Read Online Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead by Steve Perry - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Perry
Ads: Link
company from walking in unexpectedly.
Indy took notice of that but said nothing.
Back at the large communal fire, people were eating roast beast and some kind of tuber, and both Mac and Indy took wooden platters and served themselves. The meat was good, juicy if a little tough, and seemed vaguely like pork. The tubers tasted like a cross between a yam and a carrot. There was some kind of spicy ale-like drink. Indy had eaten a lot worse. He recalled once drinking an alcoholic brew made by the women in a village in South America—one that was fermented by the women spitting into it. He’d eaten fried scorpion and beetle larvae, too.
Finicky archaeologists didn’t last long, but there were things even the stouthearted would avoid when they could.
Indy wandered around, cataloging the village with an anthropologist’s gaze. Definitely subdued. He didn’t see any small children, and every person he passed, man or woman, would glance at him, take heed of him, and then look away. Not much on foreigners, these folks.
He found himself standing outside one of the larger structures, and even though the big window was covered by a sheet of yellow cotton, he could see the glow of a lamp inside.
A woman moved in front of the window, backlit by the lamp. He couldn’t see details, only a silhouette on the shade, but he could tell by the motions that she was combing her hair, and that she didn’t seem to be wearing any clothes.
This would be the bathhouse, then. And in all likelihood, that would be Marie.
Despite the juicy meat he was still eating, Indy’s mouth seemed suddenly very dry. He turned away. He didn’t want to seem a peeping Tom. Not that he could see anything, not really—but there was nothing wrong with his imagination . . .
Easy, Indy. The woman is young enough to be your daughter. But, said a little voice inside his head, she’s not, is she?
And there is something she’s not telling you. Might be wise to keep your distance, hey?
Next to the ebbing campfire, Indy, Mac, Marie, and Batiste sat or squatted, drinking a bit more more of the local brew. Indy had washed—the bathhouse consisted of a planked bamboo floor and a couple of barrels of clean water. You soaped up, using some kind of local plant to make a lather, poured dippers of water over yourself until you were rinsed clean, then dried with several small towels, which were not much larger than washcloths. The water ran down you, through the slats, and onto a slightly angled floor that allowed it to drain into a small ditch. You blotted what remained and came away with the dirt and sweat cleaned off. It wasn’t a giant, claw-foot enamel tub at the Ritz, but it did the job.
Citronella candles burned, filling the night air with an acrid, lemony-smelling smoke that kept the bugs from swarming you while you stood there wet and naked. This was typical of tropical bathing houses, and looked much like those Indy had seen in Indonesia, where people would wash this way daily, sometimes more than once. There was a jar of lotion near the door, the bug stuff, he guessed, and he slathered on some of that. Didn’t smell too bad, and was less oily than 6-12.
At the fire again, Mac said, “So, you feel confident that you know our destination?”
Batiste shrugged. “Confident, monsieur? No, I cannot say that. There is a place, nearly as far from here as it can be on the island. Nobody goes there, and the story is that bad ju-ju awaits anybody who dares. My father told me this, his father told him, and his father told my grandfather.”
“Never curious?” Mac asked.
“My father had it that anybody who neared the place would go blind, his flesh would rot, his family jewels would fall off, and he would be damned to spend ten thousand years chewed on by ants. As a boy, I was not curious enough to test it.”
“Hmm,” Mac said. “I can understand your reluctance.”
Batiste said, “I am less afraid of such things now. I have some protection against
Indy took notice of that but said nothing.
Back at the large communal fire, people were eating roast beast and some kind of tuber, and both Mac and Indy took wooden platters and served themselves. The meat was good, juicy if a little tough, and seemed vaguely like pork. The tubers tasted like a cross between a yam and a carrot. There was some kind of spicy ale-like drink. Indy had eaten a lot worse. He recalled once drinking an alcoholic brew made by the women in a village in South America—one that was fermented by the women spitting into it. He’d eaten fried scorpion and beetle larvae, too.
Finicky archaeologists didn’t last long, but there were things even the stouthearted would avoid when they could.
Indy wandered around, cataloging the village with an anthropologist’s gaze. Definitely subdued. He didn’t see any small children, and every person he passed, man or woman, would glance at him, take heed of him, and then look away. Not much on foreigners, these folks.
He found himself standing outside one of the larger structures, and even though the big window was covered by a sheet of yellow cotton, he could see the glow of a lamp inside.
A woman moved in front of the window, backlit by the lamp. He couldn’t see details, only a silhouette on the shade, but he could tell by the motions that she was combing her hair, and that she didn’t seem to be wearing any clothes.
This would be the bathhouse, then. And in all likelihood, that would be Marie.
Despite the juicy meat he was still eating, Indy’s mouth seemed suddenly very dry. He turned away. He didn’t want to seem a peeping Tom. Not that he could see anything, not really—but there was nothing wrong with his imagination . . .
Easy, Indy. The woman is young enough to be your daughter. But, said a little voice inside his head, she’s not, is she?
And there is something she’s not telling you. Might be wise to keep your distance, hey?
Next to the ebbing campfire, Indy, Mac, Marie, and Batiste sat or squatted, drinking a bit more more of the local brew. Indy had washed—the bathhouse consisted of a planked bamboo floor and a couple of barrels of clean water. You soaped up, using some kind of local plant to make a lather, poured dippers of water over yourself until you were rinsed clean, then dried with several small towels, which were not much larger than washcloths. The water ran down you, through the slats, and onto a slightly angled floor that allowed it to drain into a small ditch. You blotted what remained and came away with the dirt and sweat cleaned off. It wasn’t a giant, claw-foot enamel tub at the Ritz, but it did the job.
Citronella candles burned, filling the night air with an acrid, lemony-smelling smoke that kept the bugs from swarming you while you stood there wet and naked. This was typical of tropical bathing houses, and looked much like those Indy had seen in Indonesia, where people would wash this way daily, sometimes more than once. There was a jar of lotion near the door, the bug stuff, he guessed, and he slathered on some of that. Didn’t smell too bad, and was less oily than 6-12.
At the fire again, Mac said, “So, you feel confident that you know our destination?”
Batiste shrugged. “Confident, monsieur? No, I cannot say that. There is a place, nearly as far from here as it can be on the island. Nobody goes there, and the story is that bad ju-ju awaits anybody who dares. My father told me this, his father told him, and his father told my grandfather.”
“Never curious?” Mac asked.
“My father had it that anybody who neared the place would go blind, his flesh would rot, his family jewels would fall off, and he would be damned to spend ten thousand years chewed on by ants. As a boy, I was not curious enough to test it.”
“Hmm,” Mac said. “I can understand your reluctance.”
Batiste said, “I am less afraid of such things now. I have some protection against
Similar Books
