And a monkey howled

by Harry Green

The village was quiet, everyone sleeping off the night's festivities ... apart from Loubo, that is; his head was still full of the excitement of the ceremony, the throb of the drums, dancing and singing ... and the knowledge that he, lowliest member of the Moluto, had been chosen to present the tribe's annual homage to their God - the great Mother-Of-The-Jungle!

Loubo stared up at the rattan roof. In the faint glow from the fire the meats and fruits, hanging from roof poles to cure in the smoke, looked like the leather-wings from the big cave by the river. He turned his head. Shemtha, his mother, and Malloo, his sister, lay alongside the far wall.

As though sensing her brother's gaze Malloo's eyelids flicked open. For one brief moment, puzzlement shone in her dark-brown eyes as she stared at Loubo's painted face. Then, she giggled.

‘Sh-sh!' Loubo put a finger to his lips, orange-daubed eyelids widening in warning.

Malloo, hand over her mouth to stifle her mirth, edged away from the warmth of her mother's body and scrabbled crab-like across the leaf-covered floor. ‘You look foolish, Loubo,' she whispered.

He touched lightly at the coloured clays and vegetable dyes that had hardened into a thin mask over his youthful features, then glared another warning as he hissed, ‘You should not mock that which you know nothing about. The Gods might be offended.'

‘I still think you look silly,' Malloo said. Then, more seriously, added, ‘The white-skins say they have the only true god.'

‘What do the ignorant white-skins know?' Loubo glanced upwards, peering through the smoke-hole in the roof to see if the sky was paling yet.

‘They know everything,' Malloo answered. ‘They live in huge, stone huts where water comes out of the walls when you want it. The white female, the one who came to our village last harvest, showed me images of her home. Their world is a wondrous place.'

Loubo glared fiercely. ‘The Sangriman says the white-skins are merely half-people. He says they must have displeased their Gods ... and had the colour drained from their skins as punishment.'

‘The Sangriman says this, the Sangriman says that!' Malloo hissed angrily. ‘What did our oh-so-wise man do when our father ran away to the white-skin's world? If the Sangriman is so powerful and all knowing, why did he not cast a spell to bring our father ‘back to us? And what did we do wrong, that he should order us to do menial work for our neighbours and have to live off their generosity?'

‘And was he not right?' Loubo declared triumphantly. ‘Did our neighbours not provide the means for us to remain in the village and live as they do, instead of being made outcasts?' Before Malloo could answer, Loubo glanced again at the smoke hole. ‘I must go.' He checked to make sure there was sufficient pig grease on his hair, and then smiled down at his sister. ‘You should be proud, my sister, that your brother has been chosen to deliver our offerings to the God-Of-The-Forest. This brings high honour to our family. When I return we will be treated as equals once more.'

Malloo had to admit to herself, Loubo did look resplendent in his finery, especially with such an impressive array of feathers, shells and gourds dangling from his leaf-fibre waistband. She pointed to the three, brightly coloured tins hanging alongside the sacred, tribal artefacts. ‘Why do you carry the white-skins' drinking vessels? They cannot have any powers.'

Loubo frowned sulkily. ‘They are presents for the God-Of-The-Forest.' A quick smile cracked flakes of paint from his cheek. ‘Anyway, they make good noise when you bang them together. I can use them to frighten away the hairy ones.'

‘I fear for you, my brother.' Malloo rested her hand lightly on his chest.

‘Women's foolishness,' Loubo muttered as he eased her fingers away from his chest markings. ‘Mind you don't ruin my Tamba. The Sangriman spent much time and care painting my body so I will be protected against all evils.'

Malloo shook her head. ‘Better you carried protection against the sleep sickness.'

‘I have no more time for your nonsense,' Loubo snorted. ‘Hand me my spear and food.'

Obediently, Malloo picked up Loubo's spear and the leaf-wrapped ball of sago that their mother had prepared. ‘You will be careful?' she warned, ‘and watch for the hairy ones ... and the long fangs?'

Loubo nodded. ‘I shall return before the sixth sunrise.' He said it with confidence.

‘And you will have attained manhood, and be allowed to sit with the elders and help make new laws.' Malloo's tone was suddenly, unaccountably, derisory.

Loubo nodded again, and wondered at the strange look in his sister's eyes as she walked with him to the edge of the forest. The look was still there as she watched him vanish into the wakening jungle.

Loubo travelled for two days, supplementing his starch-filled diet with grubs and wild fruits. On the third day, as dictated by tribal custom, he rose before dawn and made his way down to the small valley where the sacred Casuarina tree grew. Heart pounding, with only starlight to see by, he followed the winding river that would lead him to the Tree-God.

There were still a few minutes of darkness left when he reached the clearing where the great tree stood. Squatting, conscious of the Tree God's mass looming over him, he began to place the tribe's offerings on the ground, methodically positioning each and every item exactly as the Sangriman had instructed. Then, as light of the third day began to spread across the sky, he sat back, eyes reverently closed.

As protocol decreed, Loubo kept his eyes shut until the sun had cleared the distant mountain - till he felt its warmth on his face. Then, slowly, he opened his eyelids.

Timidly, dizzy with awe of his situation, Loubo gazed for the very first time upon his tribe's God.

