Chapter Fourteen

Methos scanned the crowd -- every eye was upon the Sangoma as she took the rope from the woman and led the goat to Serao's side. She drew a long knife with a curved blade from her waistband and brandished it high over her head. Just a few moments longer and he would begin to move. Anticipation was pulsing through him and he gritted his teeth in his dry mouth.

The Sangoma wound the rope around and around her fist, lifting the goat's head higher with each twist. She began to chant -- her voice deep and strong, gliding over the clicks and glottals of her language. Something about the words she was speaking struck him as odd, but he filed it away to think about later, because the time to move was now.

He edged away from the hut against which he'd been leaning and strolled nearer to the crowd, as if wanting a closer look. So far, so good -- Cheya hadn't followed and no-one else seemed to have noticed him yet. He drifted through the edges of the crowd, deliberate slow and casual, no matter how much his feet itched to hurry.

He paused to glance at the tableau before the fire -- just for a second -- he couldn't stand still any longer than that before moving on. The Sangoma was still chanting; then she stopped with a sharp shout. Despite himself, Methos jumped at the sudden noise, though he kept moving. Another glance over his shoulder caught the exact moment when the knife slashed down and slit the goat's throat open, showering blood -- black in the firelight -- over Serao's body.

Methos worked his way through the small crowd, still slow, still careful, coming closer with every step to Allessandro's hut. He ignored the small, panicky voice at the back of his mind that was shrieking at him to hurry, turning his attention outward instead. The short, deep silence that had met the sacrifice was over and the Sangoma's voice rose once more. The ceremony would go on for many hours yet. The slaughtered goat had yet to be butchered and eaten, after the choicest bits were offered to the spirits, of course.

And then he was inside the hut at last, relieved, but unable to relax just yet. He paused for several racing heartbeats longer just inside the doorway, until he was sure he had not been followed, then walked fully inside the hut. The interior was pitch dark. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the penlight he'd appropriated from the retrieval pack, the one he'd been using earlier to check Serao's pupils. It wasn't much of a light, but far better than nothing in the utter darkness.

He went to the long bench where he'd seen the mess of papers earlier that day -- over on the left hand side of the hut. Holding the tiny flashlight low over the bench, Methos rummaged through the papers. Come on, come on, come on...where the hell are you hiding...? Orders, memos, transcribed radio reports, files...but no maps.

Methos looked around the rest of the hut. The desk? It was worth a try. He slipped around behind the wooden desk and lowered the penlight to shed its meager glow on the underside. Aside from the compartment under the desktop, which he remembered only too well, there was a column of three drawers running down the right-hand side that he hadn't noticed that morning. The memory sent a fresh flood of adrenaline through his system.

They were all locked, he discovered, tugging on each handle quickly. Damn. Not entirely unexpected, but all the same, damn.

Leaving the drawers for the moment, Methos lifted the hinged desktop. Relief flashed through him briefly when there was no severed hand lying in wait, then he spotted the pistol. Yes! He closed his hand around it gratefully, picking it up and checking it; it was fully loaded -- thank god -- and he shoved it into his waistband at the small of his back. There were no spare clips that he could see, but he could make do with what he had.

He went back to rummaging through the compartment. No keys that he could see, though, no handy letter opener or scissors either to jemmy the locks open. Shit. He would just have to improvise, he thought as he closed the desktop, though it was going to slow him down even more.

He wedged the gun butt against the drawer handle and struck down hard with the heel of his hand. The old wood gave way, splintering and cracking as the drawer came open. And then his torch went out. Cursing under his breath, Methos shook it hard and tapped it on the desk. The feeble light reappeared and he let go the breath he'd been holding.

Able to see again, he stood and began to rifle through the drawer. Crap, crap, porn, crap... Did these people keep nothing of value? At the bottom of the drawer there was a battered manila folder. Acutely aware of the passage of time, but unable to shake the certainty that this was important, Methos picked it up and flipped it open on the desk, leafing rapidly through the contents.

No maps, no location data on local minefields, just pages and pages of records -- immaculately kept -- much more so than anything else he'd found. Scanning the papers for anything useful, his gut did a strange little twist as a familiar name caught his eye. Djube Hussuf. What the hell? Next to Djube's name was the chopper's radio call sign -- he'd flown with the pilot too many times not to recognize that. And then there were a number of entries -- dates, dollar amounts and something that looked like it might be carat weights. He stared at the ledger and blinked in disbelief.

