The woman looked up at her and smiled, flashing a row of bright white teeth. In a clipped accent which Cassie could only describe as a cross between Jamaican and British, the vendor replied, “It is called maguna. Fried dough balls. Would you like to try some?”
“No thank you, I just had breakfast,” Cassie demurred. “But it does smell good.”
“Although maguna is made with wheat flour, I understand that maize rather than wheat is the principal grain in this region,” Griffin observed.
The vendor nodded. “Yes. We make a porridge of maize meal that is called papa, and it is often eaten with shredded meat which we call seswa.”
“Three new words to add to my vocabulary.” Cassie moved on to another stand where she stopped to examine a woven basket with an intricate pattern. Glancing up, she noticed that Erik had made a dash for a food vendor two stalls down and was purchasing something in a small paper bag.
He walked back to the other two with a pleased look on his face. “I haven’t had these in a couple of years,” he said, stuffing some of the contents of the bag into his mouth and munching with great satisfaction.
Griffin eyed the bag curiously. “What’s that you’ve bought?”
“Mopane worms,” the paladin said cheerfully. “I don’t know why they’re called worms. They’re really giant caterpillars that feed off the leaves of mopane trees. Want some?” He held the bag out to Cassie. She took one look at the contents and felt a wave of nausea rising up in her throat.
“Dude! What the hell!” She backed several paces away.
“It’s a delicacy in these parts,” Erik replied in an injured tone. “When they’re dried and salted, they taste a lot like Cheetos.”
Appalled, Cassie replied, “If I ever have a taste for Cheetos, you know what I’ll buy? Cheetos!”
“Insects are a staple part of the diet in most cultures around the world,” Griffin countered. “They’re really quite nutritious.”
“That’s true. Somebody told me that these beauties pack more protein than beef.” Erik selected a thick worm segment and held it out to Griffin. “Want to try one?”
The scrivener mimicked Cassie’s reaction and backed away a few paces. “Thank you, no,” he said hurriedly. “While in principle I’m quite comfortable with the idea of other people consuming insects, I fear I’m a victim of my own cultural upbringing.”
Erik shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He popped the worm into his mouth and crunched loudly. “It’s really interesting how they harvest the little suckers. Well, not exactly little. An average worm is about five inches long. They pick them off the trees, and then they squeeze out the guts which look like green goo. After that, they spread the worms out on the ground to dry.”
“Are you trying to make me hurl on purpose?” Cassie was sure her face was now the same shade of green as the worm’s innards. “I don’t get it. In every country we’ve visited so far, you’ve been Joe Cheeseburger. What’s going on with you?”
“I handled a retrieval in southern Africa a couple of years ago,” Erik explained. “While I was here I ate a worm on a dare. Turns out I really like the taste.”
He pulled another worm out of the bag and dangled it in front of Cassie’s nose. “C’mon. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Dude, get that thing away from me!” Cassie turned her back, afraid that if she looked at the dancing worm any longer, she really would be sick.
‘Much as I hate to break up this fascinating discussion of exotic cuisine,” Griffin said tactfully, “it’s time we started back to meet our contact.”
“OK,” Erik agreed. “But I don’t want to hear either one of you complain that I never eat the local food.”
Cassie raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You win. You can eat cheeseburgers from here to Timbuktu, but the next time you decide to chow down on a bug, I don’t want to know about it.”
Erik ate the last worm and disposed of the empty paper sack. “Remind me to get a couple of bags for the road before we leave the country.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that,” Cassie murmured, averting her eyes and hurrying on ahead of the other two.
Chapter 9—Head for the Hills
As the trio hastened back from the market, they noticed a woman standing on the hotel verandah, obviously waiting for someone.
Erik waved to her.
She waved back and trotted down the stairs to meet them. Their contact was dressed in khaki shorts, hiking boots and a maroon and gold University of Minnesota tee shirt. A slouch hat, with the brim pinned to one side, completed her outfit. Cassie guessed her to be in her early twenties.
“Hi Erik, haven’t seen you in these parts for ages.” She held out her hand in greeting.
Erik took charge of the introductions. “Guys, meet Bobbye Johnson, archaeologist extraordinaire. By the way, she spells her name ‘B-O-B-B-Y-E.’”
“It’s a family thing,” the newcomer explained.
“Bobbye, this is Cassie, the new pythia. And you probably already know Griffin, our Chief scrivener.”
“Only by his reputation, which is considerable.” Bobbye enthusiastically shook hands with both of them.
Cassie mentally revised her estimate of Bobbye’s age. The woman would have to be at least thirty to be a veteran archaeologist, but she exuded a bouncy energy that belied her experience. Maybe it was her athletic build or the sandy mop of hair poking out from under her hat. Maybe it was the profusion of freckles dotting her nose, but she reminded Cassie of a scout troop leader.
“Are you the trove keeper in Botswana?” Cassie asked.
Bobbye shook her head. “No, I’m a scout.”
Cassie silently congratulated herself on her intuition. Maybe Bobbye wasn’t a scout leader, but she was some kind of scout all the same.
Their contact continued. “We actually don’t have a trove here. In fact, there’s very little evidence anywhere in southern Africa of the sort of objects the Arkana collects. The indigenous tribes were all gatherer-hunters.
