by Mike Resnick
“Hold on a minute!” I said, jumping up. “What do you mean, make babies?”
“Make babies,” said Kitunga solemnly. With the forefinger of one hand and the fist of the other, he gave us a graphic and vigorous analogy.
“You mean you want us to make babies with some naked black barbarians?” I demanded.
“Not black,” said Kitunga. “Like you.”
“You mean a white woman?” asked Rourke.
“Yes, yes,” said Kitunga. “White woman.”
As you can imagine, we immediately fell to discussing this development between ourselves while Kitunga ambled off to sleep with his men. Back in those days there were lots of tales making the rounds about white women who were priestesses or goddesses of heathen black tribes, but while they sounded good over a lonely campfire or in the bar of the Norfolk Hotel, they were about as likely to be true as our lost Zulu gold mine.
“The way I see it, Brother Rourke,” I said after considerable thought, “is that these here savages have killed some hunting party except for a white woman, whom they've doubtless got chained to a post in their village, and whom they probably ravish by the hour.”
“I don't know that I'm real pleased about this turn of events, Saint Luke,” said Rourke. “Oh, I'll admit that it beats being eaten, but I suppose she's going to want us to rescue her.”
It was a kind of gloomy thought at that, and I said as much. “Still,” I added, “it's the Christian thing to do.”
“Maybe you could tell her to turn the other cheek, a fascinating thought in itself,” said Rourke.
“Well, I suppose we'd at least better make sure she wants to be rescued before we go about upsetting Kitunga,” I suggested.
“Right,” agreed Rourke. “A person can get used to anything in time. Maybe she's gotten to where she likes being ravished.”
“A telling point,” I agreed.
We fell silent for a while, and then an interesting notion hit me.
“Brother Rourke,” I said, “I think we've been looking at this situation all wrong.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Why should a bunch of healthy young bucks want our help ravishing a prisoner?”
“I hadn't quite gotten around to considering that,” he admitted. “Now that you mention it, it doesn't really make a lot of sense, does it?”
“It sure as hell don't.”
“Scientific curiosity, maybe?” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “I been mulling on it for a couple of minutes now, and it seems to me that if they was choosing partners for this white woman, they'd just naturally choose themselves.”
“Makes sense,” said Rourke, nodding his head thoughtfully.
“Well, then, it stands to reason that if bringing us back with them ain't their idea, it must be hers.”
“Sensible,” muttered Rourke. “Sensible.”
“And if she's giving orders to a batch of spear-toting heathen like Kitunga and his buddies, she must be a pretty powerful little lady.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Rourke suddenly. “An oversexed white priestess!” He stared up at the clouds, which were covering up the stars as usual, and got a faraway look on his face. “Golden hair down to her waist,” he said, “and breasts like white cantaloupes. Maybe a bracelet or an armband or two...”
Well, I couldn't see that the picture he was painting was all that much more enticing than a naked white woman staked out spread-eagled on the ground, but I could tell that Rourke didn't want to be bothered none, so I fell to thinking about what kind of tabernacle me and this white priestess could build right here in the bush before we got around to trading ivory and other such trinkets with civilized folks. I didn't know how big her tribe was, but if Kitunga's group was just a foraging party, I figured we'd have an awful lot of manpower able to respond to a terse command or two. As for Burley, I decided that he wasn't such an all-fired bad fellow, and I'd probably let him stick around as a resident witch doctor, so long as he didn't impose on our hospitality too often, like coming over to dinner of a Sunday or asking us to steal a white woman for him too.
Ten minutes later Rourke was still drawing verbal pictures in the damp night air. By now he'd got her hair down to her ankles, and her breasts were the size of honeydew melons. Seems to me that he'd done away with her armbands, too. He just kept whispering to nobody in particular all night, and by morning he was busy working out the color of her eyes and how narrow her waist was.
