Excerpt

In the Garden of the Serpent King

James Bennett

The Congo Basin, 1913

The great stone phallus thrust from the fetid earth of the swamp, ten-foot high and veined in liana, its fat, rounded glans mist-polished and worn.

'Good lord!' ejaculated Lord Roland Moss, adding in a needless bluster. 'What the devil is it?'

His son and heir, Lysander Moss, was the only one among the party to laugh, struggling to conceal his eighteen-year-old nature behind a muddy hand. The others—those who remained—went through a series of varying reactions. Mr Bell, the swarthy rifleman, shouldered the weapon in question, grunted, and spat. The portly Dr Montgomery Ives, a ball of sweat-drenched khaki under his salacot, gasped and fumbled for his camera case. The two tribesmen leading the mules fell to their knees, venerating the monolith in a muted babble and letting all present know that it was sacred to the Mbuti. The so-called "ape-man", standing lean and pale in his loincloth (his only concession to fashion), narrowed his eyes and was silent.

'Heavens, it's a giant tallywhacker, Father.' Lysander offered this with customary relish, hands on hips and smirking up at the shadowing column. 'One can only marvel at the ancient hand that raised such an erection.'

Lord Roland spared him a disapproving glance. He'd yet to forgive the lad for his indiscretions at Oxford last summer, as more than a few guineas had changed hands with the Dean to save him from being expelled. What would his mother think? She'd already had a fit of the vapours over his expulsion, though she tended to turn a blind eye to Lysander's precocious behaviour at home. To stave off thought of the ailing Eunice, oceans away in rural Bedfordshire, he strode over to the ape-man, whom the tribes called Kabou, and enquired after what the guides were saying.

'They're saying, sir,' Kabou replied, 'that it marks the boundary of the temple of Mboo, the primordial python god.'

'Thunderation! Then the Stanley map was right.'

'Indeed. They're also saying they'll go no further.'

At this, Lysander hastened forth, lithe as the draping vines on the muyovu trees. He raised his whip over his shoulder. His son seemed determined to take out his temper on every poor tribesman they met along the way. Or had until Roland threatened to pull down his breeches and give him a jolly good spanking in front of all and sundry, which he would've gladly done had he not feared that Lysander would never forgive him for it and Mr Bell rather enjoy the spectacle. As it happened, Kabou stood in the youth's path and that was enough to make him think better of it. For a moment, the midges swarmed and the bonobos sang, the heat rippling through the morass. Then the whip sank to Lysander's side and there came the expected pout.

'I hope you're not suggesting that I lead the mules,' he said, blond and trembling in his sodden brown shirt.

'Let them go,' Roland said, ignoring his son and speaking to the canopy, the lattice of leaves growing dimmer by the minute. 'We have you, Kabou, and you shall show us the way. According to the map, we should reach the temple by nightfall.'

Come dusk, Lord Roland sat in his tent, sipped a little whiskey, and scribbled in his diary:

Three days out from Kinshasha, following the arc of the Congo River. Oh, Eunice, woe has dogged our every step, as if the very jungle reviles our presence. First, our steamship ran aground at Matoko, near where the Congo and Ubangi fork, forcing us to continue into the forest on foot. Edward, the cartographer, fell afoul of quicksand on the first day, sinking without trace. We've seen lions and leopards near the camp at night. To add to our troubles, we had to leave Captain McFadden behind in a Mbuti village—and with the greatest reluctance of the chief—because his drunkenness was becoming too much for us and we feared malaria had him in its clutches. I only pray that the natives can withstand him! Then crocodiles took one of the guides during the night. The next day, our bungling Dr Ives lost the compass and so we've followed the rudimentary sketches judging by the sun, the map gleaned from the prior Stanley expedition (and the munificence of the Royal Geographical Society, of course). We mean to force our way to the temple, out here where the villages and the lake names run out. I'm afraid to tell you that the worst of our ills is undeniably our son, who appears more unruly by the day and makes me regret with every step that I decided to bring him along, sparing you the burden in your sickness.

Nevertheless, Kabou, the famous "ape-man", assures me that we draw near our prize! Why, this very afternoon we encountered a stone marking the gates of the ancient kingdom, a granite pillar of untold centuries, featuring the graven face of Mboo himself. Should we find the seat of the erstwhile 'python god', that forgotten icon of masculine desire, then we have every reason to hope that the legend of the night orchid will also prove true. Once plucked under a full moon, I shall speed home to you at once with its curative properties!

Linger yet, sweet Eunice. I labour for your life. Though the jungle may shriek and the mosquitoes sting, each arduous step brings me closer to your side, with a flower in my faithful grip.

Your dearest husband.