not my place to castigate him and he would not understand my remarks. He would see only my anger and would not have the means to fathom its cause.
Narcisse is squatting on his heels, clothed once more, watching his game roasting in the fire that he has dug near the river and covered with flat stones. Seeing that Narcisse has rejected his cooking for this evening, Bill is aggrieved and plagues me with his prattle. He complains that he will have none of the meat from this beast he believes to be some sort of cat or polecat.
Our singular family has been reunited.
4
The day dragged on. The savages had lost interest in him. They’d attacked him and mutilated his ear, and now they were ignoring him.
He spent the morning in dejected vigil on the other side of the water hole – not that the stagnant pond would provide any means of defence, but at least he’d be able to see them coming. At this distance, he felt less ashamed of his nakedness. Sitting on the muddy red earth he ran his left hand mechanically from his temple to the back of his neck in an unthinking gesture that calmed the stabbing pains from the wound. At least the bleeding had stopped, thanks to the old woman’s ointment.
He started to feel hungry again, and headed back over to the burnt-out embers of the fire. Walking still with his right hand shielding his groin, his left on the injured ear, he eyed the few remaining bones where ants were feasting on the tiny scraps of meat still clinging to the bone. A pregnant young woman was lying under a nearby tree, weaving a length of vine into a kind of strap, humming quietly to herself. She paid him no attention as he picked up the bones.
His meagre feast over, he looked around. A group of about ten women and children had gathered and were starting to walk through the trees, in the same general direction the old woman had taken when she’d gone off with his clothes and his knife. Hoping to get a chance to retrieve his possessions, and having nothing better to do, he decided to follow at a distance. No one spoke to him. The group moved forward slowly, the pace set by the youngest of the children. Walking along in silence gave him a chance to reflect, to build up his hopes, even though he knew it was futile: perhaps they were making their way to a real village with a sizeable population and solid cob houses, or even just mud huts. They’d make him feel welcome, their chief would look after him. A village with a native who could speak a few words of English and could lead him to an outpost of the white man’s world: an isolated farm, a landing stage, a mission perhaps.
But there was no village. And no sign of his clothes.
An hour later, the women stopped by a fallen tree that must have been dead for some time. Using small stones picked up off the ground, they scraped away the bark of the rotting tree and cut through to the sapwood to reveal a network of winding tunnels, each with a yellowish larva squirming deep within. With great delicacy, they poked a twig into each tunnel to pull out the grub. The children waited patiently for their turn, gulping down the fruits of this harvest with obvious delight.
Narcisse kept his distance from the group, not wanting to draw attention to himself. No one offered him any of the grubs and he was spared the need to refuse. Feeling discouraged and with no plan in mind, he lay down on the sparse grass, his ear still hurting, and watched them enjoy their snack. Here in this part of the forest, he could feel a hint of humidity in the air, and it seemed less alien to him.
Why had he imagined there would be a village? Why did the absence of such a village cause him so much distress? Why did he grasp at the smallest of threads, let hope rise up in him again like the tide, ebbing and flowing, like a wave breaking on a rock, pulling back, swelling again, only to crash as before?
He needed to take stock, to think and decide. If he carried on like this, tossed around by events and by the
Narcisse is squatting on his heels, clothed once more, watching his game roasting in the fire that he has dug near the river and covered with flat stones. Seeing that Narcisse has rejected his cooking for this evening, Bill is aggrieved and plagues me with his prattle. He complains that he will have none of the meat from this beast he believes to be some sort of cat or polecat.
Our singular family has been reunited.
4
The day dragged on. The savages had lost interest in him. They’d attacked him and mutilated his ear, and now they were ignoring him.
He spent the morning in dejected vigil on the other side of the water hole – not that the stagnant pond would provide any means of defence, but at least he’d be able to see them coming. At this distance, he felt less ashamed of his nakedness. Sitting on the muddy red earth he ran his left hand mechanically from his temple to the back of his neck in an unthinking gesture that calmed the stabbing pains from the wound. At least the bleeding had stopped, thanks to the old woman’s ointment.
He started to feel hungry again, and headed back over to the burnt-out embers of the fire. Walking still with his right hand shielding his groin, his left on the injured ear, he eyed the few remaining bones where ants were feasting on the tiny scraps of meat still clinging to the bone. A pregnant young woman was lying under a nearby tree, weaving a length of vine into a kind of strap, humming quietly to herself. She paid him no attention as he picked up the bones.
His meagre feast over, he looked around. A group of about ten women and children had gathered and were starting to walk through the trees, in the same general direction the old woman had taken when she’d gone off with his clothes and his knife. Hoping to get a chance to retrieve his possessions, and having nothing better to do, he decided to follow at a distance. No one spoke to him. The group moved forward slowly, the pace set by the youngest of the children. Walking along in silence gave him a chance to reflect, to build up his hopes, even though he knew it was futile: perhaps they were making their way to a real village with a sizeable population and solid cob houses, or even just mud huts. They’d make him feel welcome, their chief would look after him. A village with a native who could speak a few words of English and could lead him to an outpost of the white man’s world: an isolated farm, a landing stage, a mission perhaps.
But there was no village. And no sign of his clothes.
An hour later, the women stopped by a fallen tree that must have been dead for some time. Using small stones picked up off the ground, they scraped away the bark of the rotting tree and cut through to the sapwood to reveal a network of winding tunnels, each with a yellowish larva squirming deep within. With great delicacy, they poked a twig into each tunnel to pull out the grub. The children waited patiently for their turn, gulping down the fruits of this harvest with obvious delight.
Narcisse kept his distance from the group, not wanting to draw attention to himself. No one offered him any of the grubs and he was spared the need to refuse. Feeling discouraged and with no plan in mind, he lay down on the sparse grass, his ear still hurting, and watched them enjoy their snack. Here in this part of the forest, he could feel a hint of humidity in the air, and it seemed less alien to him.
Why had he imagined there would be a village? Why did the absence of such a village cause him so much distress? Why did he grasp at the smallest of threads, let hope rise up in him again like the tide, ebbing and flowing, like a wave breaking on a rock, pulling back, swelling again, only to crash as before?
He needed to take stock, to think and decide. If he carried on like this, tossed around by events and by the
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