He was still with the dancers, taking a turn on one of the drums. He had, of course, made “friends” with a beautiful local girl who didn’t speak a word of English.
Apparently, our crude sign language worked. The girl looked terrified.
As she ran away, she surprised us by shrieking the two English words she apparently knew: “Marry me! Marry me! Marry me!”
“I guess I taught her that,” Tommy said with an embarrassed chuckle.
“Thomas?” said Storm, using her best stern voice. “Did you ask that girl to marry you?”
“Duh. Several times. I’m in love, you guys. I swear. No funny business. This time I am so totally serious. That girl’s going to be Mrs. Tailspin Tommy!”
“What’s her name?”
“Oops,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Forgot to ask.”
CHAPTER 48
Sonkwe and his team led us deep into the jungle.
“We must hurry,” he said. “If, as you say, you angered the pirates who rule the Great North Road, they will surely seek revenge. And soon.”
We threw our gear together double-quick.
One of our guides was a very bizarre, elderly British gentleman with snow-white hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He was decked out in a pith helmet, safari shirt, khaki shorts, and kneesocks like a Great White Hunter from an old Tarzan movie.
He also had an odd way of introducing himself. “Chip, chip, cheerio. I’m Fred. Lord Fred. Formerly with MI-Five. British Intelligence, what-what?”
“You were a spy?” said Beck.
“I prefer the term birdwatcher.”
“So how’d you end up in this line of work?” asked Tommy, who’s always interested in everybody’s life story. “Carrying heavy stuff on your back in the steamy jungles of Africa?”
“Hard work and dedication, old bean. Now it’s all tickety-boo.”
We followed Lord Fred, Sonkwe, and the others up a narrow, vine-choked path. The guides in the lead slashed at the tangled green creepers with their machetes.
It was jungle, jungle everywhere. Nothing but jungle. Hot, humid, sticky, sweaty, forehead-dribbling, shirt-soaking, back-trickling JUNGLE.
To make things worse, Storm decided to regale us with her encyclopedic knowledge of everything that might be lurking in the dewy green darkness all around us.
Most of it, apparently, was poisonous. Poisonous plants, poisonous bugs, poisonous snakes, even poisonous tree frogs and fire ants.
Have you ever read the epic Greek adventure tale The Odyssey? Well, Mom made us read that and The Iliad. The Odyssey is about this guy on a really long trip to get home to his family, but it takes him, like, twenty years. This trip was starting to feel a lot like that, except happening to us instead of an old Greek guy.
The dangers we had to deal with in the African jungle were very, very real, and they could make us very, very dead.
But once you decide something in a family meeting (like making a run at King Solomon’s Mines), there’s really no turning back.
Especially when you know a band of snack-cake-crazed-sugar-buzzed pirates is following you.
CHAPTER 49
We came to a swiftly flowing river churning with white-water rapids.
“We must cross here,” said Sonkwe. “Inflate the rubber rafts. Load up the gear. Kidd children? You will split up and take separate rafts, each with one of my guides, for your protection.”
Tommy and Storm climbed into their own raft with Sonkwe. Beck and I were assigned the raft piloted by Lord Fred.
Of course, neither of us trusted Lord Fred as far as we could throw a bull elephant—if, you know, we could even lift a bull elephant. Maybe it was his teensy-tiny, beady eyes. Or his Kentucky Fried Chicken–dude beard and mustache. Could’ve been that none of the other guides wore kneesocks or pith helmets or said “chip, chip, cheerio” like the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins.
But, most likely, Beck and I didn’t trust Lord Fred because he told us he used to be a spy.
A lot of spies (our own parents not included) are supershady, and you never know whose side they’re really on. They could be double agents or triple agents, and I’m pretty sure I heard once about a quadruple agent. They could trick you into thinking they were working for you when, in fact, they were working for your worst enemy while simultaneously working for that enemy’s enemy.
Did Lord Fred work for Guy Dubonnet Merck? Even worse, was Nathan Collier, our parents’ number one competitor, Fred’s real boss? Did Fred know Uncle Timothy or Aunt Bela?
“Right-oh, children,” said Fred. “Time to shove off, what-what?”
It was a hot and sweltering day (one hundred degrees with 100 percent humidity), so I was actually looking forward to crossing the roaring river. I was hoping there might be some kind of cooling breeze wafting across the rapids, maybe a refreshing spray from the choppy water. I figured the river would be a nice break from hiking through the sticky, steamy jungle.
I was so wrong.
CHAPTER 50
Our raft (and for some reason—most likely Lord Fred—just our raft) was swept downstream by the river’s unrelenting current.
We shot down the rapids, cascaded over a waterfall, landed with a hard splash, and found ourselves drifting across the glassy surface of a wide lake.
“Where’s everybody else?” shouted Beck.
“Back upstream,” I said. “Crossing the river. Like we were supposed to do!”
Then we glared at our so-called guide, Lord Fred.
“Right-oh,” he said. “Keep calm and carry on. No need to panic. I believe this is Lake Bangweshiba. Should be smooth sailing from here on out.”
“Smooth sailing?” Beck shouted. “Lake Bang-whatever isn’t where we’re supposed to be! It’s not even on Storm’s treasure map!”
