The Traiteur's Ring (2 page)

“Nah, but I’ll tell ya.” Ben leaned forward and spit into the dirt beside his wooden chair. “You bitch more than any Frog I know, dude.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’m just more observant about the world’s injustices,” Reed grinned back.

“Maybe you’re just a whiner-baby,” Ben said.

Reed laughed. “Yeah, maybe. Or I’ve just been doin’ it too long.”

Ben stood and stretched his back. “You don’t know how to do nothing else, man.”

“True,” Reed conceded.

They both turned as Chris approached with Auger’s tall dark frame shadowing him from behind. “Hey, guys,” he said.

“Hey, bro,” Ben answered for both of them.

The lieutenant held out his hand, and Reed fumbled for his can of tobacco and tossed it to him. “Thought you quit, man,” he said as their officer caught it one-handed.

“Nah,” Chris answered with a grin as he took a generous pinch and put it behind his lip. “Just quit buying it,” he said with a smile and tossed the can back.

“Perfect,” Reed said.

“Talked to the Head Shed,” Chris said, referring to the command element of the task force which made the operational decisions for the team. Ben watched his officer stretch out in the dirt, leaning back against the side of the homemade chair. “We’re a go to take a ‘terp to that little village and see what we can find out.”

“Cool,” Reed said. “Then, what?”

“Our discretion with the usual standing order,” the officer answered.

“Kill or Capture – blah, blah, blah,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Chris answered. “Intel guys think there are some big players in this ragged little band of assholes we been hunting,” he bent forward and spit. “Get some of these dudes and close up their little shop here, and we can head back uptown for a few days.”

“Nice,” Reed said. “Get to somewhere with a chow hall and an exchange so I can restock the shit you quit buying.”

Chris got up and laughed. “Next sleeve is on me,” he said and clapped Reed on the back. “Rest up tonight. If we get good intel from the village, we may just keep on and hit the bad guys tomorrow night.”

“Sooner the better, L.T.,” Auger said, a big confident smile spreading across his dark chiseled face. “Reed, give me a dip.”

“God damn it,” Reed grumbled and fished the can from his cammies again. “You guys living clean is costing me a fortune.”

Ben watched the two bicker like old women and tried to shake a strange and foreboding feeling. He knew better than to ignore it, his Grandma taught him that the hard way, but no sense dwelling on a bad feeling he couldn’t define. He reached for his own rifle and the bottle of Hoppes cleaner.

Better to just be ready.

*   *   *

Ben followed behind Chris and felt his finger tap the trigger guard of his rifle. The ‘terp walked ahead of Chris, and Reed followed a few yards back. The other two SEALs had melted into the jungle around the small village just in case it turned less friendly than it looked. Lash would be watching closely through his sniper rifle’s high-power sight, Ben knew. Everything happened as they had briefed early that morning after the Head Shed had approved their plan.

The interpreter who shuffled ahead of Chris was local and had worked with them before, yet even he seemed to know very little about the primitive community. The villagers had been here for centuries, he had told them, and kept completely to themselves.  He said the village had a powerful Ashe – a spiritual power controlled by their leader, a very old and very wise man. The ‘terp seemed a little frightened which had made Ben feel strange. He felt strange again now, like something alive shifted around inside him, and struggled with a weird sense – not of déjà vu – but more of premonition. He shifted his heavy gear on his shoulders and felt the tug of something. Something strong.

Gammy had an old Indian word for this feeling.

He tried to remember the word but couldn’t come up with it. His eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the village for signs of danger. His gaze met only the silent curious stares of the villagers who stopped what they were doing to watch the strange men who walked into their lives. Even that seemed odd or maybe a little surrealistic. He realized what bothered him about the dark faces of the people around them was the lack of surprise.

Like they knew we were coming.

Unlike the other locals he had met here, who wore strange combinations of ragged western clothes mixed with homemade sandals or bare feet; these people were right out of an old movie or a National Geographic magazine. They dressed scantily in handmade grey cloth which contrasted with their elaborate and brightly colored necklaces and head gear. The men had simple bands of grey cloth around their biceps and most held long staffs. For the most part, the women squatted on the ground, their chins resting on their knees as they watched them pass.

