Love At Sea: De La en Glässer

Fever ?

The natives came out from their hiding spots all looking at the man that had a different skin colour to theirs. The hairs on their head were not unruly as had been described in the scrolls, as a matter of fact they were dressed if not modestly then decently with tribal beads and marks on their bodies. Macmillan watched as the men and woman grunted to each other in sounds that were familiar to animal noises. Hand signals were exchanged, and deadly looks were sent his way. One of the men who was addressed as a chef leader pointed towards a smaller man, he stepped forward but not too far from his group in case the white man wanted to harm him. He looked back at the chef and the man in charge made hand signals.

"Why you here come?" Macmillan was stunned by the man's thick accent and poorly spoken English. "We no you want. Go home way. Go home way now, we you kill white man you we kill." The small man looked back at the chef. The clan was not impressed. "I do not mean any harm. I was on a ship, and it got destroyed. I was lucky to have escaped but my wife is ill. I need help." The small man translated his message to the chef. The chef made hand signals one he did not need interpretation for. "Chef say you go home way. Chef not happy, chef kill white man. Chef kill all white man here come. Chef not happy white man. Chef kill you white man." Hope was leaving his body but at least he was given a chance to escape and find what he was looking for. But he looked down at the lassy, she had began shivering and the heat of her body was able to penetrate through the numbers of blankets that covered her. "Please." He tried stepping forward and more spears and arrows were directed at him. "I need your help. She is sick." The small man communicated with the chef elder. Furious hand signals were exchanged, and a spear was placed at the neck of a dead animal.

But then the chef turned towards a woman. With a slight nod of his head the woman walked forward. She was old with hanging flesh about her thin bones. Traditional marks of lines and symbols had been drawn on both her cheeks. Despite her look she seemed nice. A soft smile brightened up the frown that had grazed her lips. She approached Macmillan and Bernadette with soft light steps. "White man long ago here come and kill man. They home take girls from mother and mother cry. When man here fighting want. White man big gun and shoot and blood and all die. We no want white man. White man kill. White man gun. You white man gun." She pointed at the gun that was tucked along the waistline of his pants. He wanted to stretch forth to hide it or even through it away, but he needed it. "I do not want to kill. My wife, she is not good. Please I need help. A fever-" "Fever?"

The old woman approached Macmillan. If there was one thing, she smelled good. "Fever no good, fever kill. Come wife sleep and eat and herbs need. Come." She turned to her men and grunted. They picked up their weapons and followed the woman who was also the chef leader of the group. The paths were in an unorganised order. Macmillan felt like as if they were just moving around in circles. "You bath. You smell." The woman walked past him towards the front. As much as the natives had offered to help, they still had their spears pointed at the rear of his butt just in case he tried shit. After half an hour of walking and the terrible heat, they had finally reached the mud houses of the natives. A large clearing formed the compound or a village square and a heap of stones held a burning fire. There were young girls that played among the sand, some making pottery and some getting tribal marks. A group of old women with stun looking faces sat at a specific mud house waving baskets angrily. There was hostility in the air, it was probably directed at him.

The men dumped the heap of meat on the ground and a group of younger boys began skinning and dividing. "Come wife need sleep. Come." The old woman directed them towards a very small hat. It was made of mud but the roof had dried leaves tied together. She pulled aside a makeshift curtain and he was astonished at the neatness of the small space. True it had a mat on the floor, a pitcher of water and a small pot of ground leaves and flowers that gave out an extraordinarily good smell. It was not home but it would have to do. He gently placed Bernadette to the ground and she gave a slight whimper. His muscles ached with the relief of the strain being taken off. "You go outside, help man. We here your wife stay. Wife need bath. Wife smell."