Blood Forest Part 9

Amid the brown and green, Sam spotted thatched huts, constructed from st.u.r.dy shafts. They gathered at the center of the village around a small patch of muddy ground. The fields were spotted with men and women at work. Some stooped in the fields, while others hacked at encroaching gra.s.ses and vines. A few children ran about getting lost in the towering plants to pursue a bouncing ball. She took in a deep breath. She had just stepped from wild into civilization.

She glanced at Brandon and they shared a relieved smile. She scanned the surrounding area, taking note of everything. The buildings were mainly huts, primitive in design with no signs of electrical power. A few parked trucks gathered rust in the sunshine.

The pygmy girls led them past the wet fields. Some nearby women looked up as they approached and the children were distracted from their soccer game, watching the strange white people who had just stepped out of the forest. They looked nervous, so Sam raised her hand in a shy wave, smiling at the nearest children. They waved back and smiled, but did not approach.

Brandon and Sam trudged after the girls, who slowed their pace somewhat. Their feet stuck in the muddy ground and the suction pulled off Sam's sandals. She imagined all manner of worms and parasites crawling in that mud, looking for a new home in her feet.

Finally they reached the line of thatched huts. An overgrown dirt road led from the center of the town, but it looked unused. Several men and women looked up when they entered the square. A few huts lined the other side. These were smaller than the thatched buildings and looked thrown together with sticks and leaves. A few pygmy men and women, all of them several inches shorter than Sam, eyed them curiously. The gathering didn't seem unfriendly and she didn't feel threatened, but she could tell their presence made the village uneasy.

The pygmy girls shouted greetings, and a woman stopped to ask some questions. Sam listened while the girls explained and then strode up to one of the huts. The lead girl yelled inside at the top of her lungs. The hut was constructed with an overhang to hide under when it rained. The doorway was wide open and welcoming.

"This seems like a nice place," Sam said to her husband.

"Let's see if we can find somebody who speaks English," he replied.

She turned toward the largest group of villagers. "Does anybody here speak English? English? Anyone?" When no one spoke up, she shrugged helplessly. "I tried."

"Francais?" a voice asked from the hut.

A tall Bantu man stood in the doorway, ragged hair hanging down his temples. He had his hand extended and a smile on his face. "You are Americains?" he asked in French.

Sam and Brandon nodded.

"Bonjour," the man greeted.

She hesitated at his outstretched hand. Many of the men she had met since she came to Africa had refused to shake her hand and had been insulted by the prospect of it. But this one offered his freely.

"Bonjour Monsieur," she replied with a smile as she took it.

"My name is Marcel," he told her in French. "I am the chief of this village."

Sam introduced herself and Brandon, explaining regretfully that her husband didn't speak French. "Our plane crashed near here and we've been lost in the forest for two days."

"Your plane? You are lucky to be alive then."

"You have no idea."

"You must be hungry and thirsty," Marcel exclaimed. "Please, come inside my hut. Take your packs off and enjoy our hospitality."

Once inside the pygmy girls said good-bye, and Sam thanked them again for their help. The girls hurried off.

She asked Marcel where they were off to. He shrugged and said that some of the pygmies were moving to a camp deeper in the woods.

No sooner had they sat in wooden chairs, than a woman emerged from another room and offered them each bottles of cola. She and Brandon took them gratefully. She opened hers and took a long gulp. Although warm, the sugar, caffeine, and fizz cut right to her brain. She felt weariness roll off.

"We've put corn on the fire," Marcel explained as he sat across from them. "That should be out shortly."

Other villagers gathered around. A few introduced themselves in French, but many of them didn't seem to understand. Sam wondered if they were curious or just looking for a share of the food.

"Thank you so much," Sam said. "You have no idea how good it feels to be back in civilization."

"You're welcome. Forgive us if our hospitality is lacking. We are not used to visitors here."

She explained how they had come to Marcel's village. When she talked about the plane being shot down, Marcel's brow furrowed with worry. She insisted they hadn't seen a single militia soldier since they had crashed into the swamp. The villagers seemed concerned about keeping their home a secret. Marcel didn't like to hear about militias being so close.

