The Nest

Cooperative: ''This story is coordinated by Laveaux. It is open to any new writers with characters alive during the year 1947 and have access to the Belgian Congo. The coordinator asks that any writers that do join the story, complete a character description in accordance with this article. Note that writers can only write for their characters, the coordinator will write for all other characters and events. Use the talk page if you have questions or suggestions.

Current Active Writers:
 * Laveaux
 * Orbost''

The market place in Leopoldville was bustling with activity, even so early in the morning, and the air was thick with chattering voices, fierce haggling, laughter and song. Riotous colour flooded Antoine?s vision ? bright yellows and reds from the fruits and spices piled high on the pavement, and a thousand rich hues in the dresses and head scarves of the women shopping. The rains had been heavy during the night. Streams of water trickled down the centre of the streets, and wide puddles settled in the uneven dirt square that housed the market. The rain had washed the dust from the skies, and in the clean air that remained, all the aromas of the market were crisp and intensified.

Antoine waved a farewell as his friends, Ruben and Dieter Van Buyten, headed off into the distance. Antoine had ridden to Leopoldville the night before, and met the two brothers for a few drinks that had lasted well into the night. The mood had been jolly to start with, as Antoine had not seen the boys for nearly a month. As the evening wore on the conversation dropped, and he had realised once again that he was just not good company, and that parties were generally more fun without him around. Certainly it seemed to him that as the brothers left the square, the banter between them had increased, and a spring had reappeared in their steps. Did he always drag the mood down, he wondered?

He was due to meet with a buyer later that morning ? just a formality really, to confirm a rubber delivery later that month. After that the day was his own, and he planned on returning to the small hotel where he normally stayed in the city, collecting his belongings and horse, and riding back to the plantation before darkness fell.

Looking around the market he realised that he was one white face in a sea of black, the Europeans generally avoiding the more downtrodden areas of the city. Spotting a food stall, he ambled over and took a seat on the rickety wooden stool. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and nodded politely to the owner. He spoke in Bantu, ?Coffee please. And plantain?.

He looked to the clouds above, wondering if the rains would come again today?.

--Orbost

Jungle insects flitted by as the results of rain settled on the muddy roads. The stall was vacant, save the owner who nodded with an obligatory smile and turned his bare back to prepare the drink. He poured coffee into a small English tea cup that had seen better days. A cracked arm supported a stained cup, but in its prime it would have been considered rather nice. The plantain was ripe and its sweet aroma could be discovered even under its sealed peel.

The avenue was bustling with native life as the morning settled behind him. The proprietor having done all he could, leaned on the stall and watched the passers-by.

"Are you with Dutch men?" He asked in broken French. It was more of a passing question, perhaps just to make idle chatter.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

The coffee was strong and bitter, and he could taste the grounds between his teeth as his sipped the hot liquid. He could almost feel the buzz of the caffeine coursing through his veins, sparking his nerve-endings and senses into life.

He looked up as the stall owner spoke, raising his eyebrows questioningly in response to the query. Was he talking about the brothers who had just left? He turned in his seat to peer over this shoulder into the crowd, searching for white faces.

Seeing none, he turned back to the owner. ?The two men who just left? Belgian. Like me.?

Idle chatter was not his strong point, but there was nothing better to do on a slow morning like this. ?Busy morning, yes? Many people here. Sell lots of coffee today I think. Your coffee very good, thank you.? He kept the language simple, not wanting to overwhelm the man with his quick-fire colonial French.

--Orbost

"No," the proprietor said dismissively, "Dutch men. There."

He pointed off to the side in a direction that Antoine had yet to look. Sure enough, there were five men, white as him, loading a wagon with grains, water, cameras, and unmarked crates. A patchy mule uneasily rested, tied to the wagon as one of the men offered grass. Clad in the clothes of the wealthy-turned-explorer, the men wore khaki pants with deep pockets, utility vests, and breathable white button-ups. One even wore a jungle helmet over his balding, peached, and plump head.

Careful listening would indeed indicate the men were Dutch and were certainly not local.

"They hunt treasure," the proprietor said wiping down the stall, "but their hunt takes them to forbidden lands. They should grow brains."

A wild grin appeared on his face as he tapped his temple.

The grin disappeared as one of the men walked their way. With an impatient gesture, he approached without a greeting and in very broken Bantu.

"Three hands to plantain carry!"

Nodding an unspoken greeting to Antoine as he waited, the proprietor held back a sigh. Understanding what he meant he pulled three bundles of plantains.

"Three makuta, friend," he said in French.

The man clumsily paid.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

The Dutchman?s lack of manners brought a frown to Antoine?s face. He was used to such dismissive attitudes from the Europeans, including from his own friends and family, but still he could not help but bristle at the insult paid to the storekeeper.

Normally he would just ignore such rudeness but today, perhaps, he was just in an argumentative mood. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and without looking up from his coffee he spoke curtly to the Dutchman in French.

?Would it hurt you to say please? Or thank you?? As soon as the words escaped his lips he regretted them. This man was no different to thousands of others in Africa. He would not have spoken in such a way to his sister or brother, so why should he do so to this man? He turned to face the Dutchman, and softened his tone as he continued.

?Monsieur, a little good manners goes a long way in the Congo. If you have no-one who speaks better Bantu than you, you might get better prices if you at least greet the natives before you speak to them?.

