Forest of the Pygmies Page 8

  “Can you take us to Ngoubé?” Brother Fernando interrupted.

  “Ngoubé? Non! Non!” the Pygmies exclaimed.

  “We have to go to Ngoubé,” the missionary insisted.

  The man in the T-shirt seemed to be the one best qualified to communicate, because in addition to his limited vocabulary in French, he knew a few words of English. He introduced himself as Beyé-Dokou. Another Pygmy pointed to him and said that he was the tuma of their clan, that is, the best hunter. Beyé-Dokou quieted him with a friendly push, but from the satisfied expression on his face he seemed proud of the title. The other men started laughing uproariously, loudly teasing and making fun of him. Any hint of vanity was viewed badly among the Pygmies. Beyé-Dokou sank his head between his shoulders, embarrassed. With difficulty he explained to Kate that they should not go near the village because it was a very dangerous place; they should leave as quickly as possible.

  “Kosongo, Mbembelé, Sombe, soldiers,” he repeated, and his face reflected his terror.

  When the travelers insisted that they must go to Ngoubé at any cost, and that it would be four days before the canoes returned to pick them up, Beyé-Dokou seemed very worried. He consulted for some time with the other men and finally he offered to lead them by a secret route through the jungle back to the place they had left the plane.

  “They must be the ones who set the trap,” commented Nadia, motioning to the net the two pygmies were carrying.

  “And it seems that the idea of going to Ngoubé doesn’t suit them at all,” commented Alexander.

  “I’ve heard that they are the only humans able to live in these swamps. They move through the jungle by instinct. It may be best for us to go with them, before it’s too late,” said Angie.

  “We’re already here, and we will continue to Ngoubé. Wasn’t that what we agreed?” asked Kate.

  “To Ngoubé,” Brother Fernando repeated.

  With eloquent gestures the Pygmies made clear their opinion about the folly of that move, but finally they agreed to guide them. They set down their net beneath a tree, and without further ado took the duffels and knapsacks from the foreigners, threw them over their own shoulders, and started off at a trot through the ferns, so fast that it was nearly impossible to keep up. They were very strong and agile. Each of them was carrying more than sixty pounds, but it didn’t hinder them in the least; the muscles of their arms and legs were like reinforced concrete. As the International Geographic crew panted along, near fainting from fatigue and heat, the Pygmies, without the least effort, ran with short little steps, feet pointed out like ducks and jabbering all the way.

  Beyé-Dokou told them more about the three persons he had mentioned before: King Kosongo, Commandant Mbembelé, and Sombe, whom he described as a terrible sorcerer.

  He explained to them that King Kosongo’s feet never touched the ground, because if they did, the earth trembled. He said that the king’s face was always covered, so no one would see his eyes. Those eyes were so powerful that a single glance could kill from afar. Kosongo never spoke to anyone, because his voice was like thunder: It deafened people and terrorized animals. The king spoke only through The Royal Mouth, a person from his court who had been trained to survive the power of his voice and whose task it was also to taste his food, to prevent the king’s being poisoned or harmed by black magic through what he ate. The Pygmy warned them always to keep their head at a level lower than the king’s. The correct procedure was to fall facedown and crawl in his presence.

  The tiny man in the yellow T-shirt described Mbembelé by aiming an invisible weapon, firing, and falling to the ground as if dead; also by making thrusts with his spear and acting as if he were hacking off hands and feet with a machete or axe. The pantomime could not be clearer. He added that they should never contradict Mbembelé, though it was obvious that the one of the three he feared most was Sombe. Just the name of the sorcerer sent the Pygmies into a state of terror.

  The path was not visible, but their small guides had traveled it many times and they had no need to consult the marks on the trees. They passed a clearing in the thick growth where there were other voodoo dolls similar to the ones they’d seen; these, however, were a reddish brown, like iron oxide. As they came closer, they could see that the color came from dried blood. All about the dolls were piles of garbage, animal carcasses, rotted fruit, hunks of cassava, and gourds holding various liquids, perhaps palm wine and other liquors. The stench was unbearable. Brother Fernando crossed himself, and Kate reminded the frightened Joel that he was there to take photographs.

