Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (12 page)

11

Y
ou’re so beautiful,” Brandon whispered under his breath. He stood on Raoul’s porch, gazing over the rows of maize. Sam’s white tank top shone brilliantly in the midday light. She wore a bright red cloth, tied at the waist, so it became a long skirt rather than a full body garment as it was intended. She must have gotten it from one of the Bantu women who she now followed about as they tore at vine-like weeds.

He could barely hear their conversation, Sam’s words in English and the women speaking the Bantu language. Neither language nor cultural barriers could keep her from making friends. She’d almost fit in if it weren’t for the tank top and the bundle of blonde hair.

A gravelly voice belted out a tune behind him. The screen door swung open and banged shut.

“
Bonjour mon ami.
”

“
Bonjour.
”

Brandon turned to see Raoul step up beside him. He still wore his nightshirt from the night before, but he had thrown on some slacks. He held a bottle of palm wine in one hand, his eyes circled with dark lines. The sweet and sour odor wafted off him.

Raoul held up the bottle. Brandon shook his head. “No thank you.”

He shrugged and sipped from the bottle. The liquid bubbled as he tilted it back. When he finally came up for air, he wiped the back of his hand across his lips, exhaling breathily. He raised his bottle at the fields in front of him and spoke amiably in French. Brandon caught two words: “
tres belle.
” Very beautiful.

Brandon wasn’t certain if he meant Sam or just the general view. He just nodded and grinned. They stood in silence, watching the villagers at work.

Raoul turned to him and uttered a single word in English: “Breakfast?”

He glanced at his watch. It was well past noon. He nodded.

Raoul headed back inside, the door clattering behind him. Brandon gazed back out, easily spotting the bright white and the yellow of her hair. Sam stooped among the tomato plants, her now scabrous leg bent behind her, pink on brown.

A cloud of dust rose up out of the jungle. Many villagers stopped to see what was coming down the road. He noticed a Bantu man slipping quietly through the shadows of huts until he reached Marcel’s. The village chief stepped into the town’s center. Several men stood behind him, tense and alert.

A jungle green Jeep burst from the tree line, plumes of brown smoke trailing behind. The cab was packed tight, and two of the occupants looked white. When the vehicle stopped, a well-dressed pygmy hopped out and strode quickly toward Marcel. The two recognized each other and began talking.

Brandon felt uneasy. An intimidating African man sat in the driver’s seat with a woman beside him. His eyes met Sam’s, even from halfway across the village. She pointed in the direction of the newcomers in case he hadn’t noticed. Whoever those people were, he didn’t want to draw their attention to him and Sam.

He gestured for Sam to come over. Then, he turned and headed inside. He found Raoul in the kitchen, chopping up a potato. There was an open can of corned beef hash on the counter. The Frenchman hummed to himself as he swayed back and forth.

“Visitors,” Brandon tried in English. “New people.”

Raoul quieted his humming and slowed his swaying, making Brandon think he had been heard. But when he spun around he wore an unconcerned grin and gestured to the chopped potatoes on his cutting board. “
Bon
?”

The screen door swung open and closed. Sam hurried into the kitchen.

“Did you get a good look at them?” she asked.

“Not really. Did you?”

“One of them had a machine gun.”

Raoul asked her a question in French. He guessed it had something to do with breakfast. She nodded and turned back to him.

“Do you think they’re a militia?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The pygmies led them here. They wouldn’t do that if these people were dangerous.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Besides, they had a woman with them.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

She turned and rose on the balls of her feet. “I smell something. Is that ham?”

“Why don’t you ask Monsieur Devereaux?” he suggested, gesturing to their absent-minded host.

She did so and then translated. “He says that he is already tending to guests so he doesn’t care about these new people. But he’s sure he’ll hear all about them before they leave anyway.”

He nodded, feeling glad that Raoul wasn’t worried. The smell of salty hash and cooking oil filled his nostrils. He relaxed as he and Sam watched Raoul dance around his little kitchen. He was not the least bit surprised when Raoul went to the cupboard for another bottle of palm wine.

They stood around the green Jeep in the center of the muddy village square. A mix of Bantu villagers and the distinctly shorter pygmies gathered among the thatch huts, watching them suspiciously.

Kuntolo had scurried off and disappeared amongst a sea of giggling pygmy girls and their dark, nubile breasts. So Kuntolo is a ladies’ man, Ike thought.

“I hate to think we got Temba in trouble,” Alfred lamented.

“Your flower’s worth a few wounded relationships,” Nessa assured him.

“I doubt he’s in too much trouble,” Ike guessed. “He doesn’t seem too concerned about this Marcel character.”

“Maybe Marcel isn’t the true village chief,” Alfred offered. “We know these people are secretive. It could be possible they would disguise their true leader.”

Ike shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just isn’t
Temba’s
chief.”

Temba and Marcel walked over, ending their suppositions. From the grin on Temba’s face, Ike guessed that the negotiation had been successful. When Marcel greeted them this time, it was with a wide smile.

Alfred stepped closer, indicating himself as leader of their party. Nessa was a few steps behind him. Marcel eyed the Israeli woman subtly, no doubt wondering if she was Alfred’s. The way she stood near him but not beside him and appeared to defer to his judgment made her seem that way.

“Welcome to our village,” the chief greeted in French. “Temba tells me you are passing through here.”

Alfred nodded. “He is correct. We are heading deeper into the forest on a scientific expedition.”

