Two weeks later, there we were trusting Muuzaji's judgment as she took us into Blacktown, the area reserved for Nairobi's native residents. Call me nuts, and maybe this is absurd thinking on my part, but I never much cared for the way negroes are treated in their own country by the Brits. Seems unfair, and I think Muuzaji probably agrees with me judging by her eyes. It's just hard to see people with darker skin than yours mistreated after you've spent years with them in Brazil, and seen the way they live. I don't know. Maybe it's a pipe dream, but I guess maybe things should be made a bit fairer... not that any of it will matter if we can't get to that Mountain in time, of course.
In any case, we made it to her connection early this morning, a tall and well-dressed black man named Johnstone Kenyatta. When we arrived, he looked at us with an exaggerated concern in his eyes yet a wide grin on his face, and heartily welcomed us into his office. Once inside with the door shut, however, Kenyatta's demeanor changed - he became gravely serious, though his tone was still pleasant.
"There is a friend waiting for you at the back door," he said, voice lowered. "He is dressed all in white. Follow him, but not too closely. When he stops, you must also. He will lead you to a building with a yellow door. When you see it, you will enter that door. In there is a man willing to bring you further."
"Huh," I murmured, agreeing. "You talked to Elias though, right? How come you didn't tell him any of this?"
"Because I could sense he had... another purpose to serve," admitted the man. "A doomed one. It is ironic, gentlemen - I have striven so hard to leave my uneducated and myth-based past world, and enter the white man's world to connect with your people... and yet, perhaps my grandfather's shaman roots linger yet in my blood. How bizarre it is that, as I move to embrace your world, you reach out to mine."
A pause, another murmur, and suddenly, Kenyatta was all smiles again.
"I wish each of you well on your travels, and am glad to have met you," he finally said, shaking each of our hands in turn. "Now, you must be off - it is not polite to keep another waiting. Farewell, and good luck."
With that, we said our goodbyes, and proceeded towards the back door of the building. Sure enough, the man Kenyatta mentioned was there, waiting like an ebony and marble statue, and he smiled when he saw us before moving away. I'd like to say it was a quick trip, but it wasn't - the guy obfuscated the trail every chance he got, hell, we almost got lost ourselves a few times with the way he was trying to keep people from following. All the same, about an hour later, we did make it to the building with the yellow door, a wooden barn-like structure, and in we went, silently one after the other. Inside, a battered old safari jeep, probably repurposed. There was another man in the driver's seat, someone who spoke little English but knew Muuzaji if her reaction to him was any proof, and into the jeep we clambered.
Again, the drive was long, arduous, and tedious. Sure, Africa's beautiful in the rainy season - hot, but beautiful - but driving for five hours in that sticky heat? It's hell. We sweltered in that jeep all morning until we had driven far, far into the countryside of Nairobi, and then we saw our destination - a small village of mixed metal, earth, and wooden huts, with a single spiraling, shell-shaped home in the middle of them with a lithe, muscular man out front, guarding it. Young children ran about playing with sticks and pet goats, and two men sat on the ground playing mancala, the younger of the two clearly losing badly. Our driver pointed to the spiral hut and the guard, then nodded, as if telling us to go there, so we left the jeep while he waited.
I guess a bunch of white people and two dark-skinned people entering such a place wasn't very common, because the children immediately stopped playing and looked at us with curious, wide, innocent eyes as we entered. The guard at the hut noticed, too, and looked us over with a grave interest as we approached.
"Halt there," he commanded, his tone serious. "Do you know where you are treading, strangers? My name is Okomu Ndale; my forefathers as well as myself come from a long line of warriors and protectors of this tribe. None goes to Bundari, our elder, without speaking to me first. Oh yes, I know very well what you are here for; Bundari has foreseen it. It matters not who you are, though I question why a group of white men would wish to speak to our tribe's elder... Did Johnstone send you?"
