Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (152 page)

“Is this the Molimo?” Daniel whispered to Sepoo while the men of the tribe gathered around it reverently.

“Yes, Kuokoa, this is the Molimo,” Sepoo affirmed.

“What is the Molimo?” Daniel persisted. “The Molimo is the voice of the forest,” Sepoo tried to explain. “It is the voice of the Mother and the Father. But before it can speak, it must be taken to drink.” The chosen band took up the Molimo and carried it to the stream and submerged it in a cool dark pool. The banks of the pool were lined with ranks of little men, solemn and attentive, naked and bright-eyed.

They waited for an hour and then another while the Molimo drank the sweet water of the forest stream, and then they brought the Molimo to the bank.

It was shining and dripping with water. Sepoo went to the bamboo tube and placed his lips over the open end. His chest inflated as he drew breath and the Molimo, spoke from the tube. It was the startlingly clear sweet voice of a young girl singing in the forest, and all the men of the Bambuti shuddered and swayed like the top leaves of a tall tree hit by a sudden wind.

Then the Molimo changed its voice, and cried like a duiker caught in the hunter’s net. It chattered like the grey parrot in flight and whistled like the honey chameleon. it was all the voices and sounds of the forest. Another man replaced Sepoo at the tube, and then another.

There were voices of men and ghosts and other creatures that all men had heard of but none had ever seen.

Then suddenly the Molimo screamed like an elephant. It was a terrible angry sound and the men of the Bambuti swarmed forward, clustering around the Molimo in a struggling heaving horde. The simple bamboo tube disappeared in their midst, but still it squealed and roared, cooed and whistled and cackled with a hundred different voices.

Now a strange and magical thing took place. As Daniel watched, the struggling knot of men changed. They were no longer individuals, for they were pressed too closely together. In the same way that a shoal of fish or a flock of birds is one beast, so the men of the Bambuti blended into an entity. They became one creature. They became the Molimo. They became the godhead of the forest.

The Molimo was angry. It roared and squealed with the voice of the buffalo and the giant forest hog. It raged through the forest on a hundred legs that were no longer human. It revolved on its axis like a jellyfish in the current. It pulsed and changed shape, and dashed one way and then the other, flattening the undergrowth in its fury.

It crossed the river, kicking up a white foam of spray, and then slowly but with awakening purpose began to move towards the gathering place of the tribe below the waterfall at Gondola.

The women heard the Molimo coming from a long way off. They left the cooking-fires and seized the children and ran to their huts, dragging the little ones with them. Wailing with terror, they closed the doors of the huts and crouched in the darkness with the children clutched to their breasts.

The Molimo rampaged through the forest, its terrible voice rising and falling, crashing through the undergrowth, charging one way and then the other, until at last it broke into the encampment. It trampled the cooking-fires and the children screamed as some of the flimsy huts were knocked askew by its ungoverned anger.

The great beast raged back and forth through the camp, seeming to quest for the source of its outrage. Suddenly it revolved and moved purposefully towards the far corner of the camp where Pirri had built his hut.

Pirri’s wives heard it coming and they burst from the hut and fled into the jungle, but Pirri did not run. He had not gone to the silk-cotton tree with the other men to fetch the Molimo down from its home. Now he crouched in his hut, with. his hands over his head and waited. He knew there was no escape in flight, he had to wait for the retribution of the forest god.

The Molimo circled Pirri’s hut like one of the giant forest millipedes, its feet stamping and kicking up the earth, screaming like a bull elephant in the agony of a ruptured bladder. Then abruptly it charged at the hut in which Pirri was hiding. It flattened the hut, and trampled all Pirri’s possessions. It stamped his tobacco to dust. It shattered his bottles of gin and the pungent liquor soaked into the earth. It kicked the gold wristwatch into the fire and scattered all his treasures. Pirri made no attempt to fly its wrath or to protect himself.

The Molimo trampled him; squealing with rage it kicked and pommelled him. It crushed his nose and broke his teeth; it cracked his ribs and bruised his limbs.

