The Witch Doctor's Wife
The Witch Doctor’s Wife
Tamar Myers
Contents
Prologue
The dominant female danced along the edge of the manioc…
Chapter One
It’s nothing to worry about,” the stewardess said, but her…
Chapter Two
Police captain Pierre Jardin was waiting inside Belle Vue’s one-room…
Chapter Three
Amanda Brown awoke with a killer headache. All through the…
Chapter Four
Amanda was in love. Despite the stressfulness of her arrival…
Chapter Five
First Wife, whose given name was Cripple, sat up on…
Chapter Six
Smoke and dust painted the African skies in sepia tones,…
Chapter Seven
Amanda had been warned about Africans who appear at the…
Chapter Eight
Second Wife had just finished stirring the stiff mush, and…
Chapter Nine
Cezar Nunez cursed softly as he fumbled with the keys,…
Chapter Ten
The OP was in a foul mood. He was fond…
Chapter Eleven
Amanda was pleased to get the senhora’s invitation. It would…
Chapter Twelve
The Nigerian slept so well that for a minute, upon…
Chapter Thirteen
Amanda’s pulse was still racing when Captain Jardin walked into…
Chapter Fourteen
The postmaster couldn’t wait to tell his lover about the…
Chapter Fifteen
Amanda felt like she’d waited her entire life for this…
Chapter Sixteen
When his lover walked in through the front door of…
Chapter Seventeen
The Nigerian stared at the object in his hand; it…
Chapter Eighteen
Amanda smiled to herself. The tea with Senhora Nunez had…
Chapter Nineteen
The OP, by rights, should be living in Belle Vue’s…
Chapter Twenty
Husband found sleeping impossible. It wasn’t just because of the…
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a miracle no one was hurt—that’s what the…
Chapter Twenty-Two
I don’t believe it!” M. Dupree said, his eyes flashing with…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dupree drove slowly along Boulevard des Rois. The wide dirt…
Chapter Twenty-Four
From where he lay on his back, Their Death could…
Chapter Twenty-Five
The cool dry-season mornings were a balm to Branca’s soul.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Wilhelm Van Derhoef, as of late known as “Flanders,” made…
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Luluaburg seemed as large as Lisbon—compared to Bell Vue, that…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cezar Nunez pounded the steering wheel of his 1946 Chevy…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flanders had to hurry. Fortunately the OP was stupid enough…
Chapter Thirty
But Muambi, the village is across the river.”
Chapter Thirty-One
If Branca was even the least bit upset by a…
Chapter Thirty-Two
As fast as flies alight on a carcass, the people…
Chapter Thirty-Three
Amanda Brown had just stepped through the back door of…
Chapter Thirty-Four
The whites of Belle Vue met at the club that…
Chapter Thirty-Five
They were obviously hunters, judging by the pack of basenji…
Chapter Thirty-Six
The handsome Belgian appeared puzzled by her question, but only…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Amanda was astounded how easily Captain Jardin gave in to…
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Second Wife,” he said, “how are you today?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Prisoners in the Belle Vue jail were responsible for securing…
Chapter Forty
Branca told Amanda that for the near future she was…
Chapter Forty-One
In his darkened room, lying in a rumpled bed, Dupree…
Chapter Forty-Two
It was the perfect day for an execution. The air…
Chapter Forty-Three
Cripple marveled at the height of her gallows. After all,…
Epilogue
The dominant female danced along the edge of the manioc…
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Tamar Myers
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
This book is for Kabemba and Mishumbi, wherever they are. They were Bashilele tribesmen, brothers born of “sister wives,” and students at my parents’ mission school. My parents hired them to protect me from snakes, and other dangers, whenever I “explored” the pristine forest deep within the canyon in front of our house. Kabemba and Mishumbi became more than my bodyguards; they became my friends. They taught me many Bashilele customs, entertained me with Bashilele folktales, and how to survive in the wilderness: which of the jungle leaves were edible, how to make snares to catch small animals, how to trap birds, and even how to make a simple shelter.
Many years later, during a tribal war, my parents came to my bedroom one night and my father said, “I think that Mommy and I might be killed tonight. But there is a secret alcove up there”—he pointed above the door—“which will fit you. If we are attacked, you climb in there, and we’ll push boxes in after you to hide you. If you survive, follow the Kasai River all the way down to Angola.”
Although our neighbors were burned out of their house that night, for some reason we were not attacked. But had we been, and had I survived long enough to reach the forest, I could have used the skills that Mishumbi and Kabemba taught me. I will never forget them.
PROLOGUE
The dominant female danced along the edge of the manioc field, impatiently awaiting the arrival of her pack. Her sudden appearance had scared away the jackals whose yips had filled the air since sunset. Although her jaws could crush the bones of a buffalo, she dared not attack an adult human by herself. Something in her primitive brain told her that a human, although unarmed by fangs or claws, was a beast to be feared. A tasty beast, nonetheless.
