The Greystoke Legacy (16 page)

“You are disgusting!” she spat with contempt. “How could you kill an innocent . . .” her words trailed away as Tarzan slit the animal's stomach open with the knife. Jane could feel the bile rising in her throat, her appetite vanquished. Tarzan leaned down and tore a strip of raw flesh from the antelope. He chewed on it happily, offering a chunk to Jane, who recoiled. “How could you do that?”

“Tarzan hungry,” he said and ripped another piece of flesh from the animal.

“It's barbaric!”

“Jane not eat meat?”

“Jane
do
eat meat. Cooked meat that comes from a packet!”

Tarzan nodded thoughtfully. “What animal is packet?”

“It's not an animal, it's what the meat comes in. The meat comes from . . .” she trailed off. Back in Baltimore, her best friend, Hazel Strong, had once denounced meat and tried to persuade Jane to become a vegetarian. Hazel had described, in grotesque detail, how the animals were killed. Jane had tried it for a whole two days before succumbing to a burger. From what Hazel had told her, Tarzan's method of killing was much more humane.

“Eat,” insisted Tarzan.

Jane stared at the warm flesh. There was no way she could bring herself to do it. The smell alone was revolting.

“I'll find some fruit,” she said, trying to hide her revulsion. She glanced up and saw a pair of vultures circling. Their arrival had been almost instantaneous.

Tarzan sat back contentedly after he had eaten, allowing the vultures to move in, noisily quarrelling over the carcass. A short while later, Tarzan indicated they should leave. They walked down the bank and Jane glanced back at the dead bushbuck.

“Shouldn't we bury it?”

“The dead keep the land alive,” he replied pointing to the vultures.

The riverbank became impassable so they returned to the water to swim onward. As they drifted down the bank she wondered what had made him endure this life? Why hadn't he tried to find civilization? His loathing for mankind's desire to kill itself was evident. Had Tarzan really found solace out here?

The current became swift again and they shot through the occasional narrow stretch of whitewater. Jane whooped with delight as they sped through, once again reminded how wonderful it felt to be alive.

The last stretch of rapids sent them over the edge of a moderate-sized waterfall. Jane somersaulted through the air before vanishing into the curtain of mist at the foot of the fall's plunge pool. She was disorientated, but this time she relaxed and allowed her body to rise naturally to the surface. She surfaced and saw that Tarzan was already ashore and plucking fruits from a tree that bent low over the water.

A small group of dark brown L'Hoest's monkeys, sporting fluffy white beards and long slender tails, sat on the bank paying attention to Tarzan. The monkeys ate fruit from the ground, a few of them running to catch plum specimens Tarzan plucked and tossed to them.

Jane noisily waded to the shore and the monkeys panicked—howling and running for the safety of the large boulders. Jane wrung out her shirt and hair, watching the monkeys as they bared their teeth.

“What's their problem?”

“You.” Tarzan handed her a large green fruit. “Jane make noise like Tantor!”

Jane bit into the fruit. It tasted vaguely of avocado and suddenly reminded her how hungry she was. Between bites she asked, “What's Tantor?”

Tarzan looked puzzled. He tried to think of another way to say it, but instead shrugged. “Tantor is Tantor.”

“That helps a lot,” quipped Jane sarcastically and picked a fruit off the floor, fussily wiping the dirt onto her shirt. That seemed to amuse Tarzan, who took one and bit into it, dirt and all.

“Jane always angry, never see. Never listen.”

Jane rolled her eyes. He was beginning to sound like her father. “What's there to see? A few monkeys and a bunch of trees.”

Tarzan grunted, a cross between a human scoff and a gorilla grunt of annoyance. “Look! Listen!”

She sighed. “OK, whatever. What am I listening f—”

Tarzan clamped a hand over her mouth, then cocked his head to the trees around them. Jane decided to play along and listened. The waterfall thundered close by, almost drowning out the birds twittering in the canopy above them. The monkeys made small grunts as they foraged for berries, keeping their distance from Jane. She tried to speak but Tarzan kept his hand in place. She continued listening. Focusing. After a while she discovered she could peel back the layers of sounds and tune them out. She closed her eyes and Tarzan removed his hand. She now heard the monkeys all the more vividly. Then she became aware of her own breathing. She had never realized just how noisy she was. She strained to listen for Tarzan but could hear nothing.