  “I hope the blood came from sacrificed animals, not humans,” the photographer murmured.

  “Village of ancestors,” said Beyé-Dokou, pointing to the narrow path that started at the dolls and disappeared into the forest.

  He explained that they’d had to make a long detour to reach Ngoubé in order not to pass through the lands of the ancestors, where the spirits of the dead wandered. It was a basic rule of safety: Only a fool or a lunatic would venture there.

  “Whose ancestors are they?” Nadia inquired.

  Beyé-Dokou struggled to understand the question, but finally with Brother Fernando’s help he got the idea.

  “Ours,” he clarified, pointing to his companions and using gestures to indicate that the spirits were short.

  “Do Kosongo and Mbembelé also stay away from the ghost village of the Pygmies?” Nadia insisted.

  “Nobody go there. If the spirits are disturbed, they take revenge. They enter the bodies of the living, they control they will, they cause sickness and suffering, sometimes death,” Beyé-Dokou answered.

  The Pygmies motioned to the foreigners that they must hurry, because the spirits of animals also come out at night to hunt.

  “How do you know if it’s the ghost of an animal, not just an ordinary animal?” Nadia asked.

  “Because ghost don’t have smell of animal. Leopard that smell like antelope, or serpent that smell like elephant, is ghost,” he explained.

  “Then I guess you need a good sense of smell, or else have to get real close, to tell the difference,” Alexander joked.

  Beyé-Dokou told them that at one time they hadn’t been afraid of the night or the spirits of animals—only those of their ancestors—because they’d been protected by Ipemba-Afua. Kate wanted to know if that was some god, but he corrected her misimpression; he was referring to a sacred amulet that had belonged to their tribe since time immemorial. The way he described it, they understood that it was a human bone that contained a never-ending powder that cured many ills. They had used the powder more times than they could count and through many generations, and it never ran out. Every time they opened the bone, they found it filled with the magical substance. Ipemba-Afua represented the soul of their people, they said; it was their source of health, strength, and good fortune for the hunt.

  “Where is it?” asked Alexander.

  The Pygmies told them, with tears in their eyes, that Ipemba-Afua had been seized by Mbembelé and was now in Kosongo’s power. As long as the king had the amulet, they had no soul; they were at his mercy.

  Foreigners and guides entered Ngoubé with the last light of day, when the villagers were beginning to set fires to light the village. They passed some scrawny plantings of cassava, coffee, and banana, a pair of high wood corrals—perhaps for animals—and a string of windowless huts with sagging walls and ruined roofs. A few long-horned cattle were cropping grass, and half-bald chickens, starving dogs, and wild monkeys were poking around among the huts. A few yards farther along, the path widened into a sort of avenue or large central square; there the dwellings were more reputable looking, as they were mud huts with corrugated zinc or straw roofs.

  The arrival of the strangers caused a commotion, and within minutes the people of the village had gathered to see what was going on. From their appearance they seemed to be Bantu, like the men in the canoes who had brought them as far as the fork in the river. Women in rags and naked childre
n formed a compact mass on one side of the square, through which four men taller than the other villagers, surely of a different tribe, made their way. They were dressed in ragged army uniforms and outfitted with antiquated rifles and ammunition belts. One was wearing an explorer’s pith helmet adorned with feathers, a yellow T-shirt, and plastic sandals; the others were naked to the waist and barefoot. Strips of leopard skin circled their biceps or heads, and rows of ritual scars adorned cheeks and arms. The lines of the scars were raised dots, as if small stones or beads were implanted beneath the skin.

  With the appearance of the soldiers, the Pygmies’ attitudes changed instantly: The confidence and happy camaraderie they had shown in the forest disappeared in a breath. They dropped their loads to the ground, lowered their heads, and backed away like beaten dogs. Beyé-Dokou was the only one who dared give a faint wave of good-bye to the foreigners.

  The soldiers pointed their weapons at the new arrivals and barked out a few words in French.