--Orbost

The Dutch man flushed. His pudgy pale face turned pink-ish while his eyes glared over an oddly shaped nose. At first the blush could have been from rage, but then it dissolved into something far more evident. A hint of shame masked with embarrassment.

"Yes, you are right, of course."

Turning to the proprietor who stared at Antoine in shock, the man said in Bantu, "I am sorry."

"I must get used to the customs here," he added in French again.

Paying the man, he offered an additional coin for his trouble. He then leaned on the counter halfway studying Antoine. His curiosity overcame and he spoke with little apprehension.

"You must live around here? Belgian, yes? Perhaps you can assist my men and I on our exploration. We could use a local network. I would pay well."

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine nodded as the Dutchman spoke, acknowledging his gesture. I judged you too hastily, he thought to himself. It takes a strong man to recognise his shortcomings, and to have the courage to apologise.

Remaining seated, Antoine reached across his body and stuck out his hand. His grip was firm and confident.

?Antoine De Pont. Yes, I?m Belgian. My family run a plantation out east.?

Antoine eyes wandered across to the wagon and the man?s companions. He had business to attend to that morning, but perhaps he could free up some time to help these men. He scratched his nose, reflecting on his options.

?Where are you headed to? I know the countryside, maybe I can be of help. Do you have a guide? Anyone who knows the jungles and the mountains? The Congo is a dangerous place if you?re unprepared.?

He spoke without a trace of boasting. Even to Antoine, brought up in this environment, this was a hostile place. A man who entered the jungle with too much or too little confidence was asking for trouble?.

--Orbost

"Truthfully, I do not know the name of our destination. Somewhere to the north. We've commissioned an American for a safari of sorts. I suppose you could call him our guide, but he is certainly not local."

Looking over his back, the Dutchman sharply whistled at his companions and waved one of them over. He was a muscular and tanned man, obviously tenured in the art of expiditions. A leathery-stone face with unblinking blue eyes. Black hair, greased back, but falling down from the morning's exertion. A tan shirt was callously unbuttoned and forest green khaki's tucked neatly into military boots. A rifle was strapped to his back and a large knife to his thigh.

Reluctantly, he came forward.

He said something in English, to which the Dutchman responded in French, "Ivan Sanderson, this is a local man. He may be able to serve as a guide."

Sanderson cocked his head and offered a firm handshake.

"Help is useful," he said in broken French.

"Ivan is a zoologist . . ."

"Cryptozoologist," Ivan corrected.

"Yes, yes. Cryptozoologist. Whatever on Earth that means, "I am Alexander Catmael and you are?"

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

?Monsieur Catmael, Monsieur Sanderson?Antoine De Pont?.

Antoine nodded at the introductions. The American certainly cut an imposing figure, and looked as though he could take care of himself. It was a look he had seen many times before ? the rough, burly outdoorsman ? and far more common in the Congo than the slightly overweight, nervous demeanour of Catmael.

The word ?cryptozoologist? meant nothing to the young Belgian ? perhaps in the translation from English to Dutch to French the term had become garbled and confused.

?You are after game? To capture or to hunt? There are many animals in the bush. Elephants, leopards. Big gorillas high in the mountains.? Antoine addressed Catmael with an occasional glance to Sanderson, expecting the Dutchman to translate where necessary.

?And how long is your expedition for? I have business to attend to this morning, but after that?? He let the sentence tail off. He was expected back at the plantation tomorrow, but there was no pressing work for him there, and he could easily send a message from his hotel if was going to be delayed.

--Orbost

"We are going for a monster, actually," Catmael grinned, "Monsieur Sanderson saw the beast in the wild. Apparently it is something of a legend in these parts. They call it the . . . the...makaw? Mako?"

Sanderson, understanding enough, corrected him, "Mokele-mbembe. Beast north jungle."

"Yes well, after the war, any trophy from the Congo will of course gain popularity in Amsterdam, but a monster? Well, we may bring tourism back to Holland yet!"

The American lost track of wording and politely nodded to them, then returned to his work at the jeep.

"Truthfully, Sanderson does not know the language or the way, save from his own personal expeditions. I would pay you 10 marks a day if you would help guide us. If you prefer local currency, I'm sure it can be arranged."

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine had spent enough time around the servants at the plantation to know how superstitious the locals were. Stories of vicious monsters hiding in the jungle were a staple of tribal stories told around the cooking fire. Talk of monsters did not trouble him at all. There were dangerous animals certainly, but most could be hunted with a good knowledge of their habitat, a rifle, a keen eye and a large dose of common sense.

He shrugged noncommittally at the name. ?There are plenty of animals deep in the jungle. I don?t know mokele-mbembe, perhaps a creature we haven?t found yet?.?

He considered the business he needed to attend to. He was meeting a buyer in one of the western hotels to confirm a shipment ? that would only take an hour. He could then return to his hotel, collect his horse and belongings, and arrange for a message to be sent back to his brother.

?Give me two hours. I will meet you back here. You have provisions for a long trip? The nights get cold, you know, and with all the rain it is hard to find dry firewood. And your wagon?? he gestured with his chin, ??the tracks are poor outside the city. The remote areas you can only reach on horseback, or sometimes only on foot.?