In only a day or two the female would give birth to her second litter. Already she’d co-opted the burrow of an aardvark in which to have her cubs. But for now, despite her distended belly and swollen teats, she was ravenous. If her pack did not arrive soon, she would have no choice but to move on, in search of some less dangerous prey.
The human was aware of the hyena’s presence; the disappearance of the jackals had been the clue. At first the human thought a leopard was responsible for the silence. But then the hyena, apparently unable to restrain her excitement, burst into the hideous laughter that characterized her species.
The human dug faster, strong fingers raking the damp soil. A leopard might have been scared off by a show of strength—false bravado in this case—but a pack of spotted hyenas would tear a person limb from limb, and then laugh about it afterward. The human knew that the pack would announce itself by whooping, from perhaps a kilometer away, and when it did, a life-or-death decision must be made.
But just as the first faint sound of the advancing pack reached the human’s ears, digging fingers touched something cool and hard. A moment later the priceless object glinted in the light of the rising moon.
CHAPTER ONE
&nbs
p; The Belgian Congo was the name applied to a vast area of Central Africa between the years 1908 and 1960, when it was a colony of Belgium. Later the name was changed to Zaire, and eventually to Congo. Approximately eighty times the size of Belgium, this former colony covers as much territory as the eastern third of the United States. The land stretches from a narrow outlet along the Atlantic Ocean in the east to snow-covered peaks bordering the Western Rift Valley. The interior portion forms a shallow bowl that contains one of the world’s largest tropical rain forests.
It’s nothing to worry about,” the stewardess said, but her eyes told another story. She groped for the jump seat. “The captain has it all under control.”
The passenger in 3B knew the truth. She’d seen the left propeller chop through the branches of a eucalyptus tree like a butcher knife through lettuce. She’d watched, unbelieving, as the engine seized and the blade quit turning.
And now a second jolt, not much harder than one might expect from a roller coaster. But this one from the belly of the plane. Maybe the landing gear. Maybe not.
What was that streaming behind the wounded wing? The stewardess saw it too. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
The large man seated at the rear began shouting the rosary. A child cursed: vile, sexual language it had no business knowing. Or perhaps that was the woman directly behind her. Someone was crying. Possibly more than one. The rank smell of urine filled the air.
The passenger in 3B couldn’t tear her gaze from the window. Was that patch of dirt the landing strip? It couldn’t be. It was way too short—and there were pigs on it. Pigs!
Now a jeep. Out of nowhere. The driver was firing a gun with one hand. At the plane? At the pigs? It was too late. There was nothing to do but watch yourself die.
Only at the impact did the passenger in 3B look away, and then involuntarily, as her head slammed into the seat in front of her.
The plane roared over the village for a second time, its left wing slicing the top off a eucalyptus tree. Children screamed, goats bleated, and chickens scattered in all directions like feathers in a whirlwind, yet the witch doctor and his two wives barely gave the aircraft a second glance.
“And now they cut our trees. When will the Belgians tire of scaring us?” First Wife said, and returned to the book she was reading.
Second Wife grunted. After a full day’s work in the field, she’d managed to prepare the evening meal single-handedly, despite having a toddler clinging to her wrap cloth and a baby strapped to her back. Who had time to be afraid?
Husband, who’d been relaxing in the family’s only chair, a sling-back covered with rattan, sat up wearily. “They will never stop. Only when we get our independence, when we fly our own planes, will this foolish behavior end.”
The engine noise abated. The plane was finally headed for the dirt landing strip across the river. This was the third day that the pilot had circled the village, and it was common knowledge that the harassment was a warning to the people of the village that they must not revolt like the people up north. There would be grave consequences if they did.
Second Wife clapped her hands and called the children—her children—to supper. Tonight they would get a special treat. In addition to the mush, cassava greens, and palm-oil gravy, there were grubs. Wonderful, fat, juicy grubs. Second Wife had taken special care to cook them just the way Husband preferred: fried crisp on the outside, but not cooked so long that they lost their creamy inner texture.
First Wife had purchased the grubs that morning in the market from a woodcutter, who’d found them in a rotten log, deep in the forest. Good for First Wife. It was good that she did something worthwhile with her time. Perhaps one day—
Second Wife’s hands flew to her mouth. The ground was shaking as it had once during an earthquake.
Husband swung to his feet. “Second Wife, what is it?”
“Husband, do you not feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“The earth moves.”
“I feel nothing,” First Wife said, but she rose slowly from the stool and laid her book on it.
“There,” said Second Wife. “And there.”
Husband’s brow wrinkled. “I too feel nothing,” he said, but his words were drowned out by the explosion.
CHAPTER TWO
The Congo River is second only to the Amazon in the amount of water that it discharges into an ocean. So powerful is the Congo River that, after its juncture with the Atlantic, it continues to flow underwater for another hundred miles, carving out a canyon in the ocean floor that is four thousand feet deep in places. It has been estimated that the Congo River and its tributaries have the potential of supplying the world with one sixth of its energy needs, although there has been very little hydraulic development.