Once the sun came up it got warm enough to start traveling again—no matter how hot the days are in Africa, the nights are enough to convince you that you've wandered into Eskimo country by mistake—and Kitunga gave us each a none-too-gentle nudge with the butt of his spear. We began walking, mostly over open veldtland, but occasionally going through sky-high grasses on old elephant and rhino trails, and I fell to questioning him about the white woman.
It didn't help much, since Kitunga had just about run through his entire English vocabulary the day before. I couldn't tell how his tribe had come by this woman, or what she looked like, or if she had been there so long she'd forgotten how to speak in a civilized language, or even why she felt the need to make babies. One thing he did let drop that she was a medicine woman, which was probably as close to being a high priestess as a person could get among these heathen, so Rourke was right on that point at least. I figured it was all to the good, since once she and I started taking field trips to Nairobi and places like that, the tribe would need a good medicine man, and even if Rourke couldn't cure a dysentery germ, he could probably talk it to death.
We walked for two more days. I tried to figure out where we were, but one tree looks pretty much like another, and it was raining so much I never did get a fix on the Southern Cross or any of the constellations, so finally I gave up on it and just followed along. When we bedded down that second night Kitunga gave us to understand, more through gestures than words, that we would reach his village the next morning.
“And that's where we'll meet your witchwoman?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” he said.
“And then we both move in with her?”
“Just one,” said Kitunga.
“Just one?” said Rourke, looking a little upset. “What happens to the other?”
Kitunga shrugged and walked away.
“Looks like the winner gets to eat the loser, Brother Rourke,” I said at last.
“I'd never eat you, no matter what,” said Rourke devoutly.
I fully agreed with that remark, and me and the Lord fell to discussing the matter between ourselves, trying to figure out how best not to present Rourke with any such opportunity.
On the surface of it, there was no problem that I could see, what with me being a handsome and vigorous young stallion, possessed as I was with the eye of a hawk, the heart of a lion, and the gentle hand of a lady. But women are peculiar creatures in matters of taste, and a woman who would send a small battalion of naked warriors out in search of a bed partner was likely to be a little more peculiar than most.
So, having dwelled on the matter for some time, I waited until Rourke was asleep and borrowed a sharp hunting knife from Kitunga. Then I walked to a nearby river, cut off my beard and shaved as close as I could, and washed out all my clothes. On the way back I passed a pile of elephant dung which had been sitting there for some days, picked some up, and carefully smeared it over Rourke's shirt and pants as he slept. I couldn't be sure he'd accept it in the sporting manner in which it was done, so I wandered over to where Kitunga's boys were sleeping and piled in with them. One of them spent half the night grabbing at my ass and giggling, but I awoke whole and in one piece.
Matter of fact, what woke me up was Rourke, screaming at the top of his lungs. He'd flung off all his clothes except for his boots, and was jumping up and down in a right impressive fit of rage. His eyes fell on me, and he pointed an accusing finger in my direction.
“You did it, you Judas!” he screamed. “You son of a bitch! You w
ant her all to yourself! You did it!”
“Calm yourself, Brother Rourke,” I said, stepping forward, but still keeping a couple of warriors between him and me. “I don't know quite what you're talking about.”
“Damn your hide!” he screamed. “You know bloody well what I'm talking about! Mark my words, you sure as hell aren't going to have her, not without one whopping big fight!”
I just looked at Kitunga and shrugged. He grinned and motioned his men to get moving. “Go now,” he said.
“Now just a goddamned minute!” snapped Rourke. “I've got to clean up first.”
Kitunga walked over and pointed the business end of his spear at him. “Go now,” he said.
Rourke's shoulders sagged. He paused just long enough to transfer his money from his pants pocket into his boot and started walking off with us. He made a pretty comical picture walking through the bush, six and a half feet tall, skinny as a rail, and wearing nothing but his beat-up old hunting boots, but I thought it safer to admire him from afar and always kept half a dozen men between us.
In about two hours we reached the top of a hill, and, looking down, I could see a batch of thorn huts sitting beside a stream that ran through a large valley.