But when she mentioned the swamp, Marcel's face grew darker.

"That is impossible," he said plainly.

"What is impossible?"

"You mean the swamp to the north of here?" an old Bantu man asked. His French was heavily accented with the singsong tones the pygmy girls used.

"We crashed into a pond and then followed a river to an old pygmy camp. That's where we found the trail here."

The men exchanged glances. "That is impossible," Marcel repeated. "People do not come out of that place alive. The place is cursed."

"What do you mean?"

"They say there is a powerful spirit there. It is evil and craves the blood of men. It commands the forest animals to do its will." His voice trailed off when he saw her nodding. "You have seen it?"

"We were attacked by baboons and an okapi. One night I saw a man in my room. Like a ghost."

"You should speak with a priest," Marcel insisted. "You could carry its curse with you."

"Maybe."

"There is no maybe," he argued. After a moment, his friendliness returned. "We can talk about this later."

The Bantu woman returned carrying dishes stacked with hot cobs of corn. She placed plates in front of Brandon and Sam, the steam billowing up toward the roof. Once their guests were served, she pa.s.sed out the remainder to Marcel and the gathered villagers.

Brandon eyed his plate hungrily. He scooped up a cob and bit into the juicy corn. He thanked Marcel and the women repeatedly as he savored the yellow kernels.

The corn had a smoky flavor but was bursting with juice and b.u.t.ter. When Sam asked Marcel about it, he explained that they were grilled with the husk still on to trap the moisture inside.

"Were those your fields I saw outside?"

He shook his head. "The maize crops are owned by Monsieur Devereaux."

She raised her eyebrow at the name. "Devereaux?"

"Yes, Raoul Devereaux. He keeps the cornfields and pays the villagers to work in them. He is not always fond of visitors to our village. I wished to let him greet you or not as he saw fit."

She asked Marcel about the village and its crops and how it was that they were able to live without visiting the nearby towns.

"We have a strong relationship with the BaMbuti here."

"BaMbuti? You mean the pygmies?"

He nodded. "They provide us with meat, and we grow our crops, and when we need other things we send people out. But mostly, Monsieur Devereaux provides those things now."

"Why is that?"

"He has friends in nearby towns, and money and a truck."

"A big truck?"

"Oui. A fairly large truck."

He described the economy of the town. The corn, it seemed, was a major source of wealth in the jungle. The vegetable was more expensive than the beans and rice that were more frequent. Sam realized that Marcel had honored them by serving them corn, a valuable vegetable more often traded for goods and supplies.

The sky darkened outside and a brief thunderstorm crackled over the village. After the storm pa.s.sed, a pygmy girl bounded into the hut, speaking almost fluent French. She relayed a message that Marcel's guests were invited to Lord Devereaux's manor for a bottle of palm wine.

The manor was a house constructed of thick lumber standing among a village of bamboo thatch. The one-level home rested behind the fields of maize within the line of forest trees.

A truck sat off to one side, half-covered in giant leaves and vines. The vehicle was a red flatbed pick-up with one tire removed. A shed rested further back in the forest and all manner of rusty tools lay scattered about it. The scene reminded Sam of rural America.

A lamp burned inside, shining its light through the windows, as the three approached. Marcel had insisted on leading them over himself. The worn porch was rotted and cracked, having seen its fair share of wet weather and insects. Sam half-expected her foot to break through the floorboards.

A screen door swung open and a man stuck his head out, a knotted mop of gray hair jutting from his scalp. His skin was tanned and weathered and his face looked like it had been shaven with a bowie knife. He wore a worn white shirt and black pants. He was barefoot, and Sam spotted dark hairs curling on his toes. As he peered at them, she wondered if he was drunk.

"Marcel? You have been avoiding me," the man cried in French.

"I have not, Monsieur Devereaux."

"You have," Raoul cried, stepping onto the porch. "What have you done with my pygmies?"

