Everfair (14 page)

The fourth passenger was a woman, a white. She smiled directly at him and spoke: “Greetings, Great King.” It was she who had called to them earlier.

Mwenda was impressed despite himself. Though attired, like the others, in European-style clothing, she pronounced words properly. More, she responded to his questions about their mission in Kinshasa simply and clearly, without error or evasion. He noted that she consulted a few times with the Mah-Kow, whose name, he soon learned, was Tink. The woman, Lily, translated for Tink, for the large and prosperous Winthrop, and for golden-armed Yoka, who besides English knew only his native tongue, a form of Bah-Sangah.

The day passed. When he walked about the boat-shaped nest Mwenda could look down on forests, rivers, and the scablike spots where the invaders had planted their useless vines-that-weep. These last areas became more numerous as they progressed west.

Lily and Yoka offered them fruit; beer; and cold boiled grain rolled up in leaves. Yoka's arm turned out to be brass rather than gold. Special knives could be locked into place on its end, which excited the smiths. It rotated more freely than a hand, and had an unbreakable grip. Mwenda was glad Yoka would fight with rather than against them.

The sun caught up with them and then raced on ahead. Evening came, and Mwenda's eyes pained him as he stared into the west from the nest's prow, searching for his first sight of Kinshasa. A river of fiery brightness, the Congo shot back the setting sun's reflection. Finally the sun lowered itself out of view. Though still safely distant, their target was now easily visible.

Square stone houses absorbed the sky's last light. They lined a wide path climbing a steep slope to a high terrace. High, but not so high as he was. Sailing lower would mean the aircanoe would likely be spotted.

The arrogant invaders had erected only one fence, and that was situated inside their city, houses masking it so that no more than one small section showed. It confined prisoners: wives, children, mothers of men forced to harvest tears and kill themselves carrying the whites' heavy loads.

A sudden quiet filled Mwenda's ears; the aircanoe's engine had been stopped. The day was done, the journey accomplished.

Lily approached him. “You are ready, Great King? You are sure?”

The king didn't bother answering. They weren't stupid questions, merely pointless. Already he had listened to those counselors who wanted him to hide from his enemies rather than battle them. Already he had consulted his spirit father about the course of the war, and about this expedition in particular. He had accepted more prohibitions, including one against lingering in confined spots. There was danger, but Mwenda would continue as planned. He was fully a man. He would carry out his duty.

The woman seemed to understand. “Come, please.” She beckoned Mwenda and his men to a place midway along one of the nest's bowed sides. The ladder was there, neatly piled next to a basket of knives. No guns. Nothing that would give away their movements.

Dropped into the surrounding forest, Mwenda and his fighters made their way stealthily, slowly, toward the town. Then waited. Insects bit them. They had drunk potions, endured rituals to avert sickness.

BOOM! BOOM!
Bombs fell and set fire to thatch and wood.
BOOM!
Yellow flames, red flames, lit the underside of the aircanoe as it glided silently away, its work of destruction finished. Shouts and screams filled its wake. All were concentrated on Kinshasa's eastern side, far from the fenced-in prison yard.

Wordlessly, the king and his fighters swarmed forward, taking advantage of their enemy's distraction.

The burning houses cast deceptive shadows, their flaring light screened by those left intact. Mwenda and his warriors paid little attention to what they saw, more to smells, sounds, the evening flight's memories. Deserted paths opened before them as they slipped down the hill. A shallow pit sent the five in front stumbling, warning Mwenda and the five beside him to avoid it. Another five followed them, fanning wide or drawing in as the paths dictated. Behind them came two more hands.

The prisoners were of course guarded, and not every guard had deserted his post when the fires broke out. Sensing something wrong, one issued a challenge in nervous French. Before Mwenda could respond, he felt on his cheek the little breeze of another person's knife cast in the unfortunate guard's direction.

A half-choked cry must have alarmed the dead guard's comrades. A lantern beam split the night—a rifle shot rang out—and another—and the air around Mwenda filled with ill-aimed bullets.

