crawled with purple slugs.
It
was probably the middle of the night by the time I broke out of the thicket and
I was not entirely sure of where I was in relation to the river Kiph. I damned
myself for only taking the panga from Susan’s pack and not filching her compass
as well. I might have boosted senses and hyperstrength, but to my eternal
embarrassment I could quite easily get lost in a small well-lit room.
Before
me was an acclivity overgrown with flowering groundsels and monolithic giant
lobelias. I pushed over one of the groundsels, dragged it into a nearby glade,
snapped it into metre sections, stacked it, and set it afire with the gun. Then
I amused myself as I waited by watching a snail with a shell the size of a
human head wearily dragging itself up a branch, leaving behind it a trail of
eggs like perfect pearls.
Morning
was announced by the snarl of some big cat and the humming of sun birds round
the lobelias. I had expected the Pykani to see my fire and come, but there was
a lot of river valley for them to cover, so I should not have been as
disappointed as I was. I threw damp moss over the remains of my fire and headed
in the direction I assumed to be west. Soon I found myself in a gorge that
eventually opened out into a papyrus swamp, which was difficult going even for
me. As the swamp deepened I changed direction again and wondered how long it
would be before I ended up going in circles. I had been lost in places of this
sort before. Just as I was beginning to regret not waiting at the bamboo grove
I caught sight of the river through a hanging mat of vines below which bloomed
a fiery swathe of mustard yellow orchids. Eventually the swamp dried up and I
was traversing rocky ground on the bank of the Kiph. Luckily, before this sank
into swamp again, I saw the canoe.
Her
name was Sipana and she was returning to the Kiphani village with a catch of
black bass from the river. At first I hailed her from the bank and she drew
close to look me over, her unbelievably ancient Optek assault rifle resting
across her lap. I thought for a moment she was not going to come to the bank,
but she looked at my feet, and to my surprise, smiled and rowed on in.
“You
are the Collector,” she said cheerfully as I climbed carefully into her canoe.
“That
is so,” said I, then, “and what are you called?”
“I
am Sipana,” she replied. “You are lucky. I do not normally come this far to
fish.” She smiled at me with a perfectly white set of teeth. She was very
attractive: wide dark eyes, angular face, topped with coloured beads woven into
her dark hair. I looked down at her catch. Each of the bass was a good ten
pounds. She had been hand lining for them.
“You
don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“No,
no, our Rainman said you were coming and to look out for you.”
I
was surprised. Normally if anyone had word I was heading in their direction
they were not there when I arrived. As she rowed us out into the centre of the
river I looked down at the bass again.
“You
have a good catch here,” I said. Something about spending a night and a day
pushing through jungle had made me talkative. Human, I guess.
“There
are many black bass up here, and trout, we do not fish down stream.”
“Why’s
that?”
“Crocodiles.”
I
grinned to myself, perhaps somewhat guiltily. I had been responsible for
reintroducing the African crocodile into some of the rivers around that area. I
changed the subject and our conversation lasted for the rest of the journey.
The
Kiphani village was a collection of boxlike wattle huts on stilts on the bank
of the river and sometimes straying into the river itself. As Sipana rowed us
to a jetty I could see almost immediately that something was wrong. A number of
the huts below a huge water oak had been torn apart. As we tied up I could see
the look of shock on Sipana’s face. I quickly stepped up onto the jetty.
“Any
ideas?” I asked.
“It
is the Silverman. He was seen
It
was probably the middle of the night by the time I broke out of the thicket and
I was not entirely sure of where I was in relation to the river Kiph. I damned
myself for only taking the panga from Susan’s pack and not filching her compass
as well. I might have boosted senses and hyperstrength, but to my eternal
embarrassment I could quite easily get lost in a small well-lit room.
Before
me was an acclivity overgrown with flowering groundsels and monolithic giant
lobelias. I pushed over one of the groundsels, dragged it into a nearby glade,
snapped it into metre sections, stacked it, and set it afire with the gun. Then
I amused myself as I waited by watching a snail with a shell the size of a
human head wearily dragging itself up a branch, leaving behind it a trail of
eggs like perfect pearls.
Morning
was announced by the snarl of some big cat and the humming of sun birds round
the lobelias. I had expected the Pykani to see my fire and come, but there was
a lot of river valley for them to cover, so I should not have been as
disappointed as I was. I threw damp moss over the remains of my fire and headed
in the direction I assumed to be west. Soon I found myself in a gorge that
eventually opened out into a papyrus swamp, which was difficult going even for
me. As the swamp deepened I changed direction again and wondered how long it
would be before I ended up going in circles. I had been lost in places of this
sort before. Just as I was beginning to regret not waiting at the bamboo grove
I caught sight of the river through a hanging mat of vines below which bloomed
a fiery swathe of mustard yellow orchids. Eventually the swamp dried up and I
was traversing rocky ground on the bank of the Kiph. Luckily, before this sank
into swamp again, I saw the canoe.
Her
name was Sipana and she was returning to the Kiphani village with a catch of
black bass from the river. At first I hailed her from the bank and she drew
close to look me over, her unbelievably ancient Optek assault rifle resting
across her lap. I thought for a moment she was not going to come to the bank,
but she looked at my feet, and to my surprise, smiled and rowed on in.
“You
are the Collector,” she said cheerfully as I climbed carefully into her canoe.
“That
is so,” said I, then, “and what are you called?”
“I
am Sipana,” she replied. “You are lucky. I do not normally come this far to
fish.” She smiled at me with a perfectly white set of teeth. She was very
attractive: wide dark eyes, angular face, topped with coloured beads woven into
her dark hair. I looked down at her catch. Each of the bass was a good ten
pounds. She had been hand lining for them.
“You
don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“No,
no, our Rainman said you were coming and to look out for you.”
I
was surprised. Normally if anyone had word I was heading in their direction
they were not there when I arrived. As she rowed us out into the centre of the
river I looked down at the bass again.
“You
have a good catch here,” I said. Something about spending a night and a day
pushing through jungle had made me talkative. Human, I guess.
“There
are many black bass up here, and trout, we do not fish down stream.”
“Why’s
that?”
“Crocodiles.”
I
grinned to myself, perhaps somewhat guiltily. I had been responsible for
reintroducing the African crocodile into some of the rivers around that area. I
changed the subject and our conversation lasted for the rest of the journey.
The
Kiphani village was a collection of boxlike wattle huts on stilts on the bank
of the river and sometimes straying into the river itself. As Sipana rowed us
to a jetty I could see almost immediately that something was wrong. A number of
the huts below a huge water oak had been torn apart. As we tied up I could see
the look of shock on Sipana’s face. I quickly stepped up onto the jetty.
“Any
ideas?” I asked.
“It
is the Silverman. He was seen
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