“We need to be on the other side of that river with the others,” I added.
“We sure do,” said Beck. “Because we didn’t pack any food or gear on this raft! The porters took it all in their rafts.”
“Right,” said Lord Fred. “You children raise some very interesting and valid points. Let me think about all of it for a tick, what-what?”
While Fred thought, we kept drifting.
On the horizon, behind an island with two jagged peaks, the sun was starting to set, cooling the air and turning the sky a gorgeous, Lion King orange.
We might have been lost and cut off from our family, but, for the moment, everything was extremely peaceful.
Until about two seconds later.
CHAPTER 51
At this point in the story, I would like to quote my sister Beck: “OMG!”
A giant hippo rose up out of the lake, showing nothing but jaws and teeth. We’re talking an enormous and deadly mouth stretching open no more than five feet away from our dinky, little rubber raft.
As the huge thing blew water out of its snout like wet snot, I was remembering all the fun factoids Storm had shared with us about hippopotami, which is Latin for “hippopotamuses.”
The blubbery, nearly hairless beast keeps cool by staying submerged all day long and comes out at night only to munch on grass—or any children it might find floating across its lake on a rubber raft. The hippo is also one of the heaviest land mammals in the world (right behind elephants and some rhinos), but, despite its stocky body and stubby legs, this hippo could easily outrun Beck and me. Imagine a two-ton tank with jaws of death tearing after you at twenty miles per hour, and you’ve got a pretty good picture of a hippo.
Storm had also been kind enough to mention that “the hippopotamus is one of the most aggressive creatures on earth and one of the most dangerous animals in all of Africa.” Storm had also shared the facts that hippopotamus teeth sharpen themselves as they grind together and that their lower canines can grow to be twenty inches long!
Good to know. Especially when you’re staring down the wide-open mouth of one. I’d hate to be this guy’s dentist. If you think morning breath is bad, you should get a whiff of
hippo mouth.
But the hippo didn’t bite us with his jumbo-sized choppers.
Oh, no. It did something much worse.
CHAPTER 52
It flipped the raft!
It dipped its ginormous head under our raft and pitched us over like half-baked pancakes.
Beck and I tumbled into the water.
I was thinking piranhas. I was thinking crocodiles. I was thinking water snakes! I was thinking about that hippo with the enormous teeth.
And leeches over 99.9 percent of my body.
Yes, thrashing around in the mud-swirled waters, all I could think about were all those incredibly hideous, poisonous, and predatory creatures Storm had warned us about.
I reached out blindly with both hands, hoping to find Beck, but slightly worried that I might be sticking my arms down the raft-tossing hippo’s throat. Fortunately, my fingers locked onto Beck’s and, even though we couldn’t see each other, we scissor-kicked our way to the surface.
When we broke through the water and gasped for breath, the hippopotamus was gone.
So was Lord Fred.
“You think the hippo got him?” said Beck.
“Maybe,” I replied. “Could’ve been a crocodile, though. Or a piranha. Might’ve been a poisonous water snake.”
“So Lord Fred is, basically, dead?”
We were both treading water, keeping our eyes out for any slow-moving logs with eyeballs—better known as crocodiles. I kicked off my shoes because I swim better barefoot.
“I guess there’s a chance Fred escaped,” I said. “After all, he told us he used to be a spy. Maybe he remembered some of his MI-Five survival skills.”
“Well, what about us?” demanded Beck. “He’s our guide! He just leaves us stranded in the middle of a lake with a ruptured rubber raft?”
A sheet of limp plastic drifted by like a deflated pool float after someone attacked it with a pitchfork.
“Maybe you can demand a refund from Sonkwe,” I suggested.
“Don’t worry. I will!”
“Meanwhile,” I said, “why don’t we swim to that island.”
“That’s not an island, Bickford. That’s two pointy rocks with a sad little tree.”
“Without any hippos on them,” I said. “Or piranhas, or leeches, or…”
“Fine. You win.”
And so we swam. Fast.
After living most of our lives on the ocean, Beck and I are both excellent swimmers. We soared across that lake like we were riding Jet Skis. We might’ve beaten the Olympic record for the 100-meter freestyle. Of course, the crocodile that started chasing after us probably had something to do with our record-breaking speed. Crocodiles tend to be great motivators.
We made it to the double rocks.
And, for the first time, after all those years of being at sea, the two of us were actually stranded on a desert island… in the middle of the jungle.
CHAPTER 53
It gets very dark at night in the jungle. There’s zero glow from bright city lights to dim the diamond-studded African sky.
As Beck and I huddled against our solitary tree on the rocks, I wished I had my Dad’s rain slicker with me. The night air was actually chilly.
I shivered a little and Beck’s teeth chattered.
And then we heard the swish of crocodile tails circling our “island.” And hippos blowing water out of their noses. And snakes slithering across the lake. I could also hear a big cat grumbling somewhere off in the distance. Perfect.
“Um, Beck?”
“Yeah?”
“I know house cats don’t like water, but can African lions swim?”
“Probably,” said Beck. “Depends on how hungry they are.”
“How about cheetahs?”
