Chapter Thirteen

"Doctor Booker, I presume..." the Sangoma said in melodious, African-accented English.

"I see my fame has preceded me." Methos forced a sardonic smile. "Matthew Booker."

The Sangoma inclined her head once and the movement was almost -- but not quite -- demure. Playing at demure, more likely. He'd done it a time or two himself, but it didn't stop him wondering what her game was.

"Kumari Asenge," she replied simply, introducing herself. Not without a degree of arrogance, Methos noticed.

Allessandro appeared at her side, closing a proprietary hand around her elbow. Methos didn't miss the flicker of distaste in her face that was there and gone in a second. The captain whispered something in her ear that Methos didn't catch and, ignoring him completely, led her away in the direction of one of the other huts. She went without a backward glance. He wasn't sorry to see them go.

Holding himself in tightly, Methos pushed away from the doorframe and staggered back across the compound to his hut. It wasn't hard to fake being injured with the tremors still running the length of his body. He just needed a moment alone -- just to be by himself and....

Then he was inside the hut, in the cool, rank dark with only his and Serao's silent presence. At last -- at last -- Methos let himself go, let himself feel the fear he'd been holding in. No longer constrained, the tremors worked their way through him, shaking his body violently until he leaned back against the hut wall and sank to the floor.

Even pulling breath into his lungs was an effort, it came shaking and shuddering through a space suddenly too small to convey it. Before he knew why, his hand was rubbing over his throat, as if he could rub away the lingering touch of the blade against his skin. Too close, too bloody close that time. And it was his own stupid fault for not taking the situation seriously enough.

Allessandro was just a mortal. They were all just mortals, no real threat to him. Yeah, right. He had to get out of there as soon as possible. Sooner. The shaking gradually settled and Methos pushed up from the ground and took a deep breath, pulling himself together.

A small sound reached him then, a tiny noise that might have been the sighing of the wind through the thatched roof, but wasn't. His head snapped toward the sound and he almost groaned out loud. Ruyz. Just who he wanted to see. In hell. The fear evaporated and anger rushed in to take its place.

"You've got balls the size of tsamma melons coming in here, after setting me up like that, Ruyz," Methos snarled as he kneeled beside Serao and began to check his vitals.

"It was no set-up! I didn't know what he was going to do." And damn if the man didn't sound almost sincere enough to believe. But only almost.

"Bull. Shit," Methos threw back, studying a tiny swelling at the site where the drip entered Serao's skin. He didn't bother to look up at the other man as he went on, "Why did you tell me Serao was his brother if it wasn't to set me up? He nearly took my fucking head off when I mentioned it. Are you going to tell me what the game is here, or do I need to guess?" The IV bag was all but dry and Methos frowned at it. It was too much of a reminder that time was passing and he was still here. There was a sharp edge in his voice he couldn't be bothered to hide as he said, "If you're going to stand around in here, will you at least pass me that bag behind you?"

Ruyz passed it silently and Methos avoided looking at him. He'd already been far too open with this man. It was dangerous, especially as the lieutenant's personal agenda seemed so unclear. Methos just wanted to stay well out of the whole mess until he could find some way out of this bloody nightmare. He should remember to keep his damn mouth shut. Finding the bag of fluid he was looking for in the pack, Methos stood and replaced the empty one.

"How is he?" Ruyz asked. Neatly avoiding, Methos noticed, answering any of his questions.

"You first," Methos shot back, his temper still simmering.

Ruyz sighed and spread his hands, shrugging a little. "It is...complicated."

"I'm smarter than I look -- try me." Methos glared at the lieutenant, folding his arms across his chest.

Ruyz looked him up and down, clearly still deciding. At last he shook his head. "It's not for me to tell -- I'm sorry. Some things it's better not to know."

Methos snorted with annoyance, but let it go. He had more important things to worry about anyway.

Ruyz looked down at Serao again. "Is he any better?"

"Perhaps...maybe a little better with some fluids in him. I can't help him here, you know that, don't you? He needs a hospital. If we don't get him to a medical facility, eventually he will die." Methos let himself look as if an idea had just struck him. "You know...I could take him to the hospital in Cuito Cuanavale... I'd only need a jeep--wouldn't even need to take a driver." He considered blinking ingenuously, then decided it might be overkill. He looked straight into Ruyz's eyes instead.

Ruyz's face darkened, his brows drawing together. "Don't play me for a fool, Doctor. You aren't taking him out of here. Allessandro will never allow it. Make him well -- it's the only chance you have."

Methos didn't even have to look to see the lie in that. "So, I make our catatonic friend here all better and Allessandro lets me go with a pat on the back and a hearty handshake?" Methos exaggerated the captain's accent to the point of parody: "So sorry for the inconvenience, my friend. Do drop by again." He rolled his eyes. "Do I really look stupid enough to believe that?"