Police captain Pierre Jardin was waiting inside Belle Vue’s one-room terminal when he heard the plane begin to circle for the second time. Damn that heartless bastard. This was the third day in a row the jerk was pulling that stunt.
The day before yesterday Jardin had issued the pilot a stern warning. Yesterday Jardin had been out of town when the plane landed, but he’d heard about it just the same. Well, today the miscreant pilot was going to be in for a surprise; he was going to be only the second white ever to be locked up in Belle Vue’s tiny jail. The officials at Sabena Airlines were going to be so pissed at their employee that they’d undoubtedly sack him.
And where the hell was Monsieur Ngulube, the terminal manager? He was supposed to run the pigs off the runway fifteen minutes prior to a scheduled landing. And since, on average, there were only six flights in and out a week, it was his job to fill in the holes the pigs made.
The pigs. They belonged to everyone, and to no one. Captain Jardin had warned the villagers countless times to keep their livestock off the dirt landing strip, but he may as well have been talking to the pigs themselves. But when he shot a pig—an old arthritic boar—the people nearly rioted. Twenty-seven men stepped forward then, clamoring for payment, and the sums they demanded were absurd.
After much palavering, the captain drove to nearby villages, returning with twenty-seven piglets. The claimants were delighted, but suddenly fifty-two more people claimed ownership of the boar. The captain, at wit’s end, threatened to call in the army and have the soldiers shoot every damn pig on the runway. He was bluffing, of course, but the people believed him and backed down. The pigs, however, stayed put.
Now they dotted the runway like raisins in a bread pudding. Meanwhile the plane was coming in fast, and it sounded odd. Damn that Ngulube! There was only one thing to do. Captain Jardin sprinted outside to his jeep, and giving it full throttle, raced along the runway, firing his handgun over the pigs in an attempt to scare them off. A modern swineherd on a life-saving mission.
But instead of dashing off into the elephant grass on either side of the strip, the beasts merely milled about in confusion. Not that it mattered much, because Captain Pierre Jardin was too late. The shadow of the right wing passed over his head at the same time the wheels first hit the ground.
Then Pierre Jardin, the man, watched in horror as the plane bounced over the backs of the pigs, never maintaining that precious contact with the ground. All too soon the strip ended, and the hapless plane lunged into the savanna scrub, mowing down head-high grasses and acacia saplings. The screeching of metal being shorn was only barely audible above the squeals of wounded and frightened pigs. Finally the plane stopped, its nose buried deep in a thicket of mature acacias.
When he reached the plane, Pierre discovered to his astonishment that every one of the thirteen passengers, plus the crew, was off the plane. The pilot had a broken arm, a laceration across his temple, and no doubt a bad concussion. Given the damage to the plane, it was a wonder he was even alive.
Even the copilot was relatively unscathed. Of course there were bumps and bruises, a little blood, and some vomiting, but all and all the occupants of Sabena Flight 111 were more terrified than they were wou
nded. The challenge now was to get them away from the plane before it exploded.
Amanda Brown didn’t deserve to be in Africa; she deserved to be in hell. And that’s exactly where she was.
Her journey had begun in South Carolina, from there by ship to Belgium, where she’d spent six months studying French and Tshiluba, a major Congolese language. Finally, after a series of plane rides, she found herself suspended over Eden.
It was amazing how fast one could travel in 1958. That morning she’d begun her day in Leopoldville, the capitol of the Belgian Congo. Her prayers had been answered and she had been assigned a window seat: seat 3B. She’d watched, spellbound, as the small commercial plane climbed steeply over the limestone backbone of the Crystal Mountains and then leveled off over a sea of broccoli tops. Yes, broccoli tops. That’s exactly how she planned to describe the closely packed canopy of the vast equatorial rain forest below.
The jungle stretched forever, unbroken except for the muddy red of an occasional river, or the glint of sunlight reflected from the ink-black waters of mysterious lakes whose shores appeared uninhabited. Only after several hours did the trees finally yield to rolling grasslands, although forests still reigned in the deepest valleys and along the water courses.
It was all gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful, like nothing she’d seen in a Tarzan movie. Suddenly she saw a village of thatched huts. People were running for cover, like ants streaming back into their mounds. Lord have mercy! Ahead loomed a tree—at eye level! They were never going to miss it.
Had she only been dreaming? She felt like she was waking from a nap with a terrible headache. But that’s how she always felt if she napped too long. No, this was different. People were screaming. The large black man from the rear of the plane was pulling her from her seat. She tried to protest, but her screams were soundless. She pummeled him with her fists, but he picked her up anyway and carried her off the plane.
She could see now that the plane had crashed. People shouted at her, telling her to run because a wing was on fire. There was going to be an explosion. She attempted to run, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. Where was the man who’d helped her? Why was no one turning around to lend a hand? Were people really that selfish, or was this just how it was in her own personal Hell?