The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  “Was it Jonathan Pimple he told?”

  The monsignor raked his hands through the mud and then smeared it into his hair. It wasn’t an act Amanda was witnessing; the man was truly distraught. If ever there was a man who regretted what he’d done, this man fit the bill.

  “Yes, he must have. You see, mademoiselle—although I’m sure you know by now—the belief in curses can be so strong that some people will actually die when one is placed on them. But as God is my witness, I did not intend to kill Chigger Mite; I meant only to silence him, to keep him from revealing what happened that night.”

  “You swear to me that you did not touch him?”

  “What difference does that make, mademoiselle? I am guilty, all the same!”

  Undoubtedly the sun had broiled Amanda’s brain beyond the point of functioning properly. What other explanation could there be for what came out of her mouth next?

  “Do you swear to me that you did not touch Chigger Mite?”

  “I did not touch Chigger Mite.”

  “Did you poison him?”

  “As God is my witness, mademoiselle, I did not poison Chigger Mite.”

  “Then, Monsignor, you did not kill him. If you are truly a Christian, you cannot believe in superstition.”

  “Witchcraft is not superstition,” Cripple said.

  “Tell me then, Cripple, do you think that the monsignor should be arrested and hanged for the murder of the Mupende named Chigger Mite?”

  “Tch, Mamu Ugly Eyes, must you always jump to conclusions? This white man did not kill Chigger Mite with a curse, for a white man is incapable of speaking such a curse. The white man conquered Africa with guns, not curses! Now, let us return to the village or I shall be forced to urinate in front of this man.” She turned at once and commenced hobbling back to the sedan. Midway back she paused and turned again, this time to wag a finger. “Kah! You must move, both of you! Lubilu!”

  Madam Cabochon was determined to enjoy her breakfast out on the terrace and get to church early. This morning it was doable, because she’d managed to both get a full night’s sleep and get up extra early! This was all thanks to a husband who came home so drunk that he fell asleep just inside the front door, and who didn’t even bother to get off the floor at any time during the night to bring his snores into bed.

  It had been just six weeks since the storm to end all storms, the one that had washed away the Island of Seven Ghost Sisters, but much had changed since then. For one thing, the bridge that spanned the mighty Kasai River connecting Belle Vue to the workers’ village was now repaired. That had taken a little more than three weeks, if one can believe that! The big steel replacement girders had been manufactured in Luluabourg and then driven down to Belle Vue on a caravan of enormous trucks. These monstrous vehicles had to pass right through the heart of Bashilele territory.

  The Bashilele had a reputation as headhunters, but they must have been scared out of their wits at this bizarre sight, because they kept shooting out the tires of those trucks with their powerful longbows. Madame Cabochon chuckled over her thick black coffee while dwelling on that image. She’d always found the Bashilele men to be very enticing, in their low-slung loincloths, and one of her favorite jokes—shared by bored Belgian housewives of similar taste—had to do with equating a hunter’s bow length with the length of his manhood.

  Madame Cabochon shook her head enviously; one Bashilele village now had an actual white girl, a Belgian, as their chief. Oui, Madame Cabochon had been given more than her fair share of beauty, but overall, life was still unfair. The enigmatic, devilishly attractive Monsignor Clemente was married to his church. The somewhat plain American missionary and the handsome Belgian police captain had eyes only for each other. There was not even a chance of a ménage à trois, should one be so inclined—ooh la la, shame on you, Colette, to have such a thought as that, especially on the Sabbath.

  “Madame Cabochon, are you all right?”

  Madame Cabochon was so startled that she threw the contents of her bone china cup straight up into the air. The thick black coffee splattered all over her silk fuchsia blouse. Being that Madame Cabochon was scarcely more talented than Jackson Pollock, and her blouse sported a deep scoop neckline, much of the hot liquid landed on bare skin.

  “Sacré-coeur!” Madame Cabochon said as she jumped to her feet.

