Chapter Twenty-three
Duncan heard the village long before he saw it, the sounds of human habitation odd and alien to his ears after the morning quiet of the bush. Low voices called now and then, and above them he could hear the rhythmic crunch of grain being ground in the old way. More modern sounds filtered through as well, the rumble of an engine, the flat clang of metal striking metal. He walked the last few yards to the village crouched low beneath the cover of stunted bushes.
He'd been gone almost twenty-four hours now, using the directions he could remember from the map, stopping only when the necessities of life couldn't be ignored. Miles and miles of nothing but bush, punctuated only by a few false hopes. He was tired, and his whole body ached, but he had made it -- he'd found a village. Now to see if they had anything he could use. He wiped the sweat from his face and crept closer.
It wasn't much of a village; it looked a poor sort of place from what he could see of it by peering through the bushes. Thatched huts that had seen better days, a few threadbare goats and pot-bellied children wandering about in a familiar aimless fashion. He smiled as a goat nudged one toddler in the middle of his back and the child erupted into surprised tears.
He hadn't thought to find even as much as this here. The war had all but emptied this province and all he'd expected to find were soldiers. And the supporters of soldiers, much like the camp where Methos had been held. Which probably meant.... Yes. There was a jeep parked in the center of the village with two soldiers leaning casually against it. Probably an officer and his driver, by the look of them.
The officer was dressed in the dun dress uniform of the rebel army, badges pinned to his beret -- a small, wiry man with his left arm held in a black cloth sling, something vaguely, teasingly familiar about him. Duncan couldn't think why, and right now he didn't have time to work it out. The driver a very young, heavy-set man carrying an AK, and wearing the same fatigues Duncan recognized from his earlier encounters. From what he could see, the villagers were showing no alarm or particular concern at their arrival, which could only mean that the village was a UNITA base or at the very least, sympathisers.
Which complicated things a bit, but not enough to make him change his mind. Methos and Mpande were waiting back at the farmhouse and if he wasn't back by the next morning, they'd be gone. He knew Methos had meant every word of what he'd said, if he was back later than early tomorrow morning, Methos would assume he wasn't coming back and take off without him. The jeep would solve their transport dilemma nicely.
Duncan eased back from the bush he'd been looking through. He needed to get a better look at the tiny village before made any plans about getting his hands on that jeep. Creeping around to the right hand side from where he'd started, he worked his way around the village, taking in the number of civilians (few), the number of soldiers (the two he could see and not discounting the possibility of more he couldn't see in the huts) and the easiest way to get to the jeep from the forest (none apparent just yet).
Hmm.... Normally he'd opt to wait for the cover of darkness, but with time being precious and the minutes ticking away far too quickly, he didn't have a lot of choice. A diversion would be useful right now, but what? He discarded option after option as he ran through scenarios. It had to be something that would get the villagers' and the soldiers' attention, without risking any civilian lives unnecessarily.
Impatient with himself for his indecision, Duncan squatted down beside a tree and wiped his sweaty hands down the legs of his pants. His left hand rubbed over a squarish bulge in the pocket that sat just above his knee. Damn. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Duncan opened the pocket and took out the wad of American dollar bills. They'd brought them to grease palms and buy supplies if they needed -- emergency funds.
Well, this certainly counted as an emergency.
The cash wasn't much in American terms but, for people as poor as this, it was a fortune, so he was doing them a good turn as well as himself. Now he just needed to set it up as a diversion. He stood carefully, adrenline beginning to flood as he kept his head below the level of the sparse bushes and skirted quickly around the edges of the village.
When he was almost at the place where he'd spotted the children, Duncan moved out further into the bush, plotting a line about fifty yards from the edge of the village. Then he took out the folded bills and began to place them low in the bushes, skewering them with small twigs to secure them. He worked his way closer and closer to the village, spacing out the placement of the notes until he was as close to the village as he dared. Then he crept back into the bushes and waited.
It took a little while before the first child discovered a dollar bill. Duncan's muscles had begun to ache from the strain of keeping still for so long and sweat was running down his face. At last there was an excited cry as the little boy realized what he had found.
In a few minutes it seemed that the whole village was searching through the bushes. He could hear the people shouting aloud as each note was found. But he could no longer see them, by that time he was already on the other side of the village getting ready to head for the jeep.
