Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Muzungo mbaya translated as “the wicked white man.”

“I understand thy dismay,” Burton responded. “Thou remembers me not then, O Kombe?

The ancient chief frowned and asked, “I am known to thee?” He squinted at Burton, then his eyebrows shot up and he exclaimed: “Surely thou art not the Murungwana Sana?”

Burton bowed his head and murmured, “I am pleased that thou recollects me as such,” for the words meant “real free man” and were the equivalent of being called a “gentleman.”

Kombe suddenly gave a broad smile, his jet-black face folding into a thousand wrinkles, his mouth displaying teeth that had been filed to points. “Ah!” he cried. “Ah! Ah! Ah! I see all! Thou art hunting the shetani?”

“The devil?”

“Aye! The muzungo mbaya of the long soft beard and gun that never ceases!”

“Thou art speaking of my former companion, John Speke? Thou hast seen him of late?”

“No, but a man from the village of Ngome, which is far north of here, came to us this many-” he extended the word to indicate the time that had passed: maaaannny , “-days ago and told of a bad man with bad men who came to his village intent on bad things. They were led by the muzungo mbaya , and when he was described to me, I remembered the one thou callest Speke, though now they say his head is half of metal.”

Burton said, “So his expedition is taking the northern trail eastward?”

“Aye, and killing and stealing as he goes. Dost thou mean to do the same?”

“Absolutely not! My people seek only to rest for a single night, and for this we shall pay with copper wire and cotton cloth and glass beads.”

“And tobacco?”

“And tobacco.”

“And drink that burns the throat in a pleasurable manner?”

“And drink that burns the throat in a pleasurable manner.”

“I must consult with my brothers.”

The three p'hazi stepped away and conversed out of Burton's earshot.

Said gave a snort of contempt and said, in a low voice, “They will come back and demand much hongo to allow us passage through their territory.”

“Of course,” Burton answered. “What else do they have to bargain with?”

Sure enough, Kombe returned with what amounted to an extravagant shopping list. Burton and Said, both experienced in such matters, bartered until an agreement was reached. The village would receive around two-thirds of the specie demanded-which, in fact, was a much better deal than the elders had expected.

Kombe, well satisfied, allowed the expedition to set up camp beside Nzasa and announced that a feast would be held to honour the arrival of the Murungwana Sana.

Their first full day of African travel had exhausted them all. Isabella Mayson said to Burton, “I'm confused, Sir Richard. My body tells me we've travelled many miles, but my head says we've hardly progressed at all.”

“Such is the nature of our task,” he replied. “This was a good day. On a bad, a single step must be counted an achievement.”

As the afternoon wore into evening, the tents were put up, the animals corralled, and the supplies secured.

The rains came.

There were no warning droplets or preliminary showers. One minute the sky was clear, the next it was a dark purple, then the Msika fell, a sheet of unbroken water. It hit the tents like an avalanche, and Burton, Said, Trounce, Honesty, Krishnamurthy, Spencer, Sister Raghavendra, and Miss Mayson-who'd all gathered in the biggest of the Rowties-had to raise their voices, first against the sound of the deluge pummelling the canvas, then against the cacophonous thunder, which grumbled without a pause.

“Excuse my language, ladies,” Trounce shouted, “but bloody hell!”

“Can the tent stand it?” asked Krishnamurthy. “I think the ocean is being emptied on top of us!”

Honesty pulled the entrance flap aside and peered out. “Can't see a thing!” he called. “Solid water.”

“There'll be two hours of this,” Burton announced, “so if Sadhvi and Isabella don't mind, I propose a brandy and a smoke.”

“I don't mind at all,” Isabella said.

“Nor I,” added Sadhvi. “In fact, I'll take a tipple myself.”

A reedy sigh of frustration came from within Herbert Spencer's many robes and scarves.

Pox, perched as usual on the clockwork philosopher's head, gave a loud musical whistle, then squawked, “Flubberty jibbets!”

“Hurrah!” Krishnamurthy cheered. “That's a new one!”

“The nonsensical insults are definitely the most entertaining,” Isabella agreed.

“By Jove!” Trounce blurted. “That reminds me. I say, Richard, those horrible plant things we saw at Mzizima-”

“What about them?” Burton asked.

“I was wondering, what with Eugenicist creations, such as Pox, here-”

“Pig-snuggler!” Pox sang.

“-always displaying a disadvantage in proportion to whatever talent the scientists have bred into them-”

“Yes?”

“Well, what might be the drawback to those vegetable vehicles, do you think?”

“That's a good question, William, and one I can't answer!”

Burton served brandies to them all, including the women, and the men lit their various cigars and pipes, with many a nervous glance at the tent roof, which was billowing violently under the onslaught of rain.

Sister Raghavendra distributed small vials of a clear liquid that she insisted they all add to their drinks. “It's a special recipe we use in the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence to deal with fevers,” she said. “Don't worry, it's quite tasteless.”

“What's in it?” Honesty asked.

“A mix of quinine and various herbs,” she answered. “It won't make you immune, but it will, at least, make the attacks shorter and less damaging.”

The tent flap suddenly flew open and a drenched imp hopped in.

“Bounders!” it shrieked. “Cads! Fiends! Traitorous hounds! Taking a drink without me! Without me ! Aaaiiii!”

The thing bounded to the table and, with wildly rolling eyes, snatched up the brandy bottle and took an extravagant swig from it. Banging the bottle back down, it wiped its mouth on its sleeve, uttered a satisfied sigh, belched, then keeled over like a toppled tree and landed flat on its back.

“Great heavens! Is that Algernon?” Herbert Spencer tooted.

Sister Raghavendra bent beside the sodden and bedraggled figure and put a hand to its forehead. “It is,” she said. “And despite that display, he doesn't appear to be feverish at all.”

Burton stepped over, lifted his assistant up, and carried him to a cot at the side of the tent. “Algy tends to operate, as a matter of course, at a level that most people would consider feverish,” he said. “I think, on this occasion, he has simply overestimated his own strength.”

“Indeed so,” the nurse agreed. “Any man would require a week to recover from blood loss like Algernon experienced.”

“In which case, Algy will probably need just a couple more days, for he is most certainly not any man!”

They dried their friend as best they could, made him comfortable, and let him sleep.

The rain eventually stopped as quickly as it had started, and the silence of another African night settled over them. They sat quietly, comfortable in each others' company, too exhausted for conversation.

A hyena cackled in the distance.

A shout came from the village.

One drumbeat sounded.

Then another.

All of a sudden, a deep, loud, rhythmic pulsation filled the air as many drums were pounded. A boy's voice hailed them from outside. Burton stepped out of the tent and a child, about ten years old, grinned up at him.