"What do you want me to do?" Ruyz yelled, the repressed fury suddenly exploding on his face. "You think you the only one caught between a rock and a hard place? You keep him happy -- you stay alive." Ruyz whirled on his heel and stormed out.

Methos bit back his reply, his teeth clenched so tight they ached. Shoving his anger down deep inside, he went back to tending his patient, his mind ticking over with thoughts of escape.

He was just turning Serao onto his side when the sound of footsteps on the packed-earth floor made him turn around. He was half-expecting it to be Ruyz again, and felt his face tighten in anticipation of a snarl, but instead the Sangoma stood in the doorway, holding aside the ragged curtain -- a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight behind her.

Methos stood and turned to her. "Good morning again."

She smiled and stepped inside, coming closer to stand beside the low cot. She looked down at the man lying there and for a second there was that same flicker of ice-coldness -- the look of a sleeping serpent -- in her eyes, gone just as quickly. "He is the same? No change?"

Methos shook his head. "Not really."

"I will talk to him. Perhaps his ancestors will have something to tell me." She took out a cow tail fly-whisk and shook it over Serao, flicking it at his forehead, chest, belly and feet, beginning a low incantation in...Matabele? Zulu...? No, Xhosa. Back and forth the fly-whisk switched, snapping against Serao's bare skin, the incantation rising and falling in time with the sway of the Sangoma's body. Methos watched, slowly drawn into the rhythm.

Minutes passed before she brought the fly-whisk to halt with a sharp crack in the air above Serao and a shout that jolted Methos back to full awareness. He shook his head slightly as if waking from a dream. The song and the swaying of the woman's body had been almost hypnotizing. A prickle of discomfort raised the short hairs at the back of his neck and he looked up from Serao to the Sangoma. She was watching him thoughtfully.

"I expected this," she said, tucking the whisk back into her waist with the myriad of small bags, gourds and implements that hung there. "There is much evil around him. What has he told you, Dr Booker?"

Methos shook his head. "He doesn't speak -- doesn't respond to anything. Surely they told you that already." No point in pretending that she hadn't already had an extensive discussion with Allessandro on the subject.

"And yet the sick speak in other ways," she answered, ignoring the barb.

"Of course. This one tells me--" he is dying for no reason that I can see "--that I haven't found the right treatment, yet. I have only been here one day, these things take time."

"He has no time -- like you."

Methos lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes at her. What did she know?

"I know how you came to be here. I know you are a prisoner."

Methos shrugged, so she knew that -- it was hardly a secret. "There are many other places I would rather be. You too, I suspect. This isn't the safest place in Africa for either of us to practice." He saw the small look of satisfaction cross her face and knew he'd chosen his words well.

"I go where I am needed. As you do." She stepped back from the cot, half-turning away from him. "There is much to do. I will speak to the ancestors on behalf of this man and I must prepare." Without waiting for a response, she left the hut, the only sound the faint, snakelike rattle of beads swinging in time with her strides.

Methos watched her go, his sense of foreboding inexplicably increased. Suddenly the hut was close and stifling -- he needed fresh air. He glanced down at his patient once more and, seeing him to be as still as ever, walked outside.

The midday sun hit him like a wall of pure heat and he paused, turning his face up to the sun, feeling it warm him through, bone-deep, though the sting of it on his skin wasn't far behind. He endured it anyway; the heat was cleansing somehow, after the rank closeness of the hut. Methos breathed deeply, something tight inside him loosening a little as if the heat of the sun was melting it.

Or perhaps it was simply being away from Serao; the sensation -- he hated to call it a premonition -- of...danger he had felt on first coming near to the man hadn't dissipated, although he was doing his best to ignore it. Whatever it was, he felt better the further away he was. Of course, if he could have got as far away as he would have liked, he would have been very much happier indeed.

Mauritius was nice this time of the year.

With that thought bringing a small, ironic smile to his lips, Methos walked off across the compound. He didn't have to turn around to know that Cheya was behind him, shadowing his every step. Methos ignored him and strolled towards the cooking area. He could hear the crunch of his guard's feet on the hard ground as they walked.

The fire was out and the pots deserted at that time of the day; the women off doing other work. Methos scooped a cup of water from the bucket sitting nearby and took the dented tin cup over to the shade of a tree. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, leaning his back against the tree, Methos drank the water and tried to gather his thoughts.

There had to be some way to use the Sangoma's arrival to his advantage. He'd seen the kind of ceremony the traditional healers used before, although it was long ago. He was pretty sure the ceremonies hadn't changed much. Sometime later, probably at sunset, the Sangoma would begin by casting the bones and then, quite probably, an animal sacrifice would be called for, for a sickness of this magnitude. There would be noise, singing, magic, blood...death. Something for everyone...

