Luana

He considered, watching her. “The chances are very, very slight. Come on, you knew that before we left Nairobi.”

  She gave a little sigh. “I knew it in my mind, not in my heart. No, please don’t be snide. I know it sounds trite. What I’m trying to say is that I spent so many years building up the idea of finding the plane, you know, ‘the lost papers of John Hardi with their astounding revelations, unearthed at great peril in the deepest jungles of dark Africa!’ He was a great man, though.” Barrett said nothing, and she continued.

  “I saw myself accepting a posthumous Nobel prize for him, all sorts of awards and things. What I really wanted to do was partake of his greatness, his reputation, since it was obvious I’d never have any of my own. Bask in the glory of a dead man.”

  “I don’t buy that,” Barrett said softly. “You can’t convince me this is just an ego trip for you.”

  “Oh, I suppose there’s a certain amount of real love involved. I did love him . . . those few times I saw him. But I’ll never ever be sure it was him I loved, not the John Hardi everyone else raved about and praised. Maybe I’m trying to find more on this search than just papers. Sometimes I wish I were a psychiatrist, so I could analyze myself and get it all straightened out.”

  “It sounds to me like you’ve got it pretty straight right now, Izzy.” She looked up at him and smiled back.

  “Anyhow, the only Africa I’d ever seen was the Africa of travelogues and National Geographic television shows. This,” and she gestured at the close green walls, “wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You’ve grown up a little, anyway. That’s worth coming this far.”

  They sat quietly for a while, each talked out. Or maybe afraid of what they might say. Barrett found she’d edged closer to him.

  “I didn’t want anyone to overhear. For your sake, not mine. And I know now how important it is to keep the other’s confidence up. But tell me honestly now, George, if you think there’s so little chance of finding my father’s plane, why have you been so insistent about keeping on? There’ve been lots of times you could have ordered a turn back, and with good reasons. And you were almost killed here once, I now find out. Why? I can’t believe it’s for fifty thousand dollars. You’re not the type, you’re just not!”

  “I could quarrel with your evaluation and make it sound honest,” he answered, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. “But I don’t think it would fool you. You’re right, of course, there’s more to it than that.”

  He went on, between kisses, to explain his ideas about the lost treasure of the Monomotapan Empire.

  “Now,” she said, her voice coming a little lower and a little faster, “I’ll ask you one more time to be honest. Do you ever think you’ll find your treasure?”

  It was his turn to sigh and grin crookedly.

  “No, not really. But at the risk of sounding profound, every man’s got to have something, real or imaginary, to give direction to his life. Some guys find it in a bottle, the poor saps. Others in drugs. Or in money, or women, or fame—and I never really understood that one.

  “Me and a few others are lucky. We’ve got dreams, dreams that rest on just enough reality to give ’em spice. They’re harmless and uncorrupting and private, and it’s one thing they can’t take away from you.”

  “Then there’d be no joy for you in finding the treasure,” she said, lying back in the grass. “All your pleasure’s in the anticipation and the hunt.”

  “If I ever found it,” he replied, forming a shadow over her, “I’d be deliriously happy, insanely satisfied, and obscenely fulfilled. Screw the anticipation!”

  “You know,” she added gently, looking up at him and running delicate fingers along his cheek, “some men and women think they’ve got their reasons for living all planned out, carefully mapped, logically plotted, and then they find that none of it means anything. They’ve been living a lie and waiting for something worthwhile to jump out at them and say ‘here I am!’ ”

  “Do tell,” he whispered, bending low.

  Chapter VII

  High above, Luana squatted silently in the fork of a tree and watched without moving. The big cats were not with her. They’d made a kill earlier and had stuffed themselves thoroughly. Both slept soundly in secluded bushes. Chaugh said that he’d had enough of human-watching for a while. There was nothing new to be learned from these few.

  If he were here now, Luana mused, the panther might think differently.

  Ohoh was there, however. He sat quietly on the end of the branch, peering down.

