NationStates Jolt Archive

Scratchy notes drifted across the savanna from the ancient gramophone that slowly spun on the wicker camp table that sat between the two men. A battered tin plate with a half-eaten sausage and a well-used knife sat there as well and as the music played they slowly took turns cutting off thin slivers. Around them lay the other typical accouterments of an African camp. Tents with their flaps slowly moving in the breeze, stacks of supplies under a dirty tarp, and a gazelle hung up by it's haunches.

For now the men simply waited...

One older man slowly smoked a home made cigarette; the puffs turned the vanishing sun’s rays into a few greens and purples as they passed through it. The wind coughed, and sand scattered across the tarp. The work was done for now, and one of he young men tossed a machete aside and lay on the rough sand. Despite the AK-47 that lay nearby, these were a peaceful people; they paid little attention to what happened in the violent continent. They just survived, and they were happy. The weapon was only for hunting and if ever needed for it defense. All seemed to sigh lightly, almost contently, as the great star burnt up the atmosphere and turned the Savanna into a giant plane of colorful glass.

Lower the sun sank…

The gun fired, the loud crack of the rifle reverberated around. Nearby a tin can flew up into the air and then came crashing back down to earth. He smiled, picking the can up he looked through the hole, going right through the middle of it.

David Henderson was out the back of his house, not a manor-type house that the old colonials had but it was abit of a ramshackle, but he didn't mind it was his place. The 25 year old had the demeanor of a 50 year old, this place seemed to age you quick. His short black hair on a clean shaven face was attractive yet not one to make the girls fall in love, still, even at this time there weren't too many eligible young ladies about his age. Most of them were still sent back to "their mother country" for education and life. Those few that remained stayed because they already had found someone.

He loaded the rifle again and this time a quick shot got another can... He looked out onto the wide plain that lay stretched out before him, and almost started to trance, getting lost in his thoughts as he stood their staring out into open space.

"Sirs." The young man said, seeming to appear from the blowing sand. He speared the sand with a shovel and walked under the tent. "The fire pit's lit. I can't dig the truck out, it's been nearly buried since the wind picked up. Should have got to it earlier." The man sat down with his back to one of the two tent walls. One of these days I'll stay in a place where wind doesn't blow something abrasive.

One of the two men cocked his head to one side and looked off towards the west. The sound of the wind in his ears had changed - there was now a steady thumping beat that slowly grew louder. A dot appeared in the dull red sunset and steadily grew larger until it wavered into the shape of a helicopter. Both men sat and watched as it grew closer and a few of the camp workers rose to watch as well. As it grew closer it circled the camp once, twice, and then settled to the ground a hundred feet from the two men in a cloud of dust that slowly scattered and settled as the blades whipped slower and slower.

It was a old Soviet model that had seen better days. Rust spotted the sides and the tan and brown camouflage had bleached away to sand and beige. The hatch closest to the camp swung open and a single figure emerged to walk slowly towards the pair with a battered briefcase notably cuffed to his wrist.

Below the camp table was a styrofoam cooler and as the man approached one of the two reached down and pulled out a bottle of wine that had been sitting there. The ice was melted and the wine warm by now but the gesture was there as he poured out a glass and held it out.

"Welcome to Africa... Mr..."

"I am Maraj, sir."

He took the glass of wine and held it for a moment before taking a small sip. It was mostly a gesture of trust and he set it down on the table before continuing.

"I hope you are both well."

The old man nodded. "I am. I will be better with your money in my hands and my merchandise on your helicopter."

Kian reached into a shirt pocket with his free hand and took out a pair of sunglasses. Having put them on, he slipped his free hand into the back pocket of his pants and took out a small brass key, which he laid next to the glass of wine.

"So I understand."

He looked around for a moment, squinting at the sun even behind the sunglasses.

"Was I later than you expected?"

He sat down cross legged on the sandy ground and reached up for the wine he'd just put down, and swirled the glass a bit before taking another sip and putting it next to one of his feet, careful to make sure the briefcase stayed in his lap all the while.

"A man of my age has learned to be patient. I suppose you would like to see what you are getting..."

He raised a wrinkled hand and snapped his fingers, the crisp sound cracking across the camp. Two of the camp workers came forward and he whispered to them for a moment before turning back to Maraj. They went over to the pile of crates under the tarp and pulled out a battered wooden crate with rope handles and brought it over to the threesome. Setting it down they tried to open it for a moment before one ran over to a tent and returned with a crowbar. Wrenching at the rusty lock for a moment they finally ripped it away and opened the crate to reveal yet another crate laying in the straw.

