Kingdom of bones, p.1
Kingdom of Bones, page 1
Dedication
To all the doctors and nurses, orderlies and janitors, to all the personnel in hospitals and clinics across this nation and the world who have worked so valiantly and heroically during the pandemic: Thank you.
Map
Epigraph
The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as the future.
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
The only true villain in my story: the oversized human brain.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos
Notes from the Scientific Record
This story delves into the bizarre biology of viruses—specifically how those tiny infectious specks tie all life on Earth together in a vast invisible web. I pitched this story long before “coronavirus” became part of our modern zeitgeist, before COVID-19 grew into a global pandemic. I debated whether I should even finish writing this novel while a plague swept the world. It struck me as the epitome of hubris to craft a story of a deadly virus when reality was far more frightening (and heartbreaking) than any work of fiction could be. Furthermore, it felt insensitive to tackle such a subject at this moment, to seek to entertain with “plague fiction” when the world was suffering.
Since you are holding this book in your hand, you know how my deliberation ended. Why? First, I should admit that I’ve tackled “pandemic” threats in past novels (The Seventh Plague, The Sixth Extinction). My intent with this book was not to repeat myself. The conceit of this story was less to address the plague as it was to look deeper into the source: the weird biology of viruses. It was a subject that I thought could be of interest to readers—and maybe an important one to address now.
During my research for this story, I discovered how truly strange, diverse, and ubiquitous viruses are in nature. Every day, trillions of viruses rain from the sky. Each hour, some thirty-three million viral particles cascade onto every square meter of the planet.* Still, despite being so abundant, viruses remain a mystery. Even today, less is known about the biology of viruses than any other life form.* In addition, it is speculated that there are millions, if not trillions, of viral species yet to be discovered.
Still, what is known about viruses is how deeply they’re entwined into our evolutionary history. Their genetic code is buried deep in our DNA. Scientists estimate that between 40 to 80 percent of the human genome may have come from ancient viral invasions.* And it’s not just us. Recently scientists have discovered how intimately viruses are woven throughout the natural world. They are the tie that binds all life together. In fact, researchers now believe that viruses could offer a clue to the origin of life; they could be the very engines of evolution, perhaps even the source of human consciousness.*
So, while this book is not a pandemic novel per se, I believe it’s far more frightening.
Why?
Because of one last warning I heard from scientists: Viruses—both out in nature and inside our bodies—are not done changing us, of evolving us. And it’s continuing right now as you read this.
Notes from the Historical Record
“The horror! The horror!”
Those are the dying words of the villain, Kurtz, in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. It is the moment when Kurtz recognizes the atrocities and cruelties he has inflicted upon the native peoples of the African Congo. It also serves as a warning: to beware that darkness in all of our hearts.
Conrad wrote this account (serialized in 1899) based on his captainship of a steamship along the Congo River, where he bore witness to the brutality of colonial rule of the Congo Free State, which he described as “the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience.”* In a little over a decade’s time, ten million Congolese would be killed. As described by British explorer Ewart Grogan: “Every village has been burnt to the ground, and as I fled from the country, I saw skeletons everywhere; and such postures—what tales of horrors they told!”*
So how did these atrocities come about?
Sadly, it was all due to advancements in medicine and technology. First, it was the discovery of quinine—the antimalarial compound—in the early nineteenth century that would open the heart of the continent to the world. Portuguese and Arab slavers had already been raiding the Congo, but with a treatment for malaria, a great period of European colonization began. The French grabbed a northern swath of the Congo, while King Leopold II of Belgium secured a million square miles of the southern half, roughly a third the size of the continental United States, with “cloth and trinket” treaties.*
Next came the technology of the “pneumatic tyre,” invented by the Scottish veterinarian John Boyd Dunlop. This set up a gold rush for sources of rubber, of which the vines of the Congo were a major source. It suddenly became exceedingly profitable to exploit and enslave the Congolese villagers. King Leopold set up stringent quotas for both rubber and ivory to be produced by each village. The price for any shortfalls was the loss of a hand. In a short period of time, human hands became a form of currency throughout the Congo Free State, along with severed ears, noses, genitalia, and even heads. In addition, Belgian officers carried out a pogrom of terror, involving the crucifixion and hanging of men, women, and children.*
These atrocities would go unreported for over a decade, leading to the eventual slaughter and starvation of half the Congolese population. While Conrad’s Heart of Darkness served as a literary vehicle to showcase these atrocities, it was actually the work of missionaries, specifically an American, a Black Presbyterian reverend, William Henry Sheppard, who would expose the world to the true horrors suffered by the Congolese during his stint as a missionary in the region.*
But these atrocities were not the only “horrors” that the Reverend Sheppard experienced during this bloody time. Another account of Sheppard was buried under bones. It was a tale tied to the maps, relics, and myths of another Black Christian patriarch in Africa.