  “What did they say?” the chimp whispered.

  “I’m not sure, Ohoh.” Luana shook her head, swallowed. “It’s difficult with only a few books to help. They spoke a great deal, yet much of it seems to mean nothing. So very much talk.”

  “Well,” put in the chimp with certainty, “they’ve stopped talking now. At least, I think they have.”

  Luana stared downward intently. “No, that’s not normal man-speech. At least, it’s not English man-speech, or French man-speech, or local man-speech. But there is another kind of man-speech I think I know. I’ve heard it before, Ohoh, and so have you. Several times, when we crept to the edges of the forest and studied the small man nests.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, I remember,” agreed Ohoh excitedly. “But these are not local men-things, and their speech is the same.”

  “It may be,” she continued, “that there is a certain speech common to all.”

  “That surely seems strange.” The chimp scratched his head. “They seem to be calling my name a lot.”

  Luana didn’t reply. It was near quiet for many long moments in the forest. Ohoh spoke finally, solemnly. “They’ve stopped.”

  “Yes,” Luana half whispered. “They’ve stopped.”

  Suddenly the chimp leaned forward, began chittering excitedly.

  “Oh there, there, look there!”

  “Yes, I see it, too.” She didn’t move. The chimp swung over and stared at her.

  “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Hmmm?” It was a dream of the wide-awake she had to wake herself from. “Yes. I suppose I’d best,” and her mouth formed a half sneer, half smile. “They’re certainly not going to.”

  She began to move quietly down through the tree.

  “So you see what I mean about . . .” began Isabel, and then she stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Oh!”

  “What’s the—” began Barrett. He turned and scrambled to his feet.

  “Damnit, Luana, what’s the big idea of sneaking up on us like that?” He hesitated, plunged ahead. “And how long have you been watching us?”

  “Interesting,” she said calmly, her gaze lowering. “Your skin is much paler there.”

  “Don’t try and change the subject,” continued Barrett, trying to be furious and outraged instead of hysterical. He told himself he was upset for Isabel’s sake.

  Why should he be upset for Isabel’s sake? She wasn’t. Still, he told himself grimly, this wild girl had to learn that there were certain proprieties that had to be observed. There was such a thing as common courtesy. And wasn’t he getting awfully philosophical about a thoroughly absurd situation?

  “Luana,” he said, looking at her in what he hoped was a brotherly manner, “to do what you were doing is not in itself a bad thing. But to do so on the sly, without asking permission, that is a very bad thing. Do you understand?”

  They stood staring at each other for a long moment. When she finally spoke it was without humor.

  “Yes, George Barrett, I understand.” Her hand moved like lightning to her belt. The knife was out and striking down before he could so much as lift a hand. Isabel screamed. The blade missed her shoulder by barely a dozen centimeters.

  It didn’t miss the snake at all.

  Luana walked casually past a gaping Barrett and over to Isabel. Putting her foot on the snake’s body just behind the pierced skull, she grabbed the handle of the knife and gave a sharp twist.
There was a tiny cracking sound. She pulled the knife out and wiped it clean on her flimsy bottom garment, watching Isabel.

  “I am sorry,” she said, looking down at the badly frightened girl, “to have bothered you.” She walked to the edge of the dense undergrowth and looked back at Barrett.

  “Next time I’ll ask permission. For anything.”

  “Luana, I’m sorry. We didn’t know. I thought—”

  “Save your breath, George,” Isabel advised him. She sat up straight and began slipping into her clothes. It was nearly pitch black now. “She’s gone.”

  Barrett knew she was, too, but he continued to yell hopeful apologies into the forest. The trees supplied no reply. Night sounds were all that answered, and tree frogs mocked him. Ignoring his own nakedness, he walked around Isabel and picked up the snake by its shattered neck.

  He looked it levelly in its dead eyes, and the tail still touched the ground. It was as long as he was, and the body as thick around as his arm. It was beautiful, full of azure and turquoise and baby blue diamonds with ivory borders. Everything about it was beautiful, except the ruined head.