Considering the matter settled, he turned back to the storekeeper, and switched to Bantu.

?They hunt mokele-mbembe. You know this creature? Why are the lands forbidden??

Antoine expected an answer riddled with fear and superstition, but the natives had been in this land for many centuries, and he knew that their views were well worth listening to.

--Orbost

Catmael officially shook Antoine?s hand and grinned with gratitude.

?Very well my friend. Two hours. I will also ask the American if we can gather more horses.?

Immediately returning to the others with his plantains he waved instructions and passed on the turn of events.

The proprietor quietly watched the exchange and only responded when he was spoken to.

?Yes, I know mokele-mbembe. It is a creature as old as the jungle itself. Roaming at night only, it rises from the riverbeds and eats all it can see. It is very dangerous to hunt it and none have ever made it back alive.

?The mokele-mbembe is in the nest. It was where our people was spat from the Earth and the leaders of our tribes pledged to the gods that we would never return for they feared we would plummet into the abyss from which we came. Some believe the beast gauards the abyss.

?It is suicide to go there. You should not.?

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

He listened intently as the storekeeper spoke, captivated as he always was by the stories and myths of these noble people. Of course it was easy to dismiss the more fanciful parts of the legend, but he would not disrespect the man?s beliefs by demonstrating his scepticism. And was the story any more unlikely than the Greek myths of Gorgons, the faeries and trolls of his homeland, or indeed the miracles and mysticism of his own Catholic faith?

No, he held his doubts inside his heart, and spoke only appreciative words to the old man.

?It sounds a ferocious beast?? he nodded sagely, ?...I thank you for educating a simple man.?

?It is the way of men to do foolish things, yes? And sometimes to ignore the words of their elders? I will think carefully about what you have said. Thank you.?

And with that Antoine stood, placed his hat back on his head and took coins from his pocket to pay for this food, paying a little more than the true cost out of habit.

?Good day to you Sir?. He turned, blinked his eyes in the fierce sun and made to leave the market.

Despite his words to the storekeeper he had no intention of changing his plans. He felt no fear from the man?s story, and instead had perhaps learnt a little of the nature of the creature. This dangerous land in which he had grown up was to be respected, not feared.

He glanced at the sun?s position to gauge the time and made a note to himself to return to the market place in two hours time. He need only attend his meeting and collect his belongings and he would be ready.

--Orbost

Two hours passed and the morning sun scorched into the afternoon. If one were high enough, one could see dense rolling clouds over the canopy threatening to bring yet another round of rain. Insects and birds had yet to recover from last night's storm, zipping through the town without rest.

The Dutch caravan and the American waited where they promised, now equipped with four horses and additional gear on the truck. Catmael greeted Antoine with a handshake, but the American hardly glanced over.

"I believed we are prepared, do you see anything amiss?"

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

His meeting had passed smoothly. Ten minutes to confirm details of the shipment, and closer to thirty on the obligatory small talk that Antoine found so trying. His brother maintained that it was the personal relationships that governed the success of a business. Fortunate then, that Antoine was not the man in charge ? he had neither the aptitude nor the interest in making polite conversation with strangers, or in developing and maintaining a network of contacts.

He had made his excuses as early as he could without causing offence, and had headed straight to his hotel to collect his belongings. He sat now, on a tree stump in the hotel courtyard, with his rifle across his knees. While he waited patiently for his horse to be brought around from the stables, he carefully cleaned and oiled his gun, searching out any specks of grit or dust that might cause a misfire or jam. The sight of an armed man in a Brussels, Paris or London hotel would undoubtedly have caused alarm, but here in the Congo it barely raised an eyebrow. It was a foolish man who ventured out without protection?.

His pack lay awkwardly at his feet, struggling to remain upright in the tangle of roots that pushed there way up through the cobblestones. The courtyard had been relaid less than three years ago, but already it was losing its battle with nature. Even here, in the middle of the city, the jungle asserted itself; a constant reminder to Antoine that Africa could never be tamed.

We cannot control our surroundings, he thought to himself, only adapt to them.

He had written a letter to his brother explaining his plans, and left it with the concierge. It had been a difficult letter to write, as he had no doubt that Alain would disapprove of his actions. Alain?s commitment to the business was total and absolute, and he scorned any suggestion that there might be other paths worth exploring. Still, this expedition was something that Antoine felt he needed to do. While he took his responsibilities seriously and never shirked from hard work, he knew that he could not live the same life forever. Each man must find his own path?.

And so, a short time later he was again entering the marketplace, leading his horse through the stalls to meet up with Catmael. His possessions were securely latched in place on the saddle, his rifle and water bottle within easy reach, his knife on his thigh.

Passing the plantain stall, he paused, catching the eye of the stallholder. He nodded once, respectfully. No words were necessary, his actions and equipment spoke for themselves. In that silent moment, an understanding passed between the two men, and the proprietor gave a sad smile and inclined his head, giving, Antoine imagined, his reluctant approval to the reckless young man in front of him.

Antoine rubbed at his chin ruefully, and turned, leading the mare away towards the gathering expedition. He approached Catmael, and spoke calmly when he arrived.

?Monsieur, you seem to have everything arranged. If we leave now, we have maybe seven hours until sundown. Will you introduce me to the rest of your party??