"He did," Muuzaji said, speaking for us, and then an exchange of words was given in rapid Swahili between the two. I know a little Swahili, owing to its vague similarity to Arabic, and could tell this much - the guard knew Muuzaji, perhaps she had even been born in this very village. There was something about her father not knowing where she was, and something else about Muuzaji trying to convince the guard to allow us entry. Even so, he seemed unmoved, and continued to scrutinize us warily... though perhaps with a bit more of a relaxed look than previously.
"Well, if you are truly here to speak with the elder, and not to cause harm," Okomu said, overlooking us, "Then you will have proof of your reason to visit. Your friend has... kindly told me you seek information concerning the Cult of the Red God. You realize how dangerous this is, yes?"
"Dangerous, but something we have to know," McCloud responded. "We've seen what they do to people, we've seen what their god is like on other continents, each form of it more hideous and evil than the last. They're all linked, and they're all different, yet alike. We might be the only people who can stop whatever the Bloody Tongue Cult is planning, what all these cults are planning. We need to know where these people are located, and how we can get there to stop them. We're running out of time, and we need whatever help your elder can give us."
Okomu's gaze seemed dark and serious for a moment when he heard the scope of the influence Nyarlathotep had over the world. Then, slowly, his guard relaxed, and his tone softened.
"Very well," he said, crossing his arms slightly. "What do you wish to know?"
The conversation from there proceeded smoothly enough. He knew very well about the cult, the Carlyle disappearances (though he thought it was a massacre until we explained what we knew), and where both were located - the Mountain of the Black Wind. It was where Elias was trying to go but failed, and where we were going by proxy. This place, he said, was accursed not just because the cult was known to operate there and do terrible things to those brought to it, but because it also housed the terrible Red God, as he put it. The cult, he said, abducted people from villages and sacrificed them to this god, for it was bloodthirsty and cruel. Of course, we knew exactly by now what the Red God was, and we didn't like the implications.
Moreover, the priestess of the cult, a woman named M'weru, made her home at the Mountain. "She is cunning and dangerous," Okomu said, "And may attempt treachery. Be wary, for she does not look as if she is a danger at first."
The man gave us a weary look, as if we were all insane, before speaking again. "I do not understand why anyone would wish to go to that horrific place, but if you must, I can map it for you. It is perhaps a week's time from here, but I warn you - there is nothing that can protect you from the wrath of the Mountain's god. Nothing... save one thing."
"Well, what is it?" Dr. Hildebrand stepped forward, eager to know.
"It is a protective symbol of a sort, one built to contain great evil," Okomu continued, "Perhaps, it could even contain the God of the Mountain... Not even the Great Bundari has discovered what it is, though it is said to look much like an eye."
"Wait," I said in shocked recognition. "Like an eye? You mean like this?"
I withdrew the lone item I have kept from my travels, the stone fragment scavenged from atop the Red Pyramid, and the African man's eyes widened in astonishment when he saw it. Call me nuts for keeping it, but... I feel safer with it nearby. Like a lucky charm, even if it's broken, but hell... I'm a little broken too, and I'm still just as effective. Maybe the half of it I have still has some magic left, for all I know.
"Hang on a second," puzzled McCloud as he saw the stone. "I... I think I might have the other half of that! Brady gave us it back in Shanghai!"
Fishing in his pocket, he withdrew the other piece, and fit it against mine with perfect alignment. It was the other half of the symbol we'd come to discover was known as the Eye of Light and Darkness... and we now had all the pieces and knowledge we needed to cast it if it came down to that. Maybe, just maybe, it could even bar Nyarlathotep entry to our world...
Realizing what we had, Okomu's attitude softened, and he became much more pleasant. He was more than willing to let us speak with Old Bundari, the tribal elder, after that. Unfortunately, we would have to wait a while to speak to him in person - something about him being on the "Other Side" and needing to collect his energy here on Earth. And of course, he wouldn't let us speak, because apparently it would "draw him back too quickly". Now, I've seen a lot of weird shit - a lot of weird shit - but even this struck me as a bit like mumbo-jumbo bullshit. You ask me, the elder was just sleeping so deeply that when we entered, he didn't notice. He had to be about 80-something, and looked like he had lived a rough life. Hell, at first we thought he was dead until we saw the vague, soft movement of his chest as he breathed.
