The Club of the Bombastic Few

The Club of the Bombastic Few

  K McConnell

  Copyright 2015 K McConnell

  Other titles by K McConnell:

  To Not Be In Hamlet (Hamlet Mystery Series, Book 1)

  The Art of Hamlet (Hamlet Mystery Series, Book 2)

  A Conspiracy of Blood

  Symbiotic Puppets

  The Plague

  Website: https://www.HamletMysteries.com

  mailto: [email protected]

  The Club of the Bombastic Few

  "Beau! Just the man I need to help me with this." Barely slipping off his coat off Brad swept him into the middle of the main lounge of the Club of the Bombastic Few.

  "Help you with what?" Beau asked. Shadows danced around the walls in the flickering light of the gas lamps.

  "Help me to get these lazy butts motivated." Brad waved a hand around the room.

  "Humph!" Chauncey readjusted his pipe. His portly frame sat in an armchair near the fire.

  "Motivated for what?" Beau looked around the room.

  "To run off on some ridiculous scheme Brad's cooked up." Albert leaned an elbow on the mantle of the fireplace. He was tall enough to make it a relaxed stance. His dark hair and sharp features gave him an intense look.

  "It's not ridiculous. It's the ultimate challenge." Brad turned back towards Beau.

  "A hunt?" Beau's face perked up.

  "A hunt." Punk spoke it as if it was a sacred word. At 26 he was the youngest member of the Club of the Bombastic Few. With his close cut blonde hair and boyish looks he looked even younger.

  "It is not a hunt." Chauncey puffed a couple of times. His face was momentarily obscured by smoke.

  "It sounds like a waste of time to me." Albert said as he made his way over to the bar for another drink. Jersey Joe, the Club's bartender wiped the bar once and slid a drink across to Albert.

  Beau stared at Brad. "You found something new?"

  The Club of the Bombastic Few were hunters, explorers, and adventurers. The more exotic the adventure, the better. The more dangerous the adventure, better yet. They were the Club of the Bombastic Few and they feared nothing.

  "Yes! Well, sort of. In all of our previous exploits we have always sought a specific objective, the Temple of Singh-Fari, the Serpent of Lake Kampaula, the Walking Dead of Timbali, the?"

  "Yeah, yeah, Brad. I get it. What are you saying, you want hunt something we can't find?"

  "No. I'm saying we should try something a little different."

  "Like?"

  "Like directly confronting Death."

  "Thanks Brad. I've already done that. If you remember correctly that was me hanging off the Temple of Singh-Fari. And I don't know what you were thinking at Kampaula, but I nearly got my butt?"

  "Yeah, yeah. No, nothing like that. This is different. There is a tribe of primitives in Central Africa in which, tales tell, once every 100 years through some witchcraft ritual Death takes the form of a man."

  Beau was silent for a moment. "Brad, that's ridiculous."

  Brad shrugged. "Maybe. But don't forget that most all legends are based upon a kernel of truth."

  "Alright, for the sake of argument let's say there's some truth to it and there before us stands Mr. Reaper. We would then do?what?"

  "Ask him how it's hangin'" Punk laughed.

  "How long is it going to keep hanging." Albert added.

  "Very funny, guys. I don't know, Beau, but as we all have seen in the past some of these primitive rituals can be rather fascinating. Besides it sounds far more interesting than anything anyone else has come up with lately." The moment he said it Brad regretted his words, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

  Beau looked around the room and the looks returned all carried the same edge. Except Old Martindale who sat as usual in the far corner of the room by the window. For a moment Beau thought he caught a sparkle in the old man's eyes before they returned to the ancient book on his lap.

  There had been an unspoken pervading feeling growing in the Club that there simply wasn't anything left that they hadn't seen or done. That their storied adventures were coming to an end.

  "I suppose not." Beau said with a shrug.

  "You know it's just bullshit, Beau." Albert said.