Most don’t know that story.
Until now.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Notes from the Scientific Record
Notes from the Historical Record
First: Incursion
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Second: Entangled
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Third: Infiltration
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Fourth: Entrapment
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Fifth: Invasion
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
After
Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by James Rollins
Rights and Attributions for the Artwork in This Novel
Copyright
About the Publisher
October 14, 1894
Kasai District, Congo Free State
The Reverend William Sheppard silently recited the Lord’s Prayer as he waited for the cannibal to finish filing his teeth. The Basongye tribesman held a bone rasp in one hand and a mirror in the other as he crouched by the fire. He sharpened an incisor to a finer point, smiled admiringly at his handiwork, then finally stood.
The tribesman towered before Sheppard, standing nearly seven feet tall. The cannibal was dapperly dressed in long pants, polished boots, and a buttoned shirt. He could easily be mistaken for a fellow classmate of Sheppard’s at the Southern Presbyterian Theological Seminary for Colored Men in Tuscaloosa, from which the reverend had graduated. Only, as was typical for the cannibal’s tribe, the giant here had shaved his eyebrows and plucked his eyelashes, creating a frightening countenance, especially with his shark-toothed grin.
Sheppard sweated in a white linen suit and tie, and a matching pith helmet. He craned his neck to face the leader of the Zappo Zaps. The warlike tribe had allied themselves with Belgium’s colonial forces and served as King Leopold’s de facto army. The infamous Zappo Zaps had earned their name from the rattling blasts of their many guns. Sheppard noted the long rifle slung over the cannibal’s shoulder. He wondered how many innocents had died because of that one weapon.
Upon entering the village, Sheppard had observed dozens of fly-crusted bodies. From the piles of scorched bones, it was evident many others had already been eaten. Nearby, a tribesman set about carving a fresh bloody slab from a severed thigh. Another Zappo Zap rolled leaves of tobacco inside a hollowed-out skull. Even the fire that stood between him and their group’s leader served to smoke a set of severed hands, skewered on bamboo sticks above the flames.
Sheppard did his best to ignore the horrors here, even as his senses were assaulted. Clouds of black flies hummed in the air. The stench of burned flesh hung in his nostrils. To keep down his bile, he fixed his gaze on the tribesman. It would not help his cause to o bject or to show any squeamishness.
Sheppard spoke slowly, knowing the cannibal knew both English and French but was far from fluent in either. “M’lumba, I must speak to Captain Deprez. It is of utmost important that he hear me out.”
M’lumba shrugged. “He not here. He gone.”
“Then what of Collard or Remy?”
Another shrug, but the man’s expression darkened. “Gone with the capitaine.”
Sheppard frowned. Deprez, Collard, and Remy—all members of the Belgian army—led the Zappo Zaps in this region. Sheppard had come to know the trio after he had established a Christian mission along the Kasai River, a tributary of the Congo. The Belgians’ absence here was unusual, especially when their group collected its “rubber tax” from a village—not that any of the officers would have stopped the atrocities committed here. In fact, the trio encouraged such brutality. Deprez even carried a bullwhip, knotted out of hippo leather, that he used to flay the flesh from his victims at the least offense. For the past few months, the captain had been leading this group in a rampage along the Kasai River, terrorizing village after village, heading inexorably north.
It was for this reason that Sheppard had left his mission in Ibanj and sought out this group. Another tribe, the Kuba, had sent an emissary from their king to plead with Sheppard, asking for the reverend to stop the murderous Zappo Zaps from entering their territory. He could not refuse this request. Two years earlier, Sheppard had been the first foreigner allowed to enter the Kuba kingdom, mostly because he had taken the time to learn their language. After proving his fluency, he was treated graciously by the royal court. He found the people to be honest and industrious, despite their beliefs in witchcraft and a king who had seven hundred wives. While he had failed to convert any of them, he had still found them to be great allies in this hostile region.
Now they need my help.
He had to at least try to make his case with Deprez, to convince the Belgian captain to spare the Kuba from the spread of this slaughter.
“Where did Deprez and the others go?” Sheppard asked.
M’lumba looked to the east, beyond the Kasai River, which flowed a sullen course nearby. He cursed in Bantu and spat in that direction. “I tell them not to go there. It is alaaniwe.”
Sheppard knew the Bantu word for “cursed.” He also knew how ingrained superstitions were among the local tribes. They believed in ghosts and spirits, in spells and magic. As a missionary, he had found it nearly impossible to break through that veil of pagan beliefs and replace it with the bright word of the Lord. Still, he had tried his best, while also chronicling the horrific acts committed here, armed with only a Bible and a Kodak box camera.
Sheppard frowned his frustration. He knew it would take something significant to draw off all three officers. “M’lumba, why did Deprez and the others leave? What were they looking for?”
