out his hand, looking for the shake; the new fellow pulled out a knife and stabbed him in it.
The Shaman yelled in pain, shaking his hand vigorously so the buzzer he had palmed within it fell to the ground. As he was about to launch himself at his attacker, several men of the village
fell upon him and the two were pulled apart.
It really was most unbecoming.
The Shaman and I had been shown into the same hut, occupied by two makeshift beds (rug-covered wooden frames on the floor) and a hearth containing cold ashes. The assumption
seemed to have been made that we would be staying the night and, though I didn’t fancy it, I wasn’t about to exacerbate the tense atmosphere by saying so out loud.
The Shaman sat there cradling the dummy, stroking its hair with a bandaged hand, sulking.
I wondered, should I stay there with him – basically hide, until we could leave – or venture out and try to make friends? Why were we still in the village, anyway? I thought he had
come purely to pick up some magic supplies, an in-and-out mission? And what had that scene with Crocodile Thong been all about?
“Who was that man you fought with?” I ventured.
No reply.
“Was he another shaman?”
Still nothing.
“Is he a more powerful shaman than you?”
That roused him. He was across the hut and beside me, on all fours, like a well-motivated crab, dragging the dummy along with him. I felt his body heat and smelled his breath: an aroma of
compost heaps.
“Mnnmk hnnmn, nngl,” he said (or words to that effect).
“Oo-otch it, nister,” translated the boy. I noticed his monocle had become cracked.
“I just wish someone would tell me what’s going on,” I protested.
The Shaman and his son conferred. Eventually the boy said, “Oo-ee oo-ent to shanan school together. He is ny grother.”
“He’s your brother!”
“That is oo-ot I said.”
“So what happened?”
The Shaman shifted the boy in his lap. “Once I oo-oz shanan in this thillage. Ny grother gecane jealous and he cane here one night, nany years ago. He clained he oo-oz a nediun, that he
could channel our ancestors. The kleokle listened as he klut on these silly thoices, saying that he should gee shanan here, not nee. And the kleokle geliethed hin!”
“The people believed him?”
“That is oo-ot I said.”
“So you don’t believe in mediums?”
“As if! Oo-ot a load of gollocks!”
“In Britain we had this lady called Doris Stokes…”
But he wasn’t interested in my stories. “Helk ne to gecun shanan here once again,” he said.
“Help you to become shaman here once again?”
“Jesus! Do I hath to keek rekleating nyself?”
“Is that why you brought me here, me and the motorbike? Thought you’d try to make an impression, boost your reputation?”
The boy opened his mouth in horror. The pair of them looked at each other then back at me. “No!”
I wasn’t convinced. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Kill ny grother.”
What? “ What? ”
“Ith I did it, I’d get in truggle.”
“ You’d get in trouble? And what do you think they’d do to me ? Put it down to me not understanding tribal ways – some quaint English custom – and offer
me the freedom of the village?”
“Nayge.”
“There’s no ‘nayge’ about it. There’s no way ! Are you insane ?”
“Nayge.”
I decided to try to make friends. Outside the hut the light was failing, a welcome chill had developed and out among the shadows the jungle’s twilight creatures were
becoming excitable. Firelight glow flickered dimly in hut doorways and someone had lit a big fire in the middle of the village, around which a smattering of onlookers had gathered. Over the fire a
pig was roasting; other pigs glanced at it occasionally and continued snuffling.
A small boy, aged perhaps seven, spotted me, ran across and hugged my leg. Looking up he said, “Hello. My name is Nzonze. What is your name?”
“My name is Pilsbury,” I replied, patting him
The Shaman yelled in pain, shaking his hand vigorously so the buzzer he had palmed within it fell to the ground. As he was about to launch himself at his attacker, several men of the village
fell upon him and the two were pulled apart.
It really was most unbecoming.
The Shaman and I had been shown into the same hut, occupied by two makeshift beds (rug-covered wooden frames on the floor) and a hearth containing cold ashes. The assumption
seemed to have been made that we would be staying the night and, though I didn’t fancy it, I wasn’t about to exacerbate the tense atmosphere by saying so out loud.
The Shaman sat there cradling the dummy, stroking its hair with a bandaged hand, sulking.
I wondered, should I stay there with him – basically hide, until we could leave – or venture out and try to make friends? Why were we still in the village, anyway? I thought he had
come purely to pick up some magic supplies, an in-and-out mission? And what had that scene with Crocodile Thong been all about?
“Who was that man you fought with?” I ventured.
No reply.
“Was he another shaman?”
Still nothing.
“Is he a more powerful shaman than you?”
That roused him. He was across the hut and beside me, on all fours, like a well-motivated crab, dragging the dummy along with him. I felt his body heat and smelled his breath: an aroma of
compost heaps.
“Mnnmk hnnmn, nngl,” he said (or words to that effect).
“Oo-otch it, nister,” translated the boy. I noticed his monocle had become cracked.
“I just wish someone would tell me what’s going on,” I protested.
The Shaman and his son conferred. Eventually the boy said, “Oo-ee oo-ent to shanan school together. He is ny grother.”
“He’s your brother!”
“That is oo-ot I said.”
“So what happened?”
The Shaman shifted the boy in his lap. “Once I oo-oz shanan in this thillage. Ny grother gecane jealous and he cane here one night, nany years ago. He clained he oo-oz a nediun, that he
could channel our ancestors. The kleokle listened as he klut on these silly thoices, saying that he should gee shanan here, not nee. And the kleokle geliethed hin!”
“The people believed him?”
“That is oo-ot I said.”
“So you don’t believe in mediums?”
“As if! Oo-ot a load of gollocks!”
“In Britain we had this lady called Doris Stokes…”
But he wasn’t interested in my stories. “Helk ne to gecun shanan here once again,” he said.
“Help you to become shaman here once again?”
“Jesus! Do I hath to keek rekleating nyself?”
“Is that why you brought me here, me and the motorbike? Thought you’d try to make an impression, boost your reputation?”
The boy opened his mouth in horror. The pair of them looked at each other then back at me. “No!”
I wasn’t convinced. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Kill ny grother.”
What? “ What? ”
“Ith I did it, I’d get in truggle.”
“ You’d get in trouble? And what do you think they’d do to me ? Put it down to me not understanding tribal ways – some quaint English custom – and offer
me the freedom of the village?”
“Nayge.”
“There’s no ‘nayge’ about it. There’s no way ! Are you insane ?”
“Nayge.”
I decided to try to make friends. Outside the hut the light was failing, a welcome chill had developed and out among the shadows the jungle’s twilight creatures were
becoming excitable. Firelight glow flickered dimly in hut doorways and someone had lit a big fire in the middle of the village, around which a smattering of onlookers had gathered. Over the fire a
pig was roasting; other pigs glanced at it occasionally and continued snuffling.
A small boy, aged perhaps seven, spotted me, ran across and hugged my leg. Looking up he said, “Hello. My name is Nzonze. What is your name?”
“My name is Pilsbury,” I replied, patting him
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