Sheltering against the rough poles of the fence's gates, Mwenda slashed apart the chains securing them—cheap, badly made iron, no match for his spirit father's blade. He had already dealt with one when Yoka joined him.

The brass-armed man spoke a sentence in his unintelligible Bah-Sangah dialect. Mwenda let him take the two remaining chains. Impossible to see just what he did, but a pair of loud snaps sounded above the rifles. Then they were dragging the rattling chains away to fall loose on the ground. More men—the workers Yoka had freed from the camps on the other side of the rise on which Kinshasa stood—arrived to force open the gates against the guards' resistance.

So many men! No weapons except for bits of wood and stone—Mwenda caught flashes of raised fists, cocked arms, in the jittering light of the lantern. They spilled over the guards, ignoring their shots, bearing them down, grabbing away their guns, trampling the foe into the mud. The light died from sight and was reborn a moment later in the hand of Mwenda's spearman, Yambio.

The king sent four soldiers to the lands of their ancestors, killing them neatly and cleanly with his sword as soon as they came in reach, forgiving each traitor as he died.

A crowd of subjects swarmed around the king, liberated workers calling the names of family members Leopold's thugs had kept hostage here. An axeman, Kajeje, swung and split a huge post to which chains were fixed. Link rattled against link as the released prisoners pulled themselves free. Moans, cries, chattering in many tongues, most unknown to him, overwhelmed Mwenda's ears. Curses, prayers—he lifted an old woman fallen to her knees, thin as a snake and light as a palm leaf, set her on her feet, motioned for a younger woman to help her away.

A horrible smell hung over a long, low house on the enclosure's far side: an odor of clotted blood, rancid waste, rotting flesh, painsweat, fearsweat. Looking about, he found Yoka holding a second lantern—no, a torch—no, it was some extension of his metal arm that burned. Not that it mattered. Mwenda summoned him and they crossed to the house's thick door. Kajeje appeared at Mwenda's side before the king knew of his need, smashing the wood with his axe.

The smell poured over Mwenda's face, its full vileness released. Shielding his mouth and nose, the king shouldered past the door's remnants into the stinking dark.

His feet sank into a floor of muck. He took only a few steps before Yoka entered with his light. Then Mwenda could see.

Perhaps half the house's occupants were dead. With some it was hard to tell. Also, looking closer, he saw that several—parts—were not—did not—make whole people.

Mwenda raised his hand from his nose and mouth to cover his eyes—but stopped himself. Blocking out the ugly sight would not truly erase it. Kajeje dispatched the rest of the door and came through the opening. The king would need to set a good example. Not to behave as a boy. He lowered his hand. He looked directly ahead.

Many very ill people lay on the ground, which was soft with excrement. He met a girl's eyes. She lay naked, arms curled around a tiny corpse. She blinked at him. Alive. The thing she cradled was not. Nor the one on whom she rested her head.

Behind him Mwenda heard Kajeje stumble back through the ruined door. The noise of him vomiting reminded the king that outside there were others. He called for them.

Those in this house who still lived couldn't walk, even with help. Mwenda had his ablest followers lift and carry them off toward the rendezvous. If these most miserable of Leopold's captives died, it would be away from here. As far away as he could take them.

To make sure no one living got left behind, Mwenda stayed till the last safe moment. Or what he thought was the last safe moment. Of the fighters, only he and Yambio remained, and a hand of untrained, unarmed workers. No enemies. The prison yard was almost empty. Then it was full—of Leopold's police. The stupid fence prevented any exit. King Mwenda was trapped.

 

Mushie, Congo, to Lusambo and Bolombo, Everfair, September 1897

What did Josina have? Even the water underneath their canoes belonged to him, according to Leopold. Whose thieves held captive her king.

The queen hated giving up. But worse than that, she hated losing. The mission to which she had assigned herself had failed. Alonzo, her cousin, who had hidden himself among the thief's men, had warned her. “Leave,” his message ran. “Or they will throw you in jail too.”

So the lies she'd told Leopold's men about the colonists of Everfair paying fighters for the attack had done no good—the lies, and the promises to share secrets she didn't have. So the thieves would refuse to let King Mwenda go.