  “Pardonnez-moi. Did I scare you?”

  There you see! The person who had so rudely intruded on Madame Cabochon’s inner life was that most despicable of all men, Marcel Fabergé. Oui, somehow the most incompetent OP in the history of the Consortium had managed to keep his job. The coward hadn’t walked to Luluabourg after all; he hadn’t even made it out of the village!

  Several hours after leaving his mousy wife to dissolve in tears, the big shot returned. He was shouting then, huffing and puffing, and waving a stick—a “cudgel” he called it in English, even though Amanda Brown politely informed him that this word was not often used. At any rate, the pigeon-chested OP claimed to have been chased by a pack of vicious dogs. “Curs,” he called them. That was another word he must have picked up from a novel. He wanted Pierre to start shooting these curs on sight.

  The really sad thing is that it wasn’t dogs that attacked the little man with the big chip on his shoulder; it was a male turkey—how do you say this in English? Ah yes, a tomboy. He was chased by a tomboy with its tail spread wide and its wings scraping the ground. Madame Cabochon had several times been chased by territorial tomboys, and she knew just how intimidating they could be. She couldn’t blame the OP for backing down from the turkey, just as she couldn’t blame the fifty-plus natives who had witnessed the sight for laughing their heads off. But the next day when the OP’s mousy wife, Hélène Fabergé, sported a black eye and a bruised lip, she knew who to blame for that, and she did.

  “Get off my terrace, you toad!” she said.

  “Oui, madame,” the OP said, but he didn’t move a muscle.

  “I said to go,” she said.

  “Should I first bring you some butter?” the OP said.

  “Butter?” Madame Cabochon said.

  “To apply to the burns,” the OP said. He leaned forward, as if inspecting the damage. “Is that not what one does in this situation?”

  “I am not a roast, you idiot! You just want to get your hands on my considerable charms.” Madame Cabochon was both flattered and repulsed, and, yes, she was disgusted with herself for having been flattered.

  “Absolutely not, Madame Cabochon,” the OP said. “I am here because my wife, Hélène, wishes to ask if you will give her a ride to Mass.”

  “Why don’t you drive her there yourself?” she said.

  “I no longer wish to go to church, madame,” the OP said.

  The coffee drops no longer stung Madame Cabochon’s chest, and since she was genuinely curious as to why the OP no longer wished to attend church, she decided to risk a brief conversation.

  “You may sit,” she said. It was an order; it was not an offer.

  The OP sat. “The weather is much more bearable now,” he said almost pleasantly. “I am given to understand that it is the daily rains that keep the humidity from building up.”

  She tried not to smile at his clumsy attempt at deflection. “Why do you no longer wish to go to church?”

  “It’s the hypocrisy, madame. Surely you understand that.”

  She had been standing, but now she pulled a chair up next to his and grabbed his left hand, his dominant one, in both hers. Had she been a dragon, there would have been smoke pouring from her nostrils and her blazing red hair would have been real flames.

  “Is that an insult, Marcel?”

  “Mais non! I am not accusing you of hypocrisy, Madame Cabochon; I am merely suggesting that you have witnessed it firsthand.”

  She shrugged. “Oui. But perhaps you can give me an example.”

/>   “Bien,” the OP said. “For instance, take the case of a certain priest who ate another priest—I mean literally—and then on top of that, this certain priest scared a poor man to death, but no one seems to care because—well, you tell me.” He took a deep breath before jerking his hand away from Madame Cabochon’s grip.

  Madame Cabochon jumped up again. She could feel the tiny golden hairs on her arms stand on end, like the quills of a porcupine in defense mode. Mostly, however, she felt confused. She’d heard the OP’s disgusting words, but she wasn’t sure what they meant—not for sure. She’d heard similar stories—actually several versions of it—floating around the kitchen and yard.