--Orbost

?Certainly, of course, yes,? Catmael cleared his throat and gestured to the American, ?You met Monsieur Sanderson.?

There were two other Dutchmen, both ill-equipped for their excursion, but it would be futile to equip them. Already sweating in their button-ups, they barely managed to carry personal belongings. Catmael was clearly the leader of the gang, although out of shape, he had strength and character, something his colleagues were perhaps lacking.

In his broken French he proceeded with introductions, ?This is Jan Landseer and Karel Tenbrook,? and in Dutch he bantered with them for a moment and with broad smiles they shook Antoine?s hand.

Behind the Dutchmen was the actual crew, certainly hired cheaply. One young Bantu, perhaps 16, herded five horses with a single skilled grip. Two others, about the same age, were putting jugs of water onto the vehicle and paid little attention to their surroundings. There was an older man there as well, white but perhaps local. He wore a white fedora and smoked a pipe from a neatly-trimmed beard, now white with age. He was perhaps fifty, but had the build of a twenty-year-old. Enjoying his tobacco he didn?t notice Catmael until the introduction was made.

?This is Dirk Schaffer, he is the investor.?

In much better French, the bearded man said, ?Pleasure to meet you. I am pleased a skilled local will be here to assist. We may have talent on our team, this country is yet unexplored by us.?

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine had returned the handshakes, and reciprocated the grins with a careful smile of his own. Landseer and Tenbrook both seemed friendly enough, but he had noticed their physical condition even before the introductions, and had made a mental note that the journey would perhaps be slower than they all anticipated.

Schaffer was a different matter. His appearance and demeanour commanded instant respect. Clearly a man willing to pay the costs of this expedition needed a certain confidence and determination, qualities that would be essential in any trip in to the country.

?Monseiur Schaffer, a pleasure. Tell me of this mokele-mbembe. What manner of creature is it? The natives have their stories of course, but I would be interested to hear your European point of view. Have you seen it yourself??

--Orbost

Pipe smoke eased out of Schaffer as he considered Antoine's question. A sly grin appeared on the older gentleman's face and he said, "I sense an aura of cyncism. It is well, I completely understand. However, before you are so quick to decide our fate I would caution that even legends have their merits.

"The mokele-mbembe is a terrible serpent that rises out of the rivers, swallowing entire tribes and herds. It protects the dark abyss from which man came.

"There is, indeed a dark abyss, young man, but it is called 'the unknown' by us. The creature protects where locals fear to go: too far beyond their home. It is the same as the notion of a flat earth. People are afraid to leave home and at that point fear turns into reality, they call it the 'abyss' or 'the end', or in the case of the Bantu, 'the beginning'.

"A creature in the jungle would certainly be enough to encite a natural fear into a real one. This is an ancient wilderness and some parts have yet to be explored. It was just a fingersnap of time ago before we'd even walked the stretch of the Nile. Africa has some of the oldest forests in the entire world.

"Why shouldn't prehistory be alive and well in this world today? Deep in unexplored jungles? What the good people of the Congo call I monster, I call a dinosaur. I want to be the first man to see one in the modern world. I have put 2,000 marks on the line to do just that.

"And you, friend, shall be a part of history."

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

To Antoine?s ears, the answer seemed too rehearsed, too much of a speech, and he surmised that perhaps Schaffer had spoken the same words to many a potential investor over the previous few months.

?I have no desire to be a part of history, Monsieur, just the curiosity to explore the country further. And I feel no cynicism in the local?s beliefs. They tell stories to their children, just as we do?but even stories have a grain of truth to them, yes??

?The jungles are deep. No white man has ventured there. It seems likely to me that there are undiscovered creatures. As for dinosaurs??, he shrugged noncommittally, ??you can call an animal any name you like, it is still an animal.?

?But tell me, why do you believe it is a dinosaur? Have you seen any evidence? Has anyone else seen it? Sanderson perhaps? It seems speculative to pronounce it a dinosaur based purely on the legends of the Congolese.?

--Orbost

"Indeed he has," the investor said with a puff of his pipe, "and his word is worth its weight in gold in the anthropological world The American is barely thirty-five and he has already seen far more than most men do in several lifetimes.

"I've used my sources in Oxford, Cambridge and USC. There is a great deal of biological support for such a creature giving Sanderson's sightings an electric spark in academia.

"It just so happens that us Dutch are quick to our feet and have an interest in promoting a tiny bit of nationalistic pride to our people. Investments came quite easy, despite the poor affairs of Holland at the moment.

"The Dutch always survive," he said with a wink.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

In stark contrast to his first diatribe, this second reply was far more convincing. Antoine was no scientist, and could not comment on the academic rigour that Schaffer spoke of, but the words seemed genuine at least.

His last comment could not help but bring a smile to Antoine?s lips.

?As do the Belgians?, he replied. ?Enjoy the trip Monsieur.?

He turned and waved to Catmael standing nearby. He pointed up to the sun, burning its way across the afternoon sky. In a country in which wristwatches were not common, it was the equivalent gesture to tapping the face of a clock, indicating that time was getting on.

?The day will not last forever. Are we ready to depart??

--Orbost

With all the gear and participants the convoy was three trucks long and accompanied by a host of horses. They sallied-forth into midday on the most well-used northern trail, Matadi Road. It was less a road then it was a muddy trail, however workable with the trucks. They puttered slowly into the consuming jungle around them and in only half an hour, Leopoldville disappeared in the thickness to the south.