“These people give me the fucking creeps,” Reed mumbled from behind him. Ben didn’t answer. He actually felt a paradoxical calm settle over him and relaxed his grip on his M-4. He felt something strange, no doubt, but it wasn’t danger he sensed.

Not now. Not yet.

It comes later.

The second voice, still his own, made him shudder, and for a second the feeling of premonition nearly choked him.

“Whadya think, Ben?” Chris asked without turning around.

“Dunno,” Ben answered and shook off the superstitious feelings. “I think they’re not surprised to see us.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed and looked around.

“Dey be surprised by nuddin” the interpreter said softly. “Dey leader see ever ‘tin. Dey know we comin’ afore we know.”

“Maybe he should come work with us. We could use that kind of help,” Reed chuckled from behind him.

“You sure could,” Ben agreed. “You usually don’t know what we did even after we did it.”

They both laughed.

The interpreter stopped at a small, but powerfully built, man who stood with one hand on his hip and the other on a heavily laden long pole which stretched back over his shoulder. The ‘terp said a few things in what sounded like a different gibberish from what they usually talked, and the half-naked man pointed and made a sound like “Gah.”

“Da leader be dis way,” the ‘terp said, leading them on through the village.

Ben tried to penetrate the wall of jungle encircling the village with his eyes, hoping to see Auger or Lash. But his SEAL buddies were easily concealed by the dense brush. The tingly feelings he remembered from growing up with his Traiteur Grandma in the bayou west of New Orleans had left him, and he tried to concentrate on the job. 

“Creepy shit, man,” Reed said as he sped up beside him.

Ben just nodded at his best friend and tried to grin.

The old man squatted in front of a flat basket, woven from long strips of what looked like thin branches. Three clumps of different colored pastes were pushed to the sides, and in the middle of the basket the man stirred together varying amounts of the three into what became an orange oatmeal-looking clump. Ben knew immediately this was the village elder and that he healed, as well as led.

He had stirrings of home, of late nights peering down from his loft bedroom while his Gammy spoke in a strange tongue to the old man who came at night. The two would laugh and argue in the hybrid language of French, Native American, and English while mixing their own Traiteur potions. This seemed a lot like that, and he felt for a moment like the mesmerized child he had been then.

The ‘terp spoke to the man, who looked up and replied in a similar clipped gibberish. One word jumped out as familiar, and Ben felt the childhood pull again. The ‘terp turned to Chris.

“He welcome you here and say he knows you coming. He say you good men and dat you like da gagrow dat kill da evil tings around da living jungle, so you be friends to dem.”

Ben smiled when he saw the lieutenant put his cupped right hand over his heart – a habit from Iraq.

“Tell him we are his friends, and we wish to help his people. We have medicine to share and would like his help to find the evil men who lurk in his jungle and wish harm to good people. We hope he can help us find them.”

“What mean lurk?” the interpreter asked.

“Live – just say live,” Chris said with a little impatience.

The ‘terp and the old man spoke again.

“He wanna know’d if you find da road he send to you two days ago. Da one he help you find wit da heart message.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Ben noticed that his leader’s mouth had fallen open.

“What the hell does that mean, he sent it to me? What the fuck is a heart message?”

The ‘terp shrugged, and Chris shifted uncomfortably.

“Tell him we found a road two days ago, yes. Tell him evil men use that road. We want to know if those bad men, men with guns, have come to his village.”

The old man nodded and shifted back on his heels before the interpreter began to speak. Then, he listened and answered before he had finished.

“He say de evil come here, and he know dey man dat kill man. He say dey bad for living jungle also. Dey promise bad tings to village if he talk to you, but he not afraid.”

“Does he know where they are? When were they last here?”

While the interpreter spoke, Ben felt the old man’s eyes on him and looked up. The wrinkled and leathery face split into a wide grin over brown teeth.

I am glad it is you as the Living Jungle told me. You have great Ashe which you will need. The bad time cannot be stopped, but you can help us in ways your Grandmother understood.