  Her employees always shut up immediately when they noticed her lurking about, but she’d caught enough to get the gist of the story. That was one of the reasons she wanted to get to church early today: to do a little investigative work. To be sure, she’d already tried the direct approach, but neither Pierre, Amanda, nor her sidekick the delightful little Muluba woman, Cripple, would even comment on the matter.

  The injustice of it all! He was her Alberto Clemente; she was his Little Colette Underpants. They had been childhood friends, and now they were nothing? The fact that his return to Belle Vue was completely unrelated to her was the most painful thing she had ever had to face in her entire life. Plus, he didn’t even care enough to say good-bye. It was one thing to skip out on an explanation—perhaps he didn’t owe her that—but he should have at least come back to the Missionary Rest House and given her a chance to say her good-byes. But no, apparently, as soon as he learned of the whereabouts of a fisherman’s dugout canoe, he braved the raging river so that he could race back to Luluabourg and catch a flight out of the country.

  But what did this hurtful behavior have to do with a priest eating a priest? Was it a parable of some sort? Frankly, Madame Cabochon had always had trouble understanding the biblical parables. If Jesus had wanted to get his message across, why didn’t he just come straight out and say it? Speak like an American! Mon Dieu, now she was going to have to go to confession again for thinking these blasphemous thoughts.

  Nonetheless, this priest-eating-a-priest riddle was dangerous, salacious talk. It was just these sort of rumors that gave rise to new cults, and then those in turn gave birth to new religions that kept pragmatic folks, such as herself, in a constant state of turmoil. One was not supposed to find the answers, just to seek them.

  Well, Madame Cabochon was in too much pain, and too confused, to care about sorting things out. Today, tomorrow, for the rest of her life, she would take in only good things; from now she would only enjoy. From this moment on, there was no room or time for ugliness, pain, or sadness.

  “Et, voilà!” she said, as she pointed at the river. “There, you see? Already the river is building up a new island—branch by branch, mud bank by mud bank.” She sighed deeply, joyfully. Nothing could dispel this mood. “This fills me with great happiness and hope. Listen, you despicable little wife-beater, go tell your wife, Hélène, that it will be my pleasure to take her to church with me today.”

  The OP stared up at her angrily. “Who are you to talk to me like that?”

  “I am someone bigger than you, that’s who, and if you don’t get a move on, I will box your ears.”

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the teachers throughout my life who nurtured and encouraged me to write. In particular I remember, in order of their appearance, Miss Anna Entz, Mr. John J. Jester, Mr. J. D. Sodt, Mrs. Seibert, and Mr. Oren Odell, Ph.D.

  P. S.

  Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  Meet Tamar Myers

  TAMAR MYERS was born and raised in the Belgian Congo (now just the Congo). Her parents were missionaries to a tribe which, at that time, were known as headhunters and used human skulls for drinking cups. Hers was the first white family ever to peacefully coexist with the tribe.

  Tamar grew up eating elephant, hippopotamus, and even monkey. She attended a boarding school that was two days away by truck, and sometimes it was necessary to wade through crocodile-infested waters to reach it. Other dangers she encountered as a child were cobras, deadly green mambas, and the voracious armies of driver ants that ate every animal (and human) that didn’t get out of their way.

  Today Tamar lives in the Carolinas with her American-born husband. She is the author of thirty-seven novels (most of which are mysteries), a number of published short stories, and hundreds of articles on gardening.

  About the book

  Leopard Tales

  Leopards (PANTHERA PARDUS) were found throughout the Belgian Congo, where they were strongly associated with witchcraft and believed to be endowed with magical powers. Although much smaller than lions, leopards are incredibly strong for their size and capable of hauling antelope high into trees for safekeeping. They are solitary cats, which along with their spotted fur ensures that they are seldom seen by humans. As is the case with lions and tigers, there are confirmed cases of leopards becoming man-eaters. Black panthers are merely a melanistic form of the regular leopard.