It was puzzling, but every second he wondered about it was a second he wasn't using to get away, so he forced his questions to the back of his mind and went back to his search. But the questions refused to lie quietly until he had time to think about them, images flashing through his mind of Allessandro digging through the retrieval pack at the crash site and pulling out the envelope full of currency. Djube could have put it there easily. His gut twisted even more with the sick certainty of having been set up by a friend.

Methos shook off the feeling with an effort; it wasn't like it was the first time it had happened, nor, he supposed, would it be the last. Didn't make him any happier about it though. He put the folder aside and went back to looking.

If he didn't find something soon he was going to have to wing it without the map. He really had no time to waste and even knowing the location of the minefields that the rebels knew about was no guarantee he'd avoid stumbling into one they didn't, he knew that. But a degree of safety was always better than none at all.

He forced open the next drawer. Several untidily folded maps were crammed inside. Pay dirt at last and about bloody time too. He grabbed a handful and spread them over the desk, trying to work out if they were what he was after. Snatching up one that looked promising, he folded it up and stuffed it into a pocket in his pants.

The penlight went out again, he shook it, but this time it wouldn't revive. He stuffed it back in his pocket; he didn't really need it anymore. His heart hammering, armpits prickling, Methos slipped to the doorway. Now was the really hard part -- getting the hell out of there.

He peered out the doorway -- the ceremony still went on, firelight revealing the butchered goat, just visible through the people standing around the blaze. All attention seemed to be on the Sangoma, who was dancing again, exhorting the spirits above the beat of the single drum. More acutely aware than ever of the seconds ticking by, he crept out of the hut and headed through the narrow passage between Allessandro's hut and the next. Turning towards the road, Methos made his way behind the row of huts, long, dew-wet grass catching at his bare calves.

The olive-drab vehicles loomed out of the darkness as he neared the end of the row, his eyes darting left and right for any sign of a guard. The wide clearing was empty, except for the six or so vehicles parked haphazardly around. An old jeep was the closest and he headed for it, scoping a path out of there even as his boots skimmed across the damp ground. He swung himself into it, pulling the pistol from his back in the same motion. Now he just had to get the damn thing started.

He laid the pistol on the seat beside him as he bent his head to hotwire the engine. It had been a while, but this was one very old jeep -- nothing he couldn't deal with. There was a noise and a flurry of movement beside him, coming out of nowhere. He whipped around to grab the pistol and sat up in one rapid move. Not fast enough though. He had a flash of a man, a uniform, a raised rifle; he squeezed off a single bullet in desperation, knowing he was too close, aware of the shot going wild before the rifle butt slammed into his forehead.

Pain exploded in his brain, a cacophony of light and sound and color before it all faded into black.

***

It was warm in the dark, warm and soft in the undemanding sweetness of the arms that held him. He curled into the dark warmth, into the arms, into a place of such utter safety, that even in the drifting of his mind he knew it had never existed. Not for him... But it was good there -- so good to let the facades drop away...dissolve...and just be. Methos floated in the sensation, bathing himself in it -- clinging to it -- an awareness just out of reach that this was not real, and that pain was not very far away.

He turned away from the pain, back into the darkest part of the darkness, feeling himself merge with it -- all the edges and margins of his body beginning to blur, disappear. Dying? Even as the thought floated across his mind he rejected it; his death could never be so gentle. Not dying then...just fading away.... Kinder than he'd ever hoped for, ever dared to dream.

But in the blurring there was loss -- something vital slipping away -- and suddenly the dark warmth seemed sinister and smothering. His heart began to beat very fast and loud, echoing around the dark place until it was all there was. He reached out, wanting to close his hands around something -- anything -- but he was formless, no substance at all. Terror rose up his throat, only there was no throat -- no mouth to scream it out with.

Fear now, just fear, spiking hot and cold through him, through where his body used to be. Strange that he could feel only the fear in this body that was no longer, but wherever he was in this dark, weightless place, all the rules he'd ever known -- rules that belonged to another reality entirely -- did not apply. It was all new and the fear pulsed even more fiercely through him.

What are you?

The question echoed through the darkness, startlingly clear above the frenzied pounding of his heart. He knew his formless form had gone still, but not how. Unexpected, to hear a voice here, here where he had no voice, where the only sound was his own fear. Perhaps that's what it was, the voice of his fear, wondering not for the first time whether the masks and facades had been worn so long that they were all there was.

Maybe that was what this was, he had let the masks slip away and now he was adrift, amorphous, disappearing into the void. And it was tempting to let it all go, despite the fear, to just let the darkness blend with his own until they were one. But he clung to himself, desperate to draw in the scattered parts of his self before they disappeared.

