Jungle Of Steel And Stone

Chapter Four

Veil dreams.

Floating in a bodiless dream state through the Kalahari night, he watches as a tall Bantu crawls slowly and silently, like some great black desert lizard, to the crest of a steep star dune and peers over its spine. Below, in the dune's trough, the huge fire that had painted the sky an hour before is dying, reduced to a broad grid of glowing embers that pulse like a breathing creature in the desert wind just beginning to rise from the north.

The man can tell from the layout of this camp that it is K'ung, not Bantu, and he knows that not even the presence of Christian missionaries—indicated by the Land-Rover parked on the lee side of a smaller dune to the west—will guarantee him a welcome. Missionaries or no, the man knows that he may be killed if he hails the camp; at the least he will probably be beaten, then stripped of the precious medicinal herbs he has spent the last six days gathering in the open desert.

The man inches backward, then abruptly freezes as a strong puff of wind causes the bed of coals below him to flare briefly. In that instant the man glimpses something a short distance from the fire that causes him to grunt softly with surprise and intense interest.

A wooden statue, perhaps half-a-man high, rests on a flat, hard-packed bed of sand.

This is not just any K'ung tribe, the Bantu thinks as darkness once again washes over the statue in the wake of the passing wind. It has to be the small band of which stories are told, the Lonely Ones of the deep desert with their strange, unshakable beliefs—and strange missionaries that other missionaries make jokes about. The statue must be the Nal-toon, the idol this tribe believes to be the Maker and Protector of all things.

Theirs is a silly faith, the man thinks. For almost three years he has been a Christian, a believer in the Jesus-God, Who is invisible. Unlike the Nal-toon, the Jesus-God cannot be stolen, burned, or harmed in any way. The Jesus-God is the mightiest warrior of all and does not have to be guarded by anyone who might fall asleep—as the K'ung warrior the man has glimpsed sprawled on the sand near the idol has done.

The man's lips draw back in a sly smile. Obviously, he thinks, the sleeping man is not the legendary Tobal'ak, about whom so many fantastic stories are told. Tobal'ak, it is said, does not require sleep like ordinary men, and he is never far from the Nal-toon.

The Bantu rests his forehead on the night-cool sand, breathing deeply and regularly as he tries to weigh the risks and consequences of a failed attempt to steal the idol against the certain rewards that success will bring. He knows he will be killed if he is caught. But who will catch him? Tobal'ak? The man does not believe all the stories that are told about the K'ung warrior—indeed, he is not even sure he believes there is such a warrior as Tobal'ak, any more than he believes that the Nal-toon is anything but an ugly piece of carved wood.

On the other hand, the man knows that the idol will be worth a great deal to the white hunters who regularly pass through the Bantu camps at the edge of the jungle looking for such objects, which, it is said, are sold to other tribes in faraway places. An object as large as the Nal-toon should be worth many steel knives, the man thinks, as well as a large pouch of matches. He may even ask for the most precious gift of all—a radio like the missionaries carry.

The Bantu makes his decision. He rises, picks up his bundle of herbs, and moves stealthily along the spine of the dune until he is directly above the Nal-toon and its sleeping guard, upwind of any dogs that may be in the camp. He puts his bundle down, then slides silently down the inner face of one of the radiating arms of the dune. He puts his hands out to his sides and brakes to a stop as he comes abreast of the idol. He waits for a time, pressing back against the sand and listening in the darkness. However, there are no sounds of alarm, and the guard continues to sleep.

Then, in an unbroken series of smooth and silent movements, the man reaches over the spine of the radiating arm, seizes the idol with both hands, then starts back up the face of the dune. The Nal-toon is much heavier than the man thought it would be, and he finds himself clumsily plowing in the sand, driving with his legs and gasping for breath. But he makes it back to the top of the dune safely.

Standing on top of the dune, the Bantu's lips curl back from his teeth in a contemptuous sneer as he looks down on the sleeping camp. The K'ung—at least this tribe of K'ung—are like children, he thinks. If this piece of wood is their only god, as he has been told it is, they should have taken more care in guarding it.

Suddenly he feels the curious, empty feeling in his stomach, which the missionaries have told him is guilt. The man knows that, as a Christian, he is not supposed to steal—not even from his enemies. But he reminds himself that he has not been a Christian for very long and thus cannot be expected to follow all the many rules which have been laid down for him by the missionaries. Also, he has been told that the Jesus-God will always forgive him, as long as he is sorry.

And he is truly sorry, the Bantu thinks; he would not have stolen this tribal god were it not for the fact that he wants knives, matches—and maybe a radio.

The Bantu hefts the idol under his arm, slides his carrying sling over his shoulder, and starts toward the north, leaning into the wind that swirls around him and quickly erases the evidence of his passage.

Veil leaves the man's mind and rolls away from the dream to another, to be with Sharon.