  “It’s very pretty,” said Isabel, echoing his thoughts. “What is it?”

  Barrett let the limp form drop like a coil of rubber tubing, not noticing the unnatural tightness in her voice.

  “Gaboon viper—big one, too. Real nasty fella. We’ve got antivenom . . . always pack some. But no hospital facilities. It could have been bad.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. Then she screamed at the top of her voice, continued to scream despite Barrett’s shaking and yelling. He hit her squarely on the jaw, just hard enough.

  She came to her senses in his arms and started to cry. He held her tight.

  “George . . . if you want to turn back, right now, I’m ready.”

  He pulled away slightly and looked down at her.

  “No you’re not, Izzy, and neither am I. You’re not going to let one little deadly poisonous, lethal, murderous snake scare you off, are you?” She giggled in spite of herself, sniffling on the last tears.

  “N . . . no. Why should I let a little thing like that bother me?” She mopped at her eyes and cheeks.

  “Atta girl.” He gestured towards the spring. “Wash your face and we’ll go back to camp. If anybody asks, you screamed because you thought you saw a tree root, only it turned out to be just another snake.”

  She giggled again, freely this time. “You’re impossible! Someone once told me that Africa was the home of the fiercest animals, the fastest rivers, and the foolishest lovers. Now all I have to check out are the animals and rivers.”

  “There’s no such word as ‘foolishest,’ ” he told her.

  “That’s okay. You’re no l—” The fist hovering suddenly over her nose aborted the comment, but there was a smile behind it.

  Luana watched the campfire in the center of the little circle of tents for a long time. She thought, and imagined, and considered. Then she made a decision and spoke it to the air. Only Ohoh was there to hear.

  “I am going to give him the shiny thing.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” queried Ohoh.

  The vehemence in her reply startled the chimp.

  “I don’t know if it’s wise or not, Ohoh, but I’m going to give it to him anyway!” She swung out of the tree before the shocked primate could protest.

  Barrett shared a tent with Murin, but she did not want the small man awake. So it was with a special caution that she crept into camp and entered his tent. Both men were fast asleep.

  She tapped Barrett on the cheek, then a second time. He rolled over sharply then and she put her hand over his mouth to stifle any outcry. He nodded understanding. Rising quietly, he threw on pants and shirt and followed her out.

  At Luana’s wish they avoided the watch and moved just out of the camp. In the dim light from the distant campfire, she looked to Barrett’s sleep-filled mind like a figure out of another age, another time.

  “I don’t know why you came back, Luana,” he whispered, “but I’m glad that you did.” She took a step closer. “I want to thank you for what you did today. Not that what I said was wrong, but the way I said it could have been improved. Civilization leads people to make rapid, sometimes wrong assumptions. I made one.

  “That was the second time you saved my life . . . yes, I remember. What did you want to see me about?”

  To his surprise, she looked embarrassed. That couldn’t be, of course. He was misinterpreting again.

  “I have something I would like to give you, George Barrett . . . if you’d like it. It’s a pretty thing I found in the place where no one goes.”

  “No one? You mean there’s something in this godforsaken gumbo that even the Wanderi are afraid of? Never mind. That’s very sweet of you, Luana.”

  Of course he’d take the thing. Might even be something worthwhile, like a boar’s tusk. There was no point in offending the girl. Besides, it was a sweet gesture. More likely some crude figure of an animal or person she’d carved out of wood. Or maybe a pretty rock she found, or a ripe fruit.

  “I’ll certainly treasure whatever you’d like to give me, Luana. I’m only sorry I’ve nothing to give in return. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  She said nothing and reached into a tiny pouch that hung from her belt. Like everything else she wore, it was clearly the product of her own handiwork. She drew out something long and thin. A string, no, a necklace of some sort. Beads, or—

  It was fortunate Barrett was a young man with a strong heart. He had as steady a rifle hand as any man east of the Congo, but it shook slightly as he took the chain from her grasp.

