The Flames of Time (Flames of Time Series Book 1) Read Online Free

say.
     
    ‘Well I am not sure I can quite believe what I am hearing! My friends who I thought all so cheerful and content in their sojourn around Africa, I discover are all miserable, and bored of their privileged lives. You will all be telling me next that you have seen the light of true socialism and wish nothing more than to spend your time toiling on the land and eating raw vegetables!’
    ‘And to think, some people suggest sarcasm is a lower form of whit.’ interjected Peter with a wry grin from the other side of the table.
    ‘It is either that…’ continued Jean unperturbed. ‘or you are all about to tell me you wish to find the true meaning of life. And, that you are prepared to spend the rest of your lives traversing far-flung, exotic and no doubt highly attractive areas of this planet in order to do so. Such sacrifice mes amies! Such sacrifice.’
    ‘You perhaps have a better idea Jean?’ asked Marlow with just hint of pique in his voice.
    ‘Ah Robert! You have found me out, I do not. But that is not the same as thinking your idea either possible or in any way credible. It is simply not possible for a man to discover these things, they are … too big. The best we can do is to decide; what we shall do, from what we can do. The rest we must leave to history or the next life.’
    ‘We will all meet our maker soon enough I think.’ suggested Silvio amiably. ‘Maybe such a question can wait until then?’
    ‘Gentlemen!’ replied Marlow holding up his hands in mock surrender, ‘I realise this is a difficult question, but to not ask it merely because of its size, or the trouble we think we may face in trying to find an answer, that can only be an excuse, surely?’
    ‘Robert, it is not just a question of . . .’ began Jean, only to stop abruptly and turn his head to listen.
     
    It was very faint at first, but as we all sat and listened the sound of distant drums began to grow stronger then weaker, fading in and out of the night-time air. As one we moved to the door and out onto the western veranda. It was dark out now, a sliver of moon and the clear arc of stars the only illumination across the entire Serengeti. Several of the lodge staff and guides were already outside, listening intently to the sound.
    ‘The talking drums,’ muttered someone behind me as the sound once more faded out. I noticed Mkize the Kikuyu guide I’d hired in Nyrobi standing nearby. Not knowing how long I was going to be staying I’d asked him to stay around for a few days on the off chance I wanted to continue my journey. I quietly called to him and asked him what the drums were saying. He hesitated, obviously struggling to interpret at first, but waiting patiently while he listened, he eventually managed to translate.
    ‘An elder comes,’ he began, ‘…a chief of many villages. He brings the… dream to the Singing Stones.’
    We stood listening for a while longer, unsure if these ethereal sounds would convey anything more, and then as those more knowledgeable than ourselves disappeared back to what they were doing, we also moved back inside.
    Whatever they meant, the subject offered a very tempting distraction, and whether consciously or not, when we returned to the dining room where we’d been sat, everybody was pre-occupied with the drums and what this strangely cryptic message and means of communication could mean.
    Several of us had heard the drums before at local events, where they were played to tell a tale during some festivity or ceremony or other, often whilst other members of the village enacted the story in dance. These were generally about the size of a tambourine in surface area, and were usually played with two curved drumsticks. The sound from such could reach for quite some distance, well beyond the average Maasai village kraal, perhaps up to quarter of a mile before becoming inaudible amongst the sounds of the day or night. But these drums sounded much further away, none of us had encountered the like