What are you?

This time the answer came, though he would have sworn he had no mouth to speak it: I am alive, he said, giving the only answer that had ever been true. I am alive. The answer echoed around the void, but the echoes would not fade away but instead grew louder and louder -- painfully loud with a sudden rush of agony dividing him from the darkness. The pain welled up, past bearing, almost past surviving, until the vastness of the agony destroyed him and he felt himself blow apart, somehow seeing every molecule of his body explode -- eye-splittingly bright against the darkness of the void.

Like waking from a dream of falling, Methos shuddered back into his body. Still disoriented, his limbs flailed, striking hard surfaces on all sides. His eyes flew open and he squinted into the unexpected daylight.

What the hell?

He must have been out to it for hours; the sun was high above him -- high above the hole where he was trapped. Shifting as much as the tiny space would allow, Methos examined his prison. Less a hole than a cage set into well into the ground, it was barely four feet in any direction. Rising to a squat, he pushed up on the top of the cage, curling his fingers around the warm, metal bars, knowing it was probably futile, but unable to stop himself trying anyway.

Of course it didn't shift.

A shadow fell across his prison. "Well, well, well... Look who is awake at last." Allessandro looked down at him; smug and sneering in a way that made Methos wish he'd kicked the shit out of the little bastard when he'd had the chance. "You are far more trouble than you are worth, Doctor--"

Methos cut him off: "Let me the hell out of here!" Utter futility, but he was getting desperate. This hole felt far too much like a grave.

"I don't think so," Allessandro said, unsurprisingly. "I think we will keep you where we can find you until someone pays us for your worthless carcass. It was a mistake to think you could be of use to us in any other way."

"And your--" Methos almost bit his tongue off at the slip, "Comrade Serao? What of him?"

Allessandro smiled coldly. "The Sangoma will heal him -- she has already begun. You should be grateful to her; she saved your life."

Methos raised an eyebrow, daring the captain to go on.

"We thought you were dead, after Corporal Cheya...stopped you, but the witch is quite a talented healer. She spoke to the spirits of your ancestors, gave you a little muti and you were back with us in no time."

Methos narrowed his eyes and glared up at Allessandro. He was quite sure he was back in no time, no thanks to that charlatan. He would have really loved to know what her game was, but not as much as he wanted to get the fuck out of there. And what the hell had she given him? He would have bet real money that whatever it had been was responsible for his little trip into the void. He realized that Allessandro was still speaking, but all he caught was the end.

"...so make yourself at home, Doctor...you may be there for a while."

Methos couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a weapon in his hand more. He restrained himself -- barely -- from spitting at Allessandro's retreating figure. Instead, he conserved the moisture and his energy and sat back down, leaning back against the side of the cage.

What a bloody mess this was. The heat and humidity were building up inside the hole and with no shade and no water, with the sun at its highest overhead, he was facing a miserably slow, painful slide into heatstroke and dehydration until night fell. He sighed pointlessly; if life was like a novel, this would be the point where the hero came riding to the rescue.

Of course, heroes were fairly thin on the ground these days, especially ones with a reason to rescue his sorry backside. Methos banged his head back against the bars of the cage -- hard -- he was an idiot for even starting that train of thought. The only person he knew who even came close to being in the habit of riding to the rescue was MacLeod, and Methos wasn't -- really wasn't -- going to start thinking about him.

He'd avoided thinking about him through this whole mess, well almost, and he'd be a fool to start now. Methos leaned his head back, gently this time, and began to plot a way out of there. Or tried to. Fine -- he was a fool. Bloody MacLeod.

Another shadow slid across him. Methos shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted up, almost grateful for the interruption to his thoughts. Well, well...look who we have here....

"Ms Asenge."

"Dr Booker."

"My, aren't we formal all of a sudden... Do have a seat, my cage is your cage, so to speak."

The Sangoma sank down to sit on the ground beside the hole and looked down at him. The costume was gone and today she was dressed much like the other women in the camp, looking almost ordinary.

"So...what can I do for you?" Methos asked casually, as if he wasn't sitting in a cage in a hole in the ground. "I hear the ceremony went well."

She smiled coolly. "Yes, it did. And you? Are you well? That was a very near thing last night." The words were innocuous enough, but there was something in her tone that told him she was fishing.

"As well as could be expected, considering...." Methos gestured about his prison with one hand. "I hear I have you to thank for that."

