Adventures Read online

  “The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said, flashing him a big Sunday-morning smile. “Preaching and salvation done cheap, with a group rate for funerals.”

  “Good!” he said, sighing deeply and looking mightily relieved. “I was afraid you might be from Barrow, Phillips, and Smythe.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My British creditors.”

  “You expect them to follow you here?” I asked.

  “You've no idea how firm their resolve can be,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Caldwell, Lord Bloomstoke.”

  “Make up your mind,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Which are you: Caldwell or Bloomstoke?”

  “Both. One is a title. Unfortunately, it costs a lot more to support a title these days than it ever used to, and finally I had to flee the country to avoid my creditors and their solicitors.”

  “But why here?” I asked. “I ain't seen naught but grubworms and an occasional monkey in days.”

  “I thought I was purchasing an up-to-date plantation,” he admitted. “You can imagine my distress when I found out that what I really owned was six square miles of the Ituri Rain Forest.”

  “Who'd you buy it from?” I asked, just out of politeness.

  “A realtor with absolutely impeccable credentials,” replied Bloomstoke. “What was his name now? Ah, yes—Von Horst.”

  “Figgers,” I said.

  “You know of him?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I answered. “How long have you been out here?”

  “Four years, as near as I can tell.”

  “That's a long time to be stuck in the bush,” I remarked. “What do you do to keep from going nuts?”

  “Oh, I spend a lot of the time talking to my friends,” he said.

  “Friends?” I repeated. “You got friends stashed away around here?”

  “Watch,” he said with a smile. Then he put his fingers to his lips and let out a weird whistle, and a couple of minutes later a pair of gorillas broke into a clearing about thirty yards away. Bloomstoke immediately started jabbering at them in some gutteral language I hadn't never heard before, and they nodded their heads and disappeared back into the forest.

  “Are you telling me they understand you?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I studied French at Oxford. There's very little difference, except that apes have only the haziest understanding of the future imperfect except as it relates to hunting for grubworms.”

  “You're pulling my leg, right?”

  “Not a bit.” He smiled. “If you have any messages for them, I'll be happy to translate for you. Of course, you have to be a little careful with your idioms. For example, if I were to tell them that you thought we were pulling your leg, and I didn't remember to drop half a tone on the double arrrgeth sound, they could immediately come over and pull your leg off.” He paused. “But aside from such minor technicalities, we have quite excellent conversations. Of course, it's not as if they can discuss Plato's Republic with any depth of understanding, but on the other hand they also can't discuss Sartre and Decartes at all, which I for one consider a definite plus.”

  “And you live with these here gorillas?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said happily. “In fact, I've worked my way up into their hierarchy due to my physical prowess. You see, apes fight for their various leaderships positions. At this very moment,” he added with more than a touch of pride, “I am Assistant to the Second Vice President.”

  “Now, I would have sworn they had a king,” I said, shaking my head in wonderment.

  “Oh, they used to, before we started discussing the problems inherent in constitutional monarchies,” replied Bloomstoke. “We currently have a very limited republic, but I won't quit until we've established a true socialist state.”

  “Well, Brother Bloomstoke,” I said, “it sure sounds like you've accomplished quite a lot in just four years’ time.”

  “Thank you,” he said modestly. “But there's so much to do! My God, do you realize that we haven't even taken the first small steps toward establishing a group medical plan?”

  “I would imagine that most of your medical emergencies consist of being et by lions and leopards and the like, and as such would be somewhat beyond the scope of a group plan,” I opined.

  “True,” he admitted. “But you can't just have a bureaucracy and not give it anything to do. That's just plain wasteful. No, Doctor Jones, I appreciate your kind words, truly I do, but there is so much left undone.”

  “Seems to me you've done more than enough,” I said soothingly.

  He shook his head sadly. “Even our military establishment can't seem to function efficiently.”

