Erica Sinclair - The Trek of Tears (M/F)

[Caesar73]

I must say dear @Jenny_S you really have a way to catch the Atmosphere of a Scene. Here it is the Atmosphere around and in the Hospital. The Reader does not need to have been at the Place to see it before their Eyes.

The Climax of this Chapter? Erica meets the Woman she is looking for:

What - if anything - will she tell Erica?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much, though, for your compliment. Downtown Ngabo City is based on an actual place in Africa, so describing it just took looking at some pictures.

As for the story: if the mysterious woman actually is Mama M'Batha and if she's willing to talk to Erica - let's find out.

[Jenny_S]

Erica’s steps quicken, her boots tapping over the floor.
Her throat is dry, palms slick, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.
“Mama M’batha?” she asks again, barely above a whisper.

The woman nods once, eyes never leaving her.

Erica doesn’t wait to be asked.
She starts talking.
English, unrehearsed, raw, like something she’s been holding too long finally cracks and spills out.
“I’m here for my father. He was here in 1994. An American soldier.”

No reaction.

Erica pushes on, rushing into it - her father’s deployment, his funeral, the letter from the Army, her not believing that her father could have done the horrible things he is being accused of.
Her voice wavers, breaks.
But she keeps going.
This is it.
This is the straw she came halfway across the world to reach for.

Still, Mama M’batha just stares.
Calm.
Unmoved.

Erica fumbles for her chest pocket and pulls out two folded pieces of photo paper, damp with sweat and hope. She unfolds them slowly, her hands shaking.

One print shows the family photo taken when she was two years old, toddling between her parents.
The other, her graduation photo.
Her father in his nice suit, his arm around Erica’s shoulder.
She offers the images.

The old woman doesn’t take them.
She simply gazes.
Then lifts one gnarled finger and gently traces the face of Owen Sinclair in the photo, as if recognizing someone from a dream.
Or a long-lost song.

And then - finally - she looks up at Erica.
Eyes sharp.
Deep.
Sad.

“You have his eyes.” she says.

A silence falls like a curtain.
And then she turns.
“Come. I will tell you about the Trek of Tears.”


~~~


Mama M’batha walks without speaking, her bare feet whispering across the cracked linoleum.
The deeper they go, the more the hospital peels away like they are leaving the building without actually going outside.
The hallway grows narrower.
The air heavier.
As if time thickens here.

Erica follows, pulse in her throat. The fluorescent lights give way to flickering shadows. The ceiling fans stop spinning.

They reach a door made of weathered wood, paint flaked down to raw grain. The woman opens it with a creak and steps through.

Erica hesitates, not knowing if she is about to enter the hospital’s chapel, a temple or a witch’s kitchen.

Inside, the space is windowless. The smell of dust, wax and clay hits first, then something older - like cedar smoke and earth after rain. The only light comes from three fat candles placed on low niches in the wall. Their flames ripple like breath.
The floor isn’t tiled here. It’s raw red earth, compacted smooth like an ancient dwelling. A chalk-drawn circle in the center - pale, deliberate lines on the blood-colored ground. Symbols at its edges: geometric, foreign, maybe sacred.

There’s no explanation. No preamble.
Mama M’batha turns to her.
“Sit.”

Then she steps barefoot into the circle and lowers herself with unexpected grace into a lotus position, her colorful smock folding like petals around her legs. She places the printed pictures between them as if trying to summon the spirit of Owen Sinclair.

Erica, heart hammering, follows suit.
Sits, doesn’t speak.
Now isn’t the time for questions.

Mama M’batha closes her eyes.
Her hands rise and begin to trace symbols in the air - invisible lines, fingers dancing through the space between them.
Delicate, hypnotic.
A gesture both ancient and intimate.
It’s a quiet purification, clearing the way between the living and the dead.

Then her eyes snap open - sharp and clear, lit by flickering, crackling candlelight - and she begins.
Her voice is low, but there is steel in it.

“It began with General Bundu.” Her accent wraps the name in thorns. “He seized power. Ordered his Simbas to kill the President. To wipe the cabinet clean. Then to murder every last Mekedde.”

Erica says nothing.
Her throat is dry.
Her palms sweat against the fabric of her pants.

“By the time the American soldiers came, it was too late.” The old woman’s eyes don’t blink. “They landed. They fought. They came through the jungle. To the old Catholic mission.”

A breath.
A beat.

“That’s where we were hiding. Three hundred Mekedde. Men, women, children, elders. All what was left of my people.”

Erica’s lips part.
She doesn’t speak, but a single tear pushes into the corner of her eye, refusing to fall.

Mama M’batha’s gaze hardens.

“Your father was told to wait to be picked up by his helicopters. But he said no. He chose another way. He knew we would all die if he flew away so he took us into the jungle. Toward Mbeke. The American soldiers, they shielded us. For two days, we walked.”

The candlelight shivers as if reacting to the memory.

“The Simbas followed us . They caught us near the Mbeke border. Your father gathered his men. Twelve Americans. They chose to stay and fight. To buy us time.”

Erica feels the breath squeeze out of her lungs.
Her fingers scrape the earth floor, grounding herself.

“They climbed a ridge. They made a stand.” Her voice breaks for the first time. “Nine of them died so we could live.”

The silence after that feels like something sacred.

Erica bows her head.
The tears finally come - quiet, unforced, unstoppable.
This isn’t something she read in a history book.
Not a report.
Not hearsay.
This is the truth - passed from witness to daughter.

She wipes her face with her hand.
“So he was…”

Mama M’batha finishes it for her.
“He was an honorable man. We called him Kintu Moyo – lion among men.”

The old woman slowly rises, joints popping, then extends a hand.
“The Mekedde now live in Mbeke – in peace. I will take you.”

Erica looks up, blinking.
“How?”

A shadow of a smile touches Mama M’batha’s face - not gentle but knowing.
“We walk. The Trek of Tears. You walk the path where your father and his soldiers bled for us. Each step, a name. Each mile, a memory.”


