Indy was on his third glass of champagne before his father found him.
"What a success, Junior!" he beamed. "The reporters are absolutely stupefied by the dioramas!"
Indeed they were. Everyone attending the Museum of Natural History's Grand Opening was in awe of the African exhibits- both the Avian and the Zulu. The exhibits had gotten back with only a day to spare and crews had worked non- stop, with Indy and Henry switching off the supervisory position in shifts to get the place ready. The final Zulu warrior's pinky toes had been polished just as the doors opened. As narrow a margin as the Joneses had ever succeeded by.
They had been held up in Durban by Chief Inspector Reinhold, who wanted partly to throttle Indy and partly to pat himself on the back for "obtaining" a confession from the Zulu man that had been captured right after Delks' murder. After days asleep, the man had awakened and told the authorities the entire story- just as expected. There was, however, the concierge. The prisoner had implicated Sisho as what the Chief Inspector had referred to as "a mastermind." Indy had wanted to defend the man who had saved him, but the truth was, Sisho HAD been involved. Also truthfully, Indy told the Chief Inspector that he had not seen Sisho since the incident at the village. Said incident was refferred to by local British papers as a native ritualistic slaughtering of the wildlife that would be the focus of further Christian missions in Africa. The freak two- day downpour across the plains was regarded as a simple turn in the weather.
As Indy stared at the Zulu exhibit, enjoying the alcohol buzz between his ears, he realized how close he was to wrapping it all up in a similar manner. So many miles away, amid so much concrete and with the sea of Anglican faces churning around him, it was becoming increasingly easy to write it all off. He twisted to look away from the exhibit and his fractured ribs reminded him otherwise.
"Easy, boy," Henry said, noticing Indy's grimace.
A gavel- like pounding echoed through the museum and everyone turned their attention to Trevor Berkshire, the chairman of the museum's board of directors. He stood at a grand oak podium on a small dias. Behind him, in a line were the other members of the museum board, including Elise Saviougn. When things were more or less quiet, Trevor spoke in a rumbly voice that carried easily through the halls.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for coming out this evening and for your generous donations thus far. I can tell you are all as excited as I am about the new exhibits and the promise of a very good season for the museum. As some of you are aware, this little soirre has a twofold purpose- the museum's opening, of course, and the welcoming of our new Curator, Doctor Henry Jones.
Henry smiled self- conciously and approached the podium. Indy sighed with relief over his father taking the position. Indy had taken it out of respect for and his agreement to Marcus, but he had a soft spot for the classroom that wasn't sitting well with the Curator position. When he had brought this discomfort up in Durban, as they were boarding their plane, Henry had scolded him.
"You can't go back on your promise, Junior. Who knows what they might replace you with. Besides, Marcus asked and you accepted."
Switching off the suporvisor's position had whetted Henry's appetite, though. He had long since gotten over spouting off to a classroom and secretly yearned for a position that would afford him a little more respect and dignity. He had organized his retirement (which should have been three years ago, according to the University) quickly and arranged for a substitute to hand out the final exam to his class. Marcus would approve, they'd concurred, and so, they had informed Trevor Berkshire of their decision only that afternoon.
Henry ascended the platform to applause and gave a quick speech thanking the board and the eThikwini Museum in Durban, who, due to Britain's war efforts, were unable to send a representative. It was Henry's job to fill the crowd in on the story behind the dioramas and, as he did so, a strangely familiar man approached Indy. He was wearing a tuxedo, like everyone else, but he seemed as uncomfortable in formalwear as Indy himself did. The man was clean shaven and had a brand- new haircut, but beyond that, he really looked like-
"Bruce?" Indy asked as the man stopped near him and dug into his collar to loosen it.
"You act like I was born needing a bath," the pilot smirked.
"That's long been my opinion." Indy snatched two flutes of bubbly from a passing waitress and, after appraising her with a quick, trained eye, handed one of them to his friend.
KwaZulu/Natal Province, South Africa - 1940
Tarana scratched the head of the dog nearest her, prompting the other one to get up and make its way to her, whining. Tarana's other hand was full, though. It held the spearhead that had, for the second time, killed King Shaka of the Zulu.
"That is a dangerous piece of stone," observed Sisho, sitting across from her, behind his new desk in the office of the Durban Snake Farm. Stubble covered his face now and, soon, it would a beard bushy enough to conceal his true identity from casual observation. As the late wizard was now buried near their village, Sisho would take advantage of the prestigious position and pass himself off as Swakaywe. Once again, he was the tribe's man in town.
"It is dangerous," the witch conceded. "Or terribly useful."
"You sound like Swakaywe," Sisho said. Tarana glared up at him from under her wild, white hair, but said nothing. He was right, of course. Still, with Sisho in a position to pull in so much money for the tribe, perhaps the Zulu could be organized into some kind of power again, as Shaka had done. That would be great indeed. And if she could achieve such greatness, might an artifact like this be able to return her to the earth one day - long after she had died? The idea alone filled out a wrinkle or two.
"I do not mean to try to use Shaka as a tool..." she said, twisting the spearhead in front of her. "Just an inspiration..."
