Operation: Congo

- 11 -

Banks and Wiggins were driven like sheep, two ridden raptors herding them, the beasts so close that the captain felt hot, fetid breath on the back of his exposed neck. They been stripped to the waist, all weapons removed and cast away somewhere into the dark. He was only thankful they’d been left their boots and trousers for he was feeling exposed enough as it was without being paraded around naked for all to see. They were taken out of the empty streets and back to the large gate. Once there, they were winched up on top and unceremoniously bundled down the other side into the town they’d left just an hour or so earlier.

The townspeople had risen en-masse to see what their chief had caught. They, adults and children alike, lined the area around the gate three deep on either side. But they made no noise, a silence that was almost respectful. Banks felt like he was on parade.

“Chin up, lad,” he said to Wiggins. “We’ve seen worse.”

But when they were led into another open central area lit by flickering firebrands to see their captor sitting high on a stone throne flanked on either side by a guard of ridden raptors, Banks found it hard to maintain any kind of optimism.

The feathered man stood and raised his hands. The silence became even deeper.

“You will be tested when the sun rises,” he said directly to Banks. “Until then, you are guests. You will be bathed and clothed. Then I will see that you are brought to my chamber where we shall talk further over a meal. You will not be harmed.”

And with that, the man turned and left, the honor guard following behind him. Banks and Wiggins were grabbed none too gently and taken to what was obviously a bathhouse. There they had to suffer the ignominy of being stripped and were washed roughly with hard, brittle brushes that left their skin raw and bleeding from many tiny scrapes and cuts. Clothes, local style, were provided; their army issue boots and trousers had gone the way of their weapons. They wore kilts of soft leather, soft shoes of the same material, and a woolen over-shirt cut short at the top of the shoulders and with deep, soft pockets sewn in at the waist. They were left alone to dress although two raptor guards stood just outside the only exit to the chamber; escape, for the moment at least, was a forlorn hope.

“A kilt and a new semmit,” Wiggins said as he pulled the shirt over his head. “It’s like Christmas. You got a fag, Cap?”

“Nope. They were in the jacket. We’re going cold turkey for a while.”

“Bugger. If I get the shakes, just kill me now and get it over with.”

“Eyes open, lad,” Banks replied. “We need to find a way out of here.”

“A test in the morning, that’s what he said. I fucking hate exams.”

“I doubt we’ll be getting multiple-choice questions. As I said, eyes open. You ken the drill—look for weaknesses, exit points, anything that’ll help us get the fuck out of here. We’ll have a confab and share notes when we get a chance.”

“When. I like the sound of that.”

“Aye, well if you need any more motivation, the sarge and the younger lads are still out there somewhere. If we don’t save them, maybe they’ll be the ones saving us.”

“The sarge would never let me live that down.”

“There you go then. Find us a way out of here, Wiggo, or the sarge will have your balls in a basket for ever more.”

Their conversation was interrupted as soon as Banks pulled his wool vest over his head. Two of the local men arrived and by hand gestures and menacing sounds managed to convey to Banks and Wiggins that it was time to get moving again.

“Where the fuck are we going now?” Wiggins said.

“An audience with the king, remember?”

“I remember he mentioned grub. I’m bloody starving.”

They were led along a series of corridors. The walls were gaudily painted in red ochre frescos and Banks was immediately reminded again of old ruins, Knossos in particular. His growing hunch appeared to be confirmed by one painting in particular which depicted an intricate labyrinth.

Banks was almost amused at the look on Wiggins’ face when they were shown to a long table to serve themselves from the local idea of a buffet. They couldn’t recognize any of the fruit or vegetables, the bread was dry and hard as stone, and the meat simmering in a cauldron of stew didn’t smell like anything they’d ever encountered.

“I’m no’ eating any of yon raptor meat, I’ll tell you that for nowt,” Wiggins said.

“Fear not,” the cultured voice they’d heard before said at their back. “This is a local pig. A bit gamier than pork, less so than boar. I assure you, it is quite delicious. And as for eating raptor—that is one of the things we must talk about, for it is the reason you are in your current predicament.”

They were left in silence to each fill a wooden platter with food, Wiggins less eagerly than Banks, and then were directed to an antechamber where the king sat in a large chair at the head of an otherwise empty table. Two men armed with short swords stood behind him. The leader saw Banks looking and laughed softly.

“No doubt the pair of you could take down the three of us here,” he said. “But I assure you there are four riders outside the main door and no other exit. You may as well enjoy your food, for you are not going anywhere until dawn.”

Wiggins, once he got started, took to the food with gusto, but Banks only picked at his.

“Ask questions if you have them. I will try to answer,” the king said.

Banks got the one at the front of his mind out of the way first.

“You’re Minoan, aren’t you?”

The king clapped his hands as if in glee.

“Give that man a cigar,” he said and much to Wiggins’ delight produced the captain’s cigarettes and lighter and passed them each a smoke. The king lit one for himself and sucked at it greedily. “A nasty habit and one I broke soon after leaving your country but one won’t hurt.”

“Aye, that’s what I said when I was sixteen,” Wiggins said. “Now I’m a walking chimney.”

The king ignored Wiggins and kept his attention on Banks.

“Yes, we are, or rather were, Minoan in some distant past. A seafaring people finding a great river and following it to a place of wonder where they stayed and were lost to history.”

The next question was the obvious one.

“So, if your people are lost to history, where did you learn English?”

That got them a laugh again.

“Marlborough, then London University,” he replied. “As I said, we are not savages. Several of my people have been to your places of learning, courtesy of a missionary outpost that first took an interest in us over a century ago. Of course, we have never let your culture contaminate ours.”

“Of course,” Wiggins replied, showing the king his cigarette.

“Minor things, quickly forgotten when put against the majesty of Mokele-Mbembe.”

And just like that the conversation had turned from the mundane to the unknown. Banks decided he was on a roll and pushed another question.

“The raptors that your people ride? They are Mokele-Mbembe?”

That got them fits of laughter that turned to coughing as the king tried to inhale smoke and laugh at the same time. He laughed so hard it was impossible for Banks not to see what he’d suspected since their first encounter; the king of these people was not quite sane.

When the man had recovered, he stubbed out the cigarette forcibly before continuing.

“No, sir, Mokele-Mbembe is, was and always will be. He is in the jungle and in the river and here…” he thumped at his chest.

“Ah,” Wiggins said. “Just another sky fairy, then?”

“Be careful, sir,” the king said, deathly still and serious. “You have already offended him and he is at his most vicious when offended.”

“I have already gathered that we have given some offence,” Banks said, aiming for diplomacy. “If that is the case, I can only apologize. We were not aware…”

“‘Ignorance of the law is no excuse,’ isn’t that the phrase you use back home?” the king said. “You allied yourself with the people who ate of the flesh of the chosen. You have indeed offended. And for that you will face the test with the coming of the sun. Eat well, gentlemen. Consider it the last meal of condemned men.”

Banks’ mind was racing, making connections where he hadn’t seen them before.

“The flesh of the chosen? You mean the thing we found in the pot in the village.”

“Careful, sir,” the king said. “You are close to blasphemy again.”

“So, raptors are not Mokele-Mbembe, but they are the chosen, and eating them is taboo? Have I got that right?”

The king nodded.

“That is why the villagers were sacrificed last night, why the WHO people were sent over the gate… and why you will face the test.”

“And this wee test,” Wiggins said. “Will we ken if we pass or fail?”

The king laughed again, a bellow that echoed around them.

“Oh, I assure you, gentlemen, you will know.”