At the back of the bar between the shrunken heads of the guillotined locals, a lion’s tail hung from a beam and the landlord pulled it, ringing a large brass bell. The regulars shuffled outside into the cider garden to grab the best places along the racetrack.
Bastian grabbed a handful of salted crickets from the dish atop the bar and bought another flagon of cider to share with May. He paid with an IOU whilst others had given yarns of wool, ivory carvings, dried bush meat, furs, or cannabis spliffs. Others had a bar-tab chalked up by the students from the University of Holistic Medicine.
‘Let’s go and watch the spider racing,’ May said to Bastian.
There were six channels dug into the ground, each over a foot wide and separated by a bank of red clay from one to the other. The fifty-yard circular track ran around the pub’s orange trees, had a wire mesh on top, and was lit by lanterns placed on the ground at equal intervals. The owners wore thick fang proof gloves and carried their spiders to the track in small cages before dropping them into the holding pens separated from the main track by a gate.
There were three huntsman spiders with legs up to nine inches long, one was grey, another brown with striped bands on its legs, whilst the last was covered in a fur and feeding on a fried cricket pushed through the wire by its owner. Between them in the traps and with frighteningly similar proportions were a black goliath tarantula with one-inch fangs, a camel spider whose ancestors included a scorpion, and the unfancied wheel spider.
An unnerving hissing noise punctured the evening air as goliath rubbed his remaining legs together. One was removed after winning the last handicap race.
‘Under starter’s orders,’ shouted the landlord, and a drunken Joshua fired his pistol into the air before the gates were lifted as one.
Only the camel spider failed to move and after unsuccessful prompting with a stick, he was lifted out and squashed under the disappointed heel of his owner. The crunch sent a shiver down Bastian’s spine.
The huntsmen quickly took the lead with a springing jump over the hurdles. Goliath lagged behind in spite of the trapped canary waiting for him at the end of the track.
On the final bend coming into the home straight, two huntsman spiders were leg and leg ahead of the competition. But suddenly on the outside rail the wheel spider began to cartwheel, flying past them and the winning post.
There were both groans and cheers and Nabulus carefully watched as sandals and sunglasses changed hands. Only small-time gambling was allowed after proving impossible to root out.
There was no barter prize nor trophy for the winning owner but the wheel spider would be the toast of the village until next week’s race, the start of the flat season.
Bastian and May were too drunk to walk home and staggered across the common to the police station.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Come on in,’ said Joshua.
He was grinning broadly but Bastian had long learnt those who smile the most are to be trusted the least.
He stepped into the hall with May trailing behind. The smell of exotic spices drifted above them and rode the warm air like vultures circling their prey. It was evening and Bastian and May were dining with the village’s newest power couple.
May was looking through the beaded curtains into the kitchen. The wood burning stove was a furnace and clouds of steam were rising from the copper pans boiling over, their heat resistant handles sliding in and out of Agrinda’s nimble hands.
‘You’ll love the cuts of meat,’ said Joshua, ‘Agrinda’s an absolute devil with the knife.’
Bastian pulled the collar on his shirt. It was high and covered the latest love-bite on his neck.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Joshua.
‘Something traditional?’ asked Bastian.
‘Of course. My homemade sorghum beer.’
‘I’ll make an African of him yet,’ said Agrinda smiling.
‘Try the rum punch,’ Agrinda advised May. ‘It has a kick like a mule.’
But if it loosened her tongue, she just might lose it.
‘I’d prefer fruit juice,’ she said.
The house was lit with lanterns and Joshua picked up the engraved rhino horn from the short table standing on elephant’s feet.
‘A wedding gift from Nabulus,’ he said smiling. ‘Powdered rhino horn in a rhino horn. You want some, Bastian?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Joshua,’ shouted Agrinda, ‘help me lay the table this instant!’
They shuffled into the dining room and sat at the round table in no particular order. In the corner of the room stood another of Nabulus’s wedding gifts, an eight-tier ivory whatnot with their framed Licence to Populate on the top shelf.
Agrinda was the last to sit, shortly after announcing the dishes.
‘Okra stew, groundnut stew, cassava bread, and barracuda fish balls,’ she said.
Bastian and May looked at one another. Had anyone told her fishing was illegal, the catch unsafe for consumption?
‘Don’t look so worried, Bastian,’ said Joshua, ‘the fish won’t poison you.’ He took a bite and swallowed, ‘Delicious. There isn’t enough to go around but those with the greatest burdens should have some privileges.’
It was caught far out to sea and away from any immigrant boats lest they were given the wrong impression.
‘And this is jollof rice,’ said Agrinda, picking up a large bowl.
‘It all smells wonderful,’ said May.
‘I love eating lady’s fingers,’ said Joshua.
Bastian took a large sip of beer.
‘That’s what we call okra,’ explained Agrinda.
Bastian and May helped themselves to the groundnut stew: meat flavoured with peanuts, onions and tomatoes.
‘What’s the meat?’ asked Bastian, pushing some more on the end of his fork.
‘Hippo,’ replied Agrinda.
‘Let me try some of these,’ said May, grabbing the dish of fish balls.
‘Beautiful earrings, my dear,’ said Agrinda to May.
‘Thank you,’ replied May.
They were pink flamingo feathers that once belonged to June.
‘Wow,’ said May of the fish balls.
‘You should try
