"You are a giraffe," he was saying. He was spiting into the ground, his eyes closed and his head swimming. "You are a giraffe."

"Get up, you are embarrassing me."

He wanted to, but his eyes hurt and he felt something horrible in his mouth. It hurt to move his eyes in their lids and it hurt to bite. He must be dying, he though, and it was so ghastly hot. There was nothing he could do about it. The young man beside him, looking at him quietly, didn't understand. His cousin was a giraffe.

"If we get one of the local doctors to treat you, then you can get better."

He opened his eyes and lifted his head. No. That was something he certainly did not want to do. He rubbed his fingers on the corners of his neck, soothing the pain down, and breathed deeply. There was a serenity that came to his eyes, a lethal sort of silence that reminded him of who he was and what it meant to be him.

"Andrews," he said, still looking at the floor. The young man beside him looked at him again, his eyes narrowed. He ran a hand over his short, auburn hair and breathed out loudly. His breath fell to the ground, dragged by the African heat in the air that gripped everything around them. He watched as his companion lifted his head and shoulders, summoning all of his strength back into his body. "I will be fine."

Andrews smiled, twisting his mouth sideways. He rubbed the snake skin he had pinned on the pocket of his shirt. Good luck, he had said when they left England. Good luck.

"Quite a show, Cecil," he said. "Quite a show."

He would've said something, anything to make the young man stop looking at him with such a sardonic expression, but at that same moment the flap of the largest tent in their camp moved, and a tall, broad shouldered man walked out. Cecil shook his head to clear the dizziness he could still felt inside of him and squared his shoulders, and turned to face the man as he approached them. Beside him, Andrews turned in one swift movement. Perfect, as always.

"When you boys are ready," the man said and he reached to place his large hands on his hips. He was wearing a flaming jacket over a thick, tent like white shirt, that made him look like a general. But, it was his eyes what captivated both young men. They were looking at them, but they shifted sideways slightly, always going back to the trees and grasses of the African jungle. "Shall we be off now?"

Before Cecil could speak or nod, Andrews had already spoken. "You should ask Clayton, sir. He keeps on watching the ground, rather a ghastly colour." Andrews turned affectionately towards his cousin and then looked back at the tall man. "Looks sick, uncle."

Cecil tried hard not to show his emotions and bit down on his lip. But, his uncle was looking at him, expecting to see a sign of sickness which he no doubt could find in the paleness of his skin. But the man grinned at him.

"Looking splendid today, Cecil, my boy," Dr. Clayton said. "Just like when I arrived in this place for the first time."

Cecil breathed out a silent sigh of relief, but he smiled. Andrews was furious, he could tell, as if the snake on his shirt had bitten him. Good luck, he had said. But already they were staying behind. The tall man, their uncle and the person who'd paid for their passages from England, had already began to walk before them, having gathered his equipment and already suited himself for the day.

"What did they call this, old boy?" Andrews said as he flung one of his largest riffles over his shoulder and fixed the strap of the pouches on his waist.

"The age of men," Cecil said. He was smiling, that he knew. He fixed the canteen on the pack over his shoulder and turned to follow Dr. Clayton. Andrews laughed softly but he soon caught up with him. Around them, the heat and the grass and the sand moved in silence.

"Bloody Mr. Livingstone, that's who you are!"

With a sharp pull at the revolving shaft of his riffle, the young man came down on his knees, his eyes narrowed. He looked so serious and captured by his actions, that the other two beside him did not dare breathe. But, Cecil was smiling.

The shot rang in the air and the familiar sound of the fall of twisting branches and the fallen animal followed. Dr. Clayton ran a hand over his face, clearing away the sweat there, and drew back his hair. The heat was swallowing them, but they refused to go back.

"Good shot, Cecil," he said. Cecil cocked his riffle and stood up.

Andrews nodded, and followed the other two as they walked towards the kill. They always went to see how it landed and examine the place where the shot perforated the skin. It was a fascination Cecil could not really explain, save that he had always seen their uncle do it and both him and Andrews had soon begun to copy. Dr. Clayton lifted the animal's head with the tip of his boot. A large lemur, its eyes closed as if resting peacefully.

"Two for me," Cecil said. Behind him Andrews crossed his arms, but kept silent. He had shot only once and his animal was half the size Cecil's was. But he kept his cool, not even allowing his face to register that he could feel his hunting arm weak that day. Cecil was simply lucky.

"Still, quite impressive, considering how sick you are," Andrews said. Cecil was rather annoyed by the young man's voice, always so collected, but he smiled anyhow. Andrews was only complementing him further by saying such base things, in his book.

"In Africa," Dr. Clayton said as he leaned against the tree where the lemur had lived. "Any good shot is a miracle."

"When we were little, you used to say such things a lot," Andrews said. He brought his legs up and sideways as he sat down on a fallen branch. "Makes me wonder how much of a miracle we are here."

Cecil watched as their uncle bent down and folded the limbs of the animal, who let out one last convulsion and finally died. He sat as well, reaching down to replace the fired bullets from his gun. He wondered what sort of luck ran through him that day that he had already been so privileged as to shoot two good game.

"Considering that caravan from Ghana," Cecil said. "It does seem like a miracle. We would've either melted or suffocated."

"Good lord, that must be what mother thinks back home," Andrews said. "I wrote in my letter about the whole ordeal and, bless my soul, never have I whined so much."

"You two," Dr. Clayton said. "What a pair of whiners. Gives me the shills to think about both of you complaining about the heat all those nights in a row." He reached down to slice the skin of the animal with one of his knives, working quickly as he had done may times. "Didn't you know what you'd find in Africa? Your mothers must be dying with laughter."