  In the area where I grew up, there were no large herds of herbivores such as one might see in East Africa. This was due in part to the practice of burning the savannahs once a year to kill game. As the herds of antelope and zebra were exterminated, the lions either met the same fate or else moved on. Some antelope species were better adapted to living a solitary existence, and each year enough of them survived to repopulate their particular niche.

  The leopard, being much smaller than the lion and thus requiring less food, was also able to hold its own. When its delicate nostrils picked up the scent of burning elephant grass at the end of the dry season, these majestic spotted cats would slink into the safety of the nearest riverine forest. From where I lived, up on the high savannah, it seemed that every gully soon deepened into a tree-shaded ravine that gave birth to a spring of pure, untainted water. Follow the spring, and one would surely find a river and even deeper forest.

  Therefore, it was the leopard that reigned as King of the Beasts among the people of the Kasai. Not only was the leopard cunning, it possessed certain magical powers. For instance, a leopard had the ability to change its shape. This attribute explained how it was that an animal this large could sneak into a village at night and leave with a goat—or a person—and not be seen.

  As a living leopard possesses magical powers, so too does a leopard skin. For that reason, only a powerful chief or king may wear a leopard skin. Mobutu, who was the dictator of Zaire (now Democratic Republic of the Congo), wore a leopard skin hat. If a village chief wanted to have his subjects swear a loyalty oath, he would have them kneel on a leopard skin while they did so.

  I was a child of missionaries who never broached such talk with me, so I must have heard it from my friends, or possibly from my “child-minders.” Whatever the case may be, all these years later, I still feel uneasy around leopard-related items (although I have a cat who is part Asian Leopard Cat!).

  For instance, I would not feel comfortable sleeping in a room that contains a leopard skin or a leopard skull. It doesn’t make any sense, but there it is. However, I do posses a fabulous necklace, assembled for me by fellow author Faith Hunter, which is made from genuine leopard claws. I call this my “mojo” necklace, and I wear it whenever I speak about Africa, or when I need to call forth special courage.

  The claws in this necklace come from a leopard that my papa shot sometime in the 1930s. The leopard had managed to break into our goat enclosure and had killed one of our goats. We kept the skin for many years, and I remember it draped over the back of our couch as late as 1960. By day the living room was exotic; by night it was spooky.

  Somewhere along the line I became the keeper of the claws. I kept them in a box, out of sight, until I was almost sixty. When I first showed them to my friend Faith Hunter, she squealed with delight. There are eight of these enormous claws—think of y
our cat’s claws made ten times bigger. I chose carnelian and black agate as the accompanying stones, and since the claws are hollow at the wide end we glued them to cowry shells. From the center of the necklace hangs an ivory amulet of the sort a witch doctor would wear. Knowing my papa, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he actually bought it from a witch doctor. Do you see what I mean about this necklace having mojo?

  My papa, may his memory be for a blessing, was a very interesting man. An inquisitive man. He is the only person I’ve ever met who used to rue the day that he passed up the chance to buy a drum that had a human navel on the drum skin (although perhaps not that many people have vendors showing up at their back door trying to sell them a drum with a belly button in the center).

  My uncle Ernie, who was my mama’s youngest brother, lived with us for a while when he was in his early twenties. The roads in our remote location consisted of two dirt tracks with a strip of grass growing down the middle. During the rainy seasons the roads became so washed out they became treacherous, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear of a vehicle that had broken an axle. In the long dry season, the road would send up so much dust that I found it hard to breath because of a perpetually stopped-up nose.

  Nevertheless, it was always exciting to travel at dusk, and then into the night. As the sun dropped low in the western sky, the francolins (a quail-like bird) would wander into the road, and whoever was driving would immediately stop so that the men in the car—or truck—could hop out and fire off a shot. If we were really fortunate, we’d run into a flock of guinea hens, which were much larger birds. Both made for good eating, just as long as Mama didn’t serve you the piece that contained the bullet hole.