This crate was aluminum or steel and was significantly newer than the wooden one. Stickers written in a language the old man didn't know were stuck on both ends and formed a crude seal down the edge but the workers ignored them as they sliced them apart and opened the inner crate. Dozens of cylinders were nestled inside, held in place by yet more stickers, and the inside lid of the crate was covered in instructions with nearly meaningless pictographs.

"As you can see, it's all here. What it is, I don't care... You have my forty thousand reasons not to care, correct?"

"I'll be back in a jiff, got to go grab a canteen."

Ambling towards the truck, he played out in his head how he was going to do this. He popped open the tailgate and slid a box out from under the tarp covering the bed.

One pistol, two bullets, one person expecting this. Well-armed and well-trained fighters just flown into a foreign land. This could get messy. "And off I go."

He hefted up the tailgate and jogged back.

They'll be done, soon.

Suitably impressed, Kian looked at the opened box, and gave a whistle.

"So I see... As for your forty thousand, that too is all here, securely around my wrist."

He raised his handcuffed wrist, and got up, brushing the suitcase off with his free hand. Rolling his shoulders, he pointed at the key he'd set on the table. Stepping carefully around the wine glass he'd put on the ground, he picked it up and leaned the suitcase on the edge of the table.

Taking off the handcuffs, which he put into a pocket, he turned the suitcase to face the old man, and opened it, slowly.

Inside, there were stacks of 100 dollar bills, all neatly banded together.

"You'll find your 40,000 reasons there."

He left the suitcase open, before looking at his helicopter, and asking the old man, "You have enough people to load the crates?"

He gave a thumbs-up to the helicopter, and its cargo door began to open.

"Perhaps not, but perhaps you can sit and listen to an old man while they go about their work..."

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the helicopter and the workers began to move the crates at a leisurely pace. They seemed unconcerned about the contents though they did handle them relatively carefully. Only one or two were unceremoniously thrown into the bay to prompt a shouted exchange between the workers and the pilots.

"Tell me, have you heard the story of the First Man?" The old man asked, looking Kian straight in the eye. There was a bit of a darkness there, perhaps a madness, but something had definitely changed in his demeanor.

"Oh no, not this one... Don't let him drag you along Sir. He's been telling this story for decades!"

"Shush! The First Man is not a story!" He scowled at the man next to him who leaned back in his chair and pull his hat low in response.

"Good time for a nap then!"

"...the First Man is not a..."

"I heard you! Tell your damned story already!"

"Then keep your mouth shut!"

"Fine!"

The old man scowled again and turned back to Kian.

"The First Man is not a story - it is truth! The tribes in this area tell a story, obscured by myth and tradition, of the First Man to have roamed the world. They say he was more than a man really. Placed here by the gods themselves to spread over the world and hold it for their worship. I myself once thought it legend until I found this!"

Reaching inside his shirt he pulled out a tiny black figurine tied to a cord around his neck. Holding it up he turned it over and over to display it. It was clearly made of obsidian and something else.

"Yes - there is something inside there. And there lies the proof..."

Looking closer one could see, inside of the obsidian, a perfect sculpture of a man. His features were plain and there was no trace of stylization except for the pictographs that covered every inch of the sculpture in fine detail.

"Obsidian, and more important seamless obsidian. And inside? Platinum! I've take it to a dozen scientists who've tested it innumerable ways and they agree. Those carvings... Here... Let me show you..."

From his pocket he withdrew a sheet of paper and shoved it in Kian's hands. It appeared to be the same writing as was on the statue along with a rough translation scribbled in a shaky hand.

"Tell me - how did the savages who roam this land learn to not only work platinum but encase it in obsidian?! We didn't learn to work platinum until the seventeen hundreds! Sticks and rocks?"

"He found it in a curio shop..."

"And curious it is! If there is this one, there must be more! Consider the wealth!"

"Don't let him talk you into it..."

"What?!? Riches? Knowledge? Perhaps even a little adventure? Why shouldn't he be interested? Well?"

This last seemed directed at Kian.

He walked up beside the napping man and took a deep breath.

“Still telling that story, eh?”

He drew the sidearm from the waistband of his jeans and raised it slightly.

“Whatever makes him hap--oof!”

He put the weapon back, then dumped the chair backwards and put it swiftly back into place. He grabbed the man and lifted him onto his back. He rushed for the truck as quick as he could on the uneven sand, using some old, discarded crates for cover.

Still have two bullets and there's no blood. Not what I was expecting, but things may still work out after all.

Leaning on the truck, he opened the driver-side door and eased the old man onto the seat. Placing the canteen on his lap, he grabbed the pistol. He put it in the right hand of the old man, slid out of the truck, and closed the door. Once again, he made his way back to the camp.