He had not known, that was the truth of it. Cecil had just never known about the things he would find in the Dark Continent. Pieces of dreams, that was what he'd tell himself sometimes as he lay in his bed and looked at the ceiling. He'd read Dr. Livingstone's accounts of his exploration, read the letters printed in the papers about the few people that ever ventured out to the black countries. But he'd never imagined the things he saw when they first arrived at the shores of Ghana. The travel east had been like a dream.

"I didn't tell my mother," Cecil said in a hushed voice. He finished loading the gun. "Didn't want to worry the old girl."

"I did," Andrews said. "I can't help it. A fever for four days, a large set of coughs and a rash on my shoulder. I was dying, Clayton, dying." The young man laughed and slapped his knee.

Dr. Clayton smiled, still looking at Cecil's kill. The boy's certainly didn't have anything of Africa in them. They didn't look like Africa, nor did they sound like it. It might take years until they could see across the leaves and the bamboo and spot animals like pictures, ever so clear for them. But as he finished his work on the lemur, he knew they could do it. It was their eyes what told him so, their small eyes that looked at the fauna as if it were whispering to them.

"Confound you, Andrews," Cecil said and he reached to kick his cousin, laughing. It wasn't as if he'd never been embarrassed before by such stories. His mother would start sending prayers all the way down through the Atlantic from the moment she'd read Andrew's account. The boy could really exaggerate.

"You could always tell her that you've been a fine shot," Dr. Clayton said. He finished skinning the animal and stuffed the fur coat into the large pouch in his back. They always buried the remains so the natives would not be alarmed. Hunting seemed like a language the people of the dark continent did not really understand, not hunting for mere sport. Dr. Clayton had tried to make them understand, but had given up. Burying their kills and hiding the coats as best as they could so not to alarm them was the best they could do. "Here," he said and he tossed the pouch at Cecil's lap. "There's your second prize."

Cecil smiled and forgot about killing Andrews. The skin of the lemur felt so soft inside the leather pouch. He wanted to take it out and look at it closer, but it was all bloody and ugly now, not really how it felt. Andrews breathed in harder, taking in the smell of the jungle and lifted his legs to rest by Cecil's tree.

"We should sleep out here, sir," he said. "That'd be an adventure all on its own."

Dr. Clayton didn't say anything. He finished making the hole for the lemur, dragging the earth with a shovel he'd taken from his waist. "Would be a grand idea, so we could hear the sounds of the trees instead of the guide's snoring." Andrews went on. But Cecil wasn't really listening to him. Removing his own shovel from his waist, he walked and bent by his uncle's side and started to help him dig. Dr. Clayton didn't say anything. The young man wasn't looking at him, he was concentrated on moving the earth. "Wouldn't that be an idea?"

"You boys aren't ready for that," Dr. Clayton said. He grunted as he dove the shovel deeper into the earth. Cecil did the same. "It's quite an experience to stay in the jungle without the rest of the expedition."

"I must imagine," Andrews said. He reached back to remove the large, empty back back on his shoulders. "Yet, it is so exotic. I bet I could sit and watch the stars from the canopy and they would shine down at me just the same as they do in England."

"Nothing is the same here as it is in England," Cecil said. He wasn't responding to his cousin's conversation and poetic nonsense. Dr. Clayton looked at him, wondering what the young man was thinking about. Cecil simply shoved more dirt and looked at the burial grave quietly. He'd seen him dig each of his graves with the same kind of eyes, the same quiet silence. As if he were alone and none of them were around him.

"You should go back there, old chap," Andrews said and laughed. Thin and shrill, that laughter. "Seems you're not ready for this kind of place; always talking about England."

Cecil would've answered. He really would have, to tell him that he could feel the earth already speaking underneath his boots and that the trees where whispering to him, that the dead lemur was still breathing even as they buried it. He wanted to tell Andrews that he could feel the heat penetrate his pores and surge into his skin as if Africa was demanding to enter his body. But he kept silent, shovelling dirt over the bloody body of the animal he had shot. Andrews would probably say it was nonsense. Dr. Clayton cleared his throat, watching as Cecil drew the mounts of dirt over the animal with the palm of his gloved hands. But he never got the chance to speak.

"Dr. Clayton! Dr. Clayton!"

Andrews leaped to his feet as a black, skinny man came in through the bamboo. It was Mombasa, his face all full of happiness. Dr. Clayton stood up from the mound and waited until the native approached him.

"It's happened, doctor," the black man said. A smile ran from the corners of his face. Andrews came to stand by the man, looking excitedly at the movements of his jaw and listening to that thick accent. "Umgulu expedition has arrived in the camp. The men have finally come, and they bring many British."

"Good show!" Andrews said. He slapped the black man on his shoulder, unable to contain his excitement. His uncle laughed and crossed his arms before his chest.

"Then we must hurry back, Mombasa," Dr. Clayton said. "So we can greet them. I am sure Mr. Clarkes is with him, and the esteemed doctor Greyheart." Mombasa smiled wider, knowing these were good news. Andrews reached back behind the tree and lifted his backpack and flung it over his shoulders.

"Come on, Clayton!" he said as he started back towards the camp, already halfway through the bamboo. "They're here! You know what that means. Letters from England! Letters!"

But Cecil did not get up as fast as his cousin did. He finished the job he had been doing and patted the top of the grave with his shovel. Slowly, he rose from the ground and cleaned the legs of his pants. His uncle waited for him, looking at the trail Andrews and Mombasa created as they chatted all the way back to their camp. Letters. Letters from England.
 

Unfinished
 

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