“They’ll swim if they’re chasing their dinner.”
“What about leopards? Do they swim, too?”
“Sure. Especially if they want to get dinner before the lions and cheetahs eat it all. Satisfied, Bick?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
And then neither of us said another word for about an hour. Yes, we were breaking all sorts of world records.
But then, suddenly, Beck stood up.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?” I said.
“Shhh! Listen.”
“All I hear is my heart beating and the crocodiles discussing what they’re going to have for dinner if the big cats eat us first!”
“Shhh. Seriously. I think I hear someone calling our names.”
I strained to listen.
Then I heard it, too. Way off in the distance, a faint chorus of “Bick? Beck? Rebecca? Bickford? Where are you, old chaps?” came through the darkness.
It was Tommy, Sonkwe, and Lord Fred.
“You guys!” I shouted. “We’re out here!”
“Tommy?” Beck screamed. “We’re on these stupid little rocks!”
We kept it up for five full minutes. But no one shouted back. Our rescue party had moved on.
“This is all Fred’s fault,” said Beck, sitting down with a huff. “I hate him.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Well, I hate him more.”
And, believe it or not, stranded on our tiny desert island, we launched into Twin Tirade No. 470.
“Impossible, Bickford. I hate Lord Fred more than brussels sprouts smeared with moldy mayonnaise.”
“Oh really, Rebecca? Well, I don’t just hate Lord Fred, I loathe him. I abhor, detest, and despise him! He is an anathema and abomination!”
“What? What does that mean?”
“That I hate him more than you!”
That was when a big, noisy bird landed on one of the rocks. Beck and I suspended our tirade and scurried over to the other rock to let our nasty wing-flapping visitor have its pick of the peaks.
At least we thought it was a big bird. It was so dark we couldn’t actually see what had just landed on our rock cluster. But we could definitely hear it. The thing was a real squawker, like the pterodactyls in all the movies.
Maybe it was a pterodactyl.
Beck and I wouldn’t know for sure until first thing in the morning.
If we lived that long.
CHAPTER 54
It was probably the scariest, longest night of our entire lives.
The sound effects alone would’ve driven most kids (or adults) crazy. We’re talking bird squawks, hippo snorts, hyena laughs, snake hisses, and man-eating lion roars. I could also, I swear, hear the bloodsucking leeches puckering up their blood suckers.
To make matters worse, I also heard Storm’s nonstop “The Horrors of the Jungle” monologue floating through my brain in an endless audio loop: “Think about this, you guys: A Nile crocodile named Gustave, on the other side of Lake Tanganyika, is twenty-one feet long and weighs two thousand pounds.
“Crocodiles are like goldfish. They don’t stop growing as long as they have a steady flow of food. Well, Gustave is so huge he can’t get by on a diet of fish and antelope meat like all the other crocodiles. Oh, no. Now, he attacks larger animals. Hippopotamuses, wildebeests, and even humans!”
The memory made me gulp.
“At least we’re not stranded in South America,” mumbled Beck somewhere off in the darkness.
“What?” I said.
“I was remembering all that scary stuff Storm told us about Gustave, the Nile crocodile.”
“Me too!”
(We’re twins. What can I say? Sometimes we even share the same nightmares.)
“But,” said Beck, “Gustave is only one freakishly large African croc. The black caiman crocodiles that live in the Amazon basin of South America are much worse.”
“Worse than a psycho killer who cuts through whole crowds of people just so he can chomp a bite out of every butt he bumps into?”
“Lots worse. The black caiman crocodiles have no natural predator, Bick. Do you know what that means?
“They’re at the tippy-top of the food chain?”
“That’s right. If
the black caimans swam across the ocean to Africa, they’d be the real kings of the jungle. Nothing can stop a black caiman!”
I thought about that.
“What about a Black Hawk?” I said.
“Huh?”
“I bet a Black Hawk helicopter could beat a black caiman crocodile.”
And—in the middle of the lake in the middle of the night—we started Twin Tirade No. 471.
“No way, Bickford. The black caiman would clamp its jaws on the Black Hawk’s landing gear and drag it underwater.”
“Only if the chopper pilot was dumb enough to drop down that low!”
“The black caiman croc can grow sixteen, twenty feet long!” said Beck. “It would jump out of the water and clamp its high-pressure jaws on your helicopter—”
“And get a Hellfire laser-guided missile down its snout.”
“Which the croc would just chomp in half.”
“So I’d shoot it with my side-mounted Gatling guns.”
We leaned against each other.
“The bullets would bounce off the crocodile’s dinosaur-thick hide.”
I yawned first. “Not if they were armor-piercing bullets.”
“The croc would just… frumple miffenshish…” mumbled Beck.
“Moonka hinka miffenpish fooph,” I mumbled back.
And then, totally exhausted, holding on to each other for dear life, we both drifted off to sleep.
We never finished our tirade.
CHAPTER 55
The sun peeked up over the eastern edge of the lake.
“Mom and Dad?” I mumbled groggily. “Are we at King Solomon’s Mines yet?”
“Are we there yet?” mumbled Beck.
Yeah, sometimes we have the same wake-up dreams, too.
Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile Page 9
