Read The African Safari Discovery Online
Authors: Jeff Brown
The African Safari Discovery (3 page)
The Lambchops followed the sun westward across the savannah, as Captain Tony had instructed. Soon, more and more trees sprung up around them, and they came to a river. They walked along the muddy bank.
The sun was high in the sky. Drops of sweat ran from Stanley’s forehead down his body.
“Are we there yet?” Arthur asked for what seemed like the millionth time.
“No, Arthur,” Mr. Lambchop said in a weary voice.
They kept walking. Their shoes made sucking sounds as they stepped in and out of the mud.
Suddenly, there was a low growling, and Stanley froze in fear.
Arthur looked at his stomach. “I’m hungry,” he whined.
“Look at that,” said Mr. Lambchop, pointing down the bank.
It was a canoe pulled up on the shore.
The Lambchops found a paddle inside. Mr. Lambchop scanned the area.
“Stanley, exactly how far downriver did Captain Tony say to go?” Mr. Lambchop asked.
“A few hours,” replied Stanley.
“On foot? Or by boat?”
Stanley realized he didn’t know.
“My feet hurt,” grumbled Arthur. “And I have mud in my socks.”
“Whose canoe do you think this is?” Stanley asked his father.
Mr. Lambchop shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the owners went hunting.”
Meanwhile, Arthur climbed into the canoe. “Ahhhh,” he said, putting his feet up on a seat.
“Arthur Lambchop,” Mr. Lambchop said sternly, “are you stealing someone else’s canoe?”
“No.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m
sitting
in someone else’s canoe.”
“Would it be stealing if we borrowed it and brought it right back?” Stanley suggested.
Mr. Lambchop looked at Stanley. “Yes, it would,” he said.
There was a rustling in the brush nearby. Onto the bank stepped a very tall man with enormous holes in his earlobes. His body was draped in red cloth, and in his hand was a staff taller than Stanley. He stopped short when he saw the Lambchops.
“Arthur!” Mr. Lambchop whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the tribesman.
Behind the man, a woman also swathed in red appeared. She held a baby wrapped in patterned cloth close to her body.
The man squinted at the Lambchops. Then he turned and fixed his gaze on Stanley. He came closer. Stanley flinched as the man leaned close and peered behind Stanley’s head.
He looked Stanley right in the eye. “What happened to you?” the man asked.
“I was flattened by my own bulletin board,” Stanley answered.
“You speak English!” sputtered Mr. Lambchop.
“And French, too,” the man said. “I am of the Masai tribe, but I am also a graduate of the Sorbonne in Paris. This land is our home. And you, young man,” he continued, turning to Arthur, “what do you think you are doing in our canoe?”
“Don’t be so hard on him,” the woman said. “He is just a boy. They are clearly lost.”
The baby squealed with delight at the sight of Stanley.
Mr. Lambchop rummaged through his pocket and came up with the newspaper clipping. “We’re trying to get to the spot marked by the X.”
The man and woman studied the article.
“Many believe that the first people lived in Africa,” said the man, “and then walked onto the other continents long, long ago when all the parts of the world were close together and had not yet drifted apart. Today, many people come seeking the place they began.” He turned to Stanley. “Is this why you have come?”
“I guess so,” said Stanley.
The man turned to Mr. Lambchop. “This is only a few hours downriver. Would you like to borrow our canoe?”
“That would be very generous!” said Mr. Lambchop. “Thank you!”
Stanley, Arthur, and Mr. Lambchop waved good-bye to the family as they pulled away from the shore. Soon, they were in the center of the river. A hippopotamus eyed them suspiciously, with only the top of its head and its enormous nostrils visible above the surface.
Stanley and Arthur had both wanted to paddle, and finally Mr. Lambchop agreed to let Stanley have the first turn.
Canoeing was much harder than Stanley expected. The canoe kept drifting toward the shore—“Straighten out, Stanley!” Arthur complained—and then Stanley had to work extra hard just to keep the boat facing forward.
“Let me try,” Arthur snapped.
“I just started,” said Stanley.
“Well,” said Arthur, “now it’s time to finish!”
“No,” said Stanley.
“Boys,” groaned Mr. Lambchop.
“He’s taking forever!” complained Arthur, grabbing the top of the paddle.
“Stop it, Arthur!” said Stanley, pulling back.
“Let me have it!”
“No!”
“Stanley, it’s my TURN!” Arthur pulled, and Stanley pulled, and the paddle flew from their hands and flipped into the water with a plop.
“The paddle!” gasped Mr. Lambchop. He reached over the side of the canoe and started splashing with his hands, trying to reach it.
“It was HIS fault!” Arthur and Stanley yelled at each other.
“I don’t care whose fault it was!” shouted Mr. Lambchop. “Get that paddle!”