Good thing I've been exercising.

He stared blankly at the old man, taking a moment to look at the trinket he was holding.

"So, you're saying there is some business of a 'first man' running about the desert."

Kian paused.

"Interesting... But I would need time to look at this paper of translations. If I were to return in a few days with a few more crew members in the helicopter, would you be willing to go into a bit more depth with all this? I'm sure there is all sorts of riches waiting the one who finds this stuff, but I'm more interested in what I came here for."

He looked at the helicopter, wondering how the pilots were getting along. Out of the corner of his eye there seemed to be a great deal of movement. He turned his gaze and thought that there was something missing from the camp. What it was, he had no idea.

"How long has your friend been hearing you talk about this? He doesn't seem very enthusiastic about it."

"Not 'a' first man... 'The' First Man. As in Adam, Adapa... I'm not saying he's alive, I'm saying he's here though!"

The old man took the pendant and shook it in Kian's face.

"This... This did not evolve! We didn't spring from the monkeys! Monkeys don't enscribe pictograms on platinum inside of obsidian! Or if they did, they had help!"

He looked around for a moment and lowered his voice. "Outside help..."

"Still! As you say there is wealth waiting for those who would find it! But you must keep your mind open. Others might have found what I am looking for but they were bound by traditions that kept their minds shut and closed to the possible! But if you are interested... Taliz! Taliz!"

He rose from his chair and looked around the camp. "Now where is that lazy wretch? Taliz! Bah, never mind... Here. Take a look for yourself. But you don't get the whole story! No... Just enough to whet the imagination!"

Taking the paper with the pictographs and running translations on it he tore it raggedly in half nearly diagonally and handed one piece over to Kian.

"Never fear. I have all of it up here... Now where is Taliz?"

"He's probably taking a squat you old goat..."

Taliz, of course, was currently 'relaxing' unconscious in the cab of the truck.

Having sufficiently regained his composure, the young man walked back into the camp, looking about.

"Anyone seen Taliz? He borrowed my canteen and now I can't find either waterbag."

He asked no one in particular as he entered the tent. He sat back in the form-fitting chair formed from the plastic floor tarp on the loose sand and pulled his hat over his face.

Kian took the half-piece of paper, and idly looked at it. He squinted at the handwriting from behind his sunglasses and continued to look, taking them off and holding them in one hand as he read the now fragmented sentences.

"So I see."

He considered that the old man was obviously not of the opinion that Darwin was right. Setting down the page of translations, he again looked at his helicopter.

"As I said, perhaps later. It is all... interesting."

"Well don't take your time! I've not got all the time in the world you know!"

The old man sat back in his chair and rubbed at one leg.

"The doctors tell me I need to get this hip replaced. If I'm going to be running off to find the First Man it's going to need to be soon!"

Feeling a bit tired, Kian yawned, stretching his arms out. Then he squinted, and put his sunglasses back on.

"So you say, old timer. Get your Taliz over here, and I'll stay for another hour. After that, I fly off, and I see you again in, say, a night and a day with more fuel."

He then drank the last of the wine in his glass.

"Maybe some more men with binoculars or something as well... How is it that you plan to find this fabled wealth? If there was some lost Zulu watchtower sitting in the desert, it would have been found by now."

...a week later...

"There! That tree! It's... It's right there..." The old man nearly fell as he fumbled inside his shirt pocket for the map. Hand-drawn and seemingly wildly inaccurate he had been referring to it nearly constantly for the last two days. Leaning heavily on the miserable camp follower who had drawn the short straw that morning he unfolded it and pointed a finger at something that looked suspiciously like a 'Y' but that Kian, and the others who looked over his shoulder, would have to admit also resembled the tree they were less than a hundred meters away from.

"I told you... Told you... Urgh..." Panting in the afternoon sun he fell silent, the sweat pouring down his face. The camp follower jabbered something to the younger man who hobbled up next to him and pulled aside the bandage that wound it's way crudely around his leg. He too wore a bandage though it was fortunately caused by a more benign accident than the gunshot that had nearly cost the old man his life and now left him ravaged by fever.

Three days ago they had been ferried to the border by Kian's helicopter and dropped off just on the other side. the rational was that this might keep the local warlords from taking shots at them but this had only held out til the next day when a half-dozen fighters had attacked their camp around mid-evening. Machetes and rusty rifles had been little match for the group's marksmanship but it had only taken one bullet to put the old man in his current state.

"Looks bad. I can't say if it's festering or not unless we put him down..."

"No! I'm fine! Urgh... Fine!"