  “You got a military establishment?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” he said. “Our economy was in a shambles. We couldn't see any way of bringing it back to life except by gearing up for a little war.”

  “Who are you going to fight with—elephants?”

  “That's not an issue at this point,” he said. “When we're geared up and ready, we'll find an enemy.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that maybe you bit off a little more than you can chew?” I suggested.

  “Sometimes it feels that way,” he admitted with a deep sigh. “I mean, I speak to them of Romeo and Juliet, or Arthur and Guinevere, and all they want to do is enter into uncomplicated relationships with other apes. That's all right; I can accept that. I really can. But when I try to discuss welfare statism and all they want to do is peel bananas...” His voice trailed off, and his handsome face contorted as he fought to hold back a manly little sob.

  “Look at the bright side,” I said. “You got your health, you ain't sitting in a debtor's prison, and you've actually learned their language.”

  “I know,” he said. “But sometimes I get so frustrated! Do you know what the gorilla word for ‘moon’ is? Kablooga! You try to write a poem and see what the hell rhymes with kablooga! In a way it's an even sillier language than French.”

  “Of course, there ain't no law that says you got to associate with them,” I pointed out.

  “With all their faults, they're still preferable to men,” he replied hotly. “They don't cheat at cards or vote for laissez-faire capitalism or mix their drinks...”

  “I'm just pointing out alternatives,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I'm inclined to be emotional these days. I suspect it all goes back to my troubles with Barrow, Phillips, and Smythe.”

  I was about to make some comforting remark or other when a huge bull gorilla broke cover about two hundred yards away, stared balefully at us for a couple of minutes, and walked off into the bushes.

  “That was George,” said Bloomstoke. “He's probably trying to let me know tactfully that it's time for a meeting of the Governing Council.”

  Another gorilla came out of the bushes no more than ten feet away and walked up to me.

  “It's just George,” explained Bloomstoke calmly. “He's come to see where you are.”

  “But he was a furlong away just a couple of seconds ago!”

  “No, that was a different one,” said Bloomstoke.

  “You call them both George?” I asked.

  “I call them all George,” he replied. “It helps impart the notion that the state is more important than the individual.”

  The George that was examining me put his face about two inches from mine and glared into my eyes with his own little bloodshot ones. His teeth were sort of rotten, and his breath wasn't much better, but as much as I wanted to turn my head away I thought it best not to make any real sudden moves.

  At last George turned to Bloomstoke and jabbered something. Bloomstoke jabbered back and then turned to me.

  “George wants to know if you're a Whig or a Tory,” he said.

  “I got to admit it ain't a subject over which I've pondered many long and burdensome hours,
” I answered.

  They jabbered back and forth again, and finally George gave me a little snarl and went back off into the jungle.

  “I told him you were an anarchist,” said Bloomstoke. “It was easier than explaining why you choose not to exercise your franchise.”

  “Actually, I used to exercise the tar out of it when I was back in the States,” I said. “I'd vote early and often for whichever candidate was quick on the draw with a ten-spot or a little pure Kentucky bourbon.”

  “An interesting notion,” remarked Bloomstoke, “and one I may have to introduce very shortly. You see, we've got a sheriff and a marshall and a police force, but the concept of lawbreaking is totally unknown to them, which makes for more waste than usual among our officeholders.”

  Well, it was all too complicated for me, and I just walked along in silence while Bloomstoke outlined his grandiose plans to me. He must have been running off at the mouth for the better part of an hour when we heard a gunshot off in the distance.

  “More territorial aggrandizement!” he muttered, his eyes gleaming. “I'll have to put a stop to this.” He turned to me. “How are you at racing through the treeways?”

  “You mean swinging on vines like unto a monkey?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Brother Bloomstoke, I got troubles enough just keeping on the trail as it meanders along through the bush, and that's with the comforting knowledge that if I slip and fall I'll hit the ground in less than twenty or thirty seconds and probably won't bounce. Maybe you'd best race off ahead of me.”

