Orphan of Creation (25 page)

Ovono’s pack started to fill up. Watches, jewelry, pocket knives, U.S. and Gabonese coins, and even paper money. Ovono thought the U.S. paper might be of interest because it had pictures of strange buildings and the stranger-looking white men, while the Gabonese notes would trade because they were prettier. They dug deep into Rupert’s gadget bag, too. A magnifying glass, a mirror, a collapsible fishing rod and some spare fishing line, a folding camp stool and a pair of binoculars. Livingston donated his class ring, a spare pair of boots he was tired of carrying, the sleeping bag it was too hot to sleep in, and a harmonica. Clark and Ovono, who had packed far more sensibly than the others, had much less to contribute. Clark threw in his tobacco pouch and Ovono a spare hat, and each of them threw in a spoon and fork. Just before Ovono closed the bag, Barbara thought of one more thing. She pulled off the wedding ring she was still wearing for some unexplainable reason and tossed it in the bag. God knows she wasn’t going to need it again. The place on her finger where it had been felt very strange, being out on its own.

<>

The keeper watched the visitors move down the path, leaving their guide behind to talk. He shook his head. How could Neeri have been such a fool? Risking all the anger of these strangers just so he could have a woman! Wasn’t it enough that he had had every woman in the tribe, angering the husbands, no matter what a chief’s rights might be? A good ruler knew not to abuse his privileges. The keeper had never been away from the village—none of the Utaani had—but he knew full well that there were mighty tribes out there, who had great power. He had seen their guns, once or twice, brought along by the rare visitors to the village, seen the guns kill birds and animals from far away.

But the chief seemed a greater fool even than that—he seemed ready to break the law of many years’ standing, and not only admit the existence of the
tranka
, but even trade in them again. It had been the hatred of the other peoples for the
tranka
that had kept the Utaani apart from them, far off in the darkest part of the jungle for so long.

All in the village knew that even the rumor of the
tranka
made the rest of the jungle fear and hate them. What anger did the chief risk now in openly trading in what the other tribes thought were evil spirits or the dead brought back to life?

Once, and once only, the keeper’s father had dared tell him the real story of what had happened when the tribe had tried to trade
tranka
for other things—the real tale, not the storyteller’s ravings where all Utaani were brave and bold and the trade-riches had made them all wealthy. Yes, the tribe had traded
tranka
to one of these strange, pasty-white men, and yes, for a time, the whole village had worn its fine new clothes made from the cloth the trader had brought, had used their fine new tools—and their fine new guns for hunting. Then the medicine men of the other villages had seen the well-armed trader parade the
tranka
down the jungle paths. They dared not attack the trader, but they banded together when he was gone and brought the wrath of a dozen tribes down on the Utaani for trading in imprisoned souls. All the tribes had long traded in slaves, in bodies, but they rose up against what they thought was a traffic in the reanimated dead.

Now not even the chief was told the true tale. Even he heard only the fairy tales.

But the keeper was a crafty man, and his father had told him that often two problems could solve each other. If he had to trade away one of his
tranka
, why not one they planned to dispose of anyway—a troublemaker who would make the deal look bad? And then, in the embarrassment of a trade disaster, perhaps this chief would need replacement. . . . It occurred to him that the other village leaders were being a bit too enthusiastic in supporting the chief’s stupidities. Maybe they were letting him work his own destruction. And many a keeper of the past had been a chief. It could work.

He turned and walked toward the stockade and opened the heavy door. That one. The female who was acting strange, that no one could get any work out of. He looked at her and laughed. If she got rid of this chief for them, she would have done a lifetime’s work right there.

<>

She sensed his eyes upon her and looked up. The hair on the nape of her neck bristled, and she bared her teeth in hatred. Of all the humans, this one was the worst—the harshest, the cruelest, the most punishing. She longed to leap for his throat, and her fingers twitched, and she let out a low growl. But the keeper just laughed again. He could control her long enough, this one. Just long enough.

<>

Ovono gave the others a few minutes to get down the path before he emerged from the chief’s hut. Waiting would make the Utaani think he was planning something, make them a bit more anxious and ready to deal.

Finally, enough time had passed by his judgment, and he stepped out into the village square, carrying the satchel full of the smaller trade goods in one hand and Livingston’s sleeping bag and shoes in the other. He squinted for a moment in the somewhat brighter light of the outside, and looked about for the chief and his chums. There they were, sitting around one side of the empty fire pit at the far end of the square. They looked a small bit nervous, Ovono thought. Good. Repressing the urge to smile, he walked over and sat down opposite his hosts. He considered mentioning the nasty incident in the hut, but decided that bringing it up again, even to dismiss it, might not be the best idea. Best just to ignore it. “Good morning once again,” he said. “My friends have gone to stretch their legs, and asked me if I might talk with you for them.”

The chief grinned cheerfully. “That is good. Without all the tiresome changing one talk to another, we can deal faster, and everyone will be happy.”

Ovono nodded. There was no effort to apologize from their side. He would be willing to bet the chief had no idea he had done something wrong. Ovono promised himself to deal a little harder on that account. “Yes, I agree. Perhaps it would be best if we began. We are travelers and have brought mostly small things, of great beauty and value, but light and easy to carry. I have many things to show, but since we are both eager to save time, it would easier if you told me what you wished to have, and what sort of value you placed on it.”
In other words, tell me your price before I let you look in my wallet
.

“But first, I must ask, precisely what are you after?” Chief Neeri asked. “You have spoken of wanting what the trader in the legends wanted, said you have interest in what interested him, but you have never come out and said precisely what you wanted. Come, it is time for plain words.”