  It was a necklace, all right, made of thick, heavy links. Judging by the weight, the links were solid gold. They could be gilded lead, but that was as unlikely as gold. The links ended in a single round pendant, which swayed and rattled at the end of a short, last link. He made a circle of thumb and forefinger and they just did fit around the pendant.

  The pendant frame was also link gold. A single stone snuggled in the center of it. The stone was slightly bigger around than an American silver dollar, nearly as deep as it was wide, and had only five simple facets.

  Trembling inwardly, he held it up to the distant light of the campfire. The light danced through it, transfigured, serviceable illumination turned to dazzling color that would shame the finest stained glass.

  The reverse side had rougher edges and another five simple facets. Where the stone was chipped and not smooth, he found the final convincer. Quartz would also scratch glass, and a variety of it had a similar lemon hue. But no hunk of citrine had that unmistakable milky adamantine luster.

  The chain was so much window dressing. The stone, the stone was a near-flawless yellow diamond. He had a pretty good idea of just what the stone would be worth on the open market. It would have to be recut, of course. That was no reflection on the fashioner of the necklace. The jewelers of Amsterdam had far better equipment than their fellow craftsmen of ancient Zimbabwe. The extra faceting would raise the value of the stone, not lower it.

  Let’s see—four or maybe five hundred thousand. That would be enough to—

  He remembered he was not alone.

  “Does it please you?” asked Luana.

  Barrett took a deep breath, slipped it into a pocket as casually as possible.

  “It’s very attractive, Luana. Thank you.” Then someone made him furious by speaking with his voice, and without his permission. “It’s worth a great deal of money, Luana. You could live very well anywhere in the world for the rest of your life with what it would bring.”

  From anyone else her reply would have sounded snobbish. From her it was perfectly natural.

  “I’m not interested in the rest of the world. Not for now, anyway. You like it? Then I’m glad. It is yours.”

  “Thank you, again, Luana.” He had his own voice back. “The place where you found it, where no one goes . . . are there more shiny things?”

  “I did not see
any,” she replied, thinking. “But I did not look for any more. I was swimming in the stream by the cliff, and saw it shining on the bottom.”

  “Stream by a cliff?” echoed Barrett excitedly.

  “Yes. You know the place, too?”

  Barrett smiled. “Not yet. Could you,” he hardly dared ask the question, “could you take us there?” She looked uncertain.

  “It is a long way and very hard.”

  “We’ll struggle through somehow,” he pressed. “Can you take us?”

  “If you want to go, George Barrett, I will take you.”

  “Beautiful,” he told her, “terrific.” Of course, there wouldn’t be anything there. No telling where this amazing hunk of glass had come from. But, by God, it was something real! Not theory, not imagining, as solid a piece of dream as anyone could hope for, and he sure as hell was going to check it out.

  “You are pleased,” she said.

  “Yeah, Luana, I’m really pleased. Pleased no end.”

  “Good,” and before he knew what was happening her arms were around his neck. “Then you must make love to me.” She started kissing him enthusiastically, if awkwardly.

  “Wait a minute—Luana—” He backed up and tried to push her away. But those soft-looking arms were anything but.

  “What is wrong, friend George? Is there something wrong with me?”

  “No, Luana, it’s not that.” He ducked and weaved but couldn’t shake her loose. “Ouch!” He put a hand to his left ear. It came away daubed with red. Now he began to get angry.

  “First of all, goddamnit, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing! I’m not one of your bloody cats! Second, I can’t make love to you.” He finally jerked free.

  “Why not?” Her tone showed honest puzzlement.

  “For one thing I’m not in the mood.” His hand went to his ear again. “Also, you’re just a bit too aggressive for my taste, and—”

  “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s because of her!”

  “Luana,” he began pleadingly, “Luana, believe me when I . . . Luana!”

  She’d dashed past him into the camp. Oh mother, he thought, and pounded after her.