  "Maybe, but I'm getting tired of sitting around here." With a slight wave of the hand Beau encompassed the whole of the club. He glanced over at Chauncey who just shrugged. Punk returned his usual one shoulder shrug.

  "Humph." Albert said as he tossed back the last of his drink. It was as much of an approval as they were going to get out of him.

  "Wait. A pronouncement." Beau's words stopped a general migration towards the bar. He was correct. It was tradition. Before any great adventure the eldest member always made a pronouncement. Without a pronouncement it could not be an officially sanctioned undertaking of the Club of the Bombastic Few.

  All eyes turned towards Old Martindale, typically decked out in his Victorian era tuxedo. He looked as ancient as the Pyramids and there were those that claimed he was, but not openly, and?never in mixed company. He was one of the Old Ones. A member of the Club of the Bombastic Few from?well, from further back than anyone could remember.

  As was typical, Old Martindale sat with a decrepit tome in his hands, the binding so worn with age that its contents could not be determined. As everyone's focus turned on him he seemed almost to resign himself to something only he knew. After a moment he appeared to perk up a bit, at least the drumming of his fingers on the cover of the book gave that impression.

  "A pronouncement." He said it as a sigh. After a moment more of silence he wheezed in a breath and began with a slow raspy voice.

  "In the steady flow, a syncopated beat

  It is the backdrop

  It is the returning crop

  You the earthy treasure, the golden wheat

  It is the wind, the rain

  It is the rich fiber of the plain

  Upon this quest together you now band

  The cycle spins, the harvest is at hand."

  For a moment silence reigned. Typically the pronouncement was a pithy philosophical statement occasionally in reference to the impending quest. This was different and whatever meaning Old Martindale intended to convey was lost upon the assembled crew. They feared nothing for they were the Club of the Bombastic Few.

  ***

  With blatant optimism and a certain amount of pageantry, amidst the swirling chaos of people and animals, they disembarked at Tunisia and caught the first train south. Through Beja, El Kef, through the Atlas Mountains, and down into the desert sands of El Oued. Further to Touggourt, Ouargla, and then due south along the western edge of the Great Eastern Erg to the foothills of the Ahaggar Mountains and A?n Selah. Plunging into the mountains: Tadjemout, Arak, Silet, to the southern border of Algiers at Tinzaouatene. Along the rugged east end of Mali, Tenekert, and down into the steamy jungles of the Niger valley, M?naka. From Mali to Niger and finally to the banks of the mighty Niger river, where sat the capital city, Niamey. A change of trains and direction. East to Sokoto, Gusau, to Kano, a provincial capital of northern Nigeria. On to Maiduguri where the train had to be abandoned in favor of boats up river. Then overland through the hills and finally to Garoua nestled in the Cameroon jungle along the Benue river?

  There along the banks of the slow moving dark Benue the crew negotiated in a blunt and civilized manner with the Gimbabu, a people still living in a world of miracle and wonder, for the right to observe their sacred ritual, some three days away. With the successful completion of an understanding that the crew must remain silent throughout the ceremony and beyond the Circle of Life there was time for rest and listening, with amusement, to the endless rumors fro
m the locals concerning a "man-eating" leopard.

  The Gimbabu continued to dance and sing in spite of a general fear-tainted excitement that ran through everything. To them the world around them was gathering itself for a great event. This excitement did not, however, extend to the Gimbabu's guests as they made plans and waited for the festivities to ensue. After all, were they not the Club of the Bombastic Few?

  ***

  The fire hissed at the new young branches offered it. They were still damp and green, but in the jungle nearly everything was. The crew sat around the fire. Tents, dark foliage filled with the constant sounds of life, and dancing shadows made up an enchanting backdrop. While Brad was off going over last minute details with the Gimbabu the crew sat quietly staring into the flames and ignoring the constant mindless babble from Teu Geola, the guide, who was insane.