She inclined her head. "The spirits were listening."

"Luckily for me." Bored with fencing already, Methos tried the direct route. "So what did you give me? Allessandro said you gave me uMuthi."

A patronizing smile widened her mouth, but didn't reach her eyes. "You know I can't tell you that."

He hadn't seriously expected her to. She said something then in Xhosa, muttering to herself under her breath. He didn't catch what it was, but the phrase triggered a memory from the night before: her words as she'd prepared to make the sacrifice. Something had seemed wrong at the time but he hadn't spared the time to think about it then. The Sangoma should have been asking the spirits to heal the man, to bless him and bring him back to the world. But she hadn't been; the words -- as far as he could translate them -- were a curse instead.

What was she up to? And how could he use it to his own advantage? Deciding to take a gamble, he asked, "And can you tell me why you called on the spirits to curse Serao last night?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw her eyes widen as she fixed them on him. "You speak Xhosa?" she asked tightly.

"Yes." He kept his tone, and his expression, bland. "You knew Serao before, didn't you?" It was a leap, but the right one, he thought.

"I don't know what you mean. I think you don't speak my language nearly as well as you think you do. You are mistaken, Doctor." The words tumbled out in a flurry; she was clearly flustered and moved as if to stand up.

"Wait! Kumari...don't go yet," Methos said in Xhosa, making it closer to an order than a plea. "Stay." She paused and looked at him strangely, but made no further move to leave. "Tell me what's going on. I think we could help each other."

She looked down at him in his cage and raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I don't think you're in a position to help anyone, Doctor." She rose smoothly from the ground. "Sala kahule," she threw over her shoulder as she stalked away.

Stay in peace... Methos translated. Very fucking funny. Well, that had gone not quite as well as he had expected. But it could have been worse too. He just had to be patient. She'd be back.

***

It was a long, long time between midday and sunset. Each elongated hour seemed days long as the sun sucked every drop of moisture from his body one molecule at a time. He had taken his t-shirt off hours ago, tying the ragged fabric to the bars above him, giving himself some shade -- but no real respite from the heat. He was being baked from the inside out in this oven. He'd stopped sweating a while back, never a good sign, and his tongue was thick in his dry mouth. Gods, he was so thirsty. But night would fall soon, already there was a trace of coolness in the still air, slightly damp with the promise of dew. He just had to hang on a little longer....

He wasn't sure if he was dozing or minutes from unconsciousness when the canteen dropped into his lap. But the impact of the heavy bottle woke him and he looked up, startled to see the Sangoma there. The sun was setting; he was in shadow now and she was a dark shape above him. He had the canteen open in an instant, barely restraining himself from draining the whole thing in one gulp. Instead he sipped from it slowly, feeling the coolness spread through his burning body.

"Thank you," he rasped and drank a little more.

Above him, the Sangoma nodded silently.

She wasn't here out of the goodness of her heart; she wanted something, that was for sure. It was just a question of what. Methos screwed the cap back onto the canteen and set it aside -- who knew when he would get more? "How is he?" Methos asked, betting he didn't have to specify which 'who'.

"He is in terrible pain." And was that a note of satisfaction he could hear in her voice? Oh, yes. Just the barest undertone.

"And naturally you're treating him to the best of your ability."

"Naturally." The affronted tone was nearly sincere too. "I have studied my art for many, many years."

"And I'm sure you are highly skilled." It never failed to amaze him how much better even a little water could make him feel; his mind was functioning again, clear and sharp. He was going to need it if they were going to fence again. "You would never use your skill to harm and not help."

"Of course not."

"Never?" Drawing a long bow now, but something about it felt right. "Not even if it would be doing the world a favor? Not even if they had harmed you personally...?" He trailed off and drank a little more of the water, drawing it out slowly.

She was on her feet and stalking away before he could get another word out. Damn. He'd pushed too hard. But he was on the right track.

***

It was another day before anyone came again. Long, scaldingly hot, boring -- far too much time to contemplate the choices that had brought him to this and a certain circularity of the universe that hadn't failed to escape his notice. The water was gone at last and he was just debating whether to drink his own piss to stay alive or just let himself die and revive. Dying wasn't high on his list of preferred options; it made him too vulnerable -- but then having to drink his own piss was never much fun either. He was still tossing it up when he heard footsteps approach.

"Doctor?" It was Ruyz. "Are you there?"

He stifled some highly inappropriate laughter and answered, "I'm sorry, the doctor isn't in right now. Take two aspirin and call back in the morning." Maybe he was going mad again, that would be fun.

