and lined his stomach with a sugary thickness.
What was he going to tell his father and mother? They would not believe that giant spiders were jumping down from the Old Man into the lower jungle. They’d think he ’d eaten some bad berries (as was the joke they often told the White Men to get a laugh). His mother and father knew him to be honest, but even a history of truthfulness would not allow them to trust such a wild story.
He resumed his walk, occasionally swinging his machete to clear fronds that had fallen over his tracks. Eventually he found the signs of the footpath that led to his village. It was a path invisible to the untrained eye, but Shumba’s father had taught him what to look for.
All around him the jungle sang its familiar song. Trees swaying, bugs clicking, branches creaking, and always the distant cries of monkeys and birds. These were the sounds he liked to fall asleep to at night.
Something shuffled in the trees behind him. He looked back, saw nothing. Perhaps another rodent, looking for some food. He waited, watching.
There!
A hundred meters away. The bushes shaking. Something big rustling in them. Immediately he thought of the spiders. But it could also be a cat. Both thoughts scared him to death and he wanted to run, to burst through the trees back to his village, but he was sure this would only encourage the creature to attack. This he’d learned at an early age: you do not run, for the man-eating predator’s instinct is to give chase. If you stay still you have a better chance of survival. The big cat will sit on its haunches waiting for movement. As it sits, you take aim with your weapon and kill it.
Unfortunately, all he had to fight with was his machete, and it would be no match for a jaguar let alone some giant demon arachnid. If he could find some big rocks he might scare it away, but there were none around him now. Nothing but tree trunks, vines and flowers.
The bushes shook again. Whatever it was drew closer.
Shumba felt a shiver race up his spine. He made a decision. Better to run in this instance than try to fight with the machete.
He turned and fled just as something burst out of the bushes behind him, the sound of rushing feet slapping dirt. As much as he wanted to look back he knew his only hope was to keep his head forward and sprint as fast as he could. Familiar landmarks passed by him—-the rock like a chair, the dip in the ground. He was getting closer to the village. Now the trees were stripped of bark from where the tribesmen had shorn them for rope. The beast behind him drew closer! He could hear it just behind him, could hear its ragged, hungry breathing.
Shumba turned and s wung his machete, crying out in panic.
A hand caught his wrist in mid swing, brought his arm down to his side with delicate strength.
“Shumba! Why are you trying to kill me!”
It was his father, carrying a large, dead snake over his shoulder. Shumba began to shake, and buried his face into his father’s belly.
“So why did you and your wife get divorced?” Jack hopped over a small sinkhole of mud. The waterfall was drawing closer, but the top of the mountain still seemed a hell of a long way off. It was going to be a workout getting up there.
Ahead of him, Derek huffed as he cradled his camera bag and ducked low vines. “Dunno. Pretty sure just because everyone else was doing it. I don’t think they should call it marriage anymore.”
“What should they call it?”
“Leasing pussy.”
Jack laughed. This Derek guy wasn’t so bad. Not that photographers generally were, but he’d been on enough travel assignments to know you rolled the dice and hoped you didn’t wind up with the snooty artist you wanted to punch in the mouth.
“So it just got boring then? Or is there something you’re not telling me.”
“She wanted to fuck other guys.”
“And you couldn’t swing that into a mutually beneficial situation?”
“Yeah well, not in a swingers way. I mean
What was he going to tell his father and mother? They would not believe that giant spiders were jumping down from the Old Man into the lower jungle. They’d think he ’d eaten some bad berries (as was the joke they often told the White Men to get a laugh). His mother and father knew him to be honest, but even a history of truthfulness would not allow them to trust such a wild story.
He resumed his walk, occasionally swinging his machete to clear fronds that had fallen over his tracks. Eventually he found the signs of the footpath that led to his village. It was a path invisible to the untrained eye, but Shumba’s father had taught him what to look for.
All around him the jungle sang its familiar song. Trees swaying, bugs clicking, branches creaking, and always the distant cries of monkeys and birds. These were the sounds he liked to fall asleep to at night.
Something shuffled in the trees behind him. He looked back, saw nothing. Perhaps another rodent, looking for some food. He waited, watching.
There!
A hundred meters away. The bushes shaking. Something big rustling in them. Immediately he thought of the spiders. But it could also be a cat. Both thoughts scared him to death and he wanted to run, to burst through the trees back to his village, but he was sure this would only encourage the creature to attack. This he’d learned at an early age: you do not run, for the man-eating predator’s instinct is to give chase. If you stay still you have a better chance of survival. The big cat will sit on its haunches waiting for movement. As it sits, you take aim with your weapon and kill it.
Unfortunately, all he had to fight with was his machete, and it would be no match for a jaguar let alone some giant demon arachnid. If he could find some big rocks he might scare it away, but there were none around him now. Nothing but tree trunks, vines and flowers.
The bushes shook again. Whatever it was drew closer.
Shumba felt a shiver race up his spine. He made a decision. Better to run in this instance than try to fight with the machete.
He turned and fled just as something burst out of the bushes behind him, the sound of rushing feet slapping dirt. As much as he wanted to look back he knew his only hope was to keep his head forward and sprint as fast as he could. Familiar landmarks passed by him—-the rock like a chair, the dip in the ground. He was getting closer to the village. Now the trees were stripped of bark from where the tribesmen had shorn them for rope. The beast behind him drew closer! He could hear it just behind him, could hear its ragged, hungry breathing.
Shumba turned and s wung his machete, crying out in panic.
A hand caught his wrist in mid swing, brought his arm down to his side with delicate strength.
“Shumba! Why are you trying to kill me!”
It was his father, carrying a large, dead snake over his shoulder. Shumba began to shake, and buried his face into his father’s belly.
“So why did you and your wife get divorced?” Jack hopped over a small sinkhole of mud. The waterfall was drawing closer, but the top of the mountain still seemed a hell of a long way off. It was going to be a workout getting up there.
Ahead of him, Derek huffed as he cradled his camera bag and ducked low vines. “Dunno. Pretty sure just because everyone else was doing it. I don’t think they should call it marriage anymore.”
“What should they call it?”
“Leasing pussy.”
Jack laughed. This Derek guy wasn’t so bad. Not that photographers generally were, but he’d been on enough travel assignments to know you rolled the dice and hoped you didn’t wind up with the snooty artist you wanted to punch in the mouth.
“So it just got boring then? Or is there something you’re not telling me.”
“She wanted to fuck other guys.”
“And you couldn’t swing that into a mutually beneficial situation?”
“Yeah well, not in a swingers way. I mean
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