Once again he staggered to his feet and the small group moved onward across the savanna. In the distance the mountains rose, storm clouds ominously climbing their flanks like a portent of things to come...

“Gus, c'mere...”

The young man quickly finished hammering a tent stake into the ground and hurried over to help the old man sit down.

“We should replace that bandage once the camp is set up.”

“But! The Man!”

The older man grunted, out of breath.

“Not now. We're ahead of schedule, we can make time to figure out the trail later. Right now I'm going to set up some rain catchers in case this storm hits. At the very least we can have some fresh water in the morning.”

Kian hadn't been planning to be shot at. The gun he carried was for show, and the last time he'd heard a gun so much as fired had been a near year ago. Which was odd, considering he ran weapons throughout Africa.

Needless to say, he wasn't happy. Less so when the old man, the sole reason he'd decided to try the entire venture, got shot!

So, looking at the map the old man had flourished this way and that for the past couple of days, he tossed the map off to the side, and raised his sandy, sweat crusted hands and shouted in broken Hindi, "Strike me down with lightning!" at the top of his lungs.

Knowing that that would have garnered him some looks, he calmly grabbed the map, gave it to one of the men who had come along on the expedition, and walked off in the direction of the storm, shouting at anyone who tried to stop him.

Damned if he wasn't going to call the whole thing off if he didn't get results in the next four or so days.

With a few bottles hanging from the contraption, Gus was fairly confident they wouldn't have any problems getting back, as the storm drew even closer. He mostly avoided looking at the scene Kian was making, but Gus noticed that Kian handed the map to one of the men that accompanied him, who appeared to be eager to get rid of it himself. The man shoved it into Gus' hands as he stomped by, mumbling to himself what sounded like curses in a language he couldn't quite place.

Now's as good as ever.

Gus walked back into the tent and sat down next to the old man.

"It appears now is a good time to figure this out."

He spread the map out on the tiny collapsible table between them.

Outside the canvas tent lightning flashed and the skies opened up as the old man looked at the map spread out before him. The violence outside seemed to focus his thoughts and he pulled out the little obsidian man from inside his shirt and he placed it on the map. Something seemed to click and he moved it to approximately where the group currently sheltered and he slowly turned the map on the table with the statuette rotating in the center.

"The mountains... See the mountains?"

He pointed to a chain that, if one were outside, one could see stretching from horizon to horizon in the east.

"Yes, we must see the mountains!"

He stood shakily, and despite the weather raging outside, pushed aside the tent flap to stagger out into the downpour. Somehow despite the rain and the clouds which rolled overhead spotted with bolts of lightning he peered into the distance and raised the small statue. His shaking hands held it against the sky and he rolled it over and over until it was on it's back like a dead man and he slowly panned it around looking at a horizon that perhaps only he could see.

"See there!?" He shouted over the din. "That mountain. Right where his chin lies! There we can find the mouth! And the mouth will tell us where to go!"

It was nearly impossible to see the mountains in the fading light but the younger man, with a long sigh, stood over his shoulder and looked to where he did.

"Well hell... He's right. That part of the range does look like the statue from this angle. But it could just be chance!"

"Chance nothing! We find the mouth, and we hear the way!" Shrugging the younger man out of his way he turned and ducked back into the tent and made his way to the lone cot where he stretched out, soon fast asleep.

The storms of the previous night had dissolved away into a blazing sunrise by the time they broke camp and resumed their trek. With heavy, plodding footsteps they marched onward cursing every rock and scorpion though these last provided at least some interuption and an excuse to halt long enough to dispatch the vermin. Even with these welcome stops they still made slow time as they slowly crossed the shimmering savannah.

The mountains in the distance grew ever nearer and as they did the old man seemed somehow more energized. Despite the wound in his leg he seemed to move faster than the younger men even though each step brought him pain. Knobbed stick in hand he urged them forward and at each stop he raised the small statue to peer at the mountains ahead to shift their course this way and that.

Perhaps it was providence, or as his friend claimed 'stupid luck', but somehow they managed to come across a river at the one place where it could be forded reasonably. Standing on it's banks though the porters pointed to the reeds lining them and the ominious ragged backs of swimming crocodiles that seemed to drift on the edge of their vision. These however did not seem to worry the porters as much as the rounded eyes and flopping ears of basking hippos which slowly moved through the fording waters...

With a tent pole in hand as an impromptu walking stick, Gus took point and started fording the river. Walking slowly so everyone could stay together, he swayed the pole in the water ahead of himself, warding off any crocodile coming to investigate while being gentle enough to avoid provoking any of the creatures. He couldn't scare a hippo from its territory, but he could damn well try to be imposing enough to keep the smaller animals at bay.