He looked around one last time and realized there was another vehicle, a truck, parked between two of the huts. That could be inconvenient; he'd have to disable it before he made off with the jeep. He considered taking the truck instead, but only for a minute; the jeep was the better choice, quicker and far more maneuverable. Getting to the truck was going to be risky, not to mention taking up his rapidly-vanishing time, but there was nothing else he could do.
Slipping behind the huts, Duncan ran to the back of the truck, pulling his pocketknife out as he went. It took longer than he'd really wanted to spend to disable the air valves on the back tires until he could hear the air escaping in a slow hiss; hopefully that would be enough to prevent anyone from coming after him too quickly. Pocketing the blade, he made straight for the jeep -- he'd already spent far more time in the village than he had planned to.
The jeep's driver had left the keys in the ignition, another piece of good luck for which Duncan was deeply grateful. But he wasn't going to risk trying to start the vehicle in the middle of the village; these old jeeps were notorious for not starting on the first try and he'd be knee-deep in unfriendlies before he knew it. So he disengaged the handbrake, shoved the gearstick into neutral, and pushed the jeep back towards the dirt road, even though his spine prickled with having to turn his back on where the shots would be coming from if he was seen.
Like the rest of the terrain in the area, the land here sloped down towards the east and the road ran down with the lay of the land. Once he had the jeep out onto the road, Duncan jumped in and finally threw it into gear and turned the key. The momentum must have helped, or maybe his karma was just very good today, because the engine caught straight away.
Resisting the impulse to get away quickly, Duncan guided the jeep down the rough road as slowly and carefully as he dared. Until he heard the distinctive, ugly crack of an AK, that was. Shit! He slid low in the seat and dared a quick look over his shoulder -- there were soldiers fanning out on the road behind him, running, firing from the hip. Metal clanged as a few shots hit the back of the jeep and Duncan tightened his grip on the wheel, expecting a shot-out tire at any moment.
He floored the gas pedal and the jeep lurched forward, hitting its top speed with unexpected ease. With his foot flat to the floor, he took the jeep around the first bend in the road and left the soldiers behind.
***
Morning again and Methos emerged from the farmhouse to breathe in a welcome lungful of fresh air. Inside, it still smelt of snake piss, sweat and illness and it was a relief to be out of it. He'd barely left the house at all yesterday after Duncan had gone, except for visits to the river for more water. And Duncan had been right about one thing, there was no way they could have gone on with Mpande in the condition he was in.
He wasn't doing well at all and there was so little that Methos could do for him here. He breathed slowly in and out once more, shaking off the feeling of powerlessness. Fuck it. He could only do as much as he could and it would either be enough or not. He was not going to flay himself over things he couldn't control. And this was nothing like Serao, he reminded himself.
That thought was leading him in directions he didn't want to go and he cut it off ruthlessly, turning his attention outwards instead. He only wished the view before him was a little more distracting. Many parts of Angola were very beautiful; this, unfortunately, wasn't one of them. Here, they were surounded by stunted, scrubby forest clinging to sandy soil -- all dry and dessicated looking, despite the nearby river. A tree covered with small, brilliantly violet-colored flowers was the single splash of color against all the dull gray-green. It didn't help much.
The Namib Desert was only about two hundred miles to the south, he knew. And he could feel it, too, on the warm, southerly breeze that had begun to shift the humid air. It didn't help a lot. Fuck it. It didn't really matter what he thought of the weather, it would do what it would no matter what he thought. Not unlike a certain Scot. Methos shrugged to himself and went back inside to check on Mpande.
Going back into the house, Methos decided against closing the doors. The hut could really use a decent airing out. He left the front door as it was, went and pushed the back door open. The shutters were open from last night. Still stank, though.
Mpande was awake. His color was still poor, his eyes yellower than ever, bruised-looking beneath as if he hadn't slept at all. Methos asked the standard physician's question: "How are we today?" without the faintest trace of irony. He knelt beside Mpande and felt for the pulse in his wrist.
"Yeah...y'know...." Mpande rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Head's a bit sore."
Methos translated that to mean that Mpande had one hell of a headache. Not good, but he was still seemed lucid, which was a good thing. And his pulse was still even, if a little quick. Just to be on the safe side, Methos ran through some simple tests designd to judge the patient's orientation. Mpande passed them all easily and Methos' tension eased a fraction. Mpande was fighting hard; he was a strong man and he would need every ounce of that. Methos gave him what remained of the water, then went outside to fetch some more.