The crew bantered amongst themselves, save for Sanderson and Schaffer, with whom Antoine was seated, along with the driver, one of the young Bantu men. Pipe smoke diligently left Schaffer and Sanderson kept quiet, brooding over notes.

"How far is it?" Schaffer asked Sanderson.

"Three or four hours . . ." He looked up and took note of their pace and with classic American dismissal, shrugged, "six hours."

The canopy already covered their skies, however rising humidity suggested a ritualistic storm was nigh.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

The thickening air settled like a damp blanket around them. Their heavily sweating bodies attracting mosquitoes and flies, whose buzzes filled the air with a monotonous drone. Antoine drank heavily from his canteen, allowing the warm water to trickle down his throat and fill his belly. He offered the can to his companions.

?Keep drinking. You must keep your fluids up.?

He kept one eye on the gathering clouds judging if or when a deluge might occur, his whole body attuned to the wind and the heat and the air, sensing rather than rationalising when the weather might change.

He did not like being cooped up in the truck cabin. The ride was far from comfortable with the potholes and ruts in the roads shaking the occupants around, the movement unfamiliar to him. At least when riding, he and the horse could anticipate the uneven terrain, and the natural rhythm of horseback smoothed the ride. As it was, they were barely making walking pace along the road, and here he was being jerked around in the cabin, like an antelope in the jaws of a crocodile.

He turned to Schaffer.

?I will ride ahead a little way, scout out the road. If the weather closes in we may need to stop and camp. I?ll be a few hundred yards ahead.? He did not wait for acknowledgment or permission, trusting that his experience of the country would be accepted. The truck was moving slowly enough that he could jump out as it moved. He allowed the trucks to pass, and waited for the group of horses to reach him.

His mare was easily spotted, and he unleashed her from the pack and led her to the side of the road. She was a fine animal, nimble and sure-footed, and comfortable under his rein. He mounted and trotted forward, overtaking the convoy quickly and advancing along the road. Once ahead of the trucks he found that he could relax once again, and he settled into his regular riding routine ? scanning the trees and the horizon, listening to the birds and the insects, tuning in to the hum of the forest, alert to his surroundings, and yet perfectly at ease.

--Orbost

The bustle of the caravan seeped into the jungle behind him as he rode forward. Rumbling engines, although very -much near, could be separated much easier from the normal sound of the wilderness. Rain was eminent. Birds scrambled above the canopy, their instincts sending them away from lightning. Other creatures in the lower canopy disappeared into their shrub-hidden homes. In only a few minutes the clatter of the jungle became very quiet.

A thunderclap resonated and the strike was very near. A brilliant flash echoed through his vision and he could hear the horses reeling up from behind, although his stayed calm, albeit a restless calm. Immediately following the lightning was a torrent curtain of rain unleashing its relentless sheets onto the muddy path. Going forward was possible, but somewhat futile.

The Dutchmen persisted from behind, however, not slowing their already precariously rushed speed. Although Antoine didn?t know this particular path well, vague memories of a tributary stood out and if he was not mistaken, they could be close to a very treacherous ravine.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine manoeuvred the mare into the centre of the road and waved down the lead truck to stop. As it did so, he walked the horse alongside the cab, and leant his head down to the open window. The rain beat furiously down on his hat, the wide brim channelling the water flow into the cabin.

The pummelling rain beat a drum roll on the metal roof, and he raised his voice to be heard.

?Monsieurs, we should wait here until the rain passes. There are narrow paths and steep drops ahead. Better to wait until we can see the road properly.?

?And the horses can?t be controlled in the storm. They don?t mind the rain, but the thunder and lightning?.?

He left the sentence unfinished. The conditions spoke for themselves, and he waited for the cabin occupants to agree to his suggestion.

--Orbost

Resigned, the would-be explorers decided to set up camp at Antoine's advice. With the American's help, the camp was efficient, if it wasn't for him, however, the group could be mistaken for a shipwrecked group of wealthy landowners. Tents were thrown and the supplies were put under canopies to keep dry. Inside of two hours, one of the Dutchman, Jan, began heating water for potatoes.

In Belgian, Jan said, "You are Belgian, yes? You will like my cooking, I think. Wine?"

He offered a Dutch Reisling, without a glass.

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

The rain was still dripping from his overcoat, leaving a puddle around his stool, and he was slowly warming up next to the fire. He leant over, peered into the pot and nodded approvingly.

?It?s hard to go wrong with potatoes, yes?? The potato was a staple crop amongst the European settlers, growing well in the rich African soil alongside the yams and other root crops.

Antoine took the bottle gratefully and helped himself to a quick swig. He held the liquid in his mouth for a few seconds, savouring the taste, and then swallowed it down.

?Yes, Belgian, although I?ve never been there. My parents came out from Antwerp before I was born.? He paused, unsure of how to continue, and in the silence took another gulp of wine. It was a lame introduction, he knew, but small talk was never his strength.

?And you? Is this your first visit to Africa??

--Orbost

"First time to the Congo. Just three months ago we were in Egypt. November isn't any cooler than July I might add."