~~~

bilder & co

[Caesar73]

Dear @Jenny_S what shall I say any different than this: "Wow".

I just read this latest Chapter and it leaves me speechless. So intense, so emotional. A Room. Two Women and a Story. Finally we learn the Truth about what happened on the Treck of Tears. Mama M´batha´s Story, gives something very important to Erica: The Knowledge that her Father was a Hero. That he was rightly buried in Arlington with full Military Honours. He defied his Orders. He could have followed them and taken the easy way out. He did not.

Most important for Erica I think? That her Life, her Creed is not built on a Lie.

As important as this Discovery is: No comes the hard Part. To get Evidence. To proof it. The Enemy won´t just lean back and watch.

[LunaDog]

Dear @Jenny_S i think that @Caesar73 has said it all for me too. Utterly magnificent, it has been a REAL privilege to read this.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, what can I say other that I'm flattered. Words can't express how happy I am to be able to write for you.

[Jenny_S]

Her steps are slow, dreamlike, trailing behind Mama M’batha, who walks with a serenity that seems untouched by time.
The hallway of the hospital is loud again - metal clatters, someone coughs wetly, a child wails in pain - but it all feels distant now, muffled by the storm of thoughts inside her head.

In the waiting area, Dance paces back and forth, a bundle of coiled nerves and impatient energy. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, and the air reeks of disinfectant and despair.
His head snaps up the second he sees Erica.
“Erica!” he blurts, too loud, too familiar, instantly regretting not having used her cover name.

Her eyes flash with warning, but she doesn’t correct him.
Doesn’t need to.
Instead, she walks straight up to him and grabs a fistful of his shirt, yanking him close – fully taken over by raw emotion.
Her voice is urgent, a whisper laced with disbelief and adrenaline. “She knows. She was there. She saw it all. My father… my father chose to save them. It wasn’t a mistake. He wasn’t a rogue. He was a hero.”

Behind her, Mama M’batha waits with the stillness of an old tree.
Her hands hang at her sides, relaxed, but her eyes never leave them.

Dance frowns.
His instincts are screaming as Erica tells him of their plan to walk the Trek of Tears.
What she says doesn’t sound like a plan, more like madness.
“We need gear. Water, meds, something. You don’t walk into the jungle without…”

Mama M’batha lifts a hand, palm out. “My people had no gear. No boots. No food. We walked with what we had.”
Her voice is even, but it carries authority. “The jungle knows the way. The jungle provides.”