The temperature had climbed, even in the short time he'd been inside. The dry wind still blew from the south, rattling the leaves in the trees as he walked past, following his earlier path down to the riverbank. The new (old?) fear still flickered at the back of his mind, but he kept it there -- kept his feet moving -- refusing to pay it any attention. He no other choice. Then he was at the riverbank, kneeling to fill the gourds from the fast-running river.
While he knelt, a silver flash from beneath the water caught his eye. He saw the fish dart up and snatch a dragonfly from the surface. Methos watched it disappear again, thoughts drifting idly through his head, while he tried not to worry about how Duncan was doing out there alone. He watched the water for a while, vaguely melancholy, then picked up the gourds and went back inside.
On his way back he passed the tree with the purple flowers again. It niggled at something in the back of his mind -- just briefly -- but his head was full of other things and he tucked it away to work at later. He looked at it one last time before he passed through the door, took a deep breath of warm, clean air and went inside.
Mpande was still awake, listlessly gazing at him from dull, yellowed eyes. He'd thrown off his shirt and bush jacket and sweat -- fluid he couldn't spare -- was pouring off him again. Damn. He had to cool him down. Water could only do so much. There had to be something else.... In his mind, Methos began to work through everything he could remember of the old ways while he knelt beside Mpande and began to sponge him down again.
***
The jeep bounced beneath Duncan as he rounded another bend in the road, hitting a deep rut side on. He swore and held the steering wheel tighter, reaching down to change gears as the road went up a steep hill. He didn't think he was being followed, but that didn't mean he had time to waste; he meant to be back at the farmhouse well before his forty-eight hours were up.
A cloud of dust appeared at the crest of the hill in front of him and adrenaline spiked as he realized he had only seconds to decide what to do. The forest here was sparse, small trees and undergrowth only, and he hauled the jeep off the road and into it. The vehicle shuddered, the wheel shaking in his hands worse than ever, but he pointed the jeep away from the road and down the side of a ridge that appeared from nowhere. Bushes and small saplings disappeared beneath the wheels as he careened down the hill, dodging the larger trees. He was leaving a track anyone could follow, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
They were behind him now; soldiers in a truck and a jeep following his path down the hill. He could hear the grind of the vehicles as they sped after him. Whether it was because they had been alerted by the camp he'd stolen the jeep from, or just because they seen his panicked flight, he didn't know. Nor did it matter. A stand of tall trees appeared in front of him and he hauled the jeep around them, his shoulders aching with the strain of it.
But he wasn't going fast enough -- not nearly fast enough. He floored the gas pedal, finding a little more speed, but a glance over his shoulder told him the soldiers were still gaining on him. Running away wasn't the answer; he was going to have to try something else. The wheels left the ground as the jeep crested a high rut in the ground and he was almost bounced out as the jeep crashed back down.
He squinted ahead through the trees; something glinted there, a bright flash amid the dull green and brown. The river. Another look back over his shoulder showed him his pursuers hadn't slacked off. And he was fast running out of places to run. Think....
And then it came to him.
***
"Hey, Mpande?" Methos began lightly as he held the watergourd up so Mpande could drink. "Know any good malaria cures?" It had been too long since he'd done this, and time and disuse blurred whatever knowledge he'd once had.
"Few roots, back home," Mpande answered, his voice still a bit slurred. "Up here...don't know."
Methos sighed. It had been a long shot anyway. Grasping at straws. He wiped a few stray drops of water from Mpande's chin with the back of his hand and watched Mpande's eyes slowly drift closed. Methos put his hand on Mpande's forehead. The fever was still there -- in his mind's eye he could practically see the parasites multiplying in the young man's blood.
Mpande stirred under the touch, mumbling something that sounded like 'viola tea'. Before Methos could ask him what the hell he was talking about, Mpande opened his eyes and said less indistinctly, "Violet tree."
Methos frowned. The phrase hit an odd sort of connection in his memory -- strange snippets of information joining up like drops of quicksilver. "Mpande, wake up!" he said in Zulu, shaking Mpande's shoulder a little.
"Fok jou," Mpande grumbled in Afrikaans.
"Maybe later," Methos shot back in the same language. "The violet tree?"
Mpande rolled onto his side and it looked for a moment like he'd gone to sleep again. Methos was about to give him another shake when Mpande mumbled, "Mass de roo." Mash the root? It made sense. That was the interpretation Methos was going with anyway.
