descended into a fitful dream of dark rivers and barbed-wire fences.
A half-hour later the Ethiopian woke him, insisting that they go back,
that he had much work to do. Roy agreed, but strolled as slowly as he
could, hoping that Crash had been given sufficient time to find the
bones.
As they came neared the altars, Roy heard strange noises of
commotion and protest. The monk quickened his gait and as they
burst out into the clearing they saw Crash astride one of the altars
waving a Swiss Army knife around like a demented swordsman. Four
other monks encircled him, yelling and pointing at the ground. It had
been scarred by some mad, undisciplined force.
“Stay away! Stay away, I tell you,” Crash was screaming, “I’m not
afraid to use this!”
Roy rushed up behind the angry monktitude. “What are you
going to do, moron? File them to death?”
“I couldn’t find the fucking knife,” Crash cried, “There’s too many
tools on this damn thing.”
“Look, you’ll never get out of here like this,” Roy said, “Just give
them back the bones.”
“I didn’t find any bones. Hey!” he snapped, thrusting the nail file
at a monk who had drawn too close.
“Then what’s all the fuss about?” Roy said.
“I found something else,” he replied. “Something really great.
Check it out!” He reached into his pocket and lobbed something
shiny and spinning over to Roy. Roy reached up and caught it but the
monks immediately fell upon him to pry the object out of his hands.
Fifty thin fingers managed it easily, but it only turned out to be a
gold-plated compass-flashlight-pen-keychain. Summarily, they
looked up and noticed that Winfield had disappeared. The brief
diversion bought him enough time to bound off the altar and sprint
down the path to the papyrus boat. The monks ditched Roy in the dirt
and ran off after the crazed explorer.
Roy picked himself up and brushed himself off. He quickly
jogged down the path back to the shore and found the monks shaking
their fists at Winfield, already far away across the lake in the little
papyrus craft, paddling like a little cartoon Indian. Roy watched his
only transport disappear into the haze and sat down exhausted on
the sand.
“Your friend has stolen something which is ours,” the monk said.
“He’s not my friend. I only met him yesterday. I hardly know
ABYSSINIA
280
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