Did I say driving here was tedious before? I lied - the real tedium was sitting there, waiting silently, waiting for the old bat to wake up. It took hours, but it felt like eternity. With nothing else to do, I turned to observing some of the fine textile and carved wooden mask decor about the house - and Old Bundari had a lot of it. It was then I noticed the protective symbols on the walls - including a five-branched sigil I instantly recognized from my time in Cairo. The others also recognized it when I pointed it out, having learned how to use it, and a perceptible release of anxiety was felt in our group. This place was safe, and Bundari was trustworthy. I didn't think that Kenyatta would have lead us into danger, of course, but one can never be too careful anyway... If it's one thing I've learned from all my travels around the world this year, it's that.
Finally, the elder stirred, and when he saw us, he looked us over in turn. It was a wonder the frail man was alive with how wrinkled and scarred he was, but when he spoke it was clear his real strength lay elsewhere - in his spirit, perhaps. Okomu translating, we listened intently.
"I see. So you are the ones who seek the Mountain... you are either very brave, very foolish, or perhaps both. Your mission is a perilous one indeed, and these times are desperate. Shall I waste it telling you pleasant things, or the truth?"
There was a lull in his speech, yet nobody dared speak, and he continued.
"The followers of the Bloody Tongue grow arrogant. People are stolen from villages without shame. Leaders are brought low with corrupt thoughts and deeds. Many of us with the knowledge have been continuously praying for help with this great evil. Perhaps you are the culmination of that prayer... It will not be easy for you. You will suffer greatly, and lose many friends. You most assuredly already have, I can see the pain in your eyes from them still. But if you have courage, you will achieve much."
"So we've been told," I murmured under my breath, and Bundari merely smiled.
"Fate recognizes remarkable individuals," he said, "But time runs short, and you must hurry. Okomu can help make your arrangements for travel, and I am certain your allies will help. But they cannot do for you what I can: I have gifts to give you."
He reached into a satchel in the back of the hut, and proffered a strange-looking brushlike object I recognized as a fly whisk, along with a snoozing chameleon in a wooden cage. As the cage was moved, the reptile moved lazily, glancing at us with one swiveling eye.
"The whisk shall defend you from evil spirits, as well as help you detect that which is hidden," said Bundari as he handed the cage over. "And this is my friend, Who-Is-Not-What-She-Seems. You may call her Who for short. Feed her well daily with insects, and she will protect you... however, she can only do so once. Use these gifts wisely, friends, and be on your way. I will pray for your safety..."
Nothing more to say and gifts received, Bundari merely smiled and once more fell into a state of either trance-like focus or intense slumber, leaving us to our own devices. I'd like to say the drive back was more pleasant, but it really wasn't. There was one thing more pleasant about it, though - that chameleon, Who, is very good at keeping insects away from us. She'll definitely be a fine asset in the jungles if only to keep the flies off us, and besides, the others (especially Sarah) seem to have formed a bit of a bond with the little reptile. Seeing them happy for once really helps me, too - but to be honest, I'm too wary to relax. I'm not convinced anything but our wits will keep us alive in the jungles... and if anybody knows the jungle, it's me.
We embark for the Mountain of the Black Wind tomorrow, but for now it's time to sleep. Of course, I never really sleep, not anymore - and to be honest, I don't think any of us do, except maybe Enala. Call me nuts, but I can almost feel Nyarlathotep daring us to venture to the Mountain, and he's terribly amused at the prospect. Death awaits us there, and nothing else... but if we don't deal with it, then nobody will.
God, being the world's unsung hero is exhausting. But if I die out there on that Mountain... Well, I guess I'll have plenty of time to rest then, won't I?
-- Clayton Byrd, Counting Down the Days (September 8th, 1928)