At first Loubo thought his mind must be confused. He closed his eyes tightly, waited a moment then opened them again - nothing had changed, the horror was still there. Truth eventually sank in, burning a crooked pathway through his stunned mind. Then came fear, quickly followed by a terror that galvanised numbed limbs into motion and sent him racing from the valley.

Loubo's premature return was viewed with grave concern by the tribal elders - in the tribe's memory, the Chosen One had never come back before the allotted six days.

Chengo, chief of the Moluto tribe, sat grim faced on his royal dais as Loubo prostrated himself before him.

‘Are you dishonoured, Loubo?' The old man spoke chidingly, yet softly. Strangely, no anger showed as he gazed down on the young man's heaving shoulders.

Loubo, eyes respectfully focused on the ground, panted, ‘We are all dishonoured, my chief. The God-Of-The-Forest has forsaken us; Her soul has surely departed, for our sacred tree is withered and dead. Already the wood borers are eating into Her roots.' Forgetting himself Loubo raised his head and looked his chief directly in the eye. ‘When the Great Spirit left, She must have sucked the life from every tree and shrub that grew near, for every grass, every vine and flower within a ninety-pace circle, is also dead.'

‘This cannot be!' Chengo's voice was loud with anger.

The assembled tribe, as though at a signal, wailed in unison ... then went silent.

Loubo gazed around, then looked at his chief. ‘My life be forfeit if I lie.'

Chengo was silent for a long time. Then, nodding thoughtfully, he murmured, ‘You did right to hurry back with such important news. Though I fear that if what you say is true, then we, the Moluto, are also doomed to wither and die.'

‘We must send others to see if Loubo speaks truthfully,' the Sangriman shrieked, as he waved his rattle wildly.

The chief nodded and with sad eyes gazed out at the tribe. ‘Four of you must go. The rest of us will wait, and pray that Loubo was mistaken.'

The tribe, muttering and whispering, slowly dispersed.

The four men were back within five days. All bore samples of shrivelled grasses and dead tree branches.

‘Loubo spoke truthfully,' the spokesman stood at the foot of the chief's dais and recounted all that they had seen.

Chengo, features contorted as though suffering some terrible inner agony, rocked back and forth on his throne.

The tribe waited, the silence broken only by a low hum of insects and the distant squealing of two village dogs locked in battle.

Long minutes passed. Then, motioning for his people to gather closer, Chengo called out, ‘We have obviously displeased our God. She has deserted us because we have become unworthy.'

‘How? What have we done?' A hundred voices shouted the questions.

Chengo stood erect, shrugged his feather cape into better position, and threw his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. ‘We are tainted by the presence of the white-skins! The young people go to the white-skins cities and our women sell favours to the workers who cut down our trees! Is this not true?'

The villagers looked at each other, then nodded their heads and mumbled agreement.

‘Once we were many, now we are few,' Chengo intoned. ‘Soon there will be none left to carry on our traditions and way of life ... soon there will be no one left at all.' his voice rose. ‘This, our God has seen! This, is why She has abandoned us.'

‘You are our leader! Give us guidance.' It was Loubo who spoke. He glanced around guiltily, surprised by his own audacity.

Chengo looked at Loubo, then past him at the upturned faces of the tribe. ‘You must return to the old ways,' he said loudly. ‘Go deeper into the jungle, deep enough so the white-skins will never find you. When you are far enough away, build yourselves another village. Then, when you are settled, elect a new chief ... one who will not fail you as I did.'

There was uproar. The tribe argued amongst themselves for many hours before reaching a somewhat shaky decision to do as their chief asked. Then a chosen delegation approached the meetinghouse and begged Chengo to go with them, pleaded for him to continue to be their chief.

Chengo, stone-faced, listened, but refused to change his mind.

Finally, with much sadness, the majority of the tribe collected their belongings and walked into the jungle. The rest, mainly young men and women, made their way toward the white-skins' camps - Malloo and his sister amongst them.

Weeks passed, and weeds and vines invaded what little remained of the village. Only a single hut, the meetinghouse and the chief's dais showed sign of regular use. Then, early one morning, a noisy procession wound its way between the abandoned huts.

Chengo, former chief of the Moluto, sitting alone in the meetinghouse, greeted the procession's leader - a large man, swarthy of skin and dressed in kaki safari suit.

‘I see our plan worked,' the man said.

Chengo nodded. ‘Your magic truly is most powerful.'

‘No magic about it,' the man snapped irritably. ‘Just a simple de-foliate sprayed from a helicopter.'

Chengo was not listening. ‘You brought my reward?' he asked eagerly.

‘Of course.' The man handed Chengo an envelope. ‘Sign those papers, and then you will be flown to the big city. You will have a house, and servants to help you adapt to your new life.'

Chengo glanced toward the dark shadows of the jungle into which his tribe had vanished. A momentary glint of sadness sparked in the chief's brown eyes - then it was gone and he was hurrying away, so occupied with thoughts of the magical future awaiting him that he barely noticed the huge machines that rumbled and growled like voracious carnivores as they cut a great swathe through the jungle.

By the time the mechanical monsters closed on the meeting house Chengo was so far away he couldn't hear the screams and groans of the sacred timbers as they were crushed beneath giant metal tracks. Nor did he hear, in the far distance, a monkey's anguished howl of protest.

http://www.aninkling.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk
aninkling@blueyonder.co.uk