Josina knew exactly who lay where in the guesthouse's black interior. Lembe, as always, to one side of her, and Sifa to the other. Neither slept, for she had instructed them to be ready. She rose from her mat and they rose with her. Bypassing the chamber pot, a nasty thing she had spent the last six days pretending not to understand the use of, they exited the room silently. The three policemen on the front porch dozed, as expected. Josina and her women slipped past them. She had her excuse ready—a full bladder—but it wasn't necessary. The charm worked.

Chilled by the night, Josina wished she'd wrapped herself in her blanket before coming out. But no, best to leave everything, for now.

Sifa had the keenest sense of direction. She led them down to the moorage. Their canoes were tied up with many ropes, but undamaged. While her women struggled to undo the knots by touch, Josina strained her eyes, watching for discovery.

Half the paddlers joined them. No time to wait; the others would have to make their own escapes.

Fewer paddlers, so fewer boats. Only two, in fact; Josina seated herself on Lembe's shoulders and let Lembe wade out to the first launched, raising small waves. These waves were unsafe—not only because of attracting the police but because the crocodiles, who hunted often at night—

A huge splash! Josina twisted, though she could see nothing behind her but water churning in the scattered light from a house's shuttered window. She heard shouts on the riverbanks, but not the screams of someone dying.

The paddlers worked hard, their grunts and deep-drawn breaths loud. They fought the current, which the Kasai River's many islands here divided yet did not weaken.

Nothing attacked them, or nothing further. Morning rose. They'd reached a large island. Assured by paddlers who knew this course that those who gardened here kept it free of dangerous animals, they camped briefly ashore.

Sifa explained that the commotion in the water as they left Mushie had been occasioned by bait, a distraction: on their way to the moorage a paddler had taken a pair of fowl and thrown them in. An appeasement. A sacrifice.

In the afternoon, rested, they left the island. Four more days, a market, and they turned again up the Sankuru. Another two days to confirm that Everfair had deserted its outpost in the disputed territory, Bolombo. It had retreated rather than advanced. Josina had known this when she lied about it to Leopold's representatives.

Almost a market longer it took to travel to Lusambo. Josina tried not to think of how her king must be suffering. Because that would do no good, and was against all her training.

But when she met with her white sister Lisette and recounted her failure to obtain the king's release, she wanted badly to cry. Anger—it must be anger, not fear—choked her, blocked her throat. Politely, her host pretended it was the beer's fault.

“Apologies! Such a musty brew—it is too old!” The woman looked to the maiden at her side, also a white. “Lily, have we anything better to offer?”

“Mother sent tea”—Josina did not miss the girl's defiant glance—“that Uncle Jack brought us from England.”

Lisette screwed her smooth mouth into a sour smile. “Yes. Let us use that.”

“There isn't much,” warned the girl. But she rose from the mat they shared to fetch a packet of paper—Josina had seen paper before—out of a basket on the far wallpost. “I'll get the hot water,” she added, and left.

The two women sat in momentary silence. “Of course I must ask Council what we can do to help,” Lisette said, and then Josina did cry. Tears only—no sobs, no moans or wailing. But it was more than she'd allowed herself in front of those she ruled.

The connection went both ways. She could not expose her subjects to this pain.

A softness touched one cheek. Blinking clear her eyes, she jerked away from a blur of yellow—cloth, she saw.

“You won't let me dry your face? Lily will return soon. Do you want her to—”

The girl walked in, holding the handles of a covered metal bowl. Too late, Josina understood that Lisette, also, wished to spare her subjects, of whom this Lily must be one. She turned to hide the signs of her distress.

“It's steeped almost long enough, I daresay, just during my walk from the boiler,” said the maiden. “Shall I—oh. I'm so very sorry. Oh.”

No good. Fresh tears pricked at her lids. She let them spill over.

“Don't! Oh, please, don't!” Small, rough hands on her arm. The maiden Lily knelt beside her. “Tink and I—we didn't mean him to get caught! We've been miserable, blaming ourselves—”

Brushing her eyes with the back of her hand, Josina looked in Lily's face. “You were—sailing the aircanoe? You brought the king to the attack?”