stephbg | Jungle Heat

More fun with quick short fiction, doing a goodly number of things one is presumably not supposed to do with the English language.

Jungle Heat

The pounding filled the sultry night like the palpitations of an excited predator on the climax of the hunt. Rhythm and syncopation warred in a primal battle for all the souls trapped within the wild arena. The ancient trees danced to the sound in their own ponderous meter, breathing silence within the thrumming urgency of the night, but lusting for the blood to come.

Lady W---- clutched her lace handkerchief to her milk-white throat, and wished that she too could be holding an elephant gun, as were all the white men in the party. She bitterly regretted this cursed adventure, which had seemed the perfect escape from her boring society life in London.

"Freddy, dear," she managed in a satisfyingly civilised parlour voice, "when - " she cleared her throat, but her voice returned without some of its calm polish. "When will the drums stop? What happens then?" Past caring about emotion in her tone, she reached for Freddy, her darling husband of just three months, but she was suddenly struck by his pallor, and the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his elephant gun with some urgency. She suddenly felt very alone. He couldn't protect her, she realised.

Freddy, meanwhile, fought for calm and authority. He was long past any intellectual curiosity about the meaning of the drums; long beyond dreams of glory at the club. He turned to their guide, "Mugubu! When will the drums stop?"

M'*kb'ghu, though educated by missionaries, well-versed in the ugly English tongue, and enjoying a solid reputation amongst the white devils, felt his wild blood sing to the rhythms of the night. He bared his teeth in savage joy at what was to come this night. "Master," he said in tones respectful, "The drums will stop when it is time. You should be more concerned about what happens after that." His eyes and teeth flashed in the moonlight, and Freddy experienced yet another unpleasant jolt of fear.

The chums at the club never mentioned this sort of thing when relating their own adventures, but with the benefit of hindsight he could recall in their eyes some of that sickening feeling now threatening to rob him of his stout British manhood. Lords above he could do with a sherry right now. Maybe even two. He clutched his peashooter even tighter.

Finally Mugubu's words registered with the young man. "What happens when the drums stop?" he eventually managed to ask, albeit in tones unbecoming a lord of the Empire.

As though directed by the Englishman's own words, the drums stopped in that moment. In the shocking silence Lady W---- let forth an involuntary scream, and clutched at her lace handkershief as though it were a talisman against the dangers of the tropical night. The other guides and porters moaned and gathered more tightly together. With a terrible cry one of the porters fled into the darkness. His crashing progress came to a shockingly sudden halt and then there was silence.

M'*kb'ghu finally spoke "What happens when the drums stop?" He eyed his frightened companions and smiled.

"Bass solo."

He settled against a tree with eyes shut to listen to the music. Really, he thought to himself. Some people just don't get jazz.