Dance mutters a curse, runs a hand through his hair. The operator in him wants to scream.
But one look at Erica, and he knows he’s not going to stop her.
She has made up her mind.

“I’ll send Didi ahead with our luggage.” he says. “I’ll tell him to take the vehicle to Mbeke, drop the bags at the border post and wait. Something tells me we’re not coming back this way.”

Erica looks between them, heart pounding. “When do we go?”

Mama M’batha doesn’t hesitate. “Now.”


~~~


They step out into the crushing heat of the midday sun, the city’s chaos rushing back in like a slap to the face.
Ngabo is alive with noise and dust - tuktuks belching smoke, street vendors shouting, children playing barefoot in puddles of sewage.

And through it all, Mama M’batha moves like a whisper, barefoot on hot asphalt and gravel, weaving through the crowd with the grace of a ghost.
She wears no pack, carries nothing but a soft song on her lips - a low, melodic chant in a language neither Erica nor Dance understand.
The sound is hypnotic, like a lullaby carved from memory and loss.

Erica follows, wiping sweat from her brow. Her clothes cling to her like a second skin. Dance walks beside her, jaw clenched, eyes scanning every rooftop, every alley, the instincts of a man used to being hunted fully engaged.

The streets get narrower. The buildings lower, more decrepit. They pass old colonial walls overrun by vines, market stalls made of pallets and tarps, and groups of silent, watching eyes.
Someone slaps a fish down on a wooden table. A goat bleats. The stink of rot and life is everywhere.

Then, almost without transition, the city ends.

One moment they’re in the heart of Ngabo. The next, they’re standing at the edge of something vast and green and humming with ancient breath.
The jungle.


~~~


Mama M’batha doesn’t stop. She ducks under a curtain of vines and steps onto a narrow footpath almost lost to the undergrowth. Her bare feet make no sound on the earth.
Erica follows, pushing through the hanging leaves, and the air changes instantly.
The heat remains, but the quality of it shifts. It’s no longer the dry, metallic heat of the city - it’s wet, earthy, full of breath and loam. Within seconds, the canopy closes above them and the world goes dim.

The sounds of the city fall away behind them, like someone flicking off a radio. In its place: the buzz of insects, the distant call of birds, the creak of unseen things in the trees. And their own breath, ragged and unsteady.

The trail twists and dips, barely wide enough for one person in places. Roots snake across the path like traps. Ferns brush their legs, branches reach inward. Erica’s skin is slick with sweat and insects buzz around her, but she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t even think to.

Ahead, Mama M’batha still hums, the song winding through the trees like a thread leading them deeper into something sacred… and maybe dangerous.

Dance grumbles behind Erica, low enough that only she hears. “This is madness.”
She doesn’t answer.
Because somewhere, deep in the green heart of the jungle or maybe beyond, lies the truth she so desperately needs.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Just like the best novelists do, you almost make me feel that I'M THERE! Magnificent writing.

Erica's father obviously WAS a hero, so clearly is this Mama M'batha.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, this is a most wonderful compliment. Thank you so much.

[Jenny_S]

The path underfoot turns to thick, clinging mud that sucks at their shoes like it doesn’t want to let them go. Erica nearly slips on a gnarled root slick with moss, catching herself against a vine-draped branch. Her legs already ache, calves burning, and it hasn’t even been an hour. Insects swarm her neck and arms, the buzz in her ears relentless. One bites her just below the ear, a needle-like sting that draws blood. She winces but says nothing. Mama M’batha doesn’t stop.

As they press deeper into the jungle, the sounds change. The constant hum of cicadas rises and falls in waves, as if the forest is breathing with them.

Then - for a heartbeat - silence.
Utter, bone-deep silence.
Erica freezes.
So does Dance.
No birds.
No wind.
No insects.

Just the quiet.

And then, faintly, the crack of a branch somewhere off-trail.
Dance’s hand drops to the back of his waistband, instinctively reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have. Erica catches his glance.

“This is madness.” Dance growls again, this time louder, scanning the green wall around them. He steps up beside Erica, sweat pouring down his temples. “You don’t just follow some barefoot mystic into the jungle without food, without backup. This is how people vanish out here.”

Erica doesn’t stop walking. “You don’t have to come.”

He snorts. “That’s not how this works. If something happens to you out here…” He trails off, but his jaw clenches.

Mama M’batha glances back, just once. “If you fear the path, turn back now. The Trek has no patience for half-hearted souls.”

Dance doesn’t answer. But his shoulders tighten.
He stays.


~~~


The jungle peels away to reveal a clearing swallowed by silence and heat.
Vines drape over crumbling stone like mourning veils, roots curling into cracked masonry.

A bell tower, long decapitated by time, leans like a weary sentinel.
The old Catholic mission rises from the red earth like a half-remembered ghost - its bones barely holding against nature’s slow reclamation.

Here, the jungle does not hum.
It listens.

Mama M’batha stops at the edge of the clearing.
Her chant fades, leaving only the breath of wind rustling through palm fronds overhead.
She lifts her hand, as if to bless the ground.
“This is where your father found us.” And then, she adds, mystically “Some truths rot in silence. Others bloom.”

Erica steps forward, boots caked in red mud, sweat painting her spine.
The air here is heavy - not with heat, but with memory reaching back to Ngabo’s colonial past.
Every broken bench, every splintered beam tells a silent story.
A flock of birds scatters, branches creak – as if the jungle itself is aware of what happened here.

She walks inside the ruins, almost holding her breath.
Dust motes hang in the beams of light cutting through gaps in the collapsing roof.
Swirls of vines loop around long-rotted pews, altar steps chipped and crumbling.
There’s a rusted crucifix still hanging – barely - from a wall pitted by the tooth of time and the remains of an altar surrounded by the scent of herbs.

Hearing her own heartbeat, she tries to imagine it: 300 people.
Men. Women. Children.
Packed into this shattered shell of sanctuary.
No food.
No water.
No protection.
Just hope… or the last embers of it.

Her throat tightens.
Closing her eyes she can almost hear the refugees mutter among themselves, discuss options they didn’t have any longer, praying, calming their crying children.

Dance stands just behind her, arms folded, silent.
His jaw works like he’s biting back words.
For a man who’s seen the world at its worst, this place - this moment - still reaches under the armor.
“I get it.” he mutters. “Why your dad stayed. Why he didn’t leave them.”

Erica says nothing.
She doesn’t need to.
The ache in her chest is answer enough.
She moves further into the main nave, where the floor dips beneath years of erosion and root systems.

Her foot catches, she stumbles slightly.

Looking down, she sees it - not stone, not debris.
Something shaped.
Polished.
Unclaimed by the jungle, though half-buried in the red earth.

She kneels, pressing her fingers into the ground.
Gently, she digs.
Her nails claw through the dirt, heart pounding for reasons she can’t explain, until the shape is freed.

It’s a wooden toy.
A lioness.
Carved by hand, smoothed by time.
Small, but proud.
Its features are worn, but it still carries the suggestion of grace and strength.

Erica swallows hard.
Something in the still air seems to whisper, like the echo of her father’s voice carried through memory and myth.
“Fight like the third lioness on Noah’s Ark as it’s starting to rain.”

She wipes the figure clean on her shirt, her smile trembles but holds.
With reverence, she tucks the lioness into her pocket.
It is impossible to say who carved this toy – maybe even one of the American soldiers for a frightened child who dropped it when they had to hurry.

Outside, Mama M’batha waits in stillness, a solitary shadow against the verdant jungle wall.

Erica steps into the light.
She bows her head, not in submission - but in gratitude.
“Thank you,” she says.

The old woman turns, says nothing. Just begins walking.
And Erica follows her into the trees, deeper into the green heart of Africa.
She should have felt fear, but within her chest, something deeper is rising – and she knows her father is with her.
In her heart.

John Dance glances back down the trail. Just to make sure that nobody is following.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Although she already knew he was a great man, Erica is gaining far more of a picture her of just who her father was. And the effect he had on innocent people, and how he stand up for them.

[Caesar73]

So Erica follows the Steps of her Father. The Atmosphere is wonderfully captured. My Favourite: The Moment Erica finds the Lioness. I agree with @LunaDog, She learns more about her Father, when they enter the ruined Sanctuary.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, due to the classified nature of his missions, her father had never been able to talk about much in great detail, but it is crystal clear to Erica that he absolutely meant it when he taught her that there is no thing in the world more noble than to help those who cannot help themselves.

