by Archer Swift
Chapter 30
Before returning to camp, Scott asked Miltredic if he could have a private moment with me.
“Thank you, my son,” he said, holding my right hand cupped in both of his, his voice still heavy with emotion. “Words cannot express my gratitude.” I wanted to protest, but knew it would be inappropriate. “Return now,” he said, “and look after yourself. Remember: don’t wrestle in the swamp with a Hog, the Hog likes it—and you both get dirty.”
I smiled. The proverb was as humorous as it was pithy. “What can I do?” I asked.
“I’m not sure there is anything more you can do,” he said. “I must meet with the Mzees promptly. The next step is in our hands. Your courage has given us the higher ground.”
I scratched my left cheek. “Scott…”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if I ask you a difficult question?”
He nodded. “Shoot. Anything.”
I rubbed my right cheek. “Operation: Future Forward? Are we anywhere near…?” My voice tailed off; I wasn’t exactly sure how to frame my question.
“Nowhere. Long story,” Scott sighed and the weight of it caught me off guard. “Of course,” he continued, “I can’t share the specific details…”
“Of course.” I added, trying to hide my disappointment.
“…but with Victor’s death, and the loss of his skill-set and expertise, and Dylain’s interference with … well, let me leave it at that. For now.”
All I knew, Victor was an engineer of some kind. And, oh yes, he had some military background.
“Do you think Dylain’s leaked the details of the operation to Xakanic?” I asked.
“I doubt it. He’d want to keep some leverage; I’m sure. Anyway, from what I’ve seen of Miltredic, I think we’re light-years away from being able to take them on.”
“Yep. He is impressive.”
“And our only realistic hope.” Scott’s tone was valiantly upbeat, unflappable. “Ristan, thank you for your courage.”
“Sure, Scott.”
“One last thing,” he rubbed my shoulder. “My memory just jogged on me.”
I leaned into the rub as subtlety as I could. “Yeah?”
“Not a big issue, just something I’d forgotten until now.”
I felt my eyebrows peek. “Okay?”
“When we decided on the word Mzee as the term for our elders, one of the reasons I proposed it was because of a heart-warming story I read about when I was still young.”
“Yes?” He had me enthralled.
Scott’s countenance lit up; he was a master story-teller and he had a captive audience. “In the early years of this century; in a nature park in Africa, in what was then called Kenya, a strange bond developed between a terrified young hippopotamus named Owen—who had lost his family to a devastating tsunami—and a wise, hundred and thirty-year-old giant tortoise named Mzee.”
“A hippo and a tortoise. Really?” I had heard a tale about a rabbit and a tortoise, but a hippopotamus? A small smile danced on my dial. I knew Scott was born in Africa when it was still habitable; his parents were missionary doctors—they fled the imploding continent when he was around ten years of age. And I was pretty sure his proverbs were adaptations of African wisdom.
“Yes, old Mzee embraced Owen as his own, and for me, it served as a perfect picture of a true leader. Why I haven’t rehearsed this story over and over again is beyond me. But whatever happens to me, Ristan; remember it.” His tone suddenly dropped, laden with emotion, and he choked back his tears. “It will be even more important now as we contend for peace with the Zikalic.”
I was still trying to get my head around the reason he might have shared this story with me—the words “whatever happens to me” felt like a millstone around my neck and the notion of contending for peace with the Zikalic too bizarre to compute—when he hugged me; his strong fatherly arms wrapped tightly around me. I squeezed him back, feeling the tears well up in my eyes.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to fulfil Scott’s desire. I knew I’d do anything to ensure he was reconciled with his daughters. To hold them in his arms again.
We turned the light back on, and Miltredic returned on cue without making a sound. He looked at us both and smiled: “You have the same heart, like a father and a son.”
“Yes,” agreed Scott, his eyes moist, and he ruffled my hair. “I think of Ristan as the son I never had.” His words, and the head rub, were like medicine to my shrivelled soul.
Geez, I’m a big wuss.
“Are you ready?” asked Miltredic sighing, his eyes aglow.
“Just two more things,” said Scott rubbing his eye with his thumb.” Is there any chance Xakanic knows you’re here tonight?”
“Yes, unfortunately yes,” Miltredic admitted. “I did take every precaution I could, but this was a calculated risk. He has many informers. And time is not a luxury we have.”
“Neither is indecision and apathy,” said Scott. “Thank you for taking the risk, you have given us hope.”
“And the second thing?” asked Miltredic.
Scott put his hand on Miltredic’s chest. “This beautiful planet, your planet. What do you call it?”
“Zika,” said Miltredic with great passion returning the gesture, his hand on Scott’s torso. “We call it Zika.”
“Zika,” repeated Scott with feeling. “Wonderful! What does it mean?”
“Paradise,” Miltredic sighed again, this time wistfully. “Zika means Paradise.”