“Pango,” the tribesman muttered, using the Bantu word for “cave.” Then he scowled and pantomimed digging, while looking at Sheppard for comprehension.
Sheppard squinted, then understood. “Do you mean a mine?”
M’lumba bobbed his head. “Oui. A mine. In a bad place. At the Mfupa Ufalme.”
Sheppard stared across the river, translating the cannibal’s last words.
The Kingdom of Bones.
While it was an ominous-sounding title, Sheppard paid it little heed. He knew there remained many unexplored places hidden in the trackless jungle. In fact, he had even discovered a new lake himself and had been invited by the British Royal Geographical Society to speak of this accomplishment in London in a few months. Still, more prevalent than the superstitions rampant among these lands were the countless rumors of lost treasures and hidden kingdoms. Such tales had lured many men to their doom.
And now maybe three more Belgians.
“Why were they looking for this mine? Sheppard asked. “What were they hoping to find?”
M’lumba turned and barked to an aged tribesman, whose face was heavily tattooed, marking him as the group’s mganga, or witch doctor. The Zappo Zaps never traveled without a shaman among them, to help ward off visuka and roho, the vengeful ghosts and spirits of those whom they had slaughtered.
The wizened elder joined them. He wore only strips of a loincloth and a necklace festooned with carved ivory and wooden charms. His lips were greasy from his recent feasting. M’lumba made some demand to the mganga in a Basongye dialect that Sheppard could not follow.
Finally, the shaman scowled and shifted through the tangled mass of his charms. He freed a braided loop from around his neck. A single totem hung from it. It appeared to be a metal disk, no larger than a thumbnail. The elder shook it at M’lumba, who took it and passed it to Sheppard.
“Capitaine Deprez found this. Around neck of another village’s mganga. The capitaine whip and whip to make the peoples speak. Screams for two nights. Then mganga tell him where it come from.”
“From Mfupa Ufalme . . .” Sheppard muttered. The Kingdom of Bones.
M’lumba nodded with a deep scowl, clearly angry about something.
Sheppard examined the charm. It appeared to be a coin, blackened by age, drilled through its center to hang from the braided cord. One side had been rubbed enough to reveal the sheen of gold.
Sheppard felt a sinking despair.
No wonder Deprez had been so brutal . . .
For such a depraved man, the promise of gold had to shine far brighter than any quota of ivory or rubber. Of all the rumors of secret cities and treasures hidden in the jungle, none stoked the lust of the greedy more than stories of lost gold. For ages, explorers had been scouring the jungles, searching for such caches. Legends continued to persist of mines dug out by vanished Roman legions or even by the Old Testament forces of King Solomon.
Sheppard sighed, knowing all too well how many explorers had died in such foolhardy pursuits. He started to lower the bit of gold—when a glint of sunlight revealed writing on the coin’s opposite side. He lifted it again and turned it askance to reveal what was faintly inscribed there. He squinted, then his eyes widened in shock. He rubbed it clearer to be sure, revealing a name, written in Latin.
Presbyter Iohannes.
He gripped the token tighter.
It cannot be.
Though the name was in Latin, Sheppard knew this particular gold coin had not been minted by any Roman legion. Nor had the gold been mined by the forces of King Solomon. Instead, what was written here hinted at another story, one as fanciful as those other tales.
“Prester John,” he mumbled, translating the Latin.
During his theological studies, he had learned of the formidable Christian priest-king of Africa. According to accounts dating back to the twelfth century, Prester John had ruled ancient Ethiopia for close to a century. He was said to be a descendant of Balthazar, the black Magi, one of the trio of kings who had visited the Christ child in His manger. Prester John’s kingdom was believed to be one of astronomical wealth and secret knowledge. His legend was even tied to the Fountain of Youth and to the lost Ark of the Covenant. For many centuries, European rulers had sought out this illustrious personage. They sent forth emissaries, many of whom vanished into the jungle and never returned. Even Shakespeare mentioned this lost African patriarch in his play Much Ado About Nothing.
However, most historians of today dismissed this tale of a black Christian king who ruled over a vast swath of Africa as mere myth.
Sheppard stared down at the name written in gold. He wanted to discount what he held as some bit of fakery. Still, as the son of a slave, he could not. Instead, he felt a shiver of a kinship to this legend, to another black Christian from centuries earlier.
Could there be some truth behind all those stories?
While the promise of gold might have lured Captain Deprez into the forest, Sheppard could not dismiss his own longing—not for riches, but for the history hinted at by this coin.
He lowered the token and faced M’lumba. “How long have Deprez and the others been gone?”
M’lumba shook his head. “Twelve days. They take twenty men.” A deep sneer of anger showed sharp teeth. “And my brother, Nzare. I tell him not to go. But Capitaine make him go.”
