The Flames of Time (Flames of Time Series Book 1) (7 page)

‘For the sake of our friendship, let us just wait for the end of the rains, then go to find some of the fresh new game. The savannah will be rich with life soon, the bush in flower and full leaf. Let us go and enjoy it and forget this primitive nonsense.’

Harry immediately objected to this. That it was unusual and unorthodox could not be doubted, but primitive and devilish he simply didn’t agree with.

That the atmosphere remained cordial for almost the entire duration of our talks was a testament to the friendship that existed between the group. But after half an hour or so of constant back and forth discussion, of maps and illustrations, and even of Luke bringing down his bible it all fell apart.

Sylvio, who’d been quiet for most of the conversation, stood up, and after expressing his regret at our decision, and stating in very simple terms that he felt what we were proposing was not only wrong, but dangerous and against the will of God, he walked out. After that I don’t think any of us expected to find the common ground we so desperately sought, and eventually Luke also took his leave of us.

‘I wish I were able to wish you well on your venture Robert.’ he finally said, slowly standing up from the table around which we’d been sat. ‘But I cannot. I do believe you are stepping onto a truly dangerous path my friends, so I will pray for you no matter which way you choose to travel. May God go with you.’

With that Luke also turned and left. The rain was still heavy so there was no way in which Luke and Sylvio could leave the lodge for at least another couple of days. But as soon as they were able, I knew they would depart.

Without anything having been voiced the matter was completely dropped whilst Luke and Sylvio were trapped in the lodge with us. They in their turn made no mention or comment upon our plans, and for a brief few days all was superficially as it had been. We talked and dined together, played cards and distracted ourselves with the other limited games and entertainments provided by the lodge. At one point, possibly the closest any of us came to the subject of our plans, I came across Jean on one of the verandas, desperately trying to recapture the scene beneath the cliff face, from his memory. His original sketch having been entirely destroyed in the complete soaking we’d got on the journey back.

Eventually though, the rains did subside, and Sylvio and Luke took their leave. We were all there to see them off. And although we enquired politely about their immediate plans, there was still very definitely no further mention of ours.

As they rode away from the lodge, leaving the five of us behind, I couldn’t help but wonder what could be going through the minds of my companions. From being a large and gregarious group that had travelled around Africa for over two years together, they had in the space of a few short weeks fractured and split to leave just four of their original number, plus myself.

I couldn’t be sure, but as I looked at them after Sylvio and Luke had ridden out of sight, I thought I could see the same thoughts present in their expressions.

CHAPTER 5 – THE PATH

It was another ten days before we were ready to leave the lodge and start our long trip down country toward our destination in Rhodesia. It was going to mean travelling through some unfamiliar territory into what had once been known only as “the interior”.

But it felt good to be busy, and to be heading far beyond the territory any of us had explored before. The practicalities of such a journey demanded some additional preparations, and aside from waiting for the last of the rains to finish, we also needed some guides and servants. Provisions and currency had to be sent for and then transported to the lodge, along with more ammunition and all the maps we could obtain of the territories we’d be travelling through. By the time we were finally ready to set off, the anticipation was unbearable. But go, we did and it wasn’t long before we were surrounded by the now verdant and rich Serengeti. The dark red soil was still soft under foot after the rain, and every tree and bush in full leaf or flower, much to the enjoyment of the insects and birds

We were initially heading inland, leaving the Great Rift behind us and toward the eastern edge of Lake Victoria. From there we were planning to find a boat to its more southerly shore and then south again, over the surrounding highlands, and hopefully down one of the rivers feeding into Lake Tanganyika, that longest of all African lakes. If we could make that far and then find another good boat to take us down its great serpentine length then we’d be half-way to Rhodesia.

We were making good time through the bush and savannah, and after a couple of days had crossed the invisible boundary into Tanzania. With the travelling and activity the group morale seemed to improve, and it wasn’t long before we were once more sociably chatting over an evening meal and being victimised by Jean’s unforgiving French sarcasm.

