Forest of the Pygmies (23 page)

Angie Ninderera was waiting in a place of honor beneath the tree, looking impressive in her new tunic and gold ornaments. She did not seem in the least worried, despite the many things that could go wrong that evening. When Kate had outlined her fears earlier that morning, Angie had replied that the man who could frighten her had yet to be born, and she added that Kosongo would soon see who she was.

“It won't be long until the king offers me all his gold just to get me out of here.” She laughed.

“Unless he throws you into the pond with the crocodiles,” muttered Kate, who was highly nervous.

When the hunters arrived in the village carrying their nets and spears, but without elephant tusks, the inhabitants realized that the tragedy had been set in motion and nothing could stop it. A long, collective sigh traveled around the square. In a way people felt relieved; anything was better than suffering the horrible tension of that day any longer. The Bantu guards, confused, surrounded the Pygmies, awaiting instructions from their chief, but the commandant was nowhere to be found.

A half hour dragged by, during which anxiety increased to an unbearable level. The containers of liquor circulated among the young guards, whose eyes by now were bloodshot, and who had become talkative and disorderly. One of the Leopard Brotherhood barked a command at them, and they immediately put down the palm wine and stood at attention, but that did not last long.

A martial drum roll finally announced the arrival of the king. The march was led by The Royal Mouth, accompanied by a guard carrying a basket of heavy gold jewelry as a gift for the bride. Kosongo could afford to appear generous in public because as soon as Angie became part of his harem, the so-called gifts would be returned to him. Next came the wives; they, too, covered in gold. The old man who supervised them trailed along behind, face swollen and with only four loose teeth in his head. A notable change was evident in the attitude of the women, who were acting more like a herd of frisky zebras than sheep. Angie waved, and they answered with broad smiles of complicity.

Behind the harem came the throne-bearers carrying the platform on which Kosongo was seated in his French armchair throne. He was wearing the same garb they had seen before, including the impressive hat with the beaded curtain that covered his face. His mantle appeared to be scorched in several places, but wearable. The Pygmies' amulet was missing from Kosongo's staff, and in its place was a similar bone that from a distance could pass as Ipemba-Afua. It did not befit a king to admit that a sacred object had been stolen from him. Beyond that, he was confident that he didn't need the amulet to control the Pygmies, whom he considered to be as low as the beasts of the jungle.

The royal procession came to a halt in the middle of the square, so everyone would have a chance to admire the sovereign. Before the porters carried the platform to its place beneath the Tree of Words, The Royal Mouth asked the Pygmies to present the ivory. The hunters stepped forward, and the entire village could see that one of them was carrying the sacred amulet, Ipemba-Afua.

Beyé-Dokou made his announcement in a steady voice: “The elephants are gone. We cannot bring more tusks. Now we want our women and our children. We are going back to the forest.”

That brief speech was met with sepulchral silence. The possibility that the slaves might rebel had never occurred to anyone. The first instinct of the soldiers of the Leopard Brotherhood was to shoot the entire crew of hunters, but Mbembelé wasn't there to give the order, and the king still had not reacted. The population was caught off guard because Nzé's mother hadn't told them anything about the Pygmies. For years the Bantus had benefited from the slaves' labors and it was definitely not to their advantage to lose them, but they understood that the equilibrium of the past had been broken. For the first time, they felt respect for these little people—the poorest, most defenseless, and vulnerable in the forest—for showing unbelievable courage.

Kosongo waved over his spokesman and whispered something into his ear. The Royal Mouth passed on the order to bring in the children. Six guards went to one of the corrals and shortly afterward reappeared leading a wretched little group: two elderly women dressed in raffia skirts, each with babies in her arms, surrounded by children of various ages, tiny and terrorized. When they saw their parents, some gave an indication of running to them, but they were stopped by the guards.

“The king must do business; it is his duty,” announced The Royal Mouth. “You know what happens if you do not bring ivory.”

Kate Cold could not bear the anguish any longer, and although she had promised Alexander that she wouldn't intervene, she ran to the middle of the square and stopped right in front of the royal platform, which was still on the shoulders of the bearers. Forgetting everything about protocol, which demanded that she prostrate herself, she started yelling insults at Kosongo, reminding him that they were international journalists and that they would tell the world about the crimes against humanity that were taking place in this village. She wasn't allowed to finish as two soldiers armed with rifles lifted her off her feet. She kept shouting, feet kicking in the air, as they carried her off toward the site of the crocodiles.

The plan that Nadia and Alexander had sketched out with such care collapsed in a matter of minutes. They had assigned a responsibility to each member of the group, but Kate's untimely intervention sowed chaos among the friends. Fortunately the guards, indeed all those present, were confused.

The Pygmy designated to shoot the king with the ampoule of tranquilizer had hidden among the huts, but now he couldn't wait for his best shot. Hurried by circumstances, he put the blowgun to his mouth and blew, but the dart intended for Kosongo hit the chest of one of the bearers carrying the platform. The man felt something like a bee sting but he didn't have a free hand to brush away what he thought was an insect. For a few instants, nothing happened, then suddenly his knees buckled and he fell to the ground unconscious. The other bearers were not prepared, and the weight of the platform was too great for them to hold; it tilted and the French armchair slid toward the ground. Kosongo gave a yell, trying to keep his balance, and for a fraction of a second he was suspended in air. Then he crashed, tangled in his mantle, hat askew and bawling with rage.

Angie Ninderera decided that the time had come to improvise, since the original plan had gone awry. With four long strides she reached the fallen king; she swept aside the guards trying to hold her back and, voicing one of her loud Comanche yells, she grabbed the king's hat and jerked it off the royal head.

