Free Salticidae by Ryan C. Thomas Page B

passage of more civilized trespassers. Cigarette butts from Uganda and Rwanda (often times smoked by the guerrilla rebels), a plastic fork from the bag lunch of some naturalist who thought he was saving the environment, and even old rusted bikes from traders trying in vain to lead white missionaries to wildlife and vista views. Many times these traders simply robbed the tourists. Other times, they met their end at the hands of rebels. Sometimes both.
    At the front of the marching line, Shumba’s father, Musa, moved quietly through the foliage , the muscles on his back taut like coiled vipers. He was one of the better trappers in the tribe and had gained much respect over the years from the other men. Shumba was proud to have him as both a father and mentor.
    The sun seemed to have reached its apex now and was beginning to slide lazily down again. Here, the light filtered through the trees and cast the world in a tint of royal blue. Patches of mist danced in front of the men as they walked, and at certain times appeared to glow around their spears and machetes as if they’d been enchanted with old magic. Shumba paused for a moment to scrape dark sap from a crooked tree. The amber was beginning to harden already and change color. He played with it as he moved, rolling it into a perfect sphere. His father had once made him a large ball the size of his head for kicking and throwing in this fashion. The children of the tribe played with it still, and when it rolled along the ground, it swirled with brilliant colors of ochre, magenta, sapphire and gold.
    When they reached the edge of the cliff, back where Shumba had seen the flare, his father called him forward.
    “Show me where you saw the creatures?”
    Shumba pