The Witch Doctor's Wife (2 page)

P
olice captain Pierre Jardin was waiting inside Belle Vue’s one-room terminal when he heard the plane begin to circle for the second time. Damn that heartless bastard. This was the third day in a row the jerk was pulling that stunt.

The day before yesterday Jardin had issued the pilot a stern warning. Yesterday Jardin had been out of town when the plane landed, but he’d heard about it just the same. Well, today the miscreant pilot was going to be in for a surprise; he was going to be only the second white ever to be locked up in Belle Vue’s tiny jail. The officials at Sabena Airlines were going to be so pissed at their employee that they’d undoubtedly sack him.

And where the hell was Monsieur Ngulube, the terminal
manager? He was supposed to run the pigs off the runway fifteen minutes prior to a scheduled landing. And since, on average, there were only six flights in and out a week, it was his job to fill in the holes the pigs made.

The pigs. They belonged to everyone, and to no one. Captain Jardin had warned the villagers countless times to keep their livestock off the dirt landing strip, but he may as well have been talking to the pigs themselves. But when he shot a pig—an old arthritic boar—the people nearly rioted. Twenty-seven men stepped forward then, clamoring for payment, and the sums they demanded were absurd.

After much palavering, the captain drove to nearby villages, returning with twenty-seven piglets. The claimants were delighted, but suddenly fifty-two more people claimed ownership of the boar. The captain, at wit’s end, threatened to call in the army and have the soldiers shoot every damn pig on the runway. He was bluffing, of course, but the people believed him and backed down. The pigs, however, stayed put.

Now they dotted the runway like raisins in a bread pudding. Meanwhile the plane was coming in fast, and it sounded odd. Damn that Ngulube! There was only one thing to do. Captain Jardin sprinted outside to his jeep, and giving it full throttle, raced along the runway, firing his handgun over the pigs in an attempt to scare them off. A modern swineherd on a life-saving mission.

But instead of dashing off into the elephant grass on either side of the strip, the beasts merely milled about in confusion. Not that it mattered much, because Captain Pierre Jardin was too late. The shadow of the right wing passed over his head at the same time the wheels first hit the ground.

Then Pierre Jardin, the man, watched in horror as the plane bounced over the backs of the pigs, never maintaining that precious contact with the ground. All too soon the strip ended, and the hapless plane lunged into the savanna scrub, mowing down
head-high grasses and acacia saplings. The screeching of metal being shorn was only barely audible above the squeals of wounded and frightened pigs. Finally the plane stopped, its nose buried deep in a thicket of mature acacias.

When he reached the plane, Pierre discovered to his astonishment that every one of the thirteen passengers, plus the crew, was off the plane. The pilot had a broken arm, a laceration across his temple, and no doubt a bad concussion. Given the damage to the plane, it was a wonder he was even alive.

Even the copilot was relatively unscathed. Of course there were bumps and bruises, a little blood, and some vomiting, but all and all the occupants of Sabena Flight 111 were more terrified than they were wounded. The challenge now was to get them away from the plane before it exploded.

Amanda Brown didn’t deserve to be in Africa; she deserved to be in hell. And that’s exactly where she was.

Her journey had begun in South Carolina, from there by ship to Belgium, where she’d spent six months studying French and Tshiluba, a major Congolese language. Finally, after a series of plane rides, she found herself suspended over Eden.

It was amazing how fast one could travel in 1958. That morning she’d begun her day in Leopoldville, the capitol of the Belgian Congo. Her prayers had been answered and she had been assigned a window seat: seat 3B. She’d watched, spellbound, as the small commercial plane climbed steeply over the limestone backbone of the Crystal Mountains and then leveled off over a sea of broccoli tops. Yes, broccoli tops. That’s exactly how she planned to describe the closely packed canopy of the vast equatorial rain forest below.

The jungle stretched forever, unbroken except for the muddy red of an occasional river, or the glint of sunlight reflected from the ink-black waters of mysterious lakes whose shores appeared
uninhabited. Only after several hours did the trees finally yield to rolling grasslands, although forests still reigned in the deepest valleys and along the water courses.

It was all gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful, like nothing she’d seen in a Tarzan movie. Suddenly she saw a village of thatched huts. People were running for cover, like ants streaming back into their mounds. Lord have mercy! Ahead loomed a tree—at eye level! They were never going to miss it.

Had she only been dreaming? She felt like she was waking from a nap with a terrible headache. But that’s how she always felt if she napped too long. No, this was different. People were screaming. The large black man from the rear of the plane was pulling her from her seat. She tried to protest, but her screams were soundless. She pummeled him with her fists, but he picked her up anyway and carried her off the plane.