Leaving Mpande where he lay, Methos got up and went back outside, machete in hand. The handle was warm and worn and thoughts of Duncan chased through his mind. The tree with the purple flowers was about fifty meters from the house and he hurried over to it. He grabbed a branch that hung low, heavy with sweetly scented flowers, and broke it off. He'd need to verify that with Mpande before he went ahead with the medicine.
Setting the branch aside on the ground, Methos bent down beside the tree and took the machete in both hands. The soil was sandy loam -- soft enough, but it kept falling back into the hole he made as he dug. Frustrating, but on a scale of one to ten of this week's most annoying events, hardly worth a second thought. Gradually, the hole grew and the roots were exposed.
***
The jeep went flying off the bank and into the river, wheels spinning in the air for a second before it hit the water. White water rose around it, enclosing it briefly while it poured inside, then the jeep sank with only the fading ripples to show where it had been.
With a screech of tires on the gravelly ground, the other vehicles stopped, soldiers leaping out to run to the waterline. Duncan rose to his feet and peered through the bushes at them, waiting for just the right moment. His whole body felt like it had been run through a cement mixer after his dive from the moving vehicle just before it hit the water, but he shut out the pain and concentrated on waiting for just the right moment.
Seconds later, it came. All the soldiers were at the waterline, their backs to him. He slipped his rifle from his shoulder and stepped out from the bushes, firing a short burst that took out the nearside tires of the jeep that was closest to the soldiers and furthest from him. The soldiers, all six of them, spun around, the shock on their faces almost comical. "Hands up!" he ordered in Portuguese, punctuating the words with a stab of the muzzle towards them. "Drop your weapons."
A moment of hesitation, a flash of resistance in a couple of faces, then battered automatics of various vintages clattered to the ground.
Duncan nodded once, glad they'd decided to be sensible. "Throw them over here!"
The man in the center of the group grabbed the two either side of him when they bent to do as Duncan asked. The rest caught on quickly and straightened up, glaring back defiantly.
Duncan sighed impatiently and made a show of pulling his rifle into the firing position. Fine. If they wanted to do it the hard way, they could do it the hard way. He took aim elaborately and fired a short burst at the feet of the ringleader. Dust kicked up in a pale brown puff and the soldiers flinched.
"I don't need your weapons to kill you," he told them, still in Portuguese. "I could shoot you where you stand -- if that was what I wanted. Now. Throw. Your. Weapons. Over. Here."
A single breath, in and out, passed before the soldiers bent down to pick up the rifles.
"By the muzzles," Duncan warned. "And one at a time -- starting with you." And he pointed the Armalite at the ringleader once more.
One by one the weapons landed close to his feet. Duncan held his rifle in his left hand and picked the others up, tossing each one into the nearest truck. With one eye still on the soldiers, he climbed behind the wheel and started the jeep. It wasn't easy to back the truck up the hill towards the road and keep watching the soldiers, but he managed to negotiate the rough path the three vehicles had already cleared.
And the throbbing in his chest from where he'd been thrown against the wheel after hitting an especially large bump in the 'road' didn't take too long to fade.
The truck bounced and lurched as he backed it over the lip of the hill and made it back onto the road. Gravel spat from beneath the tires as he hauled on the steering wheel and muscled the truck in the right direction. He couldn't relax yet; his close encounter with the soldiers was still too fresh in his mind, but he'd done what he came to do and now he just had to get back to Methos.
He looked at his watch. He had twenty hours left -- plenty of time.
***
Methos used the handle of his machete to pound the sliced root on a long slice of bark he'd cut from another tree, letting his thoughts wander. Memories of a thousand campfires flickered through his mind as he prepared the decoction. He had done this -- been this -- more times than he could ever put names to. Healer, shaman, wise man, sorceror, doctor -- it all meant the same in the end: using the gifts of nature to thwart it.
He'd been good at this once, he thought while he concentrated on mashing the root into a fine paste, remembering out of the blue the sensation of a hand on his shoulder and the flush of pleasure at words of praise from a long-ago teacher. 'Good work. You will make a fine healer one day.' Gods, that had been a long time ago.
At last the paste was done to his satisfaction. While he still had no idea of how much he actually needed to use, he had remembered a few things. He knew that some of the people used parts of the tree for fish poison, others as a balm for toothache, others yet as medicine to ease a fever. And he was sure that he remembered reading somewhere that it was also used as an aphrodisiac. Not that he was in any need of that, he thought with a smile. Whichever way, it was strong stuff, and Mpande was in no shape to be a guinea pig.
