Journey of Hope

“I hate to waste good daylight with early camps this soon in the journey. Especially since our rowers couldn’t help slowing down in the hardest part of the rain. What about those drums I’ve been hearing? Don’t they mean we are close to a village?”

“Possibly, but hard to say with any accuracy. Those are talking drums. Their sounds travel hundreds of miles.”

“Are you having fun at my expense?” His head canted.

“No, not at all. Drums telegraphed village messages long before Mr. Marconi ever thought of sending signals through the air.”

“Amazing how people make progress in their own way.”

“I think you’ll find a lot of things here to surprise you, if you keep an open mind. You might spend time watching local blacksmiths. Most villages have one. They do a lot of work in iron.”

Stewart raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. Ironwork speaks to not only inventive thinking, but also tells me they are familiar with the metals and minerals available.”

“Yes, but they don’t value some metals the way we would.”

He smiled. “Better for my company if they don’t.”

Surprise threaded her voice before she thought to conceal it. “You would deliberately take advantage of their ignorance of the rest of the world?”

He shook his head. “Of course not, but it will allow us to negotiate affordable terms. Mining here will be an expensive proposition.”

“I guess I’ll hear your terms for myself if I’m the one doing the translating.”

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly and then narrowed as he looked past her shoulder. One hand reached down and gripped the stock of his rifle. “In the area of translating, does your gift for languages extend to drum talk?”

“No.” She laughed. “Drum is not a language I’ve mastered.”

“Too bad.” He nodded to a spot behind her. “If you had, we might know if that rather formidable display of warriors holds spears of welcome or imminent death.”

* * *

Stewart was relieved to see that welcome prevailed. But three hours into the evening’s festivities, relief no longer sustained him. What he wanted was quiet and his bed. If Anna had not explained the courtesies and customs, he would have cut the evening short and lost the goodwill of his hosts.

The sheer skill of the drummers, their intricate beats accompanying displays of impressive athletic prowess, were all fascinating at first. He’d thought Monrovia exotic with its marketplaces full of colorfully dressed Kru men and the impressively tall Vai and their wives walking down the streets side by side with roaming cattle and pigs. But Monrovia hadn’t prepared him in the least for the sight of those fierce-faced, spear-laden warriors. He felt as green as new recruits on the front lines when reality didn’t meet the idealized expectations of war.