Journey of Hope. Debbie Kaufman
nixed the idea of sharing a canoe upriver to avoid the close confines and to reinforce the necessary bounds of behavior between two unmarried individuals. Clearly he’d meant nothing improper by his actions on board the ship. He’d been like a child with an unexpected Christmas present when she’d revealed her ability with languages. She’d been caught off guard, that was all.
She’d worked hard since to banish the thought of how safe and secure being in those strong arms made her feel. God was her true source of strength, and with His help she’d conquer this sudden longing to feel secure in a man’s arms. Another reason for separate canoes until she overcame her failing.
Fortunately, between Mrs. Dowdy’s presence and the eventual sight of the red-tiled roofs of Harper, Stewart had stuck to the business at hand after that moment. Remarkable how fast things came together once they’d crossed the beach and reached the town. A virtual whirlwind ensued as she filled supply lists, gave him instructions for securing rowers when he’d insisted on taking care of the hiring himself and searched out lodging for Stewart separate from the quarters the mission university provided for her.
All that hurry and now nothing for entertainment beyond the occasional parrot in the endless landscape of piassava palms and mangrove trees along the river’s banks. The cadence of her Kru rowers singing to keep the rhythm threatened to lull her to sleep.
Earlier they’d passed several villages and one occupied missionary post. But it had been too soon in the journey to do more than say hello, stretch their legs a bit and gather information. She hoped their last source was accurate. Judging by the low-hanging sun and the lifting rain, if they didn’t come across another village soon, they’d be forced to make their own clearing and camp for the night.
Not a pleasant thought. She hadn’t seen any crocodiles so far, but she worried that the nocturnal, river-loving pygmy hippos might not be obvious until they made camp.
Thoughts of wildlife vanished when Stewart’s canoe pulled alongside hers. She addressed her concerns. “I’m not sure we should have pushed on from the last signs of a village, Mr. Hastings. We might be forced to camp by the riverbank. Not my favorite location.”
“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.
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