He set his machete down beside the bark; before he tried out the root he wanted to check on a few things. Just on the offchance company had found them, he headed outside to take a look around. It was even hotter than before. The humid breeze settled like sweat over his skin as he looked out into the sparse forest and his eyes stung with the salt water trickling into them as he squinted into the bright sunlight.
But it seemed, for now, that they were alone. Relieved, he turned and went back inside, the shadows blindingly dark after the light. He waited a moment until his eyes readjusted, automatically looking to check on his patient the second he could see well enough. Mpande was just as he'd been, no more or less distressed, just sleeping.
There really wasn't any time to waste. He sat down and picked up the makeshift plate, regarding the thick yellowish paste warily. He bent his head and sniffed. It smelt a little like dirt -- a little like wet wood, overlaid with a sharpness that didn't bode well for the taste. Methos took a deep breath and steeled himself. The only way to really do this was just to do it, he knew. So he did, scooping up a small amount in two fingers.
The paste was fabulously bitter and he coughed a little as he sucked it off his fingers and forced it down. But down it stayed, despite his stomach's best efforts to the contrary. Ignoring the vague lurches his stomach was making from time to time, he took a deep breath and settled down with his back leaning against the wall to wait for any effect. He'd give it an hour, just to be safe.
It didn't take half as long as that. Fifteen minutes or so later, his heart began to race, his mouth drying ominously. Pain ripped through him like a tsunami, just ahead of the seizure that tore his control from his body. A cry caught in his throat as his head smacked against the wall.
***
Eighteen hours left, Duncan saw as he glanced at his watch, in between swerving around the bigger potholes in the dirt road. Eighteen hours, and he still had to find his way back to Methos -- find one small farmhouse off the beaten -- or in this case, battered, track. He'd already lost an hour on a 'shortcut' that had looked promising, but in reality, had ended in a very unpromising way: the wide, brown river with a ruined bridge dangling over the side.
So, now he was back where he'd started, on what seemed like the main road. It meandered alongside the river, which meant he was still on the right track. This was a good thing, he thought, allowing himself a small, dangerous moment of self congratulation. He realized his mistake a second later, when he heard the low rumble of another vehicle behind him. The shots weren't far behind, pinging off the back of the truck. Shit. Not again.
***
The lurch back into life wasn't the worst he'd ever felt, but it was painful enough to make him curse and grit his teeth as the feeling surged through his body. Well, that hadn't been one of his better ideas. Although, it was just as well that he had been the one that had sampled the medicine and not Mpande. Cracking open a sticky eye, Methos oriented himself and found Mpande where he lay on the other side of the room.
Still alive, still breathing, much as he had left him. Methos sat up and squinted at the shadows falling through the open windows. They were only a little shorter than they had been -- maybe an hour or two had passed. Damn, his mouth felt like he'd missed a hell of a party instead of just a couple of hours of the day passing. He pushed up from the floor and headed for where he'd left the water.
Taking a deep drink, he felt the residue of the poison's effects leaving his body. Shit, that was unpleasant. He sighed, or tried to, dragging in a deep breath and -- what the hell was that smell? Speaking of unpleasant.... The house smelt bad enough before he'd taken the poison; now it smelt worse, reminiscent of a pit toilet in the sun. He looked more closely at Mpande, damn it, the poor sod had shit himself and by the smell of it, it had been a while ago. The next version of the medicine was going to have to wait until he'd been cleaned up.
Beside him, Mpande stirred and woke with a soft moan. Methos turned to look at him, relieved when the dark eyes focused directly on him. "Hi. How are you doing?" he asked.
Mpande opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out at first was a rough, thick garble of sound. He coughed a little and tried again. "Not too bad, Doc." He paused and swallowed, looking as if it hurt him. "Could use a drink," he whispered.
Methos unfolded himself from the ground and stood. "I'll get you some more water." He picked up the gourd and headed to the door. Mpande hadn't mentioned the state he'd woken in and Methos wasn't going to mention it just yet. It was going to be mortifying enough for the poor bastard to need Methos to help him get cleaned up.
"Have you'self a nice nap, Doc?" Mpande said as Methos went to the door, apparently still not sick enough to stop making snide remarks.
He hmmed a noncommittal response and kept on walking. He really didn't want to get into that now.
***
Duncan floored the gas pedal and concentrated on working on a way out of this. From the little he could see behind him, his pursuers were the ones he'd borrowed his previous vehicle from, barreling along in a camouflage-painted jeep. Why the hell were they still coming after him? Didn't they have more important things to do than chase him? Apparently not. Frustrated and angry, Duncan slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.