  “Good evening,” Kate said in English; she was at the head of the line and could think of nothing else to say.

  The soldiers ignored her outstretched hand. They surrounded the entire group and with the butts of the rifles pushed them against the wall of a hut before the curious eyes of the onlookers.

  “Kosongo, Mbembelé, Sombe . . .” shouted Kate.

  The men hesitated before the power of those names, and began arguing in their language. They made them wait for what seemed forever while one of them went to ask for instructions.

  Alexander noticed that some people were missing hands or ears, and that several of the children who were watching the scene some distance away had terrible sores on their faces. Brother Fernando told him the ulcers were caused by a virus transmitted by flies; he had seen the same thing in the refugee camps of Rwanda.

  “They can be cured with soap and water, but apparently they don’t have even that here,” he added.

  “Didn’t you say that the missionaries had a dispensary?” asked Alexander.

  “Those sores are a very bad sign, lad. They mean that my brothers aren’t here; otherwise they would have healed those children,” the missionary replied, deeply concerned.

  Much later, when the sky was black, the messenger returned with the order to take the foreigners to the Tree of Words, where matters of government were decided. They were told to pick up their gear and follow.

  The crowd fell back to let them through as the group marched across the square that divided the village. In the center was a magnificent tree whose branches spread over the area like an umbrella. Its trunk was nearly nine feet in diameter, and its roots, exposed to the air, fell from the branches like long tentacles to bury themselves in the ground. There the awe-inspiring Kosongo was awaiting them.

  The king was on a platform, seated on a large red plush and gilt wood antique armchair. A pair of elephant tusks, on end, stood on either side of the French-style chair, and leopard skins covered the floor. Surrounding the throne were witchcraft dolls and a series of wooden statues with frightening expressions. Three musicians in blue military uniform jackets, but no trousers or shoes, were beating sticks together. Smoking torches and two bonfires were ablaze, lending the scene a theatrical air.

  Kosongo was decked out in a robe embroidered all over with shells, feathers, and unexpected objects like bottle caps, rolls of film, and bullets. The mantle must have weighed at least eighty pounds. He was wearing, in addition, a monumental three-foot-tall hat adorned with four gold horns, symbols of power and courage. Around his neck hung various amulets and necklaces of lions’ teeth, and a python skin encircled his waist. A curtain of beads of glass and gold covered his face. A solid gold baton topped with a dried monkey’s head served as a scepter, and from that symbol of supreme power dangled a bone carved with delicate designs. From the size and shape, it appeared to be a human tibia. The foreigners deduced that this might well be Ipemba-Afua, the amulet the pygmies had described. The king’s fingers were covered with gold rings in the form of various animals, and heavy gold bracelets circled his arms to the elbow. He was as impressive as the sovereigns of England on coronation day, though in a rather different style.

  The king’s guards and aides stood in a semicircle around the throne. They, like everyone else in the village, appeared to be Bantu. In contrast, the king was of the same tall tribe as the soldiers. Since he was seated, it was difficult to calculate his size, but he looked enormous, though that, too, could be the effect of the robe and the hat. Commandant Maurice Mbembelé and the sorcerer Sombe were nowhere to be seen.

  There were no women or Pygmies in the royal entourage, but behind the male members of the court were some twenty young girls, distinguished from the other inhabitants of Ngoubé by their brightly colored clothes and heavy gold jewelry. In the wavering light of the torches, the yellow metal gleamed against their dark skin. Some of the young women held infants in their arms, and a few small children were playing around their feet. It was easy to deduce that this was the family of the king, and it was striking that the women seemed as submissive as the Pygmies. Apparently their social position provided no sense of pride, only fear.

  Brother Fernando informed his fellows that polygamy is common in Africa, and that often the number of wives and children indicates the level of a man’s economic power and prestige. In the case of a king, the more children he has, the more prosperous his nation. In this tradition, as in many others, the influence of Christianity and of Western culture had not made much of a dent in local customs. The missionary ventured that Kosongo’s women had perhaps not chosen their fate but had been forced to marry him.

