Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) Read online

  He tried to shake the thoughts away.

  Nessa Singer would never leave the Ituri Forest. Ike had barely gotten to know her and now they only had hours left. It was such a change from the day before, when he felt content to take his time and wonder where things would lead.

  “Let me check the leg again,” he said.

  “Stay the hell away from it, Ike,” Nessa growled. “Just keep away. It fucking hurts.”

  “Maybe—”

  “No.”

  “We need to see—”

  “What I need is some bloody morphine!”

  Ike closed his eyes. Not a good idea to come apart in front of her. He took a deep breath and tried pushing the situation away. “I’ll see if Devereaux has some palm wine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ike didn’t wake Raoul. Instead he pilfered the man’s pack and returned to the tent with his canister full. When he slipped back in through the flap, Nessa was on her side, staring toward the back of the tent. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Ike slid up behind her. “I’ve got some for you.”

  Nessa rolled onto her back. She didn’t bother to wipe her eyes. When he handed her the canister, she took it gladly and tipped it back.

  “Easy, luv.”

  She gulped the wine down without hesitation. When she pulled the canister from her lips she said, “What are you worried about, a hangover?”

  Ike smiled weakly.

  “Bloody, fucking crocodile,” she cried. “What the fuck is with that anyway? What the hell was it doing there? Talk about rotten fucking luck.”

  He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She tucked her head against his neck, and he felt her cool sweat on the crook of his shoulder. He figured that with the amount of blood loss that little bit of palm wine might have quite the effect. In the absence of painkillers there was nothing better.

  “Such awful luck, I hate this goddamned place.”

  “I can agree with you there.”

  “And that palm wine is the most watered down bottle of piss I ever drank. That bloody Devereaux’s a fucking lightweight.”

  “You have quite a mouth on you, don’t you?”

  Nessa fell silent, and he felt cold tears against his neck. He suddenly worried he’d said something wrong. “It’s okay. I like a woman who can curse.”

  He felt her cheek bunch into a small grin.

  “Now, enough tears. You’re gonna dehydrate.”

  Nessa laughed. “You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you? Worried I’m going to dehydrate?”

  “Just looking out for you, don’t get on my case.”

  “Hangovers, dehydration, forget about that funny smell coming from my leg.”

  An awkward silence followed. Ike wished he could make her forget her condition for a moment, but she knew all too well that her life was slipping away. She curled against him, as some wave of emotion came over her. For lack of words, he brushed a hand along the hairs pulled tight by her ponytail and kissed her forehead, quietly, softly.

  “I hate this thing,” she said suddenly. She squeezed the ring between her fingers and pulled it off, holding it in her palm. “Who am I kidding?”

  “I thought you didn’t care.”

  “What’s worth worrying about?” Nessa cried. “If I wanted to, it sure as hell isn’t going to happen now, is it? I wasted too much time. I had all of this time and I wasted it, because I wanted to have a good job. I don’t even like chemistry. I hate pharmaceutical companies. Do you think we’re out here to save lives? All H. Hurley cares is how much that little flower can add to their net worth. If I was out here to help people, then maybe I wouldn’t feel like shit.”

  “Just because you’re making money doesn’t mean you’re not helping people.”

  “Seriously, Ike, find someone. Don’t waste your time like I did. Fuck Africa. Go home to Sydney or Perth, or whatever backwoods Aussie shithole you came from.”

  Ike sighed. “Brisbane. I’m from Brisbane.”

  “Is it nice there?”

  “It’s a beautiful city,” he said. He swallowed past the thick lump in his throat. “And besides, you’re wrong. I found somebody out here.”

  Nessa let out a long breath. “Stop it, Ike. Just shut up.”

  “I’m completely serious.”

  “You were just horny.”

  “Not just horny,” Ike said with a grin. “You didn’t give me a chance with much else.”

  “Don’t lie to me because you feel bad for me,” she cried. “That’s only going to make me feel worse. I don’t need you to pretend things to make me feel better.”

  “I’m not pretending anything.”

  “You’re saying if this was Brisbane, you would have fancied me?” Nessa asked incredulously. “With all those other girls running around?”

  “I would’ve needed earplugs,” Ike replied. “But, yeah, I think so. I think we could have made quite a couple.”

  “That’s sweet, Ike. That really is. But it’s total bullshit.”

  “Well, I’m not wealthy, I’m not successful, and last I checked I’m sure as hell not Jewish. But I would’ve given it a shot. And who the hell knows?”

  “You think you might have proposed?”

  “Sure as hell, yeah. Once you warmed up to me of course. Hell, I’d even convert. I’d get the operation and everything.”

  Nessa laughed into his chest. It felt good to feel her curled there, living, breathing. Ike wondered how much time was left. He wanted to squeeze her, but he had to be gentle. She was, after all, in considerable pain.

  “Ike. Listen to me. I want you to have this.”

  Nessa pressed the diamond ring into his palm. She looked very pale and had stopped sweating. No more tears came out. Ike watched her helplessly, fading in and out of sleep himself, his exhaustion too great.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t need it anymore. It’s worth quite a bit, so I’m giving it to you.”

