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Authors: Tamar Myers
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chest, took Amanda’s soft hand in hers.
“ Eh, waddabunne .”
Amanda smiled at the woman, who smiled back. As with every Mushilele individual beyond the age of weaning, she was missing her two front teeth. This was a sign of tribal membership; one which “civilized” Bashilele often came to regret. Already Amanda had heard stories of young Bashilele men who, upon deciding to make their way in the city, had first fashioned for themselves false teeth out of wood. One truly innovative youth with a high tolerance for pain had managed to cut a pair of metal front teeth from the side of a tin can.
The old woman’s rough fingers felt like dahlia tubers, and she smelled strongly—perhaps of wood smoke, if one were to put it kindly, but Amanda thrilled at her touch. Here was the real Africa. This was what she had come to experience—not the judgmental pronouncements of the corpulent Mr. Gorman, or the relative luxuries of the Missionary Rest House. Only this could redeem her—yes, yes, she knew that only the blood of Jesus Christ could redeem her, but that’s not what she meant. Or was it? No one else she knew was guilty of taking eleven innocent lives; no one . And until they were—well, let them preach all they wanted then. Funny, but the Bashilele, they were sort of like her, weren’t they?
“Amanda? Are you all right?”
“What, Pierre?” If she sounded annoyed, that’s because she was. A little.
“You seem a bit—um, stunned.”
“Yes, it is somewhat of a culture shock.”
“ Oui , but it is a shock for them as well. A good one, I think. You have attracted quite a follow-group, yes?” As usual, his English was charmingly accented, if not quite perfect.
The young woman glanced over her shoulder and was taken aback by what she saw. “The word is follow ing , Pierre.”
At any rate, there were perhaps fifty children, women of various ages, old men and infirm, trailing behind her as if she were the pied piper. They’d even been joined by a couple of the beautiful indigenous dogs called basenjis that, like wolves, are incapable of barking, and which have short sleek coats and tails as tightly coiled as cinnamon buns. As for Cripple and the soldiers, they seemed to have dropped out of sight.
“Just think, Amanda, you are more popular even than elephant meat! How many women back in your American city can say that?”
She laughed, which for some reason prompted the old crone to laugh as well. “None, I guess,” Amanda said, “except for Lilibet Vass, who was the most popular girl in the entire high school.”
“No,” Pierre said, “I do not believe that.”
They rounded the end of a great coil of huts and found themselves facing the pair of trees with the smooth bark and dark ovoid leaves.
“The famous Trees of Life,” Pierre said. “Be careful not to touch them, so that you do not accidentally break any branches off.”
“Good idea. Pierre, look. It’s the girl!”
“ Mon dieu! She is a blanc —like you!”
Amanda couldn’t help but stare; it was the strangest sight she had ever seen.
Chapter Six
M astermind took a deep breath before proceeding. All would be well. It was all downhill from here. Still, if only there had been a sign—even just one—during those thirteen long years of silence. Well, never mind. What mattered now was the ending, and by the looks of things, that was surely under control. The trick to keeping it that way was to appear calm, unfazed by whatever happened next.
Ugly Eyes felt her knees go weak and she felt the urge to fall on the ground. The sight she beheld was a nightmare, yet she remained awake and could feel her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Everything she’d been told about the Bula Matadi was true—and even more so. They were hideous beyond belief—particularly the one she supposed was the female. Her skin was white like the underbelly of a frog, and her hair was not the color that hair should be, and it grew like long algae that clung to
“ Eh, waddabunne .”
Amanda smiled at the woman, who smiled back. As with every Mushilele individual beyond the age of weaning, she was missing her two front teeth. This was a sign of tribal membership; one which “civilized” Bashilele often came to regret. Already Amanda had heard stories of young Bashilele men who, upon deciding to make their way in the city, had first fashioned for themselves false teeth out of wood. One truly innovative youth with a high tolerance for pain had managed to cut a pair of metal front teeth from the side of a tin can.
The old woman’s rough fingers felt like dahlia tubers, and she smelled strongly—perhaps of wood smoke, if one were to put it kindly, but Amanda thrilled at her touch. Here was the real Africa. This was what she had come to experience—not the judgmental pronouncements of the corpulent Mr. Gorman, or the relative luxuries of the Missionary Rest House. Only this could redeem her—yes, yes, she knew that only the blood of Jesus Christ could redeem her, but that’s not what she meant. Or was it? No one else she knew was guilty of taking eleven innocent lives; no one . And until they were—well, let them preach all they wanted then. Funny, but the Bashilele, they were sort of like her, weren’t they?
“Amanda? Are you all right?”
“What, Pierre?” If she sounded annoyed, that’s because she was. A little.
“You seem a bit—um, stunned.”
“Yes, it is somewhat of a culture shock.”
“ Oui , but it is a shock for them as well. A good one, I think. You have attracted quite a follow-group, yes?” As usual, his English was charmingly accented, if not quite perfect.
The young woman glanced over her shoulder and was taken aback by what she saw. “The word is follow ing , Pierre.”
At any rate, there were perhaps fifty children, women of various ages, old men and infirm, trailing behind her as if she were the pied piper. They’d even been joined by a couple of the beautiful indigenous dogs called basenjis that, like wolves, are incapable of barking, and which have short sleek coats and tails as tightly coiled as cinnamon buns. As for Cripple and the soldiers, they seemed to have dropped out of sight.
“Just think, Amanda, you are more popular even than elephant meat! How many women back in your American city can say that?”
She laughed, which for some reason prompted the old crone to laugh as well. “None, I guess,” Amanda said, “except for Lilibet Vass, who was the most popular girl in the entire high school.”
“No,” Pierre said, “I do not believe that.”
They rounded the end of a great coil of huts and found themselves facing the pair of trees with the smooth bark and dark ovoid leaves.
“The famous Trees of Life,” Pierre said. “Be careful not to touch them, so that you do not accidentally break any branches off.”
“Good idea. Pierre, look. It’s the girl!”
“ Mon dieu! She is a blanc —like you!”
Amanda couldn’t help but stare; it was the strangest sight she had ever seen.
Chapter Six
M astermind took a deep breath before proceeding. All would be well. It was all downhill from here. Still, if only there had been a sign—even just one—during those thirteen long years of silence. Well, never mind. What mattered now was the ending, and by the looks of things, that was surely under control. The trick to keeping it that way was to appear calm, unfazed by whatever happened next.
Ugly Eyes felt her knees go weak and she felt the urge to fall on the ground. The sight she beheld was a nightmare, yet she remained awake and could feel her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Everything she’d been told about the Bula Matadi was true—and even more so. They were hideous beyond belief—particularly the one she supposed was the female. Her skin was white like the underbelly of a frog, and her hair was not the color that hair should be, and it grew like long algae that clung to
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