After sharing a few more pleasantries, the responsibilities of dinner took over and Jan tapered off into silence as he concentrated on his rather large meal. Sanderson then stole interest as he plopped onto the table and poot his muddy boots up.

"For the love of ..., listen Yank, you may like to eat in mud but Europeans tend to be a little more sophisticated," Jan barked.

"Really?" He said in strongly accented Dutch, "sophisticated enough to win your own war?"

The Dutchman glowered and brushed the American's feet away before continuing to cook.

He glanced over at Antoine and lit a cigarette, then offered one.

"You've seen beasts out here?" He asked in broken Dutch, "but you never saw beast like this."

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine had sat silently while the two companions exchanged banter, not yet comfortable in their company to attempt to join in. He took the cigarette when offered, lit it from the American?s and took a long drag. He studied Sanderson?s face as he spoke. Was the man boasting, or perhaps offering a warning?

?Plenty of big game. Crocodiles longer than the trucks out there. The gorillas on the higher peaks grow seven, eight feet tall.? He shrugged uncertainly. The creatures seemed plenty large enough to him.

?What does your beast look like? Forgive me for asking, but why is it that only you have set eyes on the creature? It doesn?t matter how large an animal is ? it normally ends up killed, skinned and on someone?s camp fire. The natives do not have much time for the wonders of the animal world ? it?s all just food to them.?

--Orbost

Sanderson squinted through the smoke, hanging on to Antoine's words and then removed his feet to lean forward.

"I am slow ... forgive me, I think you ask what does beast look like? Long neck. Snake. Beastly head. Similar to an anaconda, but with a body and legs. Many of the locals see it."

He waited for a response, but only partly so. Just then platters of boiled potatoes and salt was being passed around the table. The other men sat to enjoy the meal and the natives began cleaning the cooking supplies.

"Saunders thinks himself somewhat of a pioneer man," Schaffer said, "I call him well-funded."

The American chuckled at the quip and took some wine. Catmael sat down as well.

"Like a serpent? I've heard described more lizard-like. More of a water gecko of sorts," he said.

"Rubbish," said Schaffer, "weak descriptions of a prehistoric animal. Nothing more."

--Laveaux 00:41, 9 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine shuffled his stool to the side to make room for Catmael.

?Well, snakes and lizards are hard to catch in the jungle. They move through the trees, underneath the thickest growth. They don?t follow trails the way that a deer or big cat will.?

He stuffed a spoonful of potato into his mouth, and swallowed quickly, burning the roof of his palate. He sucked in air and gulped a mouthful of wine to ease the burning sensation.

?So how are planning on capturing it? And how large is it anyway?? He looked from face to face, wondering whether all present knew what was in store for them. They could not even agree on what the beast looked like. Did they all have an understanding of the plan ahead of them?

--Orbost

"Twenty men," Sanderson said simply.

The others were quiet. Whatever he meant, it seemed to be the only thing they could agree on.

Schaffer was the first to break the silence, "The beast is harmless except when cornered. Think of her like a rhinoceros."

"Killed twenty men," Sanderson said.

Then Schaffer and Sanderson fell into a squabble drenched in English. Catmael took the opportunity to speak to Antoine directly.

"They say the creature is over 3 meters high and 6 meters long. The largest beast to roam the land. The locals think it is a god, one that protects a bottomless abyss. Sanderson is the only living man that has laid eyes on it, but Schaffer lost his own son on the very same expedition not two years ago."

--Laveaux 14:03, 14 December 2005 (CST)

Antoine took the news as calmly as he could. Could an animal really be that large? Although amazed by the claimed size of the beast, his face showed no outward expression other than a slightly raised eyebrow. Knowledge of Schaffer?s son gave him pause for thought. The old man had seemed an eccentric, an entrepreneur, more a shallow salesman than a serious hunter. But was this expedition really just a money-making venture? A boost for Dutch pride? Or was he working his own private agenda ? perhaps the expedition was really about facing his own demons, confronting the beast that killed his son.

?That?s certainly a large animal, Catmael? he said, a master of understatement. ?And so my question remains ? how do we capture it? It sounds as though there is some disagreement over what is involved?

The argument between Schaffer and Sanderson rang on, and Antoine was in no mood to interrupt it.

?And you, Catmael?? he said softly, so as not to disturb the argument, ?What brings you here? If the beast killed twenty men before, what?s to stop it doing the same again? Wouldn?t you rather be home with your family, than risking your life on this venture??

--Orbost

"Capture it??" Catmael snorted, "We mean to kill it."

After a pause he formed his words and said, "The war put my family in a bind. You were born here, so you probably haven't heard of how bad off Northern Europe is. Amsterdam is a ghost town. Completely ravaged. The few times I've seen Belgium since '45 shows the same is true there.

"I lost everything to those bastards."

Anger jumped out, but he quickly suppressed it.

In a more quiet tone he said, "Schaffer is paying us each one hundred marks. That would be enough to get my land back. Purely selfish you see."

The argument next to them suddenly ended with Sanderson storming off. Schaffer cackled under his breath and said, "He shouldn't be so surprised that I am skeptical of his abilities. He did lose twenty men."

The others quietly ate their meals and since the rain refused to let up, the camp went to their respective tents for the night.