He rubbed a hand against his chin in thought. “Were you planning on staying in the village here?”

Alfred turned to Nessa who spoke quietly to him.

“We would if we could for a few days,” Alfred offered hopefully. “We’d like to speak to your villagers about the surrounding terrain. We won’t burden you; we have our own supplies.”

Marcel waved his hand dismissively, acting insulted. Before he could offer his hospitality, Nessa spoke up. “We’d like to offer you a gift. We have two jugs of gasoline for you and some cigarettes to share.”

His eyes widened, and his face softened. “
Merci.
That is very kind. You are welcome to dine with me tonight. If you need rice or beans for your journey, I’m sure we can spare a few baskets.”

The gasoline came in ten gallon bottles. They were clear so everyone could see the yellow fluid inside and inspect its quality. Nessa walked around to the back of the Jeep to get them. Ike followed, anticipating she might need help.

She reached into the back and grabbed the first one, pulling with all her weight. Ike grabbed the bottle before it tumbled over the side and crashed down on her.

“Let me give you a hand,” he offered.

She nodded and together they tugged it out. The thick liquid inside wobbled about. It took all their effort to keep it steady. As he helped her lower it to the ground, he thought he spotted the tips of a smile at the edge of her lips. Her thoughts seemed focused on a distant place.

“Are you enjoying bribing your way through Africa?” he asked as they went for the next bottle.

Nessa glared at him.

“Relax,” Ike told her. “I was just joshing you.”
Great
.
Try to flirt with her and instead you insult her. Real slick.

That was the way with Nessa Singer. She only reacted when she was antagonized. So Ike did just that. He tried saving the situation. “Doesn’t your boyfriend ever tease you?”

She lifted the second jug, forcing him to lean over and help. Its weight proved to be more than she was ready for and she staggered back until the crook of her hip and the soft profile of her side collided with him heavily. He caught her and the bottle, feeling her warm body against him for a second before they steadied the jug and lowered it to the ground.

The brief contact excited him.

Nessa didn’t offer any reaction. She dragged a jug across the ground. After pulling it a few feet, she said, “I don’t really see him all that much.”

Ike grinned as she resumed dragging. He stooped and lifted the second jug, carrying it with both hands.

His eyes found Alfred and Delani. The chemist was trying to hand cigarettes off to the burly mercenary, but Delani adamantly refused to take them. Delani didn’t want to seem charitable to the villagers.

Alfred finally gave up and placed the box in the mud. He reached into the sack at his hip and pulled out an envelope, thick with bills. He held the envelope out to Temba, who snatched it greedily and tucked it into his pants. The pygmy shouldered his bow and walked over to the Jeep, pulling out the dead pheasant. Without smiling or saying good-bye he turned and walked off, disappearing between the green fronds of a maize field.

Ungrateful bastard, Ike thought. Take the money and run. No loyalty to the villagers or even Kuntolo
.

Brandon stood in the kitchen with Raoul when a voice echoed from the porch, belting out a phrase in a singsong melody.

The screen door swung open, and a pygmy male burst into the house. From his outstretched hand swayed the carcass of a bird, hanging grotesquely by its neck. The gruesome sight contrasted with the man’s sky blue polo shirt and dirty white slacks. At the sight of Sam, he froze, only the pheasant swayed slightly. He had dark skin; tiny black curls covered his scalp. His face held the same exotic features that Brandon had noticed in the girls from the day before.

“Temba!” Raoul called. “
Mon pygmée!
”

When the man saw Raoul he cried out in reply. He held up the pheasant proudly. Brandon noticed the bow slung over his shoulder. A small game weapon only, he guessed. It looked far too small to hurt anything much larger than the pheasant.

Raoul eyed the bird, nodding his approval. Temba glanced at Sam and Brandon and asked a question in an entirely different language. Raoul replied in the same tongue.

“American?” Temba asked. “You speak English?” Although his voice was heavily accented, those familiar words sounded like music to Brandon’s ears.

“Yes, yes we do,” he replied. He stepped forward and stretched out his hand. “My name is Brandon. And this is Sam.”

Temba nodded and repeated his own name. “I hope you like pheasant.”

Dinner was a mixed dish of beans and rice with Marcel repeating that he wished he had enough corn to give them. That led to Ike asking about the maize fields; which brought up the subject of Monsieur Devereaux.

The Frenchman had lived in the village for five years, even before they decided to block off the path to protect themselves from the rebels. He claimed Temba as “his” pygmy, which was fine with everyone else since Temba was particularly difficult, and he didn’t fit in with his pygmy friends. The other pygmies belonged to the village, Marcel explained, and unlike other towns, the Bantu villagers went to great lengths to protect them.

In other places, the pygmy population had begun leaving the settlements to avoid the horrors of war, famine, and disease. Marcel stressed that the village had become a secret place to keep it safe from the outside world.

“Is that why we hear stories of ghosts in the forest?” Alfred asked, between bites of beans and rice.

Marcel’s smile faded. “I am sorry, but those are not stories. The forest near here is cursed.”

“
Msitu wa Damu,
” Ike echoed.

Marcel nodded.

“We’d like to learn more about this if we could,” Alfred told him. “Has anyone in the village been there recently?”

Marcel ran a palm over his face. “You must not go there. It is a very bad place.”

“How is it bad?” Alfred pressed. “What do these ghosts do?”

“They seek to keep men out of their forest. They control the animals there, driving them mad. And it is said they can possess your mind.”