Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Bombay, who at that time was still living in Kazeh, was commissioned as a guide. He led Stanley to the Ukerewe, and the expedition started to circumnavigate it in a clockwise direction. But at the westernmost shore, Stanley became distracted by the sight of the far-off mountains and decided to explore them.

“I told him no, it is a bad place,” Bombay said, “but-wow! — he was like a lion that has the musk of a gazelle in its nostrils and can think of nothing else. I was frightened to go there again, so I ran away, and he and his people went without me. They have not been seen again. This proves that I am a very good guide.”

“How so?”

“Because I was right.”

The safari trudged on.

The cultivated lands had fallen behind them. Now there was nothing but shallow, dry, rippling hills that went on and on and on.

“The same!” Swinburne wailed, throwing his arms out to embrace the wide vista. “The same! The same! Won't it ever change? Are we not moving at all?”

During the nights, swarms of pismire ants crawled out of the ground and set upon the camp. They chewed through tent ropes, infested the food supplies, shredded clothes, and inflicted bites that felt like branding irons.

On the fourth day, the safari left the region behind with heartfelt expressions of relief and entered the Kigwa Forest, a wide strip of gum trees and mimosas spread over uneven, sloping land. The boles were widely spaced but the sparse canopy nevertheless provided a little shade and for the first time in many weeks they weren't bothered by mosquitoes or flies.

They camped among the trees, dappled by shafts of pollen-thick light, with butterflies flitting around them and birds whistling and gabbling overhead. The scent of herbs filled their nostrils.

“We've travelled almost six hundred miles,” Burton said. He was sitting on a stool in front of the main Rowtie, massaging his left calf, which felt bruised after his bout of cramps. Trounce was on a chair at a folding table.

The Scotland Yard man's beard reached halfway to his chest, and he'd had enough of it. He was attempting to crop it close to his chin with a pair of blunt scissors. “But how long has it taken us?” he asked.

“That's the question. It took me a hundred and thirty-four days to reach this spot during my previous expedition. I feel we've been considerably faster but I couldn't tell you by how much. It's very peculiar. All of us appear to have lost track of time. Do you want a hand with that, William? You appear to be struggling.”

“If you wouldn't mind,” the other man answered. “It's my bloody arm. The spear wound still hurts like blazes when I move it. So are you suggesting that something is having an adverse influence on us?”

Trounce stuck out his chin. Burton stood, took the scissors, and attacked his friend's facial hair.

“Perhaps. But the Mountains of the Moon are still at least two hundred miles away, so if the Eye of Naga is responsible, then its emanations are reaching a damned long way.”

“If it didn't affect your timekeeping back in fifty-seven,” Trounce said, “then why would it be doing so now?”

“The only explanation I can think of is that there's an intelligence directing it.”

“Which knows we're here? I don't like the sound of that.”

“Nor I.”

A few minutes later, Burton finished his hacking and held up a small round mirror so Trounce could examine the results.

“By Jove!” the detective exclaimed. “It's made no difference at all! I still look like a confounded Robinson Crusoe!”

Burton smiled, turned away, and watched as the Daughters of Al-Manat rolled out their prayer mats and began to praise Allah. He looked at Mirambo's warriors, sitting in a group on small portable stools, sharpening their weapons and cleaning their matchlocks. He observed Said redistributing the baggage among the remaining porters. He examined the horses and mules and saw that many were covered in tsetse bites. They wouldn't survive much longer.

A commotion over to his left attracted his attention. It was Swinburne, leaping around like a possessed forest sprite.

“Look! Look!” the poet cried, jabbing his finger in Herbert Spencer's direction.

Burton turned his eyes toward the robe-wrapped clockwork philosopher and saw that he was approaching with Isabella Mayson at his side. He had a colourful parakeet on each shoulder.

“Pox is back!” Swinburne cheered.

“Slippery sewer-sniffer!” Pox cawed.

“And he's been courting!”

“She's been courting,” Isabella corrected.

Swinburne gave a screech. “What? What? You mean Pox is-is-?”

“Is a girl, yes. She always has been. I believe I pointed that out when I first introduced you to her.”

Swinburne looked flummoxed. “I–I-I suppose the bad language caused me to assume the reverse.”

“Danglies-clutcher!” Pox added.

The other bird let loose a piercing squawk.

“Parakeets usually mate for life,” Isabella told Burton, “so perhaps you'd like to give a name to the new member of your family.”

The king's agent groaned. “You don't mean to say I'll have to accommodate two of the beastly things when we return to London?”

Spencer piped, “At least only one of 'em will insult you, Boss.”

“Sheep-squeezing degenerate!” Pox crowed.

“Monkey cuddler!” her mate added.

“Oh no!” Burton moaned.

“My mistake,” Spencer admitted.

“Hah!” Swinburne cried out. “Malady is learning!”

They all looked at him.

“It's the perfect name,” he said. “Don't you think Pox and Malady sound like they belong together?”

There was a pause, then William Trounce threw his head back and let loose a roar of laughter. “On the button, Algernon!” he guffawed. “On the blessed button! Oh my word! What more fitting remembrance of this endeavour could you have, Richard, than to leave Africa with a Pox and a Malady? Ha ha ha!”

Burton shook his head despairingly.

“Cheer up!” Swinburne grinned. “If I remember rightly, when you were a young soldier returning from India and its whorehouses, you brought back similar!”

Trounce doubled over and bellowed his mirth.

“Algy, there are ladies present,” Burton said, glowering at his assistant.

Isabella made a dismissive gesture. “I rather think Africa has stripped me of all the social niceties, Richard. Try as any of you might, you'll not induce a fit of moral outrage in me!”

“I say! Could we make an attempt anyway?” Swinburne enthused.

“Certainly not.”

Krishnamurthy came running over. “Shhh!” he urged. “Stop making such a confounded racket! Listen!”

They did so, and heard gunfire snapping and popping faintly in the far distance.

“Speke,” Swinburne whispered.

“How far?” Trounce asked.

“It's difficult to say,” Burton responded, “but we'd better stay on our toes.”

The next morning, they proceeded with caution and with four Wanyamwezi scouting a little way ahead. Gunfire continued to crackle faintly from the west. It sounded like a battle was being fought. Burton unpacked all the spare rifles and distributed them among Mirambo's warriors, replacing the ancient matchlocks. He and the rest of his expedition kept their own guns cleaned, oiled, and loaded.

The forest was fairly easy going, its canopy high and the undergrowth light. Nevertheless, it required two more marches to traverse. When they finally emerged from it, they found themselves in a long valley through which sweet water bubbled in a wide stream. The hills to either side were swathed in bright-yellow grain, blazing so brightly that the travellers were forced to walk through it with eyes slitted, and the heat was so ferocious that Herbert Spencer compared this part of their trek to “walkin' on the surface of the bloomin' sun itself!”