  The four towering soldiers prodded the foreigners, indicating that they should prostrate themselves before the king. When Kate tried to look up, a blow to her head stopped her immediately. There they lay, swallowing the dust of the square, humiliated and trembling, for long, uncomfortable minutes, until the beating of the musicians’ sticks ended and a metallic sound put an end to their waiting. The prisoners dared glance toward the throne: The bizarre monarch was ringing a gold bell.

  As the echo of the bell died away, one of the counselors walked forward and the king said something into his ear. That man then spoke to the foreigners in a jumble of French, English, and Bantu to announce, as introduction, that Kosongo had been chosen by God and had a divine mission to govern. The foreigners again buried their noses in the dust, with no desire to express any doubt about that affirmation. They realized that they were listening to The Royal Mouth, just as Beyé-Dokou had described. Then the emissary asked them the purpose of their visit to the domain of the magnificent sovereign Kosongo. His threatening tone left no question in regard to his opinion of their presence. No one answered. The only ones who understood what he’d said were Kate and Brother Fernando, but they were confused. They didn’t know the protocol, and didn’t want to risk doing something inappropriate; perhaps the question was merely rhetorical, and Kosongo didn’t expect an answer.

  The king waited a few seconds in the midst of absolute silence, then again rang the bell, which was interpreted by the people as a command. The entire village, except for the Pygmies, began to shout and wave their fists, closing in a circle around the group of visitors. Curiously, their actions did not have the feeling of a spontaneous uprising; it seemed more like a bit of theater executed by bad actors. There was no trace of excitement in the shouting, and some were even laughing when their backs were turned. The soldiers who had firearms crowned the collective demonstration with an unexpected salvo aimed into the air, which produced a stampede in the square. Adults, children, monkeys, dogs, and hens ran to hide as far away as possible. The only persons remaining beneath the tree were the king, his reduced court, his terrorized harem, and the prisoners, still on the ground, arms covering their heads, sure that this was their last moment on earth.

  Gradually calm returned to the village. Once the firing had stopped and the noise had faded, The Royal Mouth repeated the question. This time Kate ro
se to her knees with what little dignity her old bones would allow and, taking care to keep below the level of the temperamental sovereign, as Beyé-Dokou had instructed, she spoke to the intermediary firmly, yet trying not to provoke him.

  “We are journalists and photographers,” she said, waving vaguely in the direction of her companions.

  The king whispered something to his aide, who then repeated his words.

  “All of you?”

  “No, Your Most Serene Majesty, sir. This woman is owner of the plane that brought us here, and the gentleman with the glasses is a missionary,” Kate explained, pointing to Angie and Brother Fernando. And added, before he asked about Nadia and Alexander, “We have come from a great distance to interview your Most Original Majestyness, because your fame has passed far beyond the boundaries of your nation to spread throughout the world.”

  Kosongo, who seemed to know much more French than The Royal Mouth, focused on the writer.

  “What do you mean, old woman?” he asked through his spokesman.

  “Outside your country there is great curiosity about your person, Your Most Regal Majesty.”

  “Why is that?” asked The Royal Mouth.

  “You have succeeded in imposing peace, prosperity, and order in this region, Your Most Absolute Highness. News has come that you are a brave warrior; your authority, wisdom, and wealth are well known. They say that you are as powerful as King Solomon of old.”

  Kate continued her tirade, getting tangled in her words because she hadn’t practiced her French in twenty years, and in her ideas, because she wasn’t overly confident about her plan. They were, after all, in the twenty-first century; those primitive kings in bad movies who were awed by an opportune eclipse of the sun no longer existed. She supposed that Kosongo was a little behind the times, but he wasn’t stupid: It would take more than an eclipse to convince him. It had occurred to her, nevertheless, that he was probably susceptible to adulation, like most men with power. It was not in her character to flatter anyone, but in a long lifetime she had found that you can pay the most ridiculous compliments to a man, and usually he believes them. Her one hope was that Kosongo would swallow her clumsy hook.