"I haven't done anything with them. I haven't seen them in many days."

"Liar. I think you have stolen them! You've stolen my pygmies!"

"Why would I do such a thing?" Marcel said, laughing. "They are more trouble than they are worth."

Raoul Devereaux peered past Marcel, directly at Sam. "Bonsoir Mademoiselle." He clasped her hand gently in his.

"You must be the American," he purred deeply.

She smirked and nodded, pointing toward Brandon. "We are the Americans."

"You are . . . husband and wife?"

"Yes. And Brandon's not being rude. He doesn't speak any French."

Raoul grinned slyly, still holding her right hand gently between his. "He does not speak French at all?"

When she shook her head he added, "Then he cannot hear me say that when I gaze into your smoky eyes I am drawn to your beauty like a helpless moth to a flame."

She flushed and struggled not to laugh. Brandon cleared his throat to her right, drawing Raoul's attention.

"You're sure he does not speak French? Because he seemed to understand that."

She nodded rea.s.suringly. "He's good at things like that."

Raoul dropped her wrist then extended his hand to Brandon. "Pardon me, Monsieur. It's just that it has been a long time since I've seen a beautiful woman. Or hair quite that color."

"Do you speak English?" Brandon asked in English, which received no response from Raoul.

Instead the Frenchman spun around and marched toward the screen door. "I would like to invite you both into my manor. I would be honored to have you as my guests for the evening."

Sam smiled and gestured for Brandon to follow as she stepped toward the screen door. As they headed inside, Marcel remained on the porch, waving and wishing them a good night. She thanked him, and he disappeared a moment later, hopping off the porch into the forest of maize.

The faint odor of dust and mildew hung in the air inside the house. The room they entered adjoined a small kitchen. The floors and walls were peeling and warped, and the chairs and tables were in the same condition of half-rot as the porch. A single hurricane lamp blazed in the corner lighting the room. A stove burned in the kitchen, giving off a little heat, but Sam guessed that the appliance was used mainly for cooking.

"Please. Sit," Raoul insisted.

He helped her remove her pack, holding both straps so she could slip her arms out. He placed the pack neatly in the corner and then offered the same help to Brandon.

She walked over to the rotten table and sat down, hearing her seat creak underneath her. For a long second, she didn't put all of her weight down for fear that the chair would splinter underneath her. When she finally eased her weight into the chair she relaxed.

"Can you ask him about the plane?" Brandon asked, sitting next to her. "Ask him if he knows anybody who can help us."

"I will," she replied, shushing her husband.

Raoul crossed the room to a small cupboard and pulled out three gla.s.ses. He inspected the first gla.s.s, wiping it with a cloth. "It is a little dusty," he said sheepishly.

"Not used to guests?" she teased gently.

Raoul grinned. "I'm used to drinking from the bottle."

He placed freshly dusted gla.s.ses in front of them and poured a clear liquid into each gla.s.s. He raised his gla.s.s, and they drank. The wine was sour and a little sweet.

"How is it?" the Frenchman asked when Sam had put her gla.s.s down.

"It's very good, thank you," she replied. Brandon nodded his approval.

"Some batches are too sweet," he explained. "I like it with a little bite."

Raoul explained the method of distilling palm wine and the different phases that yield different flavors. He spoke of the liquid lovingly. He had a slightly glazed look in his eyes, and his very body exuded that slightly sour smell.

He asked Sam about her life in America, and he listened, fascinated, never pa.s.sing up the opportunity to throw in a compliment or a question. From there, the conversation turned to pop culture, music, and films. Sam began to sense that Raoul missed some of the trappings of civilization and the modern world. Every time she tried turning the conversation back to the jungle, he would sing a song or ask a question about recent news or current events.

As the conversation lulled, Brandon whispered to her, "Ask him if he can help us get our plane."

She nodded. She had been working up to that, but she didn't want to seem overly demanding to an already gracious host.

Before she could ask, Raoul said, "I have an extra room the two of you may share if you please."

"That's very kind of you."