She could see now that the plane had crashed. People shouted at her, telling her to run because a wing was on fire. There was going to be an explosion. She attempted to run, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. Where was the man who’d helped her? Why was no one turning around to lend a hand? Were people really that selfish, or was this just how it was in her own personal Hell?

Amanda closed her eyes. It would be easier not to see death coming. Perhaps she could will her spirit to leave her body before the onslaught of pain. But first, she would pray one last time…

Strong hands picked her off the ground as if she were a child. A doll even. Her heart pounding even harder, she opened her eyes.

“The airplane has crashed,” Husband said.

“Truly?” First Wife knew instinctively that this was the case, but she felt it her wifely duty to question some of Husband’s assertions. He was, after all, a witch doctor of some renown. He had a reputation to maintain. More and more villagers were demanding
empirical evidence for his pronouncements, thanks to the corruptive influence of the Western colonialists. It behooved Husband to think carefully, and not jump to conclusions.

“
Eyo
,” Husband said in the affirmative. “And now the airplane burns. I read something similar in a book my employer loaned me. It is all because this airplane hit a tree.”

They were speaking loudly, because many voices in the village had been raised. Even now Mukuetu, their nearest neighbor, appeared panting at the edge of their compound.

“Neighbor,” he said, with fear in his voice, “did you hear the bomb?”

“
Eyo
, I heard something.”

“It was the airplane,” First Wife said. “Did you not see the airplane hit the tree?”

“I am not blind, sister,” he said. “But it did not fall from the sky.”

“Nevertheless, it is so.” Husband smiled, for he could never be angry at First Wife, even when she usurped what was his to tell.

“Where did this happen?”

“I should imagine at the airstrip, for this plane was wounded like a bird, and could not land properly.” He had better be right this time.

“Shall we go see?”

“Most definitely.”

“I will go too,” Second Wife said.

First Wife started. “Then who will take care of the children?”

“You will,” Second Wife said.

“I want to come as well,” Oldest Boy said.

“So do I,” Oldest Girl said.

“Very well,” Husband said, “we will all go except for Baby Boy, whom we will leave with you.” He scooped up the child and hurriedly, but tenderly, placed him in First Wife’s arms.

There were no telephones in the village, but there were drums. Within minutes everyone knew what the explosion meant. Also within minutes the entire population of the village, except for those incapable of covering that great a distance, headed for the airport. Most of the people ran.

Poor First Wife was not among them.

The passenger in seat 8C intended to slip away unnoticed after the plane landed—well, as unnoticed as a seven-foot Nigerian in orange robes can manage. Although he stood out physically, he was not an anomaly by any means. Nigerian businessmen were a common sight in the Congo, and because they represented wealth, they were welcome. After all, anyone who could afford an airline ticket from the capital city of Leopoldville to a backwater place like Belle Vue was somebody. Just as long he minded his own business, he’d be left alone. That was the plan.

The crash changed everything. As a human being—as a man—he had no choice but to rescue the young woman from the plane. He didn’t think twice about it. But once the deed was done, so to speak, he realized he’d set himself up as a hero, as someone to be sought out and thanked. Perhaps questions would be asked, questions that he preferred not to answer.

The Nigerian didn’t consciously make a decision. When the others ran one way from the plane, he ran in the opposite direction—if indeed the word
running
could be applied to his rate of progress. Their escape route took them out into the open airstrip; his took him into the bush, into an almost impenetrable wall of elephant grass punctuated by thorny acacia trees.

When the plane exploded he was still so close that the force it generated knocked him flat on his face. He covered the back of his neck with his hands as burning debris rained from the sky. But within seconds he was on his feet again, pushing through the razor-sharp grass with balled fists. The savanna was alight
with dozens of small fires. They crackled into existence and then roared into life, fueled by the brittle grass, the result of three months without a single rain. The Nigerian gasped for air as the flames sucked the oxygen out of his lungs.

Somewhere close was a river; he’d seen it from the plane. A spectacular waterfall as well. It had to be downhill. It was the same direction in which the flames were racing. If he could get to it first, he’d risk the crocodiles and snakes and hippos, whatever dangers lurked in the water.

His biggest impediment, besides lack of oxygen, was his clothes. His flowing robes caught on thorns, and with so many fires raging and sparks flying everywhere, it was only a matter of time before they ignited. Without a second’s hesitation the Nigerian pulled his robes off over his head, inadvertently removing his hat as well. Clad only in a loose white undergarment that protected his privates, he ran for his life.

A
manda Brown awoke with a killer headache. All through the night she’d awakened from nightmares, reliving those last moments on the plane or, worse yet, the certain knowledge that the exploding fuselage would kill her. Of course, as with any dream, sometimes they were bizarre and bore little similarity to the chain of events. Eventually, however, it became difficult to sort fact from fiction.