In these ruins the American unit decided to scrap their own exfiltration and to protect 300 Mekedde refugees from genocide.

More to come later today. Stay tuned, dear readers.

[Jenny_S]

The jungle thickens around them, dense and impenetrable, as if testing their will to continue.

Vines hang low like ropes of green muscle, roots coil across the path like tripwires.
Damp leaves slap against their faces with every step, and the air hangs heavy with moisture, thick as soup.
The cries of birds, high and shrill, echo overhead - predatory, watchful.

Mama M’batha walks as if she belongs to this place.
She glides barefoot over the terrain, her back straight, her smock fluttering faintly with each silent step.
She doesn’t sweat.
She doesn’t stumble.
The jungle parts for her like it remembers her.

Behind her, Erica and Dance, scratched and bruised, are at the brink of falling apart.
Mud clings to their boots and pants in heavy, sucking layers.
Their clothes are soaked with sweat, pasted to their skin.
Bugs find every patch of exposed flesh, biting, burrowing, buzzing. They sweat and curse, swaying with fatigue.

Then it happens - Erica’s foot skids on a hidden slope slick with mud and rot. She slips with a startled cry and tumbles down a narrow gully, arms flailing.
She lands hard, disappearing into a thicket of thorns and brambles.
“Erica!” Dance yells, already sliding after her.

But she’s alive.
Her face appears a moment later, streaked with mud and leaves tangled in her hair.
She claws her way back up the embankment, one hand after another, fingernails splitting, her Rolex caked in red earth.
When she reaches the top, she collapses beside the trail, panting, her whole body trembling - not just from exertion, but from something deeper, primal.

Mud covers her from her boots to her scalp. Sweat drips from her chin, mixing with silent tears she’s too exhausted to brush away.

Mama M’batha simply waits, impassive, watching.
And when Erica rises again - spitting grit, breath burning in her lungs - the old woman nods once. Approval, maybe.
Or recognition.
Erica can't tell, but the old woman's presence is both calming and encouraging.

They press on.

Hours pass.
Time slips.
Distance becomes meaningless.

Then, without warning, Mama M’batha stops in a patch of light where the jungle opens slightly, dappled sun cutting through the canopy.
She points to the ground - bare, rich earth - and a pool of clear water gently bubbling up between stones.

“This spring.” she says. “From here, it becomes a river. Far down, they are building a dam for their power plant.”

She crouches and dips her hand into the water, scooping it into her mouth.
Her eyes close briefly, as though she’s remembering more than just the taste.

Erica drops to her knees beside her.
The cool water touches her hands and it’s like salvation.
She splashes her face, gasps at the shock of it. Then she drinks greedily - deep gulps that taste like the water was filtered through the bones of the earth.

Dance hesitates, lips pressed tight.
Training, instinct.
But the way Erica drinks - eyes closed, face relaxed - melts his caution.
He kneels, drinks.

It’s pure.
Cold.
Alive.

Mama M’batha pulls a cloth pouch from her smock, untying it with careful fingers. She pinches out a small amount of pale white powder - chalk? Ash? - and sprinkles it in a circle around them.
Her fingers move with reverence, as if honoring some ancient pact.

“No harm will be done inside this circle.” she says, her voice as calm as if she’s reciting the weather.

She sits cross-legged within the ring, not caring about the insects or the undergrowth.
Nothing seems to touch her.
Even the ever-present flies don’t cross the line.

Erica watches, heart still pounding from the hike.
The jungle hums around them - alive, yes, but not threatening.
Within the circle, the air feels…different.
Softer.
More still.
She realizes she hasn’t heard a mosquito for several minutes and the sounds around them appear quieter.

Shaking his head, Dance whispers “I never thought I’d see real witchcraft at work…”
Though even he, the ever skeptic, is forced to admit that something he can’t explain must be happening.

Erica lies back slowly, her head finding a patch of rich, green moss.
The earth here is warm, almost breathing.
Her arms fall beside her, and for the first time in days, the tension slips from her muscles.

The sky through the trees is almost purple now. Light filters in slants, painting her skin in gold and green.
Erica closes her eyes. The rustle of leaves, the distant call of a monkey, the low thrum of life - all of it rocks her into sleep.
And in that sleep, she dreams nothing.