Fuck it. The 'why' of his pursuit wasn't anywhere near as important as the 'how' he was going to get out of it, though. He was getting close to where he'd left Methos and Mpande and there was no way he was going to lead this merry crew straight to them. He had to ditch the soldiers before he went to the farmhouse -- there was nothing else he could do. He took a deep breath and considered his options.
Standing and fighting? Last resort -- a waste of ammunition, even as well-supplied as he was now, not to mention an unacceptable risk. Outrun them? A possibility, but Methos wasn't going to wait forever and the further he ran, the more time he would be wasting. So what did that leave? Another ruse, perhaps. He was probably pushing his luck, but it didn't look as if he had a whole lot of other choices.
So, he was going to fool the soldiers. Exactly how was still coming to him. Another volley of shots slammed against the door, jolting him out of his thoughts, and he ducked lower in his seat. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to think fast.
***
Methos lowered Mpande down to set him on the riverbank. He'd had a good try at walking, but he was still very weak, even though for the moment his fever seemed to have abated, and Methos had ended up carrying him most of the way. He was no lightweight, either. Methos rubbed his back as he straightened and smiled at Mpande.
"Ready for a bath?" he asked in his best doctorly tone, even if as a doctor he generally got out of performing such menial tasks. He sat down and pulled off his boots and shirt.
Mpande still had enough spark left in him to narrow his eyes and make a face. "No 'ffence, Doc, but I had better offers."
"Smart arse." Methos stood up. "Come on, get your gear off."
"Yeah, yeah...." Mpande made an effort to pull his t-shirt up over his head, but his arms only made it half-way up before he let them flop down again. Methos could see him struggling to catch his breath, his nostrils flaring with the strain.
"Here." Methos stepped closer and quickly tugged the t-shirt over Mpande's head before he could object. He held out a hand. "Come on, let's get you up and get those pants off."
Mpande's mouth compressed into a straight line, his brows drawing down. He reached up and grabbed Methos' hand, his grip as weak as Methos had expected. Hauling him to his feet, Methos stripped the rest of Mpande's filthy clothes away, deciding that now was probably not the time to make any jokes about their positions.
They were silent as he guided Mpande into the water until they were about waist-deep. Finding a submerged boulder for him to sit on, Methos handed him one of the pieces of cloth he'd cut from his shredded pants. "No soap, I'm afraid. You'll just have to manage without. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, man. I be okay."
Methos watched him out of the corner of his eye as Mpande wet the cloth in the slow-running water and began to wash himself. He could do with a wash himself; on his skin he was sure he could still smell the lingering vestiges of the snake he'd butchered. Walking a few steps upriver, he reached down under the water, bent and stripped off his shorts, tossing them onto the bank to wash later.
"Don't you go gettin' no funny ideas there, Doc," Mpande mumbled while he slopped the wet cloth over himself.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Methos told him, looking down his nose. He knew Mpande was uncomfortable with his and Duncan's relationship -- whatever the hell that was, his mind supplied, not terribly helpfully -- but it wasn't his job to try to dislodge the man's ingrained prejudices. And he sure as hell wasn't about to go explaining their 'relationship' to him.
He ducked himself right under the water and scrubbed his fingers into his scalp, trying to remove the dirt and sweat that had been making him itch for days. He was doing his best not to think about his last prolonged submergence. Drowning in a river of muddy water didn't count as a bath anyway. He made himself stay under until his lungs were burning, then he pushed up and burst up through the surface, sucking in air gratefully and shaking the water from his hair. Gods, that felt better.
Not as good as a long soak in a hot bath with a cold beer in his hand, but you made do with what you had.
Looking over at Mpande, Methos saw that he'd stopped washing and was breathing slowly and carefully again, as if he couldn't really get enough air. Like he was becoming short of breath. Shit. Methos stopped washing and went over to him. Without pausing to ask, he put his hand on Mpande's cheek and gently pulled down his lower eyelid.
Mpande batted his hand away. "You wanna keep you hands to you'self, maat?"
Oh for fuck's sake. "Grow up," he snapped. "Shut up and keep still." He put his hand right back where it had been and examined the pink flesh of the inner eyelid. As an indicator of anemia, it wasn't one hundred percent reliable, but sometimes the old ways were best. As he'd expected, the membrane was far paler than it should have been. Shit.
Mpande glared at him sullenly. "Great bedside manner, Doc."
