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Writer
Join Date: Nov 2007
Gender: Female
Posts: 32
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Nigel Beauregard
Please leave a comment, even if you don't finish reading this. I really need some feedback! (Its the beginning of a young adult novel.)
In the heart of the earth, under the natural canopy of the rainforest, walked two hundred men amid the vibrant green foliage of Cameroon. Drips of dew fell from the canopy of trees above and webs of twisted lianas obstructed their path. They breathed deeply through the thick air, tasting the heat like it had a corporeal body. Walking through the ubiquitous darkness made them wonder if they would ever see sunlight again.
One hundred and ninety seven of the men had lived twenty miles away for most of their lives, the sons of Bantu hunters. In their childhood they had never entered the jungle, afraid of the evil spirits who inhabited it.
The last three were white Englishmen. Their leader’s name was Merrick Rockwell, from Kensington. At six feet five inches, he towered over black and white men alike. His broad chest, always pushed out to its limit, was as wide as two Bantu hunters. His thick arms, constantly draped around a double-barreled shotgun, could crush a man in one tight squeeze. His thick, dark whiskers looked like bristles on a short comb.
The other two white men were less impressive. Albert Weatherly, red curls flourishing on his head like a wildfire, stood a short five foot three. His nervous gestures caused him to trip over many roots and fall into branches.
Rupert Youngblood, a tall lanky man with dirty blonde hair, could usually be found chewing on something, whether it was an apple or a snake carcass didn’t matter much to him.
Merrick, after wandering in the jungle for a week, slashed a foot-long knife through the branches of a yohimbe tree. He tripped over a root, disguised underneath the leaves, and cursed.
“Damn this detestable forest!”
He stomped his tall leather boots, inadvertently doused in mire, on the ground like a spoiled schoolgirl. He looked down at them in annoyance, remembering the swamp they had waded through earlier.
“These cost me twenty pounds!” He shouted.
But no one understood him except his two white companions, who nodded feebly and looked down at their own disheveled boots.
A talented Bantu hunter led the way through the jungle, keeping Merrick far from monkeys, birds, or anything else that he might harm or frighten. During their first day together, Merrick had seen a pangolin, a small armadillo-like creature, screamed, and shot it from a foot away. The poor animal hadn’t even seen his attacker.
The Bantu man, wearing a Western shirt and a stylish bone through his lower lip, had been raised to fear the jungle like everyone else. But in his youth, he had spent some time exploring it and found it less than menacing.
He stopped abruptly and put his hand up to steady the white men.
“Why have you stopped?” Merrick bellowed.
The dark man shivered in fright, but didn’t utter a word. Instead he poked his head up and listened intently to the forest voices. This was the last place he wanted to be, pinned between the jungle and a hairy white man.
The leader of the Englishmen grumbled, but listened. He could only hear silence, the immense silence of the forest that frightened him into shouting, but after a few moments, he could also hear a faint humming. Startled, he shushed the rest of the men, who were already quiet, and peered through tall green reeds.
All he saw was more jungle, trunks of tall trees and hanging vines criss-crossing in all directions.
The Bantu man rolled his eyes; he expected this. He could tell that the humming hadn’t coming from animals, but humans. He knew that they weren’t far from a pygmy village. He glanced at the tall white man and sighed. Then he prodded along, still uneasy about his surroundings. His feet squished on the ground, covered in various plants and mushrooms. Every now and again he stopped and put his hand up to quiet his boisterous companion. He continued walking until the white man gasped. The humming had gotten louder and turned into singing.
The Bantu man walked into a clearing, fumbling with his button-down shirt as if embarrassed or even more frightened than he was before.
Several grass huts were standing in front of him, each with pointed ceilings and rounded doorways. One or two had animal hide flaps, but most were open and inviting, with people sitting in their doorways making mats or cooking dinner.