Each time she’d awakened, a kind, handsome man appeared just as she thrashed her way into consciousness. He told her repeatedly that she was safe, then sat by the cot on which she lay until she’d drifted back to sleep. He’d told her his name a million times, and it was simple enough—Paul—no, Peter—that’s right,
Pierre!
French for “Peter.”

But where was he now? She sat up on the narrow cot and
swung her feet over the edge, bringing them to rest on a cool cement floor. The darkened room was vaguely familiar from the night before. She looked down and was relieved to see that she was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, including her bobby sox.

“Pierre,” she called softly.

She called several times, and after receiving no answer, padded to the door. With each step her head throbbed. Amanda breathed a sigh of relief when she discovered that an open door directly across the hall led to a bathroom. There was a mirror above the sink and she took the time to examine the lump on her forehead, wash the rest of her face, and run her fingers through her short brown hair. A bob, they called that style. It was old-fashioned and not particularly attractive, but was supposed to be suited to the intense African heat.

Feeling much refreshed but still headachy, she wandered down the hall toward the strongest source of light. The room was empty, save for chairs and books—acres of books—but French doors opened onto a patio. At a small, round table sat a man drinking coffee. It was Pierre.

He smiled and stood. “
Bonjour, mademoiselle
.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“How are you this morning?” His accent was barely noticeable.

“I feel like I got hit on the head with a—uh—an airplane.”

Pierre laughed. “Here,” he said, handing her a white paper packet. “The doctor said to take these for a headache. Start with one, because two might make you sleepy. You may not wish to be sleepy on your first day in the bush.”

The doctor was right about that. Outside, in the cool sunshine, the air was suddenly magical. She took the pill with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, even though she’d already begun to feel much better. She looked around. The patio was completely
encircled by orange trees, but the world just beyond promised adventure. And redemption.

“
Mademoiselle
—”

“Please call me Amanda.”

“Ah, what a beautiful name. Amanda, the doctor had to drive the pilot to the hospital in Luluaburg. He will be back late this afternoon, but we are in communication by shortwave radio. So, if there is a problem, a need to see him before then, I am to let him know. In the meantime, I am to keep a close watch on you.”

“The poor pilot! How bad is it? Was anybody else hurt?”

“It is a broken arm that needs special attention, but do not feel too sorry for the pilot. Because of him, all of you might have died. After he receives the necessary treatment, he will be put in jail in Luluaburg. As for the rest of the passengers—well, your bump on the head seems to have been the worst of the injuries.”

“Thank God!”

“Amanda, now that you are fully awake, please allow me to introduce myself properly.” He bowed slightly at the waist and extended his hand. “I am Captain Pierre Jardin of His Majesty’s Colonial Police. My jurisdiction is the town of Belle Vue, where we are now, and the workers’ village across the river.”

Amanda couldn’t help but smile. Pierre was tall, deeply tanned, with curly blond hair and dancing blue eyes. But it was his courtly manner, and the khaki uniform, with its baggy, wide-legged shorts and epaulettes, that made her think of British officers she’d seen in movies. He even had his own version of bobby sox, although his came up to his knees. But of course Pierre was Belgian, and the king he referred to was King Baudouin.

“I am Amanda Brown,” she said, “from Rock Hill, South Carolina. I’m here to run the missionary guesthouse.”

“Yes, I know, I’ve been expecting you. Please, to sit.”

“
Really?
You’ve been expecting me?”

“You are the replacement for Monsieur and Madame Singleton, am I correct?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“They are friends of mine. Besides that, Belle Vue is a very small town, and everyone knows the—how shall I say this—business of everyone else. Do you understand?”

“Like Rock Hill.”

“But very much smaller, I think. We are less than two hundred Europeans, and the Singletons are the only Americans. At any rate, they regret that they were unable to meet you here at the plane yesterday and will, in fact, be stuck—if that is the word—in Kikwit for some time.”

“For how long?”

The handsome captain gave her a Gallic shrug. “Perhaps two weeks, maybe three. You see, Amanda, we are almost at the end of our dry season, and river levels are very low. The Loange River, which they must cross, has no bridge. Only a ferry. At the moment the water is too shallow and the ferry cannot cross.”

“Can’t they drive across?”

“I’m afraid that it’s impossible. A vehicle would get stuck in the soft bottom. And also, there are still places where the water is too deep. The Singletons must either wait for the rains, or else wait until the state constructs a new ferry landing in a place where the water is deep all the way across.”