~~~


Morning unfurls in birdsong and soft gold light spilling through the canopy like honey.
The jungle exhales mist and warmth, dew clinging to every leaf.
Erica wakes to the bubbling of the spring and the rhythmic chatter of insects and distant monkeys.

She lies still for a moment, as if her body doesn’t quite belong to her - yet it doesn’t ache the way she expects it to.
Her limbs feel loose, her mind oddly clear.
She stretches, sits up, brushes a smear of dried mud from her arm.
No bites.
No swelling.
No pain.

The jungle’s strange magic - or maybe Mama M’batha’s circle helped?
Who knows.

Across from her, Dance rolls to his side, groaning softly as his spine cracks like dry twigs. He blinks as though surprised he’s still alive.
His face is puffy with sleep, his shirt plastered to his back.
“That’s the worst bed I’ve ever slept in.” he mutters, rubbing his neck.

Mama M’batha watches them quietly, crouched by the edge of the spring like a sentinel.
Her face is still, unreadable.
“Drink,” she says, voice calm but absolute. “Then we go.”

Erica obeys, kneeling at the edge of the spring. She cups the cool water in her palms, drinks in slow, greedy sips, then splashes her face. The water bites against her skin, pulling her further into the now.

The trail resumes – narrower, darker, less forgiving as the hush of the spring fades behind them.
Walls of foliage hem the path.
Ferns claw at their legs.
Roots reach for their ankles.
The jungle wants them to fall.

The incline is subtle at first, then cruel.
The air gets thinner.
Erica wipes her forehead, then her neck, salt stinging her eyes. Her shirt clings to her like a second skin.

Dance grunts with every step, swatting at insects, muttering curses under his breath. His eyes flick backward more and more often.
He slows, glancing over his shoulder. His voice lowers. “We’re being followed,” he says quietly.

Mama M’batha keeps walking, not breaking stride. “The jungle has eyes.” she says. “And ghosts from the past walk among us.”
The words hang like fog in the air.


~~~

[Caesar73]

Again, a very intense Chapter. To me it feels as if we are walking the Trek alongside Erica, Dance and the Mama. She somewhat mystical around her. Dance is probably not far of the Mark when he says; He sees Magic at Work here. I have the feeling Erica is learning a lot about herself, her Father. I curious how the Story unfolds further.

[LunaDog]

Yet again @Caesar73 you've already said it all. This is coming along very nicely, hope Erica find the proof to substantiate her father's heroism here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'm happy that you consider the story immersive down to the mysticism that surrounds Mama M'Batha.
Tomorrow we shall see where she will take Erica and Dance next and what she means when she mentions the ghosts from the past.

[Jenny_S]

They push forward.
Higher.
The path begins to serpentine, switchbacks carved into the slope by decades of weather and footfall.
Birdsong fades.
Even the insects seem quieter now.
Only the sound of their breath, their boots, and Mama M’batha’s low chant keeps them company.

Then, finally, they reach the ridge.

She stops, lifting a hand, eyes narrowed at the trail before them.
The incline levels off into a narrow crest nestled between two arms of thick brush.
Here, time seems to pause.
The light is thin, as if filtered through memory.

Erica steps forward beside the old woman.
The ground under her boots is soft.
Uneven.
She notices that the air has gone still - no breeze, no birdsong.

There, just barely visible beneath fallen leaves and years that have passed, are shallow indentations along either side of the trail – six to the left of the trail, six to its right.
Four paces between each of the holes.

“Foxholes,” Dance murmurs. “Rifle pits - fighting positions.”
His voice has changed.
Lower.
Hollow.
“This is it. Your dad’s team made their stand here.”

Mama M’batha nods, eyes fixed on the earth. “They fought… buying us time so we could run for the border.”

Erica turns slowly, taking in the ridgeline.
She sees it in her mind’s eye: men crouched in these holes, rifles braced against their shoulders, peering down the slope where shadows moved through the trees - Simbas high on khat, crazed, screaming, firing.
The smell of cordite, sweat, blood, fear.

Her father had been here.
Right here.
Fighting for what he felt was a just cause.

Dance kneels beside a foxhole, scraping back the mulch and soft soil with his hands.
Soon, his fingers touch metal - brass casings dulled with age.
He picks one up, brushes it clean with his thumb, staring at it like it’s still hot.
“I wouldn’t wanna run uphill here under fire,” he says quietly. "They must have killed the Simbas by the bushel."

Mama M’batha steps forward, her voice distant. “When some of your father’s men fell, our people picked up their guns. They fought too. Nine American soldiers died here, so that we might live.”
She points farther down the path, lowering her voice: “Come. I will show you their graves.”

She turns without waiting and resumes her chant, the melody soft, reverent.
Erica and Dance follow her along the trail, which now curves downward and opens slightly, the trees backing away to reveal a clearing dappled in light, the jungle cemetery.

Nine long, narrow mounds rest in three clean rows.
Each one is adorned with fresh flowers - vivid red, purple, and orange blossoms resting on the earth like offerings.
A woven cross stands at the head of each grave, weathered but standing firm.

Erica stands still.
A strange stillness fills her chest.
Grief, pride, reverence - she can’t name the feeling, but it gives her goosebumps.
The air here is fresher, less humid.
Sacred.

She kneels before one of the graves, not knowing who lies here, but it is one of her father’s team who died so others could live.

Mama M’batha’s voice is low. “Our people tend to the graves. We honor them as we honor our own. To us, your father and his soldiers are heroes.”

Then… a rustle in the treeline.
The moment shatters.