  “Are you proposing to me, Nessa?”

  She grinned weakly. “If it’ll make you take the bloody thing, then yes, I’m proposing to you.”

  Ike closed his palm. “Well then, I accept.”

  She let go and her fingers slipped away to fall back at her side. Her breathing came slow, barely perceptible, even with him pressed against her. She felt like a feather, ready to blow away at any moment.

  “I just never pictured it happening quite like this,” he said quietly.

  She muttered something indecipherable, and Ike couldn’t be sure whether she had understood his words.

  As the sun shifted in the sky, light blazed in through the open flap. He had left it open to keep watch, but the sunlight burned his tired eyes badly. He tugged the tent flap closed.

  Only for a moment, so he could rest his eyes.

  Temba Ampigana Mchawi

  (Temba versus the Magi)

  “If darkness exists,

  and darkness is of the forest,

  then even darkness must be good.”

  —BaMbuti proverb

  25

  In his dream, Kuntolo’s spear plunged softly into her heart. The fingers gripping the shaft were his. Sam had been calling out to him in KiSwahili, a language Temba had never heard her speak. Yet they were his hands that dealt the killing blow to her breast.

  When Temba finally awakened, he was sweating. Voices lingered on the edge of his brain, calling him to action. Only they didn’t seem to know what they wanted him to do.

  Temba lay curled in the crook of a tree, a hastily assembled pile of leaves as his bed. His hand fell to Kuntolo’s spear and squeezed the wood, seeking comfort in its presence, consoled because he had taken it from Kuntolo’s g
rave. He checked for his bow and arrows, eight newly fletched, and the axe he’d stolen from Polomo’s camp.

  He hopped from his perch, landing easily amidst the roots of the tree. He strapped the spear to his back, holding it in place with a strip of cord, and slung his bow over his shoulder. The axe he looped into his belt.

  A small puddle of rainwater had gathered in the mud and he looked into it, staring at his reflection. His eyes looked sunken, like the dead. With a tattered pair of khaki pants and no shirt he thought he looked half of the forest and half of the village; of both worlds, but belonging to neither. Such was Temba’s lot.

  His belly rumbled, time for breakfast. He ignored it and began walking, slowly at first because he was uncertain of his direction. The power lines stretched overhead, a constant landmark. They would eventually take him back to the baboons and their cursed tree, he realized. It would be better to return to the river and follow that.

  Temba.

  The Mbuti froze. He stared up at the power lines. Something came back to him then. Something from his dreams remembered—a pulsating rhythm deep within his chest.

  Temba.

  The rhythm had started again. The forest was coming to life. It hated and it fueled his hatred.

  Is this his magic?

  It had to be. This was what Kitu spoke of when he described the forest being truly awake. This rhythm flowed through everything. It was what drove the baboons to madness. It was what drove the mercenaries to turn on each other. And maybe, just maybe, it was what had driven Ndola to kill Kuntolo.

  If that was the case, then Temba couldn’t give in. To let this thing enrage him was to take sides with this strange magician. Yes, perhaps the magician kept others out of the jungle, but only by disrupting the natural balance of the forest. Animals should not hate, Temba realized. And neither should humans.

  “I don’t believe in you!” Temba cried. “I don’t believe in your stupid magic.”

  His voice echoed back at him through the trees. At least that meant the forest heard him.

  Temba, once again, wondered about this man the others spoke of. Who was he and where did he come from? The houses in the clearing were sturdy like Raoul’s manor, more sophisticated than the Bantu dwellings. The BaMbuti didn’t build power lines in the forest. Yet, they descended right into the center of the camp.

  The power lines could be the source of his magic, Temba realized. Why would he need electricity in the middle of the jungle? Whatever he did to trick the others needed the energy from the outside. Temba could end that by cutting off his source of power, by severing the lines.

  Temba followed the parallel cables with his eyes. They were so high he would have to find a tall tree to reach them. He remembered the baboon’s tree, but he loathed the thought of returning to it. The memory of all of those eyes sent shivers through his body.

  Perhaps that was why the baboons guarded the tree.

  Don’t be silly, he thought. There is no magic.

  Temba stood at the base of a small tree, its trunk a little wider than his body. A tiny gap in the canopy allowed this sapling to grow amidst the giants. As he turned to follow the power lines, a slight rustle from the other side of the trunk caught his attention.

  He spun, yanking Kuntolo’s spear out and ready. But the forest around him was still. He heard distant sounds, nothing nearby. A small bush, entwined in the roots of the tree, wavered from side to side. It was as if a wind came through and blew only that plant, leaving the others alone.

  Temba took a step to his right, trying to see around the trunk. Nothing stood on the other side. But something had moved the bush!

  I’m frightened of nothing. I am imagining things like the mercenaries. There are no ghosts in this forest, only tricks.

  A slight stir in the leaves overhead brought his gaze up. A firm branch stuck out from the tree about eight feet up. That branch passed right over Temba’s head, obscuring his view of the canopy above. Had that branch moved?