As distractions went, he could have done worse.

Methos was tapping a fingertip against the rim of his cup, walking through escape scenarios in his mind, when footsteps shuffled behind him. Cheya. Methos turned around and glared at him.

"Cheya, will you either sit down or go away?" he growled in exasperation. Cheya blinked at him and did neither. Turning back around, Methos studiously ignored the silent young soldier. But he was still there, a solid, khaki-clad presence at his back, as obvious as if he was standing right in front of him. Methos gritted his teeth over the urge to yell at the boy in Umbundu so he'd at least understand. He managed to resist though; now, more than ever, he needed whatever small edge he could get.

A slow, deep breath in and out and Methos focused his concentration once more, shutting out the annoying presence at his back. So, if he escaped during the ceremony tonight, what then? He needed transport, a weapon (preferably more than one, but he wasn't going to be greedy about it) and some local knowledge about the roads and especially the landmines.

He glanced casually over towards Allessandro's hut from under cover of his eyelashes, pretending to pick at the patches of dried blood still covering his now truly disgusting t-shirt. The hut had easy access from the compound, nothing at all in the way of security; it wouldn't be hard at all to slip in there and steal what he needed while the camp's attention was focused elsewhere.

But then what?

If he could find what he needed, and that was a big if -- he didn't for a second imagine it would be easy -- then he still needed to get the hell out of there without being caught by his erstwhile hosts. He would have to get from the hut to one of the decrepit vehicles parked down near the road. Difficult -- but not impossible.

Cheya coughed and shuffled behind him again and Methos sighed, pushing his plotting to the back of his mind for the moment. He turned to face the young soldier once more. "Don't you have somewhere you'd rather be?"

Cheya blinked at him for a moment, his thick brows drawing together. "I stay with you. I...have...orders," he answered, the effort of his halting Portuguese sounding almost painful.

Methos rolled his eyes, muttering, "Yes, of course you do. We can't have anyone disobeying orders now can we?" He unfolded himself from the ground and walked off towards his hut, still muttering to himself like a madman. Cheya's footsteps plodded behind him. He was never going to get a moment alone at this rate.

He had stopped to put the cup back with the water bucket when the Sangoma swept from Allessandro's hut, closely followed by the captain himself. They headed straight across the compound to Serao's hut and went inside. Even from where he stood, Methos could their raised voices arguing. What the hell? He bent to tie his bootlace, stalling for time as he listened. Whatever was going on, at this point there was no such thing as too much information -- he would take what he could get and decide later whether it was of any use.

He wasn't close enough to hear well, so he stood again and strolled casually towards the hut. The argument was still going on as he reached the hut's doorway. As Methos expected, a large, heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him from entering the hut. Predictability was a wonderful thing. He shrugged and stood by the doorway instead, listening.

He heard Allessandro shout, "You must not let him die!"

The Sangoma's voice returned, soft and calm, "I will do my best, but this feud you have with your brother has angered the spirits greatly. They will decide if he's to be called back to them."

"No!" Methos could hear the stubborn refusal in Allessandro's voice, could almost imagine him stamping his foot like a child. "He is no brother of mine."

"Does blood matter when you have been raised at the same woman's breast? When she called you both 'son'? When you have called him 'brother' all your life? Do not anger the spirits further, Faustino. He is your brother -- let your anger go."

"He betrayed me. Ruined everything." Allessandro's voice was almost too quiet to hear all of a sudden, a low, desperate hiss of pure hatred. "He stole from the revolution -- from me -- and I will have it back!" His voice rose slowly with every word until the last was spat so loudly Methos heard it echo across the compound.

"And when you do?"

"That is none of your concern!"

"I must know everything if you want my help." The Sangoma's voice was still as calm as ever and Methos had to admire her restraint.

"Once I had a command to be proud of -- men and equipment -- respect, rank, a future. Then he came back and stole a shipment of diamonds entrusted to me. They said I had taken it myself, that it was my fault. Now I am stuck out here with these idiots and it is all his fault!"

Methos heard a shuffle and a gasp, a thud like flesh being struck. He rushed in before Cheya could stop him.

Allessandro had his hands around Serao's throat, lifting the unconscious man's head and shoulders off the cot and shoving them back down again hard. "Give me back the diamonds, Jonas, you bastard!"

And then there was the odd familiar sensation of time speeding up and slowing down at the same time. Methos was moving, but at the same time taking in everything going on around him. He could see Allessandro throttling his brother, Serao's head flopping back and forth limply -- no resistance at all. The captain was screaming still and Methos was sure he was flying towards them, but it felt so slow. And the Sangoma -- Kumari -- was standing off to one side, strangely passive.