--Laveaux 14:03, 14 December 2005 (CST)

While others were settling in for the night, Antoine went about his normal routine. He approached the corral of horses to check the condition of his mare. He groomed her coat, more to reassure her with his presence, than because she needed brushing. He made sure that she was fed and watered, and that the rope holding her in place allowed her sufficient space to turn and lie down. His saddlebags, he placed inside his tent to dry during the night.

While there was still activity around the camp, he would not be able to sleep. He paced the camp for a further hour or two, occasionally exchanging words the Congolese boys as they tidied the camp, but mainly alone with his thoughts and with the night-time sounds of the jungle.

How to kill a six meter-long lizard? Something so large would have a hide as thick as his wrist, and it would likely take a high calibre bullet to pierce. His own rifle, while powerful enough for most creatures, would struggle to take down a bull elephant unless the shot was perfect. Did they have the firepower to take down mokele-mbembe? And if they did, how would you keep out it?s way before it finally succumbed to the bullets ? trap it first perhaps? His ponderings drifted on, until he became aware that he was the last man still up. The camp was silent and the jungle insects were reasserting themselves, keeping up a never-ending chatter that he found reassuring.

He spent a few final moment listening to his environment, memorising the layout of the camp in case he needed to rise in a hurry, and then made his way to the tent. He lay down quietly on the bedroll, and as was his custom, slept with his boots still on, and his rifle loaded and by his side.

--Orbost

It was almost as if he just closed his eyes, but morning dew and brisk humidity lurched with dawn. It wasn't the cracking sun that woke Antoine ecause it was still dark. It something far more jarring. It was the sound of a predator.

Stepping carefully through moistened foilage, one step at a time. Pausing ever carefully before proceeding. It was light on its feet, but reckless enough to choose a rustling path not four meters from Antoine's slumber. Recalling the layout of the camp, the sound would place the beast outside the fire pit about a meter, directly in front of Catmael's tent. Schaffer and the others f

From the sound it seemed to be feline, but its reckless path suggested a young one, perhaps learning to hunt. If its parents were teaching it, they wouldn't be too far off.

--Laveaux 18:47, 1 February 2006 (CST)

If he had had time to analyse the situation, a number of thoughts might have occurred to him ? why were the camp hands not up and about, preparing for dawn; why were the horses not kicking and screaming at the smell of a predator nearby; why would a big cat enter a campsite full of alien sights and unfamiliar smells. The logic of the situation though could wait. Despite his alarm at the danger he sensed, he initially did not move a muscle. He lay perfectly still for a few precious seconds, willing the sleep to leave his body, and allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom.

Although it was unusual for a wild beast to enter a campsite, he had heard stories of man-eaters entering tents or huts and making off with the unfortunate victim. He could cover his own tent opening quite easily with his rifle, but Catmael and the others were likely fast asleep, and thus defenceless.

With the predator so close, he could not safely crawl from his tent without leaving himself vulnerable to a mauling. Similarly, a wild lunge through the tent flaps would be reckless, and likely startle the creature into an attack. An even worse option was a blind shot through the tent canvas to where he sensed the creature to be ? a direct hit was unlikely, compared to the risk of sending a loose round through someone else?s tent wall.

Only one course of action appealed. Keeping the rest of his body still, he reached down to his rifle at his side, placed his finger against the trigger guard, and wrapped his palm around the stock. Ever so gently, he raised the rifle one-handed, pointed it at the roof of his tent, and fired directly into the air.

The sharp crack from the rifle would, he was certain, startle the animal into fleeing. With the shot ringing in his ears, he hauled himself into a one-kneed crouch and levelled the rifle at the tent opening. He paused there, listening intently he hoped to the sound of a fleeing cat.

--Orbost

It was unclear after the initial commotion if the predator was scared away. The dawn's sky crackled with the rifle blast and a cloud of birds swarmed from their nests in the canopy. Whatever men were not up already preparing camp were immediately awakened and rushed from their tents.

Rummaging and rabbling over what the ordeal was, the camp momentarily turned into a mob. No one knew who fired the shot or why.

Then from the chaos a loud voice sounded "SILENCE!"

It was Schaffer. He was toward the edge of the camp and his bellowing voice did what he intended. Peering at the ripped remains of a tent, everyone present could see what he saw.

All the remained of Catmael was a bloody stumped leg, raggedly removed from the rest of the body just below the knee.

--Laveaux 13:26, 5 February 2006 (CST)

It was clear immediately that the shot had awoken the camp, and Antoine emerged through the tent flaps with his rifle at his shoulder. In contrast to the mayhem all around, he stood silently, sighting down the gun barrel as he swung in an arc along the tree line, scanning for movement in the jungle. His breathing was calm and his palms dry as he did so, blocking out the camp?s panic as his peripheral vision wandered the emerald green patterns of leaf and dappled light.

It was the shout from Schaffer that broke his concentration, a distinctive snarl in the Dutchman?s voice that commanded obedience. Antoine lowered his rifle and turned, seeing for the first time the panicked look on people?s faces, and the remains of the unfortunate Catmael. The sight of a fresh kill was hardly new to him, but in some strange way a leg without a body was somehow more disturbing than a body missing a leg. He could feel colour reddening his neck and cheeks, and the bitter taste of copper in his saliva. He knew it to be Catmael?s tent that was destroyed, and the Dutchman was not to be seen in the crowd.