  He needed to get moving and stop imagining things, he decided. But his palms glistened with sweat where they held the shaft of Kuntolo’s spear. Then a faint scent like stale dung assaulted his nostrils. He cringed at the smell and took a step back, closer to the trunk of the tree.

  The branch above him moved.

  Temba’s heart stuttered until he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet or the spear in his hands. He was being hunted. The invisible predator was a leopard and it had him in its sights. It followed his every movement and in the next seconds it would pounce. To run was to die. To stay still was to die.

  He stared at the branch overhead, looking for any sign of movement. He held the spear weakly in both hands, more as a security blanket than as a useful weapon.

  The branch shook from the movements of the hidden cat. Temba retreated toward the tree. His eyes watched the branch expectantly for the coming pounce.

  His back hit bark and he circled around the trunk, putting it between him and the branch. No sooner had he made it around then a yellow paw, spotted with black, lashed out at him. He ducked and the cat clawed from above, hissing angrily. Its prey had slipped around the other side of the tree.

  It locked its maddened feline eyes on him and wedged itself in the crook between branch and trunk, getting as much reach as it could. Sharp claws shredded bark into chips that fell about Temba’s head.

  Frustrated, the cat leapt from the tree branch, easily descending the distance to the ground. Its paws came down amidst the roots and wove toward Temba, maneuvering along perfect angles.

  Temba raised the spear defensively and turned his head away, just as the animal leapt. The force of the pounce drove him back, but the leopard howled in pain. When Temba looked up he saw a bloody wound in its right shoulder.

  With new respect, the leopard backed off and circled him. Temba squared off, keeping the spear between him and it, but already he saw that the creature was outmaneuvering him, as if it meant to corner him against the tree trunk. Temba noticed the way its filthy fur was matted and saw the enraged look in its eyes. Everything told him that this was a very sick animal.

  “Stay away,” he cried, a desperate scream. “Leave me alone.”

  The leopard roared back, not backing down. It would not pounce again with the spear between it and Temba. Before Temba could react, the cat moved left. Its course took it up the trunk of the tree. Its claws scraped on bark. With incredible agility, it pivoted and leapt toward Temba, catching him off-guard and from the side. Temba tried bringing his spear around but couldn’t get the tip in fast enough. Instead, he blocked with the shaft of the spear. The feline teeth snapped around wood and a paw struck Temba’s shoulder. A single claw connected with flesh and tore a gash along his bicep. Meanwhile, the weight of the beast threw him back, and he stumbled across the roots. Off balance, he realized his vulnerability and ran. He reached the tree that had served as his bed before the leopard closed the distance.

  He clambered up the tree and rolled straight through the nook where the trunk split. The spear came through horizontally and wedged itself against both trunks. The force on his arm nearly wrenched it from its socket as the spear locked into place. He dangled on the other side, holding on to Kuntolo’s spear, as the leopard leapt through the nook, not slowing on the steep incline up the tree. The cat’s chest hit the wedged spear like a fence. Both paws squeezed through, grasping at Temba’s arm. The Mbuti let go and fell to the ground, landing on his back.

  The leopard remained in the tree, temporarily barred by the wedged spear.

  In that instant, Temba pulled his bow from his shoulder and drew the first of his arrows. Normally when hunting, he took considerable time to aim, but he didn’t have time to spare. He pulled back and released.

  The cat hissed in pain as the small arrow struck it under one leg. Before it had recovered fr
om the blow, Temba nocked another arrow and fired. This one narrowly nicked the animal’s ear.

  The leopard jumped back down the tree, on the opposite side of the trunk from Temba. It growled at him as he unleashed a third arrow, burying it in the creature’s left flank. Angry and hurt, the animal twisted from the impact. It backed away putting space between it and Temba’s painful bow.

  Temba held his fourth arrow nocked and ready. He gazed down its shaft at the leopard, crouched at the limit of his range. The creature, male by the look of it, learned fast, as maddened and desperate as it seemed. What Temba could not understand was why the animal still pursued him. Hadn’t he proven himself difficult enough prey?

  When he was confident the animal wouldn’t suddenly charge, he approached the tree slowly. The leopard stayed back, maintaining a safe distance. Temba reached up and dislodged Kuntolo’s spear from the tree.

  “I am not your enemy,” he called to the leopard.

  Not that he expected a response, although who knew what strange things could happen in this insane forest? Temba dared a glance at the canopy and found the power lines again. With one eye on the cat, he walked cautiously in the direction of the power lines. He kept his bow ready and nocked, unsure if the animal recognized it as the source of a threat.

  The leopard followed at a distance, waiting for an opening to strike. Temba wished his spear was drawn; with only a bow he was powerless to fight in such close quarters. All he could do was run.

  Temba had never run as fast as he did in that moment. His feet came down with reckless abandon instead of the grace his people were known for. Still, even such a wild sprint was not enough to outrun a leopard.

  He felt the cat right behind him, striding paw over paw in great leaps, teeth and claws bared.