‘Perhaps I should start writing my memoirs.’ He’d spontaneously commented one night whilst we were sat around the camp fire over a ‘digestif’ pipe or two. ‘Like George here, with the journal in which he is always writing. A record of my thoughts and sensations, as well as perhaps a note or two upon my previous achievements and … conquests.’ he said, smiling as Harry exploded with an involuntary cough and puff of sparks from his pipe.

‘Conquests Jean? Are you sure the world is ready for such revelations.’ responded Harry, tamping down his pipe and attempting to re-light it with a thorny spill from the fire.

‘Oh I did not say I would necessarily publish such gentle … histories, but I think perhaps I should start to record them.’ retorted Jean with a very self-satisfied glint in his eye.

‘Ah, more of an aide memoir,’ responded Harry again, struggling to restrain his smile, ‘to help you remember the details in years to come perhaps.’

‘I have an excellent memory, thank you Harrison,’ Responded Jean, with an air of mock offence at the barely restrained laughter from Peter, Marlowe and myself. ‘I was thinking more as a general record, for what I might use it in years to come, who can say. But if I were to wait until I had the purpose before I start to keep the record, then I should never begin.’

We talked some more about journals, their pro’s and con’s and I explained about my father’s writing being the inspiration for my own, and my trip to Africa. As for the purpose, I had to confess myself just as much at a loss as Jean. As the fire burned and we emptied and refilled our pipes it became Harry’s turn to become more serious.

‘You know, as I think of it now, despite my earlier comments Jean, I do begin to wonder whether you should consider keeping some kind of record of this journey. Like the rest of you, and please forgive me for putting it so bluntly Rob, I have no idea whether we’ve embarked upon a journey of fools, or something entirely more serious. We cannot know one way or the other at the moment, but if it should prove to be the latter, then a record of this … gentle history, may well become of interest and even importance.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive Harry.’ responded Marlow, ‘Whilst the lucidity of my dreams was enough to convince me that I had to investigate them further, it’s only right all of you should retain your scepticism. Especially as it’s far from certain that I will be able to take us straight to our destination, though I have been attempting to commit as much as possible from my dreams to paper in order to ensure nothing that might be useful is forgotten. Even so, there will still be times when an educated guess is all I can offer.’

We’d talked our way to that calm time of night, when sleep was almost upon us and contemplation comes easily. So after throwing the conversation around for a little while longer, the talk gradually went down to nothing before we each turned in for the night.

Another couple of uneventful days travel saw us at the shores of Lake Victoria, and aboard a medium-sized barge that plied a route up and down the eastern shore of the lake between Mwanza and Kampala. We’d been fortunate to catch it heading south, and even more fortunate to find it with enough space for us.

I must confess I hadn’t appreciated the sheer scale of the lake until we were upon it, a warm south-westerly breeze pushing us away from the water’s edge as we travelled. The expanse of water was enormous, though shallow by comparison with the other great African Lakes, and strangely warm as a consequence. But it seemed less a lake than an inland sea.

At over two hundred miles across and three hundred long, we were still skirting the edge comparatively speaking, even if at times the shore was just a hazy blur on the horizon. Of the western or northern shores we never saw sign, even with the small telescope that Jean carried. But as impressive as it was during the day, at night after the last trace of sunset had faded from the west and only the starlit sky remained to be reflected in the water, it must surely have been one of the most beautiful places on the earth. The boat seeming to sail through the heavens themselves. Not that its motions were appreciated by the hippopotami, who we could hear baying and calling throughout the night from the shore. As for the crew, they were oblivious to Lake’s charms. For them, to upon that field of stars served them only to navigate the darkness.

We arrived in the early morning on the third day in Mwanza, a small but bustling port right on the edge of the lake and framed in the distance by the smoky outline of the surrounding highlands. It was fairly rudimentary by comparison with Nyrobi, but it had enough of a population to merit a number of larger and obviously European-style buildings. Not that we got to see much of them. Within an hour of touching land we’d found another barge going in our direction, ferrying a middle-aged Dutch couple who were heading the same way as ourselves on their way to a mission outpost located in the highlands on one of the rivers that fed Lake Tanganyika. It was too much of an opportunity to miss, so forgoing a stay in Mwanza we simply moved our things from one boat to the other and then set off once again.