While a part of his mind wondered at that, Methos reached the screaming man at last and closed a hand around his upper arm, pulling him away from Serao. Allessandro released his brother and swung at Methos. He ducked under the blow, and swept his foot under Allessandro's, knocking him to the ground. The urge to keep going, to beat the little bastard's head in was strong, almost irresistible with the man was lying at his feet, but Methos pulled himself back from it, panting with the effort.

Ruyz burst into the hut, shock on his face as his eyes connected with Methos' and flicked to the man lying on the floor. "Get back!" he ordered Methos, drawing a revolver from the small of his back and clicking the safety off in a single smooth motion.

Methos spread his hands and stepped back as far as he could. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, his mouth dry as he gasped breath into it. He watched as, with a warning look, Ruyz half-lifted the dazed captain to his feet and, with one arm around him, shepherded him outside.

Closing his eyes, Methos tipped his head back and rolled the tension out of his shoulders, breathing deeply. Fuck, what a mess this whole business was. Straightening, he glanced down at Serao; the man was half out of the bed, but still breathing and seeming none the worse for the encounter, though that wasn't saying much. Methos slipped his hands under Serao's arms and hauled him back into the bed, running a practiced finger over the IV line to check it was still in place.

"You didn't have to stop Allessandro," the Sangoma said quietly. "That was a great risk you took for him." She nodded down at Serao, her eyes questioning as they flicked up to meet Methos' again.

For him? Not bloody likely. Methos suppressed the urge to scoff and simply shrugged instead, his gaze slipping away from hers. Serao could go hang as far as he was concerned, but if the man died before Methos could escape, he would be one fairly superfluous doctor. And quite possibly dead.

The Sangoma nodded. She bent and picked up the beaded bag Methos had seen when she'd arrived and moved to stand by Serao. "It is time to cast the bones." She opened the bag and laid a woven cloth on the ground, then placed four small, rough wooden tablets on it. They were covered with combinations of lines, some whole, some broken, eerily reminiscent of divining tools he'd seen many other cultures. She glanced up over her shoulder and dismissed him, "You can go now, Doctor. I have many things to do."

Methos lingered a moment longer, then turned and left the hut, distinctly uneasy.

***

Darkness had fallen almost too quickly. One minute the red-orange sunset was flaming in the sky over the treetops -- the next it was completely dark. A massive fire had been laid in the center of the compound and it leapt high into the darkness. The people of the camp were gathering, a sense of expectation in the air that reached even him. Of course, Methos' expectation was due to something quite different. All being well, he would be out of there in a few hours.

He'd spent the remainder of the afternoon bored and restless, edgy with anticipation and not a little fear. He was under no illusions as to how much potential his plan had to go really, badly wrong. But the alternative was no alternative at all, so he had to try.

A bustle of movement near Serao's hut caught his eye. The Sangoma was there, leading the way for two soldiers carrying the unconscious man on a litter. The small crowd went quiet and Methos drew closer, tailed as always by his guard. Serao was laid down next to the fire and the Sangoma turned her back on him and lifted the gourd rattles she held to the sky.

For a moment the silence was absolute; it seemed even the crickets in the bush had gone quiet in expectation. Then, breaking the silence with a stamp of her foot and a quick, hard shake of the rattles, the Sangoma began to dance. It was the music of his dreams, making him shiver with recognition. A lone drumbeat, rapid as a runner's heart, joined in.

Methos settled against the doorway of the hut opposite Allessandro's, just leaning there, ostensibly watching the ceremony like everyone else. The dance grew more complicated, the woman's body twisting and spinning, darting around Serao's prone body. Methos' feet itched to move -- to make his move -- but it wasn't time yet.

The dance went on, the flames casting the Sangoma in bronze as they flickered over her skin. The beads of her skirt flew out around her hips, rising and falling as she leapt and spun in time with the drum. He could feel the rhythm vibrating through the ground beneath his feet. Methos glanced about the crowd, his eyes picking out the location of Allessandro and Ruyz.

He found them easily enough; they were in the front row around the fire, watching the Sangoma avidly. No problem there, although Cheya was still close by, probably distracted, but not blind. Still not an insurmountable problem. There was time.

The dance finished at last with the Sangoma hurling something into the fire that made sparks fountain high into the air and the crowd gasp collectively. The Sangoma stood perfectly still for several moments, then nodded once to someone Methos couldn't quite see, off to one side of the row of huts.

A woman appeared, leading a white goat by a rope tied around its neck. Methos tensed imperceptibly, it wouldn't be long now....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Fourteen Back to Main Page Back to Contents