  "Any second thoughts?" Beau threw out the question for the sake of conversation and to drown out the mumbling gibberish of Teu Geola. But the crazed guide was difficult to ignore. His voice rose and fell depending on the significance of what he thought he was saying. His appearance was equally difficult to overlook. His clothes and wild black hair were disheveled and he had a face where expressions were steadily blowing in and out from moment to moment. He was the only known survivor of a tribe that had once lived in the mountains to the east. What had become of the rest of his tribe no one could say, but it was rumored that they had inexplicably scattered into the jungle.

  The drums started again. They had been beating on and off day and night for a week now. This time, though, they would not stop until they reached a staggering crescendo tomorrow night. They were distinct and clear from just over the hill---not more than a half mile away. The sounds of the night took on a subtly different quality as if they moved into the same steady syncopated beat of the drums.

  None of the crew answered Beau. They seemed lost in their own thoughts, but as if on cue Teu Geola's voice rose to nearly a shout as he leaped forward to his feet, almost on top of the fire:

  "Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  We daren't go a-hunting

  For fear of little men?"

  His voice trailed off and he collapsed backwards rolling back and forth cackling hysterically. Though at first surprised by the sudden outburst the crew quickly shifted to irritated glances amongst themselves. For Teu Geola this kind of behavior was nothing new. It was merely an irritation to the Club of the Bombastic Few.

  ***

  The night was warm, the clearing oblong. The dirt center of the clearing was well worn by a millennia of devoted believers. Along two opposing sides in long rows sat cross-legged a great number of people from many different tribes. Most were from the lands immediately around that of the Gimbabu, but some were from very distant lands. They were drawn here by traditions dating back further than the collective memory.

  Torches along the perimeter lit the dark night and filled the still air with a smoky haze. At the far end of the clearing a dozen torches were arranged in a semi-circle. Beautifully woven mats had been laid within the arc of fire and light. Many in the surrounding crowd wore elaborate costumes and the mass of people as a whole seemed to sway in a rhythmic chant.

  The members of the Club of the Bombastic Few sat on the fringes of the gathering at the opposite end from the semi-circle of light and attention. They were restless and uncomfortable in part from the pounding beat of so many believers echoing the strength of their faith in a song that the Club of the Bombastic Few could not feel. And partially from the quite heated exchange between members of the Club the night before. There were elements within the Club that, having come to know the Gimbabu over the last few days, were reluctant to betray their trust for an as yet unclear purpose. In addition, in the past, occasionally, the Club had deemed it necessary to use violence to resolve some situations. On those occasions, of course, it was inevitable that some innocent bystanders were caught in the crossfire. These things happened.

  The ceremony bore on. The heat and humidity of the night closed in on the Club. A sleepy stupor seemed to grip them. Probably brought on in part by a taste of liquor earlier to "ease the monotony". Several members of the Club were seen to drop off while the others stared at the ceremony with bored glassy eyes in spite of the introduction of multiple dancers and an incremental increase in the rhythm of the drums.

  Defying all literary conventions the moon was not full and it was well past midnight when a scream from the center of the ceremony jolted the members of the Club into shaken attentiveness.

  The man wore a mask and his body shook violently. He was kneeling in the center of the clearing and the drums had dropped to a quiet, respectfully murmuring beat. A moment later he was on his feet sweeping from one side of the clearing to the other. With each pass of the masked man the spectators swayed back in fear. Suddenly the man's head snapped around towards the members of the Club and words shot out at them with a fierce and angry tone.

  With jerky deliberate strides the masked man stalked towards where the members of the Club, already on the edge of their nerves, sat. Several hands slowly crept inside their shirts to touch the handle of a revolver.

  The masked man came closer. Then, with astounding quickness he leaped forward directly in front of Brad. The suddenness of it caught Brad by surprise and he reacted. His arm flung out from under his shirt and the gun fired. The shot was wild and struck the man in the shoulder. Brad surprised himself. He was as much shocked by how bad his aim had been at close range as he was that he had just shot an unarmed man.