~~~

[Caesar73]

This Chapter is touching in so many Ways. The Highlight for me? As Mama M´batha shows Erica and Dance the Tombs of the nine fallen Soldiers, and the Mbeke tend to those Tombs.

[LunaDog]

Erica now knows the truth, now that she doubted it at all. The trouble here is proving it, rubbishing her father has scored somebody in the 'administration' some 'brownie' points that they will be very unwilling to relinquish.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, you're so right. Erica has been told the true story about what happened back in 1994 and she has seen the graves of the nine American soldiers who gave their lives to protect the Mekedde from genocide. But what now?
Hang on and find out.

[Jenny_S]

“Sorry to piss on your parade.”
The voice cuts through the clearing like a whip crack.

Dance spins, his face turning into a mask of granite.
Erica freezes, her eyes darting around, not finding the source of the voice.

From the bushes of the jungle, Cal Whitmore steps forward, clad in a camouflage combat uniform, a rifle slung lazily over one shoulder.
His boots crunch softly on the undergrowth.
There’s a smirk on his face and a hard glint in his eyes.

“I warned you, didn't I? Some ghosts are better left buried.” he says. “You start digging up the past, you put all of us in the spotlight. Congressional hearings. Court-martials. Maybe even prison.”


~~~


The jungle holds its breath.

Sunlight flickers through the canopy in golden shards, casting long, trembling shadows over the graves.
Flowers stir in a faint breeze, and even the birds seem to fall silent - as if sensing something dark blooming beneath the surface.

“I thought you’d never show up,” Dance says, his voice a growl of gravel and regret. “Saw you shadowing us for a while.”

Whitmore steps forward, out of the green gloom.
His boots crush undergrowth as he presses the rifle against his hip. His posture is relaxed, casual even - like a man about to order a drink, not commit a murder.
His eyes, however, are cold steel.

“Carter,” he says, using the name like a noose, “guess this is the part of the story where you need to make up your mind.”

Dance - Carter - doesn’t answer right away.
Hesitating for a moment, he breathes out slowly.
Long and low, remembering the old days.
His hands hang at his sides.
Empty.
Open.

“Is that even a question, Cal?” he says, voice edged with something unreadable. “How long have we known each other?”

Whitmore grins - wide and slow, like the curl of a snake. He never lowers the gun, though.
“The Agency will be happy to hear that you chose wisely.”
The muzzle hovers between Erica and Mama M’batha, a silent threat dressed as inevitability.

Mama M’batha does not move.
She simply stands, arms folded, eyes ancient and steady, like she’s seen worse.
Like she’s seen everything.

But Erica - Erica trembles, stands up.
“Dance, you goddamn son of a bitch.” she hisses, voice shaking with fury.
Her usual eloquence is gone as rage consumes her. “You... traitor...”

She can’t breathe.
Her mind scrambles for logic, for strategy.
But all she sees is the muzzle pointed at them - and Dance defecting to the enemy.

He walks away from her, then freezes and turns to her slowly.
The smirk on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You know, girl,” he says softly, “from your sweet lips even an ugly word like that sounds beautiful. It was nice as long as it lasted.”

Then he steps beside Whitmore.
Arms crossed.
Face unreadable.

For a heartbeat, Erica’s rage blinds her.
It wells in her chest like lava.
Her jaw clenches.
She touches the Rolex on her wrist – the watch her father gave her on her graduation day, caked in red earth, ticking steadily despite time and betrayal and now it is silently yelling at her the creed “Stand for something or fall for anything”.

No.

No.

She won’t let this happen.
Not here.
Not now.
She has come too far…

Shifting her weight, she prepares to run, to charge - when Dance’s voice cuts the air like a knife.
“Don’t even think about it, girl.”


