Drumbeats by Kevin J. Anderson, Neil Peart Page B

cans, to beautifully carved djembe drums with goat-skin drumheads—but he had never heard a tone so rich and sweet, with such an odd echoey quality as this strange African drum.
    In the studio, he had messed around with drum synthesizers and reverbs and the new technology designed to turn computer hackers into musicians. But this drum sounded different, solid and pure, and it hooked him through the heart, hypnotizing him. It distracted him entirely from the unpleasant appearance of its bearer.
    “What is that?” he asked.
    “ Sept-cent francs ,” the boy insisted in a nervous whisper, dropping his price to 700 and pushing the water closer.
    Danny walked in front of the staggering man, smiling broadly enough to show the grit between his teeth, and listened to the tapping drumbeat. The drummer turned his gaze to Danny and stared through him. The pupils of his eyes were like two gaping bullet wounds through his skull. Danny took a step backward, but found himself moving to the beat. The drummer faced him, finding his audience. Danny tried to place the rhythm, to burn it into his mind—something this mesmerizing simply had to be included in a new Blitzkrieg song.
    Danny looked at the cylindrical drum, trying to determine what might be causing its odd double-resonance—a thin inner membrane, perhaps? He saw nothing but elaborate carvings on the sweat polished wood, and a drumhead with a smooth, dark brown coloration. He knew the Africans used all kinds of skin for their drumheads, and he couldn’t begin to guess what this was.
    He mimed a question to the drummer, then asked, “ Est-ce-que je peux l’essayer ?” May I try it?
    The gaunt man said nothing, but held out the drum near enough for Danny to touch it without interrupting his obsessive rhythm. His overcoat flapped open, and the hot stench of decay made Danny stagger backward, but he held his ground, reaching for the drum.
    Danny ran his fingers over the smooth drumskin, then tapped with his fingers. The deep sound resonated with a beat of its own, like a heartbeat. It delighted him. “For sale? Est-ce-que c’est a vendre ?” He took out a thousand francs as a starting point, although if water alone cost 800 francs here, this drum was worth much, much more.
    The man snatched the drum away and clutched it to his chest, shaking his head vigorously. His drumming hand continued its unrelenting beat.
    Danny took out two thousand francs, then was disappointed to see not the slightest change of expression on the odd drummer’s face. “Okay, then, where was the drum made? Where can I get another one? Où est-ce qu’on peut trouver un autre comme ça ?” He put most of the money back into his pack, keeping 200 francs out. Danny stuffed the money into the fist of the drummer; the man’s hand seemed to be made of petrified wood. “ Où ?”
    The man scowled, then gestured behind him, toward the Mandara Mountains along Cameroon’s border with Nigeria. “ Kabas .”
    He turned and staggered away, still tapping on his drum as if to mark his footsteps. Danny watched him go, then returned to the kiosk, unfolding the map from his pack. “Where is this Kabas? Is it a place? C’est un village ?”
    “ Huit-cent francs ,” the boy said, offering the water again at his original 800 franc price.
    Danny bought the water, and the boy gave him directions.
    ***

    He spent the night in a Garouan hotel that made Motel 6 look like Caesar’s Palace. Anxious to be on his way to find his own new drum, Danny roused a local vendor and cajoled him into preparing a quick omelet for breakfast. He took a sip from his 800-franc bottle of water, saving the rest for the long bike ride, then pedaled off into the stirring sounds of early morning.
    As Danny left Garoua on the main road, heading toward the mountains, savanna and thorn trees stretched away under a crystal sky. A pair of doves bathed in the dust of the road ahead, but as he rode toward them, they flew up into the last of the