Of course Ruyz missed the joke entirely; if the puzzled look on his face when he peered down into the cage was any indicator. "Doctor Booker?"

Another canteen fell into the cage, Methos blinked at it for half a second before he had it open and was drinking deeply. His empty stomach cramped as the fluid hit it, but he kept drinking anyway, only stopping when a quarter was gone. He looked up and replied to the lieutenant at last. "Obrigado," he said and lifted the bottle a little.

"Are you all right?"

"Are you going to let me out of here?"

"You know I can't."

"Then no, I'm not all right. I'm stuck down a fucking hole. Let me out and I'll be much better -- guaranteed."

"Perhaps in a few days--"

"No." Methos had had enough fucking about. He shifted in the cage so he could see Ruyz more clearly. "Not in a few days -- now. What's it worth to you to let me out of here?"

"I. Can't." Tightly controlled anger hummed beneath Ruyz's words.

"Yes. You. Can," Methos answered in the same tone. "You aren't a stupid man, Toko -- you're worth far more than being that lunatic's lackey. Let me out of here, help me -- come with me. I'll make it worth your while. Don't you want to get out this godforsaken war?"

Ruyz was silent for a long moment and Methos began to think that he was getting somewhere. At last he said quietly, "I want this war to be over, yes. But this is my country and I will not leave it. And I will not betray Captain Allessandro."

"Not even if I could make you rich enough to help your people?" Methos said quickly. Desperation was making him reckless.

"Not even if I believed that you could," Ruyz answered. He stood, and looked down into the hole before he added, "I will come again," and walked away.

Methos kicked his foot into the opposite side of the cage in frustration. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

***

There was another ceremony later that night; he could hear the drums and the chanting again, the sound of the Sangoma's voice ringing out, strong and clear. He heard something else too, something that hadn't been there the last time: the shrieks of a man in terrible agony, bloodcurdlingly eloquent. Despite himself, an atavistic shiver ran down his spine. What the hell was going on now?

He listened for a long time, until the sounds died away and he curled up in the bottom of his cage, like an animal, and went to sleep.

The cold, sharp splash of raindrops on his skin woke him up. He rose to his knees and looked up into the sky, blinking as the rain washed the grittiness from his eyes. The shower turned into a deluge in minutes. At first the excess of water made him giddy with relief, he filled the canteens to brimming, then turned his open mouth up to the sky and drank the rain that fell into it. Did anything ever taste so wonderful? He felt it wash the filth from his skin and hair, sheeting down his body.

Then the water began to pool around his calves as he knelt, more mud than water, as the sides of the hole began to melt in the soaking rain. The hole was beginning to fill up, frighteningly fast; water cascading over the side as it came down the hills behind the camp. He shifted to a squat, though it didn't lift him much higher.

Soon the muddy water was swirling around his thighs -- the cold more threatening than refreshing now. The first stirrings of fear shivered through him. This could turn very bad, very fast and there was not much he could do about it. He pushed up on the bars above, fingers searching for the lock, knowing all the while that it was futile, but unable to stop himself anyway. He'd tried the lock yesterday, or was it the day before? Not that it mattered now with the water rising around him -- up to his hips and getting higher with every minute that passed. And the padlock still wouldn't move.

Panic began to grab at his gut then, of all the times he'd died and all the horrible ways that death had taken him, drowning still had the power to terrify him. He'd never known exactly why, but he'd always suspected it had been his first death. And his next, if he didn't get out of there soon. He yelled out, but his voice was soundless above the deluge. Up to his waist now and his thighs began to burn with the strain of squatting in the cramped position. He exiled the pain with a deliberate effort, wishing the fear was so easily managed.

Gods, would this rain never stop?

It was a constant, driving force hitting him, choking him as he breathed, threatening to drown him before his head was even underwater. Then suddenly, somewhere in the hills behind him, something -- although he would never know exactly what -- broke. His only warning was a deep, dull roar, then a torrent of mud and water was flowing into the hole, flowing over his head and he knew that he was dying.

No time even to grab a last breath, with the water filling the hole on an instant. He was suspended in a muddy whirlpool, flung about like flotsam and dying with his heart trying to leap out his chest and his lungs burning to breathe even though to do it meant death. He had to stop fighting it, let go and accept the inevitable; it was what he did, after all.

Methos opened his mouth and let the flood take him. Surprising how such cold water should burn so much going down...

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Continued in Chapter Fifteen Back to Main Page Back to Contents