(The West Coast of Africa, 1684)
I frantically dug into the soft floor of the jungle, one eye fixed on the growing light appearing in the Eastern sky. My hands scooped dirt, rotted vegetation, fallen branches and anything else they encountered, flinging it in a pile beside the shallow trench I knelt in. The triple canopy overhead was thick enough to filter most of the day's sunlight. I just prayed it would filter enough.
I was out of time. I took the woven mat of branches and leaves I had constructed and placed it over the trench I had dug. I covered it as much as possible with the dirt I had dug from the hole. Then I wiggled into the trench and pulled the mat up over my head and grimly settled down to wait. Come nightfall I would continue the pursuit I was engaged in, or I would be a pile of ashes.
As I waited for whichever outcome would take place, I shook my head ruefully. The moment I relax always seems the moment I end up falling deep into shit.
Just weeks before things had seemed perfect. I had been returning from an extended trip to the Orient following my hasty departure from Budapest. "Extended" fits well, since it had been about 60 years. Because I had traveled overland on my way there, I had decided to return by boat, on several of the numerous Arab ships that plied their way all the way from China back to the Middle-East. I had not had trouble even with exposure. It was considered natural for a female to remain below decks in her cabin, and since we stopped quite frequently I had been able to slip ashore to obtain food. No point in panicking the crew when you're out at sea.
After reaching Alexandria I had decided to skirt the coast of Africa, rather than attempt to pass through Southern Europe, since that whole area was in upheaval, again. I was contemplating trying to reach France and Paris from the Atlantic side when once again my luck ran thin. The crew of the last small boat I had charted decided that they would keep the cargo, mostly consisting of what I had brought back from the Far East. Having me to sell on the coast of Africa as a slave was merely a bonus. So when we passed what would be called the Straits Of Gibraltar they simply locked me in and sailed south.
Someone might ask why I didn't just break out. Well, two reasons. First, because of where I was in the hold I wasn't sure when it was day or night. Second, they had placed a timber across the door that even I couldn't break. So I waited. Besides, its not as if I HAD to get to France. Africa might be interesting too. When you're immortal you go where you're blown sometimes. I was getting tired of getting just a little water and bread through a small hatchway though.
Finally I heard the anchor fall one evening. I knew it was evening because I heard the crew discussing the "night's feast" they were about to go to. So when the hatch was opened later I pulled the man through and fed from him. He had given one squawk before becoming a late night snack for me. When another man came running to see what was wrong I had two for dinner. With the strength that gave me I was able to break the hatch cover and finish off the other three crew members.
Once that was accomplished and the bodies had been all tied to a heavy piece of chain and dumped overboard I decided to go ashore. I was wearing an open shirt and trousers and added a pair of boots. There were a couple of muskets on board but I decided to stick with the katana I had brought back from the Orient. After all, a sword never jams, doesn't take two minutes to reload and works just fine when its wet.
I sculled a small dingy ashore, happy that the oar arrangement allowed me to face where I was going. Something about approaching an unknown place with my back turned seems to make me grumpy. The shore was lined with dark skinned people, outlined in the glow of fire built on the beach. They looked friendly enough, given that every male was holding a weapon of some kind. They weren't pointed at me though, which is always a comforting sign. Instead everyone was waving. As the boat touched land eager hands pulled it on to the sand.
I hopped out, my hands carefully held to the side. I had never met any African people before, so my mind was filled with nothing but fifth-hand comments and rumors. Contrary to so much that I had heard, they simply looked like people. But then I had heard silly rumors about the peoples of the Far East until I got there.
All the men, and some of the women, were armed. However no arrows were fixed to the strings of the bows and I noted the spears seemed to be held in the left hands and were not presented in a threatening manner. Since both spears and arrows were wooden shafted I was glad of that. Its funny how as weapons became more sophisticated they also became less dangerous to my kind.
My eyes fixed on the tall man standing in the center of the gathering. He carried himself with pride. Alone among the others, he held a shinning steel axe. His broad forehead was topped by a magnificent headdress which included bright feathers of unusual size. Centuries later, I still wondered how the peoples of that village had come to possess ostrich feathers.
I stood on the sand in front of all of them, waiting for whatever was going to happen. The powerfully built man in the lead stepped forward and indicated himself. "T'shombe," he announced with a ringing voice.
"Bridget," I replied, touching myself on the chest. He turned and walked towards the village proper and the fire in its center. I could smell roasting meat. With a gesture he indicated I should follow him. I did and the rest of the villagers fell in behind me. I sensed no threat from them.
T'shombe laid his weapon against a frame by the central hut. Instinctively I doffed the baldric supporting my katana and leaned it beside the axe. From the nod and grunts of approval around me I knew I had done the right thing. Peace had been offered and peace had been accepted.
T'shombe and I and a young warrior I took to be his son sat on a bench that appeared to be the only place other than the sand to rest. The three of us strove to talk. We discovered that we shared a number of Arabic words and managed to make ourselves understood to each other in a broken version of that tongue. I learned that Arabic traders often stopped here. They had thought the boat was another of those itinerants and were surprised to discover a woman, especially one alone.
As we conversed, the party apparently already planned had got underway. Food and drink were served all around. The home brewed wine was quite good, and quite powerful. I made the offer of a cask of red wine I had found on the sloop and eager hands used my skiff to fetch it. Then we all sat down to a good old fashioned feast.
