Benjie hoped that what he discovered here with the driver ants might bear fruit. With that goal in mind, he crept alongside their trail. The earlier swarming of the winged males had suggested their mate might be somewhere nearby. A search along the fringes of the camp had revealed a trail of red-black ants that ran with daubs of white. They marked the presence of specialized workers—brood-carriers—who had fled the floodwaters, hauling along the nest’s larvae and pupae.
He had already collected a few larval and pupal specimens as he followed the trail upstream. He planned, once back in Kisangani, to study the ants’ DNA, especially epigenetic modifications that might have triggered this new cooperative behavior. But he still hunted for his coup de grace, a specimen vital to any study on the inheritability of a stress-induced trait in ants.
Then he finally spotted what he had trekked out here to secure.
Ah hah . . .
At the tail end of the bobbling run of larvae and pupae, a larger ant appeared, easily two inches long. It was the colony queen. She was accompanied by a coterie of workers who escorted her away from her flooded nest.
Benjie dropped to a knee beside the river of ants and retrieved a set of long tweezers from the breast pocket of his coveralls. He used them to pluck the queen from the trail. He shook off a few escorts that clung to her, then dropped her into a test tube. He quickly plugged the top—both to keep the large ant from escaping, but also to seal away any pheromones she might exude. All driver ants were blind, guided instead by vibrations and scents. He didn’t want to risk luring this army into a vain pursuit of their queen. If undisturbed, the rest of the colony should continue on their pre-programmed route, where they’d eventually either dwindle away without an egg-laying queen or a new one would arise to take over the throne.
With his prize in hand, Benjie turned and headed toward the camp. He estimated he was only a quarter mile away. As he hiked back, he eyed the neighboring river of ants for any sign of threat—then a soft grunt rose behind him. It was answered by a cough farther to his right.
He half-turned while continuing through the dark jungle. He cast his flashlight behind him. He saw nothing. Still, he set off faster. His ears strained for any other indication that something was on his trail.
He heard nothing.
But he wasn’t fooled.
11:10 P.M.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Jameson said.
The pediatrician’s words were punctuated by a loud clap of thunder. The little plastic tent window brightened with a flash of lightning. The storm was about to break upon them at any moment.
Charlotte bit her lower lip, searching for any excuse to delay their departure until Benjie could return. The tent had been emptied of most patients. One ICCN truck had already departed with Dr. Poll and the first load. The second truck waited for the last of the patients.
Only one remained in the tent.
Charlotte glanced over to the Luba mother and her son. The woman had refused to leave Charlotte’s side, clearly intent on holding the doctor to her promise to help the child.
Jameson waved Byrne over to the cot. “Get these two into the truck.”
The tall Swiss nurse, soaked and bedraggled in his coveralls, crossed brusquely over. The mother leaned away, shifting her child protectively to the side.
Charlotte blocked the nurse. “I’ll help them. You grab anything else that we might need.”
Byrne looked to Jameson for approval, which rankled Charlotte.
The pediatrician flung his arms in exasperation. “Whatever. Fine. But we’re outta here in five.”
Charlotte shifted over to the mother and gently coaxed her from the bed. “Disanka, hebu tuende. We’ll get your kitwana somewhere safe.”
The mother slid her legs off the cot, cradling her boy. She started to stand—when a flurry of commotion at the tent flap made her flinch back.
Charlotte turned as Ndaye, the leader of the ICCN team, rushed into the tent. The thin, muscular man, in his midthirties, wore a uniform of green camo, a matching cap, and black boots. He carried a rifle slung over a shoulder.
Charlotte looked hopefully at him. The only concession she had managed to get out of Jameson was to allow Ndaye and one of his men to head into the rainy jungle to search for Benjie. Another man followed Ndaye into the tent, but it wasn’t the grad student. The stranger unfolded his gaunt frame, straightening with a dignity that spoke of authority. His exact age was hard to determine, but from his gray braids—swept back by a brightly beaded headband—he had to be in his late seventies or eighties. He wore loose pants and a half-buttoned shirt, exposing a thick necklace that matched his headband.
“This is Woko Bosh,” Ndaye introduced. “An elder shaman of the Kuba—a people who live to the west of here.”
Charlotte noted the glint of sharp intelligence in the man’s eyes. His dress and demeanor were far from what she had expected of such a shaman, whom many still referred to as witch doctors. His calm gaze swept across the tent and settled on Disanka and her child. The man turned back and called sharply past the tent flap.
Ndaye explained, “I found the shaman and his apprentice headed toward our camp in a truck. He had already been en route to this region, drawn two days ago by rumors of a great sickness, one spreading through the forest, afflicting both men and the jungle itself.”
“So, this must be happening in other places, too,” Jameson said.
“Apparently,” Ndaye confirmed. His eyes shone with worry. The ICCN leader had grown up here, but he had also been educated in England for a time, earning a degree in anthropology. He had returned with a bit of a British accent. “Despite the various tribes and warring factions out here, the jungle has an efficient means of communication. It always has. Spreading from mouth to mouth, news can travel swiftly throughout the forest.”
Charlotte stepped closer. “But why did the shaman travel to our camp?”
“According to him, he sought to confirm the presence of an ancient enemy. One his people fought long ago. He claims to—”
Thunder boomed outside, cutting off the man’s words. Winds kicked up, shaking the tent’s fabric.
“Enough,” Jameson said as the gust ended. “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Charlotte held up a hand, willing to listen—not that she necessarily believed any of this, but if it bought Benjie more time to get back to camp, all the better. “We should hear him out. The indigenous people of the Congo have lived in these forests for millennia on end. If they have any knowledge about what’s happening here, we shouldn’t discount it.”
Ndaye concurred. “The tribes have an ageless oral tradition, going back to a time blurred between history and mythology.”
Charlotte nodded. Before coming here, she had read about the Congo’s past. The earliest inhabitants—the pygmy tribes—had arrived during the Upper Paleolithic Period, around forty thousand years ago.
A small shape burst into the tent, but it wasn’t a pygmy native. It was a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. He was soaked, his boots muddy, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, and a blue JanSport backpack. He spoke rapidly in a dialect that Charlotte didn’t know. He held aloft a tarp-wrapped parcel.
“This is Faraji,” Ndaye introduced. “Woko Bosh’s nephew and apprentice.”
The shaman took the package, knelt down, and unwrapped it. Inside was an intricately carved wooden mask, maybe a funereal object. It was elaborately decorated in shells, ivory, and painted seeds. It was also adorned with filigreed iron, and a few brighter strands that had to be gold, delineating eyebrows and eyelashes. It was a stunning masterwork of tribal craftsmanship, though the subject was unusual.
While the mask’s face was similar to most African figures, done in a stylized form, the carving depicted no ceremonial headdress or crown. Instead, the bust was topped by a domed helmet, all adorned in white shells. It looked more colonial than tribal.
Before Charlotte could comment on it, Woko lifted off the mask’s face, revealing the object was actually a hollow case of some sort.
Ndaye softly gasped. “It is a ngedi nu ntey . . .”