I adjusted my jacket, buttoned my shirt up to the collar, tried to comb my hair a bit with my fingers, and turned to Kitunga.
“What's her name?” I asked.
“Neeyora,” he said.
It had a lovely lilt to it, just the kind of name that ought to go with being a gorgeous priestess among these godless savages, and I started marching down the hill to the valley so as not to prolong Rourke's agony any more than was strictly necessary.
When I got within about a hundred yards of the village I stopped right sudden-like and blinked my eyes once or twice. Then I looked ahead again to make sure it was no mirage.
“Brother Rourke,” l said. He stopped in his tracks and just glared at me without answering. “I done a terrible thing this morning, a wickedly sinful thing, and I want to make amends. If you'd like my clothes, all except for my hat which I need to shield me from the heat and the rain, I'll gladly turn them over to you right now.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Rourke, a totally unwarranted look of suspicion on his face.
“I just don't want the Lord looking down with displeasure on me for trying to trick you like I did,” I said.
I started unbuttoning my shirt, but Kitunga pointed his spear right at the middle of my belly and, smiling like all get-out, shook his head vigorously.
“But I just want to give him something to wear,” I said.
“No, no,” he said, prodding my belly with the point of his spear blade.
“What's this all about?” demanded Rourke, walking over.
“You were right about her being blonde,” I said. “But you were a little on the conservative side about her breasts.”
“What do you mean?” said Rourke, looking suspicious.
“Not honeydew melons, Brother Rourke,” I said with a sigh. “Watermelons.”
He shaded his eyes and looked toward the village. There, sitting in front of the largest hut, was our half-naked white priestess. More to the point, she was about ninety-five percent naked; it would have taken the hide of a small elephant to cover half of her.
Her hair was blonde under the dirt and the grease. Even as we approached I couldn't tell what color her eyes were; they were sunken too far beneath the folds of flab to even tell if she had any. Her shoulder spread would have done a bull gorilla proud, and her breasts, which sagged down well below her waist, could have given sustenance to an army. She was sitting in the mud, rolling bones and the dried-out carcasses of small lizards on the ground in front of her. It looked like she was trying to sit cross-legged, but her legs were too fat to bend. Rourke had been wrong about the bracelet too. I don't think they could have made one big enough to fit her.
"That?" gasped Rourke. “That's Neeyora?”
Kitunga nodded.
Rourke turned to me, grinning. “I don't know how to thank you, Saint Luke!” His eyes darted over the ground. “You don't see any more elephant shit, do you?” Then he began laughing and threw a dungcovered arm around my shoulders. “We'll let bygones be bygones!” he said, and began walking up to Neeyora's hut.
“Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?” I muttered, and allowed myself to be led into the village.
Neeyora looked up, and if she was less than desirable in repose, she was absolutely mind-boggling in animation. She grinned from ear to ear, a pretty fair distance given the size of her face, said something I couldn't understand to Kitunga, and began licking her lips. Two of the villagers helped her slowly to her feet, and she approached us, giggling like a crazy woman. Her tiny little eyes—now that I was close enough, I could see that they were red—darted from one of us to the other. She reached out and pinched my upper arm, and Rourke just stood there, laughing like a lunatic.
Then she walked over to the Irishman, who was every bit as dirty and foul-smelling and naked as she was, and it was love at first sight. She gave a jubilant little scream, threw her arms around him—which practically made the bottom three-quarters of him vanish from sight—and began dragging him off to her hut.
“Don't just stand there, Luke!” hollered Rourke. “Do something!”
If I'd had my mouth organ with me I suppose I could have played “Here Comes the Bride,” but under the current circumstances I thought it best to keep a low profile, so other than offering Brother Rourke a few appropriate quotes on love and marriage from the Good Book, I just smiled and waved goodbye to him as he vanished into the darkened recesses of his bridal bower. A high-pitched shriek a couple of minutes later gave me to understand that he had also vanished into the darkened recesses of his bride.
