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He caught just a tiny flicker of movement in one of the forest glades, almost a mile distant across the valley.
For an instant even Pirri's phenomenal eyesight was cheated. It did not seem to be a man, certainly not a white man, and then as he disappeared into the tall trees at the edge of the forest he realised that the man had covered himself with mud from head to foot and wore a hat of bark and leaves which distorted the outline of his head and made it difficult to make out his human shape. Ha! Pirri rubbed his belly with delight and granted himself another small pinch of tobacco under his upper lip to reward himself for the sighting. Yes, you are good, my wazungu. Even I will not be able to catch you before darkness falls, but in the morning your head will be mine. That night Pirri Slept without a fire at the edge of the clearing where last he had seen the white man, and was moving again just as soon as it was light enough to make out the sign.
In the middle of the morning he found the wazungu. He was lying at the foot of one of the towering African mahogany trees and at first Pirri thought he was already dead. He had tried to cover himself with dead leaves, a pathetic last effort to thwart the remorseless little hunter.
Pirri moved in very slowly, taking every precaution, trusting nothing. He carried his broad-bladed machete ready in his right hand, and the weapon was honed to a razor edge.
When at last he stood over Daniel Armstrong he realised that although he was sick and wasted, he was not yet dead. He was unconscious, breathing with a soft bubbling sound in the back of his throat, curled like a sick dog under the blanket of leaf trash. His head was tilted at an angle, and the sweat had washed away the mud camouflage below his jaw line, leaving a white line. A perfect aiming mark for the decapitating stroke.
Pirri tested the edge of the blade of the machete with his thumb. It was sharp enough to shave his beard. He lifted it high above his head with both hands. The man's neck was no thicker than that of one of the forest duikers which were Pirri's usual prey. The machete would hack through meat and bone just as readily, and the head would spring away from the trunk with the same startling alacrity. He would hang it by its thick curly hair from a branch for an hour or so, to allow the blood to drain from the severed neck, then he would smoke it over a slow fire of green leaves and herbs to preserve it, before slinging it in a small carrying net of bark string and bearing it back to his poaching master, Chetti Singh, to collect his reward.
Pirri felt a little cold gust of regret as he paused at the top of his stroke before sending the blade hissing down. Because he was a true hunter he always experienced this sadness for his quarry at the moment of the kill, the creed of his tribe was to respect and honour the animals he killed, especially when the quarry had been cu
Die swiftly, he made his silent entreaty.
He was on the point of slashing downwards when a voice said quietly behind him, Hold your blade, my brother, or I will put this poison arrow through your liver. Pirri was so startled that he leapt in the air and whirled to face about.
Sepoo was five paces behind him. His bow was arched and the arrow was drawn to his cheek, the poison on the tip of the arrow was black and sticky as toffee and it was pointed unwaveringly at Pirri's chest.
You are my own brother! Pirri gasped with the shock. You are the fruit of my own mother's womb. You would not let your arrow fly? If you believe that, Pirri, my brother, you are even more stupid than I believe you to be. Kara-Ki wants this white wazungu alive. If you tap a single drop of his blood, I will put this arrow through you, from brisket to backbone. And I, said Pamba his wife from the forest shadows behind him, I will sing and dance around you as you lie writhing on the ground.
Pirri backed away sharply. He knew he could talk Sepoo into or out of almost anything, but not Pamba. He had a vast respect for and healthy fear of his sister-in-law. They have offered me great treasure to kill this wazungu: His voice was shrill. I will share it equally with you. As much tobacco as you can carry! I will give it to you.
Shoot him in the belly, ordered Pamba cheerfully, and Sepoo's arm trembled with the strain of his draw as he closed one eye to correct his aim. Wait, shrieked Pirri. I love you, my dear sister; you would not allow this old idiot to kill me. I am going to take a little snuff, said Pamba coldly. If you are still here when I finish sneezing.
I am going, howled Pirri, and took another dozen paces backwards. I am going. He ducked into the undergrowth and the instant he was out of the line of fire he screamed, You foul old monkey woman. . . They could hear him slashing out with his machete at the bushes around him in fury and frustration.
Only a decrepit venereal baboon like Sepoo would marry a drooling old hag.
The sounds of his ranting fury gradually diminished as he retreated into the forest and Sepoo lowered his bow and turned to his wife. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since the day Pirri fell into his own trap on top of the buffalo that was already in the pit! he guffawed.
But he described you well, my lovely wife. Pamba ignored him and went to where Daniel Armstrong lay unconscious, half buried in dirt and dead leaves.
She knelt beside him and examined him quickly but thoroughly, plucking the ants from the corners of his eyes and his nostrils. I will have to work hard to save him for Karl-Ki, she said as she reached into her medicine bag.
If I lose this one, I don't know where I will find another one for her.
While Pamba ministered to Daniel, Sepoo built a hut over him where he lay and then lit a little fire to disperse the mosquitoes and the humidity.
He squatted in the doorway and watched his wife work.
She was the most skilled medicine woman of all the Bambuti, and her fingers were swift and dextrous as she cleaned the wound in the wazungu's back and applied a poultice of mashed and boiled roots and leaves. Then she forced him to drink copious quantities of a hot infusion of herbs that would bind his bowels and replace the fluid that his body had shed.
She crooned and muttered encouragement to the unconscious man as she worked, her bare dugs swinging wrinkled and empty as a pair of leather tobacco pouches from her bony chest and her necklace of ivory and beads clicking each time she moved.
Within three hours Daniel had regained consciousness. He looked up dazedly at the two little old people crouched over him in the smoky hut and asked in Swahili, Who are you? I am Sepoo, said the man. A famous hunter and a renowned sage of the Bambuti. And I am Pamba, the wife of the greatest liar in all the forest of Ubomo, said the woman, and cackled with laughter.
By the next morning Daniel's diarrhea had dried up and he could eat a little of the stew of monkey meat and herbs that Pamba had prepared for him. By the following morning the infection of the wound in his back had abated and he was strong enough to begin the journey to Gondola.
Daniel went slowly at first, using a staff to steady himself, for his legs were still wobbly and his head seemed to be filled with wool and floating clear of his shoulders. Pamba kept him company, leading him at a gentle pace through the forest and keeping up a constant chattering punctuated with shrieks of merry laughter, Sepoo ranged afar hunting and scavenging in the usual Bambuti ma
Daniel had already guessed the identity of the mysterious Kara-Ki who had sent the pygmies to rescue him, but as soon as Pamba gave him an opportunity he questioned her further trying to get her to describe her patron in detail. Kara-Ki is very tall, Pamba told him, and Daniel realised that to a Bambuti everybody else in the world is very tall.