She was concentrating so hard that she almost gasped when the monkeys' intonations changed from contentment to terse, wary coughs. She tilted her head and picked out another noise: the faintest crunch of leaves. She pinpointed the direction the noise was coming from and opened her eyes. Tarzan was already looking the same way, as were the L'Hoest's monkeys.

Farther down the bank the foliage gently parted and a brown giraffe-like head poked out, scanning the area for danger. Jane remained perfectly still as the animal stepped out and bent to drink from the river. It was the size of a horse, with a white head that abruptly turned into a brown coat. Jane thought she was in a dream when she noticed the front and rear legs were stripped like a zebra. Jane remembered a story Esmée was fond of telling her about her great-great-grandfather, who had had a pet okapi in his youth, long before science “discovered” it in 1901. Jane was looking at a very rare animal.

The okapi glanced in their direction, twitched its large ears, and then continued drinking. Tarzan watched the animal with respect and Jane found it difficult to equate his obvious love of the jungle with the feral hunter inside him.

She wondered how Tarzan would cope back in the real world.

T
afari was angry. Bapoto flinched when the guerrilla leader kicked a folding metal table off the porch and it clanged against the side of a jeep.

“You let those peasants take everything!” Tafari snarled, stabbing his cigar in their direction. “Your weapons, your honor . . . you're not men of the FDLR, you are animals!”

Bapoto sensibly avoided making eye contact. Tafari had been known to execute his men if the news they brought was not to his liking.

“There were dozens of them,” Bapoto lied. He glanced at his men who all stood to attention, staring at a spot over Tafari's head. They had agreed to conceal the truth during the long hike back. “They took us by surprise.”

“But they did not kill you,” barked Tafari. That was a cardinal sin in his book. His band of rebels only had one future, to die in combat. Of course, Tafari didn't include himself in that. He had been fighting for Hutu Power all his life. It was a caste war that had led to genocide in Rwanda. Tafari had commanded many murderous bands responsible for countless vile atrocities and he had enjoyed every one of them. His was one of several militia groups that could no longer stay in Rwanda when peace had settled and was the first to run into battle during the Second Congo War.

Now wanted for genocide, Tafari had nowhere to go, and no wars left to fight. He had only his survival and so had fled with his men into the jungle. He now led his men with one goal—to accumulate wealth. Tafari reasoned that, if he could gather enough money, he could assume a new identity and leave the oppressive jungle behind. Running protection rackets for the various illegal activities around his patch of jungle was lucrative. He had no idea why the American loggers chose to provoke him, but when the two heads of the operation came barging into his camp days earlier, he knew they were looking for trouble.

Tafari was good at trouble. He was also paranoid and was beginning to suspect the loggers were not who they appeared to be.

Tafari folded his arms behind his back and paced across the porch, looking every bit the dictator general he was. Thick cigar smoke coiled around his head. “We need to teach them a lesson they will not forget!”

“Yes, sir,” responded Bapoto dutifully. “We will burn their camp to the ground!”

Tafari thought about that. It would be a shame because the loggers were providing a good income for him. Killing them would be a powerful warning to others, yet . . . he was certain he could find a better use for them. Perhaps the Americans had personal fortunes he could plunder? But first, he wanted to get to the root of why they provoked him.

It had been a long time since he had organized a large raiding party. He was getting excited about the prospect of the bloodshed ahead.

•••

The atmosphere at Karibu Mji was still somber and Archie felt as though they were facing a revolt. He stood on the bonnet of the jeep, which Robbie had almost got working again with many improvised parts. Clark sat in the driver's seat, chin propped on the wheel. The fourteen remaining loggers stood around them, led by Mister David.

“They want to get back to work,” said Mister David reasonably.

The crowd murmured their agreement.