Methos took his hand away. "You aren't in bed," he shot back, his tone utterly uncompromising. "And I think you're anemic. The parasites are having a field day with your red blood cells. That's why you're weak and short of breath."
"Fuck."
"That's as good an assessment as any," Methos said. "Have you finished?"
Mpande nodded and Methos helped him out of the water, without the protests this time.
***
Duncan spat the gas out onto the ground as it shot all the way up the tubing and stuffed the end into an empty bottle. It filled quickly, and he lifted the tubing out and held it up before pulling it out of the gas tank. The back of the truck had been a surprisingly good resource -- well, actually it was a bit of a midden. He found himself alternately cursing and blessing the African habit of keeping anything that might come in handy as he sorted through plastic bags, empty bottles, old tin cans and torn bits and pieces of various uniforms, among other things.
Ten minutes or so earlier, he'd scored a lucky shot from the truck window and taken out one of the jeep's front tires. He'd switched mental gears quickly -- finally he had something he could use to his advantage. He wasn't fool enough to think that he'd stopped the soldiers' pursuit permanently, but he'd bought himself a little time to have a far better chance. They'd be along, he was betting, as soon as they'd changed the tire.
He threw the tubing back into the rear of the truck and grabbed the oil-stained cleaning rags he'd found. Wholly aware of every second ticking by, he prepared the Molotov cocktails, using the three beer bottles he'd discovered in the truck. When they were ready he set them aside and ran to the side of the road to grab a small tree he'd purposely knocked down with the truck when he'd stopped. This had better work, or he was really screwed.
He dragged the tree across the road, well back from his truck, choosing a point where the forest grew close in and driving around the roadblock wouldn't be an option. Running back to the trees, he cut another few branches with his machete, stacking them up behind the tree to make a solid-looking barricade. He was hoping that it would look less like an ambush and more like a simple fallen tree. He was running back to the trees again the second he was done, but the sound of an approaching vehicle was on the wind and his time was up.
He patted his pocket to check he still had his matches as he ran to collect the bottles. He scooped up all three and jogged back to crouch behind the barricade. And wait, with his heart hammering against his ribs. With every passing second the engine noise grew louder and more adrenaline flooded his system, until his stomach was clenched and his mouth bone-dry.
He didn't need to look to know when the jeep stopped at his makeshift roadblock. He could hear the engine cut out and the voices of the soldiers snapping in an African language he didn't know. Now. He lit a match, cupping his hands around it to protect it from the breeze. He touched the flame to each gas-soaked rag and they caught easily.
Behind him, the branches rustled. No more time to wait -- the soldiers were trying to clear the obstruction. In a single, smooth movement, he grabbed two of the cocktails and rose to his feet, spinning to face the soldiers. There were three of them, all out of the jeep, two of them definitely the ones from the village -- the officer with his arm in a sling and his driver, he managed to register as he hurled first one bottle, then the next, directly at their vehicle. He caught the shock on their faces in a snapshot of time.
The cocktails exploded inside the jeep, the high, scattered noise of glass breaking above the low growl of the fire. The flames spread almost instantaneously and engulfed the vehicle. Duncan grabbed the last bottle from the ground and ran with it towards his truck. Shots rang out as he bolted away. He'd been seen. Not unexpected and something he'd already planned for, in fact.
He stopped and faced them, taking a split second to find them all, before he pulled his arm back and threw the last bottle as hard as he could towards the dry branches of the barricade. The glass hit the road, shattering and spewing flames up and over the dry wood and leaves. He didn't wait any longer; he spun on his heel and ran for the front of the truck while the fire roared behind him.
He figured that might hold them for a while.
***
To Methos' surprise, Mpande looked a little better once they were dressed and back at the house again. His fever was down and Methos finally got him to drink enough to make him piss. He sat on the mattress now, his back leaning against the wall, slowly sipping more water from a gourd. Gesturing at the paste slowly drying on the bark near Methos' feet, he said, "Didn't go so well, hey?"
Understatement of the century. "Not really." He sighed and poked a stick at the mess on the plate. "I suppose another try's in order."
"How much did you use anyway?"
Methos stuck his fingers in and showed him, holding them up.
"I don't think you need as much as that, man."
Methos wiped his fingers off on the side of the bark plate and glared at Mpande. "No. Really?"
"Mate, the Bushmen use that shit on their arrows to bring down antelope. You might wanna be a bit careful." Mpande smirked, but his hand shook a little as he lifted the gourd to his mouth again.
