The band of jungle sloped down to a narrow river. Mosquitoes swarmed over the water and crocodiles basked on its banks. The crossing was difficult, perilous, and uncomfortable, and by the time the expedition emerged from the tangle of vegetation on the other side, everyone was covered with mud, scratches, leeches, insect bites, and stings.
They moved out onto cultivated land and trudged past scattered abodes concealed by high grass and clumps of trees.
They were seeing kraals now—large round huts or long sheds built from sticks woven through with grass. Around these, in a wide circle, thorny barriers had been erected. Constructed by slaver caravans, their presence indicated that the inhabitants of this region were hostile and didn't welcome strangers at their villages.
The trail broadened and the going became easier. They slogged up a hill then descended into the valley of the Kinganí River—called Wady el Maut and Dar el Jua, the Valley of Death and Home of Hunger—which they followed until they spotted Nzasa, which Burton knew was one of the rare friendly settlements in the area.
He and Saíd rode ahead. They were met by three p'hazi, or headmen, each with a patterned cotton sheet wrapped around his loins and slung over his shoulder, each sheltering under an opened umbrella. The Africans announced themselves as Kizaya, Kuffakwema, and Kombe la Simba. The latter, in the Kiswahili language, greeted the two visitors with the words: “I am old and my beard is grey, yet never in all the days I have lived have I beheld a catastrophe like this—the muzungo mbáyá once again in the land of my people!”
Muzungo mbáyá translated as “the wicked white man.”
“I understand thy dismay,” Burton responded. “Thou remembers me not then, O Kombe?
The ancient chief frowned and asked, “I am known to thee?” He squinted at Burton, then his eyebrows shot up and he exclaimed: “Surely thou art not the Murungwana Sana?”
Burton bowed his head and murmured, “I am pleased that thou recollects me as such,” for the words meant “real free man” and were the equivalent of being called a “gentleman.”
Kombe suddenly gave a broad smile, his jet-black face folding into a thousand wrinkles, his mouth displaying teeth that had been filed to points. “Ah!” he cried. “Ah! Ah! Ah! I see all! Thou art hunting the shetani?”
“The devil?”
“Aye! The muzungo mbáyá of the long soft beard and gun that never ceases!”
“Thou art speaking of my former companion, John Speke? Thou hast seen him of late?”
“No, but a man from the village of Ngome, which is far north of here, came to us this many—” he extended the word to indicate the time that had passed: maaaannny, “—days ago and told of a bad man with bad men who came to his village intent on bad things. They were led by the muzungo mbáyá, and when he was described to me, I remembered the one thou callest Speke, though now they say his head is half of metal.”
Burton said, “So his expedition is taking the northern trail eastward?”
“Aye, and killing and stealing as he goes. Dost thou mean to do the same?”
“Absolutely not! My people seek only to rest for a single night, and for this we shall pay with copper wire and cotton cloth and glass beads.”
“And tobacco?”
“And tobacco.”
“And drink that burns the throat in a pleasurable manner?”
“And drink that burns the throat in a pleasurable manner.”
“I must consult with my brothers.”
The three p'hazi stepped away and conversed out of Burton's earshot.
Saíd gave a snort of contempt and said, in a low voice, “They will come back and demand much hongo to allow us passage through their territory.”
“Of course,” Burton answered. “What else do they have to bargain with?”
Sure enough, Kombe returned with what amounted to an extravagant shopping list. Burton and Saíd, both experienced in such matters, bartered until an agreement was reached. The village would receive around two-thirds of the specie demanded—which, in fact, was a much better deal than the elders had expected.
Kombe, well satisfied, allowed the expedition to set up camp beside Nzasa and announced that a feast would be held to honour the arrival of the Murungwana Sana.
Their first full day of African travel had exhausted them all. Isabella Mayson said to Burton, “I'm confused, Sir Richard. My body tells me we've travelled many miles, but my head says we've hardly progressed at all.”
“Such is the nature of our task,” he replied. “This was a good day. On a bad, a single step must be counted an achievement.”
As the afternoon wore into evening, the tents were put up, the animals corralled, and the supplies secured.
The rains came.
There were no warning droplets or preliminary showers. One minute the sky was clear, the next it was a dark purple, then the Msika fell, a sheet of unbroken water. It hit the tents like an avalanche, and Burton, Saíd, Trounce, Honesty, Krishnamurthy, Spencer, Sister Raghavendra, and Miss Mayson—who'd all gathered in the biggest of the Rowties—had to raise their voices, first against the sound of the deluge pummelling the canvas, then against the cacophonous thunder, which grumbled without a pause.
“Excuse my language, ladies,” Trounce shouted, “but bloody hell!”
“Can the tent stand it?” asked Krishnamurthy. “I think the ocean is being emptied on top of us!”
Honesty pulled the entrance flap aside and peered out. “Can't see a thing!” he called. “Solid water.”
“There'll be two hours of this,” Burton announced, “so if Sadhvi and Isabella don't mind, I propose a brandy and a smoke.”
“I don't mind at all,” Isabella said.
“Nor I,” added Sadhvi. “In fact, I'll take a tipple myself.”
A reedy sigh of frustration came from within Herbert Spencer's many robes and scarves.
Pox, perched as usual on the clockwork philosopher's head, gave a loud musical whistle, then squawked, “Flubberty jibbets!”
“Hurrah!” Krishnamurthy cheered. “That's a new one!”
“The nonsensical insults are definitely the most entertaining,” Isabella agreed.
“By Jove!” Trounce blurted. “That reminds me. I say, Richard, those horrible plant things we saw at Mzizima—”
“What about them?” Burton asked.
“I was wondering, what with Eugenicist creations, such as Pox, here—”
“Pig-snuggler!” Pox sang.
“—always displaying a disadvantage in proportion to whatever talent the scientists have bred into them—”
“Yes?”
“Well, what might be the drawback to those vegetable vehicles, do you think?”
“That's a good question, William, and one I can't answer!”
Burton served brandies to them all, including the women, and the men lit their various cigars and pipes, with many a nervous glance at the tent roof, which was billowing violently under the onslaught of rain.
Sister Raghavendra distributed small vials of a clear liquid that she insisted they all add to their drinks. “It's a special recipe we use in the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence to deal with fevers,” she said. “Don't worry, it's quite tasteless.”
“What's in it?” Honesty asked.
“A mix of quinine and various herbs,” she answered. “It won't make you immune, but it will, at least, make the attacks shorter and less damaging.”
The tent flap suddenly flew open and a drenched imp hopped in.
“Bounders!” it shrieked. “Cads! Fiends! Traitorous hounds! Taking a drink without me! Without me! Aaaiiii!”
The thing bounded to the table and, with wildly rolling eyes, snatched up the brandy bottle and took an extravagant swig from it. Banging the bottle back down, it wiped its mouth on its sleeve, uttered a satisfied sigh, belched, then keeled over like a toppled tree and landed flat on its back.