A chill ran up Ben’s spine and gripped around his throat. The voice in his head had been clear and not his own. He flashed briefly to another night in the bayou – a terrible night best forgotten. The old man’s eyes left his, and he turned to the interpreter to answer. When he did, the cold that ran through Ben’s chest evaporated slowly.

Get a grip, bro. Jesus. This creepy place is making your mind do somersaults. That was not real, and there are some memories best left buried.

The interpreter was speaking again.

“He say evil men be here yesterday and leave da same hour. He say da road go to dem, and it take two or tree hours for a hunting man to go to it. Or maybe four hours for a ole man like he be.”

The old man nodded and laughed and winked at Ben who smiled uncomfortably.

Chris was all business.

“Tell him he should tell no one he told us this. Tell him we will make the evil leave his jungle, we promise. Then, tell him we have medicines with us and that Ben is our doctor who can help him take care of anyone in the village who may be sick.”

The old man laughed aloud, again before the ‘terp even got started. Then, he smiled and answered back.

“He say you to go in peace, and he believe you good men. He say you doctor more power than he know, but you medicine very weak, and he no need it. Then, he say you take his medicine dat he make for you friend who hide in da jungle. He say it make him ass feel better.”

The old man scraped the paste into a flat leaf, rolled it up like a little green envelope, and handed it to Ben. He took it and felt himself bow a little and nodded.

“Tell him thank you,” Ben said and slipped the leaf pouch of medicine into his cargo pants pocket. The old man spoke again. Another word jumped out at Ben, and he grabbed the interpreter’s arm.

“What was that word? Something‘wata’. What does that mean?”

The interpreter nodded to the old man and, then, turned to Ben.

“Mami Wata be da water serpent. She give medicine men dey healing power. He say water serpent strong in you and dat you soon find you be having many udder power also.”

Ben heard the words from far away. His eyes locked on the old man whose own eyes danced with youth and power from the frame of old and tired skin. The old man still nodded so Ben nodded back.

“He say you go now and take you friend from da jungle wall wit you. He say you stop evil men today.”

Ben and Chris nodded to the old man while Reed continued the nervous visual sweep of the village as he had throughout the conversation with the old man. Then, they all turned and left and the old man hugged his knees and watched them go.

I
will see you when the loud and ugly time comes for my people. I will see you at the end time, Ben. Then, you will learn so much. I am glad the Living Jungle sent you.

Ben shook the voice out of his head and followed Chris and Reed back into the jungle. He turned for a moment and swept his gaze over the quiet and peaceful village. He felt certain something bad was coming here – something big and powerful.

He hoped they could stop it.

They were SEALs, after all.

*   *   *

The jungle became dark very quickly. Ben was accustomed to the speed with which the sun set in the Iraqi desert, but nothing matched the suddenness with which the dense jungle swallowed up the last ray of light with the dusk. He sat back against a thick and gnarled tree, his knees pulled up, and scooped what the folks the DoD contracted to package their MRE’s had ludicrously named “Jambalaya.” He usually avoided that particular “Meal-Ready-to-Eat,” just on principle, but as the choice tonight was that or “Captain’s Country Chicken” – which tasted like total ass – he shoveled the bland rice into his mouth with the green plastic fork that came with it. The packet of powdered Gatorade went into his pocket for later, and he sipped plain water instead.

Ben looked around at the darkening jungle and reflexively confirmed his night vision goggles (NVG’s) were hanging from the left side of his kit. Then, he finished his packaged meal and set about taking inventory of his kit for ammo and other supplies. They would move out in a few hours, once the Al Qaeda camp settled in from their own evening meal. He and Lash had scouted ahead earlier, creeping up slowly on the camp to confirm the place and distance, scout good fields of fire and retreat, and establish a potential rally point. Most importantly, they had come up with a rough tally of opposing forces. They had counted perhaps fifteen or sixteen men and boys, ranging from hardened and well-armed soldiers to young teen-agers who looked too frail to even hoist up their weapons. There were at least ten serious fighters he guessed. Then, they had pulled back, briefed their friends, and settled in to wait.