  The masked man took a shaky step backwards. The tension in the air was palpable. The masked man screamed something at Brad and reached under his huge mask. In a flash he swung something out from under the mask towards Brad. Without hesitation Chauncey and Albert each fired knocking the masked man flat backwards where he lay quivering. His body jerked twice more and there was dead silence in the clearing.

  The members of the Club looked at one another for a quiet moment. Then all Hell broke loose. With what seemed like a collective wail the gathering of spectators began scrambling in all directions. Some charged the members of the Club threateningly, but were driven off with shots in the air---not before Punk inadvertently shot one man down in his tracks. In a scant few moments the members of the Club stood alone in the clearing with a couple of fresh corpses.

  "Well?" Brad said hesitantly, "That didn't quite go as planned."

  Chauncey knelt next to the corpse of the masked man. "Yes, well, in the process you can scratch one pious native." He stuffed his pipe between his teeth and reached for the mask.

  "No!" Punk skipped several paces backwards in an odd little dance. The jungle had become completely still, no sound, no movement. A trace of ground fog was creeping into the clearing and the temperature seemed to have dropped.

  Everyone stared at Punk.

  "What's wrong?" Beau's voice was short.

  "I?I?I don't know, but just don't?"

  "Bullshit." Albert kicked the ground.

  Beau shivered slightly. "Yeah, maybe you should just leave it alone."

  "Bah." With a wave of dismissal Chauncey lifted the masked.

  It shot out from under the mask the moment the head was revealed and caught Chauncey by the throat. He rolled over on to his back more from reaction than from the creature's impact. The rest of the crew stood motionless in shock.

  "Aaargh!" Chauncey pawed at it frantically until he got a good enough grip on its head to pull it off. It left two bleeding holes in the side of his neck.

  The snake was black and quick. It disappeared in the ground fog as Brad futilely shot at its wispy wake.

  Beau pulled out a handkerchief and held it to the wound, but it was increasingly harder as Chauncey's body began to tremble and thrash about.

  "Poisonous." Brad spit the word out.

  "We've got to do something for him." Beau looked around, but no one offered up anything.

  Chauncey tried to s
cream, but it came out of his paralyzed lungs like a hoarse screech. It would be the last sound he ever made. His lungs refused to draw in any more air. His eyes opened wide, his lips and mouth worked frantically, but to no avail. A couple of spasms ran through him and he was suddenly still. His hair somehow remained neatly combed.

  "That's it? He's dead? Just like that? What kind of snake was it? It hasn't even been two minutes. What's going on here?" Beau looked around at the rest of the crew.

  No one spoke. Without a word they picked up Chauncey's body and carried it away. It was strangely stiff and contorted. Mouth gaping, teeth bare, and eyes frozen. The body was heavy, but they all helped---all that was left of the crew. One less person to hold the distinguished honor of a membership to the Club of the Bombastic Few.

  ***

  The early morning was bright and clear, but as the sun climbed over the hills it was not a cheerful sight to the crew. The light didn't sparkle, it glared off the moisture of the freshly turned dirt at their feet. Silence prevailed around the grave. What could be said? Chauncey was dead.

  "Let's get out of here." Brad turned away and climbed into one of the jeeps. The others followed and the jeeps began their trek back through the jungle.

  Not far down the trail they came upon Teu Geola sitting cross-legged babbling to himself as usual. He screamed and ran off up the trail when he saw them, but they quickly caught up and calmed him down.

  Around midday they halted some ten miles from Garoua. They sat around the jeeps quietly passing around a flask with Teu Geola mumbling to himself. A bird screamed in the tree above and as if it were a cue Teu Geola began to laugh hysterically.

  "Somebody shut him up." Albert was prepared to use his revolver if necessary.

  Beau leaned over and shook Teu Geola by the shoulders. He stopped laughing and stared wide-eyed with a beaming smile. He spoke with whispery excitement:

  "The road is cut,

  The lines are down,

  We hide in our hut,

  But we will be found.

  We run fast,

  We drink hard,

  We are the last,

  And we are scarred.