile, Meg let her gaze wander up and down the row of seemingly vacant buildings. Everyone in the place must be out here. She wondered if Sol Horn was among them somewhere. If this was where he lived, as Vidalia had insisted, he was mysteriously absent, at present. Then again, he might have hurried back to the Mole National Park to finish out the tour, and thereby set himself up an alibi.

  Miriam could be tailing him at this very moment. Hadn’t she mentioned something about a stakeout tonight? But even if there was, Meg found it difficult to take comfort in the fact. Because he only seemed to be leading all of them down a false trail while the real criminal activity was going on right here. In spite of the many confidences that had been expressed in the girl, she was no match for someone as dark-hearted and sinister as Sol Horn seemed to be. And what kind of a husband would let his young wife do something so dangerous? Then again, her father was a commissioner of police for something called the Volta River Authority, so maybe she wasn’t working alone in it all.

  Because even though there had been no answering message from her on Meg’s phone, Miriam had certainly called her husband, quick enough. Maybe even her father, too. Thank heaven! The thought of being by herself for very long in this strange place gave Meg the shudders. But at least she wasn’t still sitting out on that muddy finger of riverbank with two belligerent teenagers. Her thoughts were interrupted, then, as someone handed her another calabash of beer, and she dutifully touched her lips to it, smiled graciously, and handed it back, again.