back from the propeller. The propeller itself was out of reach and couldn’t be used as a handhold. Once on her knees, balancing precariously on the float, she leaned forward and extended her right hand over the black water.
She slid her knees back, lying down flat. With her body sprawled across the float, she shimmied closer to the edge. An inch at a time, she moved forward, her grasping hand making its way closer and closer to the floating branch.
He held his breath, expecting her to hit the water at any moment. He pressed his face into the glass of the windshield, struggling to see over the nose. When he did, he saw the top of her head, her right shoulder and her extended arm. Her chest was dangling all the way off of the float, her body stretching until her fingers almost touched the branch.
Suddenly her head snapped to the left, her hazel eyes widening.
He followed her gaze. Where the crocodile had been resting a moment before, he saw only the gently swirling pond. The crocodile was gone. He burst into action, moving toward the door. He almost opened it, but stopped when he saw Sam slowly standing up. If he opened the door at all, he would block her path back into the safety of the Cessna. His wife watched the water around her, her arms extended to the sides, as if she were walking a tight rope.
With sudden agility, she ran back across the float and tugged the door open. Brandon grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back into the plane. Once her legs were inside they slammed the door.
“Thanks for the warning,” Sam chided.
“Did you see where he went?”
“ I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be watching.”
They heard a splash to the left of the craft. On the north embankment the crocodile pushed its head through the placid surface. Its long snout leading, it crawled out of the water onto the mud.
The creature looked like something from another age, a dinosaur that had survived its cousins. The slender snout was pegged with razor sharp teeth. The crocodile’s skin was thick and ridged, almost armored. Despite its awkward gait it moved quickly and disappeared in the undergrowth.
They both stared at the trees where it disappeared, expecting to see a sign of it there, or perhaps see it return to the pond. The forest remained still.
The rebels were not the only ones who saw the single-engine plane making its way over the jungle. When the first shots fired, other eyes followed the Cessna’s tumbling course into the treetops. The pilot had landed in the river at the heart of his territory.
At first, he worried that the militias might follow the aircraft, searching for a prize. A plane, even a wounded one, would be valuable to them. But when the rebels saw where the plane had gone, they abandoned their pursuit. Whoever had been in that plane would die anyway.
Even the militias knew what stretches of forests to avoid. They were a superstitious lot and listened closely to the tales of the locals. Besides, any outsider stepping into that dense section of jungle would instinctively know that they did not belong.
The plane had landed safely. The pilots were still alive, a foreign presence in a protected land.
The forest darkened. A hideous cackle rose up, splitting through the trees. The cry sent shivers through anyone within earshot.
A chorus of voices followed.
2
C louds of dust hung in the air as the harsh sun beat down on the tiny Bantu village. Houses of clay and bamboo, grass and thatch, sat between stretching plantations of rice, tomatoes, and beans. The streets were dirt with small patches of grass. All around the outskirts of the village the towering jungle trees rose, forming a natural border that separated the agrarian people from the harsh world outside.
Many of the villagers were at work in their fields, although a small portion gathered on the porch of Michanga, the local chief. They sat or leaned about, all deadly quiet. None wanted to speak for fear of bringing forth the wrath of
She slid her knees back, lying down flat. With her body sprawled across the float, she shimmied closer to the edge. An inch at a time, she moved forward, her grasping hand making its way closer and closer to the floating branch.
He held his breath, expecting her to hit the water at any moment. He pressed his face into the glass of the windshield, struggling to see over the nose. When he did, he saw the top of her head, her right shoulder and her extended arm. Her chest was dangling all the way off of the float, her body stretching until her fingers almost touched the branch.
Suddenly her head snapped to the left, her hazel eyes widening.
He followed her gaze. Where the crocodile had been resting a moment before, he saw only the gently swirling pond. The crocodile was gone. He burst into action, moving toward the door. He almost opened it, but stopped when he saw Sam slowly standing up. If he opened the door at all, he would block her path back into the safety of the Cessna. His wife watched the water around her, her arms extended to the sides, as if she were walking a tight rope.
With sudden agility, she ran back across the float and tugged the door open. Brandon grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back into the plane. Once her legs were inside they slammed the door.
“Thanks for the warning,” Sam chided.
“Did you see where he went?”
“ I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be watching.”
They heard a splash to the left of the craft. On the north embankment the crocodile pushed its head through the placid surface. Its long snout leading, it crawled out of the water onto the mud.
The creature looked like something from another age, a dinosaur that had survived its cousins. The slender snout was pegged with razor sharp teeth. The crocodile’s skin was thick and ridged, almost armored. Despite its awkward gait it moved quickly and disappeared in the undergrowth.
They both stared at the trees where it disappeared, expecting to see a sign of it there, or perhaps see it return to the pond. The forest remained still.
The rebels were not the only ones who saw the single-engine plane making its way over the jungle. When the first shots fired, other eyes followed the Cessna’s tumbling course into the treetops. The pilot had landed in the river at the heart of his territory.
At first, he worried that the militias might follow the aircraft, searching for a prize. A plane, even a wounded one, would be valuable to them. But when the rebels saw where the plane had gone, they abandoned their pursuit. Whoever had been in that plane would die anyway.
Even the militias knew what stretches of forests to avoid. They were a superstitious lot and listened closely to the tales of the locals. Besides, any outsider stepping into that dense section of jungle would instinctively know that they did not belong.
The plane had landed safely. The pilots were still alive, a foreign presence in a protected land.
The forest darkened. A hideous cackle rose up, splitting through the trees. The cry sent shivers through anyone within earshot.
A chorus of voices followed.
2
C louds of dust hung in the air as the harsh sun beat down on the tiny Bantu village. Houses of clay and bamboo, grass and thatch, sat between stretching plantations of rice, tomatoes, and beans. The streets were dirt with small patches of grass. All around the outskirts of the village the towering jungle trees rose, forming a natural border that separated the agrarian people from the harsh world outside.
Many of the villagers were at work in their fields, although a small portion gathered on the porch of Michanga, the local chief. They sat or leaned about, all deadly quiet. None wanted to speak for fear of bringing forth the wrath of
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