Amanda felt a moment of panic. Her official reason for being in the Belgian Congo was to run the missionary guesthouse. George and Catherine Singleton were supposed to train her for a month before they retired to the States. How could she possibly do the job without any training? And she couldn’t very well just shut it down.

From what she’d been told, the guesthouse was very important to long-term missionaries. Isolated on mission stations deep within the bush, and without electricity and running water, the average
missionary went weeks without seeing any new white faces, and even years between visits to a real store. That’s why Protestant missionaries vied for the available rooms (Catholic missionaries, of course, were not welcome).

A visit to Belle Vue meant a chance to shop in a small department store stocked with merchandise flown in from Brussels, as well as a grocery store that sold meat and fresh vegetables. For visiting whites there was even the opportunity to swim and play tennis at the mine-owned Club Mediterranean. And for those who craved a little more decadence, the clubhouse served real Coca Cola and freshly churned ice cream. It also served beer and a variety of hard liquors, but, with the exception of a few Presbyterians, any missionaries caught indulging in the latter were soon sent packing back to America.

She couldn’t resist a smile. “Hmm.”

“Perhaps you would wish to share your joke?”

“I was just thinking that if I can’t handle the job—running the guesthouse, I mean—I could always go to the club and have a drink.”

Pierre laughed heartily. “Ah, like Madam Wheeler, yes?”

“You know about her?”

“It was my misfortune to drive her back to the guesthouse on more than one occasion. But you should not worry. The Singletons left detailed instructions in case there was just such a problem. You see, in the Congo we have many unexpected interruptions. And there is also a well-trained housekeeper who will be of much help.”

“Oh good. I look forward to meeting her. I have never met an honest-to-goodness African. Of course I have only been in the country two days.”

“Ah, yes. But this housekeeper, I am afraid, is a man.”

“A man?”

“Most housekeepers here are men. The women are too busy
raising their children and working in the fields. Fieldwork,
that
is women’s work.”

Amanda bristled. She was a modern woman, born in 1938, for heaven’s sake. Thanks to Rosie the Riveter and the other women who had stepped up to the plate during the war, her sex had proved they were capable of succeeding quite well in the workplace.

“I hope these are not your personal views, Pierre.”

He grinned. “No, Amanda. And if they were—well, I am not such a foolish man, I think. Ah, now before I forget: I sent the Singletons a telegraph last night, informing them of the unfortunate circumstances of your arrival. They have already replied.” He patted his pockets, but not finding it there, took a deep breath and plunged in. “Mrs. Singleton was quite distressed to learn that all your luggage was lost in the explosion. She has instructed me to tell you that you may borrow her clothing until you have a chance to make, or purchase, some of your own. She said that from the description of you that the missionary board sent her, you appear to be the same size. I am inclined to agree.”

Amanda gasped. It had not yet sunk in that her luggage had been destroyed along with the plane. In the bathroom she’d thought briefly about her toothbrush and comb, but had consigned their existence to someplace unspecific—someplace other than in the charred wreckage.

“Don’t worry, Amanda. I will take care of you. May I suggest I begin by giving you breakfast?”

The Nigerian had not slept a wink. Adrenaline had gotten him to the river—albeit covered with cuts and abrasions—but now the river was keeping him prisoner. In the light cast by the hungry fires, he’d managed to climb down the sheer rock wall of the gorge. His trajectory had landed him just downriver from the falls. As a consequence he’d spent the night drenched with spray, trying to huddle in the protection of a narrow overhang.

He’d been prevented from moving farther away from the catchment pool by the presence of an enormous crocodile. Without the light from the fires, which were reflected in the reptile’s eyes, the Nigerian might well have walked right into its jaws. The beast appeared to be at least twenty feet long and was stretched across a sandy beach, just on the other side of a pile of boulders.

In the morning the crocodile was still there. Although the Nigerian had spent all of his adult life in Lagos, on the “bulge” of Africa, he’d been born and raised in crocodile country. He knew that crocodiles shied away from turbulence, much preferring calm water. This behemoth was pushing those boundaries to the extreme.

No doubt it was the imminent prospect of being the first to feed on animals—and humans—unlucky enough to be swept over the falls that brought it so close to the escarpment. The Nigerian realized that although the roiling waters of the catchment pool, and the pile of boulders between him and sandy beach, would keep him safe from predation, he was virtually trapped. And since crocodiles can survive weeks without eating, this could well mean death by starvation. Still, there was always a chance the beast would lose interest.

In the meantime the bright white undergarment he wore around his loins could be easily spotted from above. Without the slightest hesitation the Nigerian removed his last article of clothing and stuffed it deep within a rock fissure. Then he crammed his seven-foot frame back under the ledge where he’d spent the night. One must do what needed to be done.