Ovono nodded his agreement and tried to think fast. It occurred to him that he
wasn’t
sure precisely what the Americans wanted. That was not right or proper. He could not be an honest agent that way—but it was unthinkable that he should jump up and run to ask them such a simple question—he would look ridiculous to these crude boors, and they would raise their prices in contempt for him.

Well, what was it all about?
Tranka
, of course—that was obvious. There was no other reason to come here, and the Americans had seemed to talk of little else. He had caught the long English word
australopithecine
many times, and Clark had told him it meant the same as
tranka
. So they were interested in the creatures for some reason, and presumably had come here looking for them. They had not realized the
tranka
were not wild, and so had not come ready to trade for them. But the Americans had seemed reluctant to discuss the
tranka
with Ovono, perhaps fearing he harbored fears of the creatures, despite his denials. So what did they want with them? How many did they want?

Ovono realized he also knew nothing about the
tranka
, either. Could he tell a weak one from a strong one, a young one from an old one? Were some fierce, some docile, some smart and some stupid? His sum total of knowledge was based on one glimpse of a line of miserable-looking creatures through the trees.

All of this flashed through his thoughts in an instant. He had no information, and no good trader dared betray ignorance. What to do? Suddenly, a solution, a perfect solution, popped into his head. He spoke smoothly, after only a moment’s hesitation, making it seem that what he was saying he had had in mind all along.

“We seek
tranka
—but first, we seek a beginning,” Ovono said. “A wise man does not seek to gain his wealth in one day, but slowly and carefully, so he does not lose as fast as he gains. We expect to trade again here, many times, but our people have been away long, longer than anyone still living. We do not know the quality of your
tranka
compared to others.” There
were
no others, of course, but these isolated tribesmen wouldn’t know that for sure. Why let them know they had a monopoly? “We need to know your price, your quality. So, come, I will do a very daring thing and trade without looking at what I trade for! I want to have
one
tranka for now, your very best one. We want to know your finest quality first, and the price for it. Sell us a poor one, and today we will not know it—but tomorrow we will. We will trade well for the best, but overcharge us today and we will trade sharply the next time. We wish to show we trust you from the beginning by asking
your
judgment of quality and fair price.”

Ovono stopped talking and looked over his audience. Once again, he forced himself not to smile, but instead looked as sincere, as trusting and wise as he could. They had not expected this! Perhaps they had been expecting a one-time sale, hoping to skin the Americans this once. Maybe they wanted to sell their surplus in one go and be done with it. It didn’t matter. Now they were off-balance, which is the way a good trader wants his counterpart in a deal. Ovono felt tempted to say more, but he knew the dangers of overselling. Let them make the next move.

He smiled and settled back, politely waiting for their reply. The chief thought for a moment, then gestured for his cronies to lean in toward him and whisper with him. Ovono put the time to good use sizing up his customers, judging what they’d like to buy. The chief seemed to be the only one to worry about. His advisors were nowhere near as important, and seemed divided equally between those who eagerly agreed with everything he said and those who actually tried to give some sort of counsel, which was generally ignored. Ovono had the feeling that the chief’s head had been turned by his power, that the right tack here was to appeal to his vanity. This was the sort of chief who ruled capriciously for a month or a year or two years until the tribe got tired of it and killed him or ousted him. Vain, unreasonably confident that his views were always correct, eager to agree with anything that made him look good. To a good salesman, there was no better prospect.

After a long discussion in low tones, the locals seemed to come to some sort of agreement. Finally, the chief spoke. “I agree with your proposal. My keeper of the
tranka
here tells me that he has just the one for you, a young, healthy female of great spirit and intelligence.”

“Splendid. That will suit our purposes perfectly,” he enthused, having no idea what their purposes were. But at least buying one, a sample, suited
his
purposes. It let him do limited damage if he was making a mistake, and gave him the chance to consult with the Americans properly before he did any serious dealing. “But we come to the price for such a fine animal. What interests you? Perhaps this sturdy and handsome pair of shoes?” he asked, touching Livingston’s huge boots. No reaction. “A sleeping-mat of great softness and comfort?” he suggested, pointing at the sleeping bag. No apparent interest. “Clever tools?” he ventured, opening the rucksack. “Perhaps some fine and handsome jewelry?”
Aha
. The chief’s eyes lit up at the mention of jewelry, and his henchmen exchanged worried glances, as if Ovono had touched on a very vulnerable weak spot. With a look of perfect innocence on his face, Ovono dug into the sack, appearing to fumble a bit as he brought out one or two of the lesser tools and the ugliest watch, along with the least interesting rings and trinkets. He would hold back on Barbara’s gold ring until they were weakening, eager to buy. This was going to be almost too easy. Monsieur Ovono smiled his most unctuous smile and zeroed in for the kill.

<>

Barbara rubbed her ring finger nervously, trying to make the empty-feeling spot around her finger seem a bit less strange.

Now she was at the end of her quest, it seemed. The Utaani were agreeable, and would let her get a look at their australopithecines, study them, if for a price. She found herself forced to face the question of what she was going to
do
with the creatures. Up until now, the quest, the search itself, had served to keep her from introspection. Now the last barriers to finding out were seemingly down, and she finally confronted the question: What would they be like? These were the descendants of animals who had come very close to becoming human, creatures whose evolution had shied back from that possibility. They and their ancestors had almost everything it took to become human—the upright stance, the clever hands. But they had never produced the last and most needed thing—a brain large enough to contain a complete mind. Why had they turned back? Had they found something better?