If there's one thing I've learnt since arriving in Africa, it is this:- Safaris are NOT my thing. Oh sure, I've seen pictures in glossy magazines advertising the wonders of the sunset hot-air balloon ride over the Serengeti, or the awesomely adventurous open-top jeep ride through a herd of elephants or a pride of lions literally a mile from an air-conditioned, plushly furnished, guaranteed not have scorpions in the bed 'safari lodge'. In those pictures, the safari-ites wore clean, sweat free clothes, peered excitedly through the eyepiece of a Nikon, and everyone - even the safari guide - was smiling with that wide mouthed, gleaming teeth gape-of-wonder that only a semi-wild carnivorous animal standing less than ten feet away with a mouth large enough to fit your head in can produce. I imagine that on those type of safaris, the day starts with a glass of sparkling champagne, and ends with a three course gourmet meal that includes some poor animal that happily posed for a photo earlier in the day.
This safari was not like that. No-one wore clothes that didn't reek of body odour and fire smoke (except for me and Dr O - one of the advantages of being non-mortal beings is that you don't sweat), and most of the time our guides, volunteers and hangers-on are looking through rifle sights more often than a camera's. And no-one is smiling. The roads are rough and dusty, the trucks that accompanied us from the charity's depot in Khartoum are old, slow and unreliable, and I haven't seen a pride of lions or elephants or hippos, or anything. Not even an Aardvark. The only animated wildlife are buzzards and vultures that feast on the shriveled, dried up and emaciated carcasses that lay at the side of the road every few tens of miles.
Its been two days since we left for Malha, and quite frankly it's been the most boring and frustrating journey I've ever been on. Dr Huntley has become like a small child with excitement at the 'adventure' we've set out on (apparently this Malha place is pretty amazing), and hasn't deemed it necessary to try and persuade me I shouldn't be going along anymore. Frankly his enthusiasm and astoundingly bright smile are beginning to irritate me. And not only me either - Fluff has become the most vocal puppy that ever existed, ever, and I'm subject to an almost continual telepathic stream of verbal diarrhea which I don't seem capable of blocking out of my head. Right now he's laying on the luggage in the back, moving his head between me and Huntley while the good doctor expounds on the management of water in semi-arid desert environments like he's watching a tennis match. I'm silent and tight lipped. Fluff is saying:
"I'm bored. This is boring. That man is boring. Are we there yet? I'm bored. And hungry. Hungry and bored. I want him to stop. You want him to stop. I could kill him for you, then he will stop. Can I kill him? Can I kill him? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I-Can I-Can-I Can-I Can-I Can-I Can-I.."
"SHUT UP!" I yell, irritation finally getting the better of me. Dr Huntley looks mightily affronted and swerves the jeep wildly across the road before slamming the brakes on and skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust and curses. He looks at me with an astonished and angry look and I realise that I might have just projected a fair amount of my own feelings onto him. That must have smarted. He doesn't seem able to form any words as his mouth opens and closes like a fish, and I'm not sure he's even breathing. Dr Ogunwe calmly leans forward from his seat in the back and places a hand on Huntley's shoulder. Like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, Huntleys face clears and he regains a calm, pleasant demeanor, albeit a somewhat vacant and indifferent one, his eyes focussing on some point far in the distance.
Dr Ogunwe, who up to this point has done nothing more than engage me in a few pleasantries and moments of small talk, and who (if Fluff is to be believed) just happens to be a genuine Angel, turns to me and says, "Miss Flower, for the sake of a peaceful and murder-free journey, I suggest you and your hell hound come to some sort of understanding. I, for one, would welcome some rest from his constant chatter."
YOU ARE READING
Aveline and the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse
ParanormalAveline Flower is dead. And then, unexpectedly, life gets interesting. Finding out you are not the person you thought you were is one thing, having the Devil himself tell you that is another. Recruited to undertake a mission that she is woefully unp...