“Right now my daughter is the priority!”

“She is lost!” shouted Serge. Archie felt his blood boil. “We looked and found no trace!”

Mister David caught the expression on his boss's face. “Mr. Porter, we stand with you. We like Jane. We looked for Jane. But we found only death. You cannot expect us to look in every tree in the Congo to find her.”

“If that's what it takes,” Archie snapped back.

An angry clamor arose from the men. Hands were flicked in gestures for him to shut up.

Clark stood on the seat. “Listen, all of ya. You're here to be paid. That's what you want, that's what we want. There ain't no argument. All we ask is that
when
we know where Jane is, we can turn to you for help.”

The tone of the crowd changed. Clark was satisfied with the nodding of heads. He saw Robbie and Esmée watching from the open classroom.

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed Archie, turning to Clark so nobody could overhear.

“Stoppin' our workforce from walkin' out,” replied Clark calmly. “We can't afford to keep payin' them to sit around.”

“What about Jane? I'm not giving up!” Archie growled.

“Nor am I, mate. I'm just stoppin' us having a full-on rebellion here.”

Archie wanted to argue but Mister David spoke up, loud enough to make the crowd lapse into silence.

“That sounds good enough.” He turned to the workers. “Come with me for your work assignments.”

Mister David led the crowd to the office, and began issuing orders, pointing out the valuable areas they should concentrate on.

Archie was incredulous. He jumped from the bonnet intending to plead with them to help search for his daughter, but he knew Clark was right. No matter how much it hurt.

Clark climbed from the vehicle. “Listen, mate. We got one man dead 'cause of this. If that lot walk away we lose everythin'.”

“I can't just sit here and do nothing.” Archie had intended the comment to sound angry, but it came out in a deflated wheeze. Jane was all he had left in the world and it was a monumental struggle not to break down in tears. Several times he had resolved to march back out into the wilderness and not return until he found her. Each time he had talked himself out of the suicidal venture as he imagined Jane returning home, and the look on her face knowing her father had sacrificed himself for her. It was an emotional conundrum that Archie didn't have the strength to untangle.

Clark broke his cyclical thoughts. “We won't. Robbie's almost got the jeep workin'. He'll go to town and raise the alarm and get help from the rangers.”

“What kind of help?” Archie knew their chances of finding Jane were slipping away by the hour.

“He'll do what he can,” said Clark. It was the only answer he could supply without giving false hope to his friend. “Who knows, maybe Jane's found her way there already? She's a smart girl.”

Archie nodded, unable to look him in the eye. He walked back to his shack, preferring to be alone with his own accusing conscience.

•••

Robbie felt angry when he saw Archie retreat to his cabin and Clark join the workers as they hauled tools and headed for the trees.

“They've given up,” he said darkly.

Esmée nodded sadly, then turned her attention back to the map they had laid across two desks. It was the same as the one hanging in the office, but this was covered in pencil markings Esmée had made.

“Tafari controls this area here.” She circled a portion of the map that included Karibu Mji. “There's a coltan mine 'bout here. They diggin' that stuff for your mobile phones and don't care 'bout the mess they leave behind.” She marked off a small area at the base of the mountains that stood between Tafari's camp and Karibu Mji. It was within the area Robbie had highlighted down on the map.

“Would miners have taken her?”

“You know Archie and Clark went through this already? They don't think so.”

“They may have missed something,” said Robbie keeping his eyes on the map.

Esmée looked at him with pity. “You know they now think she gone 'n' got lost? Nobody believes she was taken.”

“I do,” said Robbie firmly.

Esmée sighed. “Miners keep quiet. Out of Tafari's hair best they can. But things change like. Used to all be 'bout power. Now it's 'bout greed.”

“What about poachers?”

Esmée laughed humorlessly. “They get everywhere.” She gestured to the map. “My boys found snares when they been lookin' to fill our cookin' pots. They generally cowards.”

Robbie remembered one man had suffered a nasty injury when he went on a hunting expedition with Mister David. He had blindly stumbled into a trap intended to catch bushmeat.