The white leader tumbled out of the foliage swatting at his clothes and cursing ferociously. It seemed he had walked through a spider’s web, but to everyone else it appeared he had a vendetta against his jacket. He tore it off and threw it on the ground, stomping wildly. Then he heard the singing and looked up. His mouth dropped and his eyes widened.
“Do you know what this means?” He asked his Bantu companion.
The Bantu man stared back in annoyance. He didn’t know what anything the white man meant. He didn’t speak English.
Merrick stroked his mustache and stepped forward slowly, peering at the new people as if looking at a zoo exhibit. The people next to the huts noticed his presence and stood up. They smiled, welcoming the new strangers. A short old man with filed teeth and no hair wobbled up to the Bantu man. He nodded at him and looked over at the white man.
The old man looked into the white leader’s eyes, which almost seemed to reach the treetops, and then down at his right hand at his waist. The short old man took the hand and shook it.
The white man gasped, inhaling thick, moist air. How had the old man learned this Western tradition?
It was then that a boy with long blonde hair poked his head out of one of the huts and ran up to the strangers. The white man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he almost fainted.
The young boy balanced him and exclaimed in perfect English, “You’re heavy, Sir!”
Chapter Two
You might be wondering where I gathered this information. Am I the child of one of those intrepid explorers? Possibly I have spent countless hours in a library, ingesting as much information as I could find on the subject. Could I have recently finished reading the travels of Henry Morton Stanley and invented the whole scenario?
All good guesses, but I’m afraid they are wrong. I was in fact that young English lad who rushed out of the Muati hut to help the man I came to loathe.
My beginnings are as simple as anyone else’s. I was born in England, in Kew, South West London,to be precise. My parents thought I was a wonderful child, stunning, full of potential, the same as every other parent. My grandparents, who believed me to be the prize jewel of the family, adored me. The difference was I was everything they hoped for and more. I was no average child. I was gold, a prodigy, and a genius. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
My parents, John and Ursula Beauregard, were explorers, anthropologists. Some of the first. They traveled all over the world learning about foreign cultures and documenting them. They had just finished studying the Egyptians when they arrived in Cameroon. I was four when they installed themselves among the Muati. Their first journal entries were sorted and vague, things like, “The Muati enjoy singing at all times of the day.” And “Their grass huts are sturdy and well built; it is a wonder they don’t stay in one place”. I still have no idea what they truly thought of my future caretakers.
John and Ursula were to have a short visit to the Muati tribe. They died only two weeks after arrival, having touched a mantella they found fascinating. Mantellas are what some call poison dart frogs, which are little amphibians so poisonous that touching one with a cut on your finger would instantly kill you. My parents had just finished investigating the spiky acacia tree.
They were ambitious and intelligent, but naïve. Blinded by their interest in the world around them, they died at a young age and left me to live with people they had only begun to understand.
Luckily, those people were equal to the task at hand. They took me in like a son, a son who had been taught all of the wrong things in his childhood. I was quickly educated on how to hunt properly with a spear and how to create mats and baskets using vegetable fibres. They taught me which vegetation was acceptable to consume and which to stay clear of. They taught me how to cook fish and crocodile and how to play the flute. But I also helped them. I taught them English and how to read the books my parents had left behind. It took them some time before they saw the merit in learning English, but after some cajoling I had them all reciting Shakespeare.
“This above all: to thine own self be true.”
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep.”
At this point, you might be wondering why a sixteen-year-old is writing memoirs. Sure, most people who write memoirs have had a long and fulfilling life of prosperity and popularity. Politicians and kings write memoirs, or those who have reason to believe their stories will be of interest to others.
My reason is no different. I may be sixteen years old, but my life is already a tale to be repeated. If intelligence alone is an indicator that a person will be successful, then my stories will be famed throughout the planet. You see, even without the ability to move forward through time, I am well aware that my future will be brimming with achievement.
That said; let us return to the story.
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"Let me get this straight: you're telling me you want to write something, not just anything, that says something . . . about something."
-Daria
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