After stowing our things we made our introductions to Dr and Mrs Reiss. They were an affable and polite couple, who were moving from one mission to another as part of their calling, and were obviously as accustomed to Africa and its ways as we were ourselves. They’d assumed, probably from our rifles and other accoutrements, that we were in Africa for the game, and we did nothing to dissuade them of this at first. But as the day wore on, and we continued to talk, I became aware that we were all avoiding their questions. I didn’t think they’d noticed, but it occurred to me then, just what difficulty we might have later on trying to explain the real nature of our journey. And it wasn’t long before I began to see the same realisation on the faces of my companions.

It was Marlow who eventually set the Reiss’s straight, with a half-truth about going to explore the enigmatic stone ruins known as Great Zimbabwe. This seemed to satisfy their curiosity for a while. But something, possibly our hesitation in telling them we weren’t just travelling for the sport, must have caused them to become suspicious and for the rest of the day as we plied our way across the lake, they continued to politely quiz and question us about our trip.

Eventually we made landfall again, and with good African soil beneath our feet, we turned away from the water and toward the misty highlands to the south.

The Doctor and his wife were a pleasant enough couple at first. But as we made our way, their missionary calling gradually started to get the better of them and it wasn’t long before Mrs Reiss was attempting to give instructional talks to the servants. Including Mkize, who succumbed so automatically as to make me realise he was long familiar with such… good intentions, and knew very well how to best deal with them. In stark contrast, poor Jean made the unfortunate mistake of ‘declining to wear his faith on his arm’ and consequently seemed to be trapped in one long debate after another with the good doctor and his wife.

It was going to take about six days to get to the Reiss’s new mission, and whilst there was no hint of a trail, the going was steady and good. We were able to escape the Reiss’s from time to time to go hunting, often rejoining them late in the day and hence avoiding much of the evenings sermonizing to the servants. But after four days they’d obviously started to get curious about our journey again, and upon returning early from one of our hunting trips, with some plump ground roosting birds and a small warthog, Harry as near as caught them going through his things.

The following day, as we crested the highlands and started to make our way downhill, Dr Reiss and his wife, openly started questioning our motives for going to Rhodesia and Great Zimbabwe. They’d obviously heard about the troubles being experienced there and the lawless mining town culture that prevailed. Either that or Harry’s things had not been the only luggage they’d searched, and they’d found something else, possibly even my journal.

Harry managed to deflect them for a short while by showing off his knowledge of archaeology, whilst Peter spoke enthusiastically of the hunting and game available along the Luangwa and Zambezi. But eventually they couldn’t even be distracted by questions about their new mission or more theological debate with Jean, and we were forced into just repeating the same thing over and over.

By the time we arrived at the Reiss’s new mission and the river that would hopefully take us to Lake Tanganyika, we were all too happy to be getting away from them. There was a small river boat that plied the route every two months. But we’d missed it by a couple of weeks so were forced to hire several canoes instead, which meant spending another night with the Reiss’s whilst everything was organised, and then taking our leave first thing the following morning, after yet another sermon for the servants.

It was a four day journey to reach Tanganyika, which was good going bearing in mind we had to go ashore each night to camp. But it meant four days of cramped conditions and no shelter from the sun and humidity of the open river.

All of this put us rather out of sorts by the time we reached the lake. Not helped, it has to be said, by the Reiss’s, who it turned out had written a letter, outlining their concerns to the police official in the small lakeside port where we’d finally left the canoes. To add insult to injury, the letter was of course covertly conveyed by one of the fishermen taking us down river. Fortunately the official in question was not only a Frenchman, but also a Gascon like Jean, and though they’d obviously never met before, within half an hour they were like brothers.