Then suddenly, it left him and rushed back into the forest from whence it had come. Its voice had changed, the rage was gone out of it. It wailed and lamented as though it mourned the death and the poisoning of the forest and the sins of the tribe that had brought disaster upon them all.

Slowly it retreated and its voice became fainter, until at last it faded into the distance.

Pirri picked himself up slowly. He made no effort to gather up his scattered treasures. He took only his bow and his quiver of arrows. He left his elephant spear and his machete. He limped away into the forest. He went alone. His wives did not go with him, for they were widows now.

They would find new husbands in the tribe. Pirri was dead. The Molimo had killed him. No man would ever see him again. Even when they met his ghost wandering amongst the tall trees, no man or woman would acknowledge it.

Pirri was dead to his tribe for ever.

Chapter 38

“Will you help us, Daniel?” Victor Omeru asked.

“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “I will help you. I will take the tapes to London. I will arrange to have them shown on public television in London and Paris and New York.”

“What else will you do to help us?” Victor asked.

“What else do you want of me?” Daniel countered. “What else is there I can do?”

“You are a soldier, and a good one, from what I have heard. Will you join us in our fight to regain our freedom?”

“I was a soldier, long ago,” Daniel corrected him, “in a cruel unjust war. I learned to hate war in a way that no one can until they have experienced it.”

“Daniel, I am asking you to take part in a just war. This time I am asking you to make a stand against tyranny.”

“I am no longer a soldier. I am a journalist, Victor. It is not my war.”

“You are a soldier still,” Victor contradicted him. “And it is your war. It is the war of any decent man.”

Daniel did not reply immediately. He glanced sideways at Kelly, on the point of asking for her support. Then he saw her expression. There was no comfort for him there. He looked back at Victor, and the old man leaned closer to him.

“We Uhali are a peaceful people. For that reason we, alone, do not have the skill necessary to overthrow the tyrant. We need weapons. We need people to teach us how to use them. Help me, please, Daniel. I will find all the young brave men you need, if only you will promise to train and command them.”

“I don’t want –” Daniel began, but Victor forestalled him.

“Don’t refuse me outright. Don’t say anything more tonight. Sleep on it. Give me your answer in the morning. Think about it, Daniel. Dream of the men and women you saw in the camps. Dream of the people you saw killed or deported at Fish Eagle Bay, and the mass grave in the forest. Give me your answer in the morning.

Victor Omeru stood up. He paused beside Daniel’s chair and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Good night, Daniel,” he said, and went down the steps and crossed in the moonlight to his own small bungalow beyond the gardens.

“What are you going to do?” Kelly asked softly.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Daniel stood up. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. But right now, I’ll do what Victor suggested, I’m going to bed.”

“Yes.” Kelly stood up beside him.

“Good night,” he said.

She was standing very close to him, her face tilted up towards him. He kissed her. The kiss held for a long time.

She drew back only a few inches from his mouth and said, “Come.” And led him down the verandah to her bedroom.

It was still dark when he woke the next morning under the mosquito net with her. Her arm was thrown over his chest. Her breath was warm on his neck. He felt her come softly awake.

“I’m going to do what Victor wants,” he said.

She stopped breathing for a few moments then she said, “It wasn’t meant as a bribe.”

“I know,” he said.

“What happened between us last night is a thing apart,” she said. “I wanted it to happen from the first day I met you, no, from before that. From the first time I saw your images on the screen, I was half in love with you.”

“I’ve also been waiting for you a long time, Kelly. I knew you were out there somewhere. At last I’ve found you.”

“I hate to lose you so soon,” she said, and kissed him. “Please come back to me.”

Chapter 39

Daniel left Gondola two days later. Sepoo and four Bambuti porters accompanied him. He paused at the edge of the forest and looked back. Kelly was on the verandah of the bungalow. She waved. She looked very young and girlish, and he felt his heart squeezed. He did not want to go, not yet, not so soon after he had found her.

He waved and forced himself to turn from her.

As they climbed the lower slopes of the mountain the forest gave way to bamboo, which was so dense that in places they were forced to their hands and knees to crawl through the tunnels which the giant hog had burrowed. The bamboo was solid overhead.