Angie's action was so unexpected, and so daring, that everyone was stopped in place, as if posed for a photograph. The ground didn't tremble when the king's feet touched it. His cries of rage had not left anyone deaf; birds hadn't dropped from the skies, nor had the jungle convulsed in its final death rattles. Looking upon Kosongo's face for the first time, no one was blinded . . . only dumbfounded. When the hat and the curtain fell aside, what everyone could see was the unmistakable head of Commandant Maurice Mbembelé.

“Kate said that you two looked too much alike!” Angie exclaimed.

By then the soldiers had reacted and rushed to surround the commandant, but no one dared touch him. Even the men who were dragging Kate to her death released the writer and ran to their chief, but they, too, were afraid to help him. Finally Mbembelé succeeded in untangling himself from his mantle and with one motion leaped to his feet. He was the image of fury: streaming sweat, eyes bulging out of his head, foaming at the mouth, roaring like an enraged beast. He lifted one gigantic fist with the intention of pounding Angie into the ground, but she was already out of reach.

Beyé-Dokou chose that moment to step forward. It took enormous bravery to defy the commandant in normal times. To do so now when he was so indignant was suicidal. The tiny hunter looked insignificant facing the enormous Mbembelé, who rose like a tower before him. Looking up, way up, the Pygmy challenged the giant to compete in one-on-one combat.

A hum of amazement ran through the crowd. No one could believe what they were seeing. People crowded closer, pressing behind the Pygmies, and the guards, as surprised as the rest of the population, could not hold them back.

Mbembelé hesitated, caught off guard, as the slave's words penetrated his brain. When finally he comprehended the outlandish daring that such a challenge implied, he erupted in thunderous laughter that spread out like waves for several minutes. The soldiers of the Brotherhood imitated him; they felt it was expected of them, but their laughter was forced. Events had become too grotesque, and they didn't know what to do. The hostility of the villagers was tangible, and they could sense that the Bantu guards were confused and near rebellion.

“Clear the square!” ordered Mbembelé.

The concept of
Ezenji
, or a hand-to-hand duel, was not new to anyone in Ngoubé; that was how prisoners were punished and, in the process, a diversion was created that the commandant found entertaining. The only difference in this case was that Mbembelé would not be judge and spectator; he would himself be a participant. Obviously fighting a Pygmy did not give him a moment's worry; he would crush him like a worm, but first he would make him suffer.

Brother Fernando, who had kept a certain distance all this time, now came to the front, cloaked in a new authority. The news of his companions' deaths had reinforced his faith and his courage. He didn't fear Mbembelé, because he harbored the conviction that sooner or later evil beings pay for their sins, and the commandant had amply filled his quota of crimes. The time had come to render accounts.

“I will act as referee. You may not use firearms. What weapons do you choose, spear, knife, or machete?” he asked.

“None of them. We will fight without weapons, hand to hand,” the commandant replied. His expression was truly ferocious.

Beyé-Dokou did not hesitate. “Fine,” he said.

Alexander knew that his friend believed he was protected by the fossil. He didn't know that it would serve only against cutting weapons and would not shield him from the commandant's superhuman strength. He would tear him apart with his bare hands. Alex led Brother Fernando aside to plead with him not to accept those conditions, but the missionary replied that God watched over the cause of the just.

“Beyé-Dokou won't have a chance! The commandant is much, much stronger!” Alexander exclaimed.

“As the bull is much stronger than the torero. The trick is to wear the beast down,” the missionary indicated.

Alexander opened his mouth to reply but instantly understood what Brother Fernando was trying to tell him. He shot off to prepare his friend for the tremendous test before him.

At the other end of the village, Nadia had pulled back the bolt and opened the large door to the pen where the Pygmy women were kept. A couple of the hunters who had not gone to the square with the others ran up, bringing spears they distributed among the women, who slipped like ghosts between the huts and took places around the square, hidden by the night shadows, ready to perform their part when called on. Nadia joined Alexander, who was instructing Beyé-Dokou while the soldiers laid out the ring in the usual place.

“You don't need to worry about the guns, Jaguar, just the pistol Mbembelé wears at his waist. That's the only one we couldn't get to,” said Nadia.

“What about the Bantu guards?”

“We don't know how they're going to react, but Kate had an idea,” she replied.

“Do you think I should tell Beyé-Dokou that the amulet won't protect him against Mbembelé?” he asked.

“Why?” she replied. “It will just rob him of his confidence.”

Alexander noticed that Nadia's voice sounded hoarse, not entirely human; it was almost like a caw. Her eyes were glassy, and she was very pale and breathing hard.

“What's the matter with you, Eagle?” he asked.

“Nothing. Be very careful, Jaguar. I have to go.”

“Where?”

“I'm going to look for help against the three-headed monster, Jaguar.”

“Remember Má-Bangesé's prophecy! We're supposed to stay together.”

Nadia gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and hurried off. In all the excitement going on in the village, no one except Alexander saw the white eagle that rose above the huts and flew out of sight in the direction of the forest.

At one corner of the square stood Commandant Mbembelé. He was barefoot and naked except for the broad leather belt that held his pistol and the shorts he wore beneath the royal mantle. He had rubbed his body with palm oil; his massive muscles looked as if they were sculpted from stone, and his skin gleamed like obsidian in the flickering light of the hundred torches. The ritual scars on his arms and cheeks accentuated his extraordinary appearance. His shaved head looked very small atop his bull neck. The classic features of his face would have been handsome had they not been disfigured by a bestial expression. Despite the loathing the man evoked, no one could help but admire his stupendous physique.