~~~


The change in Dance is sudden.
Unexpected.

In one violent motion, he spins - his elbow slamming into Whitmore’s chest with a dull thud, crushing bone.
The older man stumbles backward, breath brutally punched from his lungs.

Before Whitmore can react, Dance crashes into him, driving him to the ground, starting to pound his weatherbeaten face with his fists.
The rifle jerks sideways.
A gunshot shatters the silence, echoing through the trees.
Leaves explode high above the women, but the bullet flies harmlessly into the jungle.

Erica doesn’t think.
As Whitmore fights back, trying to shake Dance off him, she darts forward, boots pounding the earth, her hands seizing the rifle barrel.
She twists the weapon from Whitmore’s grasp, breaking some of his fingers as she wrestles for the gun, adrenaline burning away every ounce of fear.


~~~


Dance rolls off Whitmore, panting hard, blood on his knuckles.
He reaches up - gently, almost reverently - and takes the rifle from Erica.

“Get up,” he says, eyes on Whitmore. “Time for you to go home.”

Whitmore groans.
Blood trickles from his mouth as he pushes himself onto his knees, then sways upright holding his injured right hand with his left.
“I should’ve known,” he spits, his voice wet and bitter. “You’ve always been a…”

“Let’s walk,” Dance mutters, stepping behind him at a careful distance.
The rifle now aimed at Whitmore’s back. “Into the jungle.”

Erica moves to follow, fists clenched.
But Mama M’batha’s hand touches her shoulder - light as a feather, firm as stone.
“Don’t burden yourself with evil spirits,” the old woman says softly. “Stay.”

So she stays.

They watch as the two men disappear into the undergrowth - one limping ahead, the other silently trailing behind.
The jungle swallowing them whole.

Time stretches, warps.
Seconds feel like years.
Then… the jungle falls quiet for a heartbeat… followed by a single gunshot.

Sharp.
Final.

No birds resume their song.
Even the wind stills.
And then, from the green shadows, John Dance reappears.
His face is expressionless.
His hands are empty.

He does not look at Erica.
He does not need to.
She knows.
He has buried an evil spirit from his past.


~~~

[LunaDog]

WOW! I'm momentary speechless, this being so good and so REAL! John Dance shows his true colours here, he IS a true friend. And the fact that, just for a moment he appeared NOT to be, caught the enemy unawares. And so, with Erica's help, he was able to exorcise a 'ghost' from HIS past.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, yes, John Dance - Carter - managed to trick his old pard Cal Whitmore, but also Erica, who truly believed that he would betray her.
The plot thickens, though.
Whitmore mentioned "the Agency", obviously talking about the CIA, which might have an interest that what happened and during Operation Indigo Latern and its aftermath stays undisturbed.
Enough of an interest that they would send an operative to silence Erica and Mama M'Batha.

We will see if she can produce the evidence she needs to set everything straight.

[LunaDog]

Question is, is the C.I.A. aware that Erica and Dance ( Carter ) are even in Africa?