They climbed higher and came out at last on to the bleak heath slopes of the high mountains, twelve thousand feet above sea level, where the giant groundsel. stood like battalions of armoured warriors, their heads spiked with red flowers.

The Bambuti huddled in the blankets that Kelly had provided, but they were miserable and sickening, totally out of their element. Before they reached the highest pass, Daniel sent them back.

Sepoo wanted to argue. “Kuokoa, you will lose your way on the mountains without Sepoo to guide you and Kara-Ki will be angry. You have never seen her truly angry. It is not a sight for any but the brave.”

“Look up there.” Daniel pointed ahead to where the peaks showed through the cloud. “There is cold up there that no Bambuti has ever experienced. That shining white is ice and snow so cold that it will burn you like fire.”

So Daniel went on alone, carrying the precious tapes inside his jacket close to his skin, and he crossed below the moraine of the Ruwatamagufa glacier and came down into Zaire two days after leaving Sepoo. He had frostbite on three of his fingers and one of his toes.

The-Zairean district commissioner at Mutsora was accustomed to refugees coming across the mountains, but seldom with white faces and British passports and fifty-dollar bills to dispense. He did not turn this one back.

Two days later, Daniel was on the steamer going down the Zaire River and ten days after that he landed at Heathrow. The tapes were still in his pocket.

From his Chelsea flat Daniel telephoned Michael Hargreave at the embassy in Kahali. “Good Lord, Danny. We were told that you and Bonny Mahon disappeared in the forest near Sengi-Sengi. The army has had patrols out searching for you.”

“How secure is this line, Mike?”

“I wouldn’t stake my reputation on it.”

“Then I’ll give you the full story when next we meet. In the meantime will you send me that packet I gave you for safekeeping? Get it to me in the next diplomatic bag?”

“Hold on, Danny. I gave the package to Bonny Mahon. She told me that she was collecting it on your behalf.” Daniel was silent for a beat as he worked it out.

“The little idiot. She played right into their hands. Well, that settles it. She’s dead, Mike, as sure as fate. She handed over the package and they killed her. They thought I was dead, so they killed her. Nice and neat.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Michael demanded.

“Not now, Mike. I can’t tell you now.”

“Sorry about the package, Danny. She was very convincing. But I shouldn’t have fallen for it. Must be getting senile.”

“No great harm done. I have some stronger medicine to replace it.”

“When will I see you?”

“Soon, I hope. I’ll let you know.”

Despite the short notice, the studio gave him a cutting-room to work in.

He worked without a break, it helped to allay his sadness and guilt at what had happened to Bonny Mahon. He felt responsible. The final cut of the videotape did not have to be perfect, and it was not necessary to dub the Swahili dialogue into English. He had a copy ready to show within forty-eight hours.

It was impossible to get through to Tug Harrison. All Daniel’s calls were intercepted on the BOSS switchboard and were not returned. Of course, the number of the Holland Park address was not listed, and he could not remember the number that he had telephoned from Nairobi to check on Bonny Mahon. So he staked out the house, leaning against a car with a newspaper as though he were waiting for someone, and watching the front of the building.

He was fortunate. Tug’s Rolls-Royce pulled up at the front door that same day a little after noon, and Daniel intercepted him as he climbed the front steps.

“Armstrong, Danny!” Tug’s surprise was genuine. “I heard that you had disappeared in Ubomo.”

“Not true, Tug. Didn’t you get my messages? I telephoned your office half a dozen times.”

“They don’t pass them on to me. Too many freaks and funny bunnies in this world.”

“I must show you some of the material I have been able to shoot in Ubomo,” Daniel told him.

Tug hesitated and consulted his wristwatch dubiously.

“Don’t mess me around, Tug. This stuff could sink you. And BOSS.”

Tug’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Just a friendly piece of advice.”

“All right, come in,” Tug invited, and opened the front door.” Let’s have a look at what you have for me.”

Tug Harrison sat behind his desk and watched the tape run through from beginning to end without moving, without uttering a word. When the tape was finished and the screen filled with an electronic snowstorm, he pressed the remote control button, ran the tape back and then played it a second time, still without comment.