Well, Kitunga and I and the boys wandered over to one of the huts and started drinking some home-brewed beer and swapping tall stories. I didn't understand a word they said, and I don't imagine they understood me either, but what with the beer and all we became pretty fast friends by the time Rourke staggered out of his hut a couple of hours later. I don't think Job at his lowest could have looked any worse.
All the fire had gone out of his eyes, and he looked kind of shrunken. He collapsed next to me, and I handed him a cup of native brew. He drank it without a word.
I turned to Kitunga. “Now that he's made the babies, can we go?”
That tickled Kitunga's funnybone for some reason, and he emitted a roar of laughter.
This was a little unsettling, for I still didn't know exactly what happened to unsuccessful suitors. Rourke looked like he wouldn't have the energy to leave anyway, so I decided to let the subject drop for the moment.
We sat there swigging beer and singing songs for a little while longer, and then I heard a deep voice bellow: "Rerrk!"
“Oh, God, not again!” muttered Rourke.
"Rerrk!" hollered Neeyora, sounding just a little louder than a bull elephant in musth.
Rourke reached into his boot and pulled out his share of our money, which was about three hundred British pounds.
“Take it,” he said. “It's all yours. If you ever get back to civilization...”
“I'll organize a party and come back here for you,” I promised, crossing a couple of fingers behind my back.
He laughed weakly. “I'll never last that long. No, what I want you to do is buy a headstone for me and plant it in the graveyard at Johannesburg. If there's any money left"—I assured him there would be, and made a solemn vow to see to it—"walk into the nearest bar and buy a round for everyone in the house and drink to my memory.”
“You sure you wouldn't rather have your name engraved on a pew in my tabernacle?” I asked thoughtfully.
“Just do what I said,” whispered Rourke.
"Rerrk!"
Two of Kitunga's men helped Rourke to his feet and led him back to his blushing bride.
While he was gone, the rest of us got down to serious dr
inking. I quietly suggested to the Lord that now might be an admirable time for Him to give me the strength of ten men because my heart was pure, and sure enough, I was the only one who didn't pass out in the next hour. I quietly filled my canteen with one last batch of brew and walked on out of the village just as free as a bird.
When I reached the top of the hill I paused to take one last look, partly out of sentiment but mostly to make sure that no one was pursuing me yet. There wasn't a sign of life in the whole village. Then I saw a figure crawl out of a hut and start making toward the beer, and a few seconds later I heard a truly ear-splitting scream of "RERRK!"
And that was the last I ever saw of Burley Rourke and his white priestess.
Chapter 2
PARTNERS
I wandered north and east, fell in for a while with a Canadian named Pinder who was single-handedly drinking his way from the Cape to Cairo, made it to the railhead in Uganda, and took the train all the way to Mombasa on the coast, where I had the bad fortune to run into three different parties I had sold maps to. They failed totally to see the humor in the situation or to realize that their donations had gone to a worthy cause, and discretion being the better part of valor, I took a vigorous stroll to the south and wound up in Dar-es-Salaam, which was the capital of Tanganyika.
Dar-es-Salaam wasn't like any other town in British East. It was on the ocean, but wasn't much of a seaport; it was in Africa, but there was nothing bigger or more ferocious than a goat within thirty miles; it was a capital, but it couldn't have held six buildings that could resist a strong wind. It was composed, in almost equal parts, of East Indians, black Africans, and reprobates from all over the world.
I felt right at home.
I took a room at the only hotel in town, shaved and showered, had a big dinner, and went to Maurice's, a bar down by the waterfront. Sometime around midnight I found myself in the back room, betting on scorpion races, and the Lord being on my side, I wound up the night with about two thousand pounds in winnings.
When I returned to my room I found a man sitting down on one of the chairs there. He was tall, though nowhere near as tall as Rourke, with piercing gray eyes and a neatly trimmed little goatee. He was dressed all in black: hat, shirt, tie, vest, jacket, belt, pants, socks, shoes. In point of fact, he made my preaching clothes look like an outfit of gossamer gaiety.
