The Witch Doctor's Wife Read Free Page B

left detailed instructions in case there was just such a problem. You see, in the Congo we have many unexpected interruptions. And there is also a well-trained housekeeper who will be of much help.”
    “Oh good. I look forward to meeting her. I have never met an honest-to-goodness African. Of course I have only been in the country two days.”
    “Ah, yes. But this housekeeper, I am afraid, is a man.”
    “A man?”
    “Most housekeepers here are men. The women are too busyraising their children and working in the fields. Fieldwork, that is women’s work.”
    Amanda bristled. She was a modern woman, born in 1938, for heaven’s sake. Thanks to Rosie the Riveter and the other women who had stepped up to the plate during the war, her sex had proved they were capable of succeeding quite well in the workplace.
    “I hope these are not your personal views, Pierre.”
    He grinned. “No, Amanda. And if they were—well, I am not such a foolish man, I think. Ah, now before I forget: I sent the Singletons a telegraph last night, informing them of the unfortunate circumstances of your arrival. They have already replied.” He patted his pockets, but not finding it there, took a deep breath and plunged in. “Mrs. Singleton was quite distressed to learn that all your luggage was lost in the explosion. She has instructed me to tell you that you may borrow her clothing until you have a chance to make, or purchase, some of your own. She said that from the description of you that the missionary board sent her, you appear to be the same size. I am inclined to agree.”
    Amanda gasped. It had not yet sunk in that her luggage had been destroyed along with the plane. In the bathroom she’d thought briefly about her toothbrush and comb, but had consigned their existence to someplace unspecific—someplace other than in the charred wreckage.
    “Don’t worry, Amanda. I will take care of you. May I suggest I begin by giving you breakfast?”
     
    The Nigerian had not slept a wink. Adrenaline had gotten him to the river—albeit covered with cuts and abrasions—but now the river was keeping him prisoner. In the light cast by the hungry fires, he’d managed to climb down the sheer rock wall of the gorge. His trajectory had landed him just downriver from the falls. As a consequence he’d spent the night drenched with spray, trying to huddle in the protection of a narrow overhang.
    He’d been prevented from moving farther away from the catchment pool by the presence of an enormous crocodile. Without the light from the fires, which were reflected in the reptile’s eyes, the Nigerian might well have walked right into its jaws. The beast appeared to be at least twenty feet long and was stretched across a sandy beach, just on the other side of a pile of boulders.
    In the morning the crocodile was still there. Although the Nigerian had spent all of his adult life in Lagos, on the “bulge” of Africa, he’d been born and raised in crocodile country. He knew that crocodiles shied away from turbulence, much preferring calm water. This behemoth was pushing those boundaries to the extreme.
    No doubt it was the imminent prospect of being the first to feed on animals—and humans—unlucky enough to be swept over the falls that brought it so close to the escarpment. The Nigerian realized that although the roiling waters of the catchment pool, and the pile of boulders between him and sandy beach, would keep him safe from predation, he was virtually trapped. And since crocodiles can survive weeks without eating, this could well mean death by starvation. Still, there was always a chance the beast would lose interest.
    In the meantime the bright white undergarment he wore around his loins could be easily spotted from above. Without the slightest hesitation the Nigerian removed his last article of clothing and stuffed it deep within a rock fissure. Then he crammed his seven-foot frame back under the ledge where he’d spent the night. One must do what