Arthur and Stanley plunged their hands into the water and tried to get the boat to move closer to the paddle. But it was too late. The current was carrying it down the river.
As the canoe drifted aimlessly, Mr. Lambchop put his head in his hands.
Stanley and Arthur both stared at their feet.
Finally, Mr. Lambchop looked at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “Your mother is at her Grammar Society fund-raiser right now. I’m sure she and her fellow grammarians would appreciate our predicament.”
Stanley and Arthur exchanged curious glances.
“Today, we have discovered the origin of a common expression in the English language. We are, as they say, up a creek without a paddle.”
Mr. Lambchop’s lips curled into a smile. Stanley and Arthur started to giggle.
When their laughter died down, Mr. Lambchop looked at them earnestly. “I expect the two of you to pay for that paddle out of your allowance,” he said. “We gave that family our word that we would return their canoe as we found it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Stanley and Arthur.
“We are Lambchop men in deepest Africa,” said Mr. Lambchop. “We must work together.”
A minute later, Stanley’s shoes and socks lay on the floor of the canoe. With one hand on Stanley’s head and another on his leg, his father pulled Stanley’s legs through the water. Using Stanley as their paddle, the Lambchops made their way downriver.
As night fell, Mr. Lambchop admitted that he could paddle no more. Stanley was too heavy. Their journey downriver was supposed to take only a few hours, but as far as Stanley could tell they were still a long way from their destination.
As strange birds chirped and mysterious splashes occasionally erupted in the darkness around them, Stanley huddled in the bottom of the boat with Arthur. Their father squeezed in beside them.
Exhausted, the Lambchop men fell asleep in a heap, their canoe adrift. The African river had defeated them.
“Hallo!” Stanley was awakened by a voice. It was a man standing on the shore, wearing high boots, khaki pants, and a brown shirt. He had a British accent. “You there! Are you all right?”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Mr. Lambchop said under his breath.
Stanley sunk his arms in the water at the back of the canoe and flicked his wrists up and down. The boat made its way slowly toward the shore.
“We are looking for an archaeological site!” called Mr. Lambchop. “Can you help us?”
The man shaded his eyes. He walked several steps into the water and jumped back.
“I say! Does that boy have a flat head?” he cried as the canoe lifted onto shore.
“Hello,” said Stanley, drying his hands on his pants. “I’m Stanley.”
The man’s eyes bulged. Without another word, he turned and ran into the jungle.
“Hey!” cried Arthur. “Come back!”
“Perhaps he’s going to get us a towel,” said Mr. Lambchop.
Stanley, Arthur, and Mr. Lambchop followed a well-worn path away from the water. Soon, they came to a clearing dotted with canvas tents.
Out of the largest tent charged a very large man with a very large white mustache. Behind him shuffled the man from the shore, who appeared to be his assistant.
The large man stopped short at the sight of Stanley. He held up his hand, and his assistant walked right into it with a slap. “I’ll handle this,” the man with the mustache boomed.
Several people emerged from other tents, including a woman clutching a camera. They gathered around curiously.
The man marched up to Stanley. Without a word of greeting, he pulled out a ruler and measured the thickness of Stanley’s head. Then he carefully rapped him on the crown in four different spots, appearing to listen carefully each time. He gestured gruffly for Stanley to open his mouth. He peered inside. Finally, he tugged Stanley’s ear.
“Ouch,” said Stanley.
“Harrumph,” the man grumbled. He turned to his audience. “I hereby pronounce this scoundrel a fraud!”
The woman with the camera snapped a picture.
“I beg your pardon?” said Stanley’s father.
“Don’t be fooled,” the man said. “This boy is NOT a genuine, living, flat Homo sapiens.”
“I am, too,” protested Stanley.
“He totally is,” agreed Arthur. “You should see him rolled up.”
Mr. Lambchop was red. “Who do you think you are?” he asked the man sharply.
“I, sir, am Dr. Livingston Fallows, the world’s greatest ologist!”
“What’s an ologist?” said Arthur.
“It’s everything,” the man answered proudly. “Anthropologist, paleontologist, archaeologist, et cetera.”
“Well,” said Mr. Lambchop, “my sons and I have traveled all the way from the United States of America in order to see a flat skull that has been discovered by
real
scientists in this area. And I think we’d prefer not to spend another moment with a
fraud
like you.”
The man huffed with indignity. He pointed an enormous finger in Mr. Lambchop’s face. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw the skull!”
The crowd around them murmured.
Stanley’s heart skipped a beat. “You mean it’s here?” he said. “The flat skull is here?”
They had made it, at last.
“Please, Dr. Fallows, sir.” Stanley’s voice was shaking. “May I see the skull?”