With the remaining party stunned to silence, Antoine seemed the only one able to act. He crossed the few metres to Catmael?s tent, stooping as he walked to grab a few square yards of ripped tent fabric, and approached the bloody stump. He crouched down next to it, swallowing the gorge in this throat but unwilling to look away, and draped the material over the limb.

From his crouched position he turned, catching the gaze of Schaffer, perhaps the only other figure in camp to keep his composure. In the quietened camp, he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. His words were heard by all present, although his eyes never left Schaffer?s, perhaps silently challenging the party leader to accept his lead in this matter.

?Nobody leave the camp or disturb the ground. Whatever did this will have left tracks.?

He rose to his feet, broke eye contact with Schaffer and moved towards the treeline, his eyes gently scanning the muddy ground for tracks.

--Orbost

There was reluctance in Schaffer's eyes and even a hint of waver. His eyes glanced to each of Antoine's and then conceded. Looking back up at the stunned camp around them he said, "You heard him. Report anything out of the ordinary and whatever you do, don't touch a thing."

Schaffer picked up a nearby shotgun and as he did so he cocked it with one determined arm. Standing close to Antione he said only loud enough for him to hear.

"It's the beast. No cat could do this."

As Antoine scanned the trees and the ground, he saw distinct tracks in the mud. Shreds of clothing and pieces of the tent were dragged violently on the ground into an especially close thicket of vines and ground shrubs. Leaves inside the thicket were still jerking.

--Laveaux 13:39, 28 February 2006 (CST)

?Perhaps...?, replied Antoine somewhat distantly, his attention totally consumed by the activity within the thicket.

He had been in this situation before, having once followed a wounded lion into undergrowth. The danger was extreme, but if there was a chance that Catmael still lived, or that the creature might be caught whilst feeding, it was a risk he needed to take.

With his rifle stock against his shoulder and the barrel aimed at the rustling branches, he advanced. His index finger was applying gentle pressure to the trigger, ready to depress fully if necessary. He placed each footstep gently in front of the last, and with his eyes locked on the noise ahead, he moved silently into the undergrowth?.

--Orbost 23:48, 8 March 2006 (CST)

It was no cat.

Barely lit from the preceding firelight was a wall of scales accented by two serpentine eyes on either side of a jagged tooth-filled one-meter head. It stood six meters high on enormous clawed hind legs and had weak upper arms.

The lifeless torso of Catmael hung from its teeth like red spinach.

There was no other way to describe it. The creature was a dinosaur. As Antoine and Schaffer advanced, the creature snapped its head in their direction, freezing. Pieces of the unfortunate Catmael fell from its mouth as it lowered on its haunches.

--Laveaux 11:04, 13 March 2006 (CST)

Initially, it was hard for his brain to accept what the eyes were seeing, and as his heart started to race, he found his feet rooted to the spot. The creature he saw before him was like nothing he imagined could ever exist. It was a monster from the storybooks, or perhaps from his science books. The sheer size of it was?.unimaginable.

To many men, perhaps unused to the dangers of the wild, the sight might have driven them to panic or to rash action. For Antoine though, shocked as he was, his instincts soon took over - not eliminating the fear, but at least allowing common sense to control his actions.

Maintaining his grip on his rifle and continuing to sight down the barrel at the creature, he whispered quietly but firmly to Schaffer.

?No sudden movement. Step backwards slowly and calmly.?

And with that, he took a gingerly step behind him, then another and another. If the creature charged he could get a shot away, perhaps two. But it would take a lucky shot to stop the creature dead. Far better, he knew, to leave the creature to its meal, and to escape the fate that had befallen the unfortunate Catmael.

--Orbost 18:40, 23 March 2006 (CST)

The head stayed frozen as Antoine whisphered and when they carefully backed away the horrible sound of wet twigs snapping resounded. The creature's head snapped again, this time the side of its head was facing them. It was clear now that the beast was now looking at them. One large eye focused on them.

Schaffer froze.

There was silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

The creature let loose an ear-wrecking howly and lunged forward, snapping its large jaws. Just missing Schaffer by a thread, he fell into a panic-striken run. The beast was on his heels and the camp was suddenly opened up to its violent pursuit.

Crashing through tents and trampling a few workers, it stumbled forward after its prey, apparently forgetting the fresh kill still hanging loosely from its teeth.

--Laveaux 22:11, 27 March 2006 (CST)

He had no way of knowing why the monster lunged for Schaffer rather than himself, but there was little time to reflect on his companion’s unfortunate luck. As the beast plunged past him, Antoine followed, ploughing through the undergrowth until he stood at the edge of the campsite to witness the chaos that ensued.

What can I do?

‘Nothing’ was the obvious answer. His rifle was little more than a peashooter against the heavily armoured scales rampaging through the camp. He needed a soft target to aim at – perhaps the underbelly, the mouth or one of those hideous, cold crocodile eyes. If the creature would turn, and hold still for just a moment he could take a shot. Otherwise, he was just wasting ammunition.

Antoine ran forward, leaping tent ropes and dodging panicked workers as he went. He had to keep the beast in sight

With his eyes on the target, and both hands on the rifle he battled through the camp for a clear shooting angle. He muttered to himself, the words fighting to escape through his gritted teeth.

“One shot. Just give me one shot.”

--Orbost 20:59, 26 April 2006 (CDT)