K2 Campfire Tale
by Emily
Pairing: Yam Challenge... with Tom McLaren (Vertical Limit)
Rated: Genfic/Yamfic...
Author's Notes: For Sue, with an arched brow. Thanks for the read-through and prodding. And with apologies to Joseph Conrad, whose narrative device (from the excellent book "Heart of Darkness" I so shamelessly set to use... something about spooky campfire stories, I dunno... [g]
Summary: May not be too accurate on base camp, either, but I figure you can forgive me for the sake of this frivolity...
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A sharp breeze fluttered the tarp flaps for a moment, then was still. The smell of the soup stock I was preparing wafted through my frozen nostrils, and I wondered if it wasn't a good job that they were frozen.
There were other climbers under the tarp - this was the "crafts service" at K2 base camp, and for the moment, I was the cook. Such as it was. I must admit to never being a great cook.
The wind howled again, and this time the tent flaps parted to reveal Tom McLaren, coming in with a bag full of vegetables someone had brought along.
"Ah!" I called. "You brought the real stuff... not freeze dried crap!"
He didn't say a word - just set the bag beside me. As he did, I could tell he was already thinking about the climb ahead.
Vaughn and the others had been sitting around the small fire under the tarp, warming their hands and telling stories of previous climbs.
A hush seemed to fall naturally as Tom reached into the bag and began setting the vegetables beside me. "Yeah, it came from Vaughn's chopper," he said, as he handed me a yam.
"I guess that explains it." I looked at the yam. "Aren't these a favorite in Africa?" I called as he walked away. "Hey, Elliot, you're from Texas, yeah?"
"Yeah," said Vaughn, smiling and shifting over to make room for Tom to sit beside him.
Tom removed his daypack, which I only then noticed he had on, and then sat, checking the contents as if looking for something.
I turned back to the soup, and was about to begin chopping the yam, when I heard Tom's voice. "I once heard a story about a yam," he said in a voice that bade us give him our full attention.
The only sound was the flapping of the wind in the flaps as I turned to look at hiim. He had turned his head to fix everyone with his gaze in turn, and as he turned to me his face was bronzed by the firelight, flickering sage wisdom and a hint of the devil.
Vaugn had stopped checking his boots, and the others were similarly staring at him raptly.
Paul finally spoke up. "Did you?" His voice held none of its usual irreverance, which shocked me. Even if Tom's voice commanded respect, Paul was usually full of mischief.
"I did." His tone was somber.
The wind began to pick up, making the flames of the fire dance. I felt a chill and drew my parka's hood up, looking from the soup to the pot of water that was over the fire for hot cocoa. However, these men needed to eat, so the soup won.
"Well?" I asked, chopping up the carrots and adding them to the soup.
Clearing his throat, Tom set out a pair of gloves to dry beside the fire. "This was several years ago. I was climbing with a fellow who had gone to Africa, and had tales to tell of what he'd found there.
"He'd been travelling in Nigeria, and his guide took him to stay in the township of Maiduguri, to the home of a woman who had three school age sons. While he was there, an interesting thing happened."
Vaughn nodded. Paul poured a cup of hot cocoa. I stirred the soup, and added potatoes to it.
"Apparently the boys had incurred the ire of the local witchdoctor, because her sons told the headmaster of their school that one of their friends had been transformed into a tuber before their eyes after accepting candy from a stranger on their way to school."
At this, Vaughn chuckled rudely, though no one else did.
"They explained that they had been playing pranks on Mr. Takiri after school, tearing up some of his plants and such," McLaren continued. "My friend said he would have laughed it off immediately if the witchdoctor hadn't cured him of malaria that week."
Vaughn looked at McLaren, who continued.
"The boys had arrived at school that morning without their friend, which was unusual, because the four always travelled together. Their teacher had asked about their friend, and they told the tale, how they'd met a strange old man on the way who'd offered them candy, and... well, you can imagine how the teacher reacted.
"The woman finally marched the three down to the headmaster's office. One of the boys had been holding a yam, and the headmaster stared at it as he grilled the three boys. They stuck to their story."
McLaren poured himself a mug of hot cocoa.
"By this time," he continued, "the boy's parents had been called, and were very worried because their son had, in fact, left with the three brothers for school that morning. They went to the school, and also demanded answers from the boys, and the school. When none were forthcoming, they understandably grew quite frantic.
"This was a small community, and crime was rare, any crime. The witchdoctor was known to the parents, and though they seriously doubted he would have ever harmed any of the children, the local constabulatory went to find him.
"When they arrived at the fellow's house, he wasn't there. They did find everything in the house had been smashed though! They were concurrently trying to find the man who had offered the sweets to the boy, with no luck."
Vaughn and Geslow nodded; I snorted.
"Aww, Annie, don't be so skeptical," Paul teased.
I shrugged and cut up an onion.
Eventually Tom continued, "The boy has never been found. Although the yam itself continues to be quite the tourist attraction! It's good that way... brought a lot of money to the region's economy, which was sorely lacking."
Vaughn had looked up at this.
"Although some might say it's wrong to profit from this sort of thing... it's become a big curiosity." Tom took a sip of his cocoa.
"In the end, neither the witchdoctor nor the old man were ever found. There was never any conclusion, and so far as I know, the yam may still be in the station there."
There was silence, save for the flapping of the tarp, as I watched each man looking into the fire, no doubt trying to fix in his own mind what it was that might have occured.
For my part, I looked at the yam for just a moment longer before cutting it up.
End
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