And a couple of hours ago that advice might have been useful. "I'm open to suggestions," Methos said, damping down his irritation.
"Try putting a bit in water?"
That would have been his next thought too. "Hand me that other gourd, then."
Mpande handed it to him and Methos dropped a little of the paste into it, shaking the gourd to mix it in. Before he could think about it too closely, Methos put the water to his lips and drank about half. Cool, bitter liquid ran over his tongue, making his stomach lurch again. He sat in silence for what seemed a long time, but couldn't have been, waiting for the pain and the darkness to come again but instead there was nothing.
Mpande shifted uneasily in the silence, and Methos could see him watching, hawklike. "Something you wanted?" he asked, a little more snappishly than he'd intended.
"Too quiet."
Okay, that was probably crap, but Methos could appreciate how damned strange it was to be sitting and waiting to see if someone died and came back to life. "So, talk." He could use the distraction himself.
Mpande yawned and moved to lie on his side. "Tired. Tell me somethin'...."
Methos smiled despite his tension. "What do you want to know?"
"Where'd you meet MacLeod?"
"Paris," Methos answered, not offering any more.
Thick, dark eyebrows rose and Mpande looked at him expectantly.
Fine, so the child wanted a story. He could give him one, he supposed.
"Someone was looking for me, someone who didn't exactly wish me well. MacLeod found me first," he began simply. "Riding to the rescue...." He trailed off; it was easy to smile about it now, more so than at the time.
Mpande snorted softly. "First o' many."
"He does that for everyone. It's what he does..." Methos sighed. Practically his raison d'etre.
"Yeah, man, I noticed." Mpande yawned widely.
"You're exhausted, Mpande. Why don't you get some rest?"
"No...I'm all right," he mumbled. "And then...?"
Methos looked over at him, but Mpande's eyes were already closed and his breathing was slow and even. And then... he thought to himself, and then, we were friends, and then we weren't. Then he needed me, and then I...needed him and shortly after that we were lovers. And then we weren't. Simple, really.
Then why did it all feel so damn complicated? And why the hell was it the needing part that stuck in his craw?
Mpande was awake again as Methos looked over at him, watching Methos silently. "You okay?" Methos asked, grateful to get out of his own head.
"Not so bad." Mpande struggled up onto one elbow and Methos could see that effort it took. "What 'bout you?"
It took him a moment to realize what he was being asked before he answered, "Yeah, I think I am." He shook the gourd again. "Give it a bit longer, just to be sure, though. It might not do anything at all for you, but at least it doesn't look like it'll kill you."
Mpande looked him straight in the eye. "Thanks, Doc."
"Don't thank me. We need you to help us get out of here."
Mpande looked as if he was about to say something, then whatever it was disappeared from his expression. "Pass the calabash, Doc and let's get on with it."
Methos wondered what he'd been going to say, but simply handed him the gourd without another word. Fear tripped down his spine as he watched Mpande drink what remained of the mixture. He'd been wrong before.
***
Duncan pulled the truck off the road and parked it squeezed in between a low stand of trees. He'd recognized the spot the minute he'd seen it -- even as dark as it was -- and now he could feel his pulse racing as he turned off the engine and removed the key. He made himself go through the motions of securing the vehicle, pulling down branches to hide it from view, when all he really wanted to do was run the last few hundred yards and find Methos.
He was early, well inside the time he'd promised, but until he saw Methos, and Mpande, for himself, there was always going to be a sliver of doubt. Experience was a hard teacher, but thorough. He made himself push, slowly and carefully through the trees, keeping his imagination on a tight rein. Cold, damp bushes scratched at his skin as he made his way in the direction he thought the house to be.
The pale walls of the farmhouse appeared between the trees and Duncan paused for just a moment, torn between excitement and caution. He caught sight of yellow-orange firelight glowing from the windows and something sharp and taut relaxed a little inside his chest. Soon....
And then, Methos' presence enveloped him, and the door scraped open at the same time, a long, shadowy figure slipping out to melt against the doorframe. Even without the unmistakeable buzz, he would have known that shape anywhere. Duncan knew he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn't give a damn. He would have run, if he could have seen the ground beneath his feet.
It was still too dark to see him well, he was just a shape in the dark half-lit by the fire inside, but he could feel him, warmth and strength echoing through his body. And all Duncan had to do was reach out, pull him into his arms and breathe him in like a first taste of air after a lifetime underwater.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~