  “I'd like to, but I can't leave you alone with the apes,” he replied. “They've never seen an anarchist before, and there's no telling what they might do.”

  And with that, he cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a scream that would have woke such dead as weren't otherwise occupied at the time. I couldn't figure out what was going on until about two minutes later, when a huge elephant thundered up out of the bush, crushing trees right and left and skidding to a halt directly in front of Bloomstoke.

  “Goola, my friend,” he said, stepping forward and petting the elephant on the trunk while I decided that the whole proceedings made a lot more sense when watched from behind a large tree. “Come on out, Doctor Jones,” he called. “Goola will provide us with transportation.”

  “How do I know that I won't provide old Goola here with a little snack?” I asked, for to my eyes Goola was looking decidedly eleven-o'clockish, an opinion that was strengthened by the loud rumbling noises that his belly was making.

  “Goola will do what I tell him to do,” said Bloomstoke firmly. “Now come out so that he can see you.”

  “I don't know about this,” I said from behind my tree. “He can't eat what he can't see.”

  “Elephants are herbivores,” said Bloomstoke.

  “They're also very nearsighted,” I pointed out. “Maybe I look like a fig tree to him.”

  “If you don't come out instantly, I'll simply leave you behind,” he said.

  I quickly discussed my options with my Silent Partner, and we decided that being left behind was—very minimally—the less desirable of two admittedly depressing alternatives, so I slowly left the protection of my tree and edged, a step at a time, over toward Goola.

  “Let him smell the back of your hand,” said Bloomstoke.

  I held out my hand and Goola took a good whiff, almost pulling my arm out of the socket in the process.

  “Good!” said Bloomstoke vigorously. “Now we're all friends. Goola, lift us up!”

  Goola pawed the ground three times with his right front foot.

  “No, Goola!” said Bloomstoke. "Lift!"

  Goola rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.

  “Idiot!” snapped Bloomstoke. I kept feeling we should throw him a fish or something, but my companion stalked off furiously. “Come on, Jones, we'll walk!”

  When we got about a hundred yards away Goola trumpeted six or seven times and stood on his head. Then we took a hard left around a wait-a-bit thorn tree and I couldn't see him anymore, though we could hear him for another ten minutes.

  We followed an old rhino trail in the direction of the gunshots, and in about half an hour Bloomstoke held out his arm, practically decapitating me as I walked by him, and when I fell to the ground, gurgling and gasping for air, he put a forefinger to his lips.

  “Silence!” he whispered.

  Well, I would have told him what I thought of his silence, but I was a little preoccupied with choking to death, so I merely glared at him and quietly urged the Lord to strike him either dead or mute, whichever came first.

  I got my breath back and stood up just in time to see Bloomstoke stride out of the bushes into a clearing to confront a kind of smallish white man dressed all in khaki.

  “Who are you that invades my jungle?” Bloomstoke demanded.

  “I'm Capturing Clyde Calhoun,” said the white man, not looking the least bit scared or startled. “And you are either the strongest white man or the puniest gorilla I've ever laid eyes on.”

  “What is your business here?” said Bloomstoke ominously.

  “Business?” laughed Calhoun. “Ain't you never read my books or seen my movies? I'm Capturing Clyde! I go out after the most dangerous animals in the world—except for redheads named Thelma—and bring ’em back alive, and put ’em in my circus or turn ’em over to zoos or gourmet chefs or other interested parties.”

  “What animals do you seek?”

  “Gorillas,” said Calhoun. “Thought I'd bring back fifteen or twenty of ’em before they're all extinct.”

  “I distinctly heard the reports of a powerful gun,” said Bloomstoke.

  “You bet your boots you did,” said Calhoun, holding up a Lee-Enfield .303 military rifle. “Or at least you would if you were wearing any boots.”

  “I thought you told me that you brought them back alive,” said Bloomstoke accusingly.

  “Maybe I should reword that a bit,” said Calhoun. “Them what I bring back is alive. I just take old Betsy here and aim right betwixt their eyes and fire away. Anything still breathing gets captured and civilized.”

  “Where's your camp?” asked Bloomstoke.

  “About eight miles behind me,” said Calhoun. “You can't miss it. I've got two hundred porters, a dozen trackers, ten cooks, a couple of translators, and forty-three veterinarians.”

  I stepped out of the clearing next to Bloomstoke.

  “What the hell are you?” demanded Calhoun.

  “The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones, at your service,” I said.

  “You got any good funeral ceremonies for hippos?” he asked,

  “I ain't never tried my hand at one,” I admitted.

  “Then you'll have to be at someone else's service, Reverend Jones,” he said. “I got a little too enthused down by the river this morning.”

  “You planning on going back to Nairobi anytime in the near future?” I asked him.

  “Soon as I pick up my gorillas,” he said.

  “Mind if I tag along with you?”

  “Why not?” he said. “What the hell are you doing out here in the Congo anyway?”

  “I've mostly been concentrating on being lost,” I said.

  “How about you?” he said to Bloomstoke. “You coming back to Nairobi too?”

  “This is my jungle,” said Bloomstoke, folding his arms across his massive chest. “I will not leave it, and you will not hunt in it.”

  “Do you know who you're talking to?” roared Calhoun. “I'm Capturing Clyde, by God, and I'll hunt where I want!”

  “This jungle belongs to me, and I will not allow you to molest my gorillas,” reported Bloomstoke.

  “What kind of pervert do you take me for?” said Calhoun. “I don't want to molest them! I want to capture them!”

  “No,” said Bloomstoke. “Now I want you to leave my jungle.

  “Who says it's your jungle anyway?” demanded Calhoun.

  Bloomstoke reached ins
ide his loincloth and whipped out a pair of folded documents, which he handed to Calhoun.

  “Son of a bitch!” exclaimed Calhoun after he had read them. “I didn't know they could sell a jungle.”

  “Neither did I,” said Bloomstoke morosely.

  “Who'd you buy it from?” asked Calhoun.

  “A man named Van Horst.”

  “Figgers.”

  “Why does everyone say that?” asked Bloomstoke.

  “I'd tell you, but it brings back too many unpleasant memories,” said Calhoun. “I don't suppose you'd consider renting me a little section of your jungle, with maybe an option to buy?”

  “I could use the money,” admitted Bloomstoke. “But I'd have to present your proposal to the tribe and get their approval, and they're very leery of anything that reeks of capitalism.”

  “Tribe?” asked Calhoun. “What tribe? I didn't know there were any natives in this region.”

  “This tribe is a little more native than most,” I said.

  “No,” concluded Bloomstoke, shaking his head sadly. “I'll never get the Ruling Council to buy it.”

  “Would it help if I told them they could retain the mineral rights?” asked Calhoun.

  “I doubt it,” said Bloomstoke truthfully.

  “All right,” said Calhoun. “I've got another proposition. I'm being paid four thousand pounds for every gorilla I capture. If you'll let me hunt in your jungle and give me a helping hand, I'll split the take fifty-fifty with you.”

  “How many gorillas do you need?” asked Bloomstoke.

  “About twenty.”

  “And I owe Barrow, Phillips, and Smythe thirty-eight thousand pounds,” he mused. Then he shook his head again. “No! I just can't! John D. Rockefeller or J. P. Morgan might have understood, but Karl Marx would come back and haunt me.”

  “And George would eat you,” I added.

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?” asked Calhoun.

  “Let me speak to them about accepting a short-term lease on the jungle,” said Bloomstoke, grabbing an overhanging branch and pulling himself up on it. “Maybe I can show them that Fabian socialism doesn't necessarily preclude the validity of certain capitalistic principles.” He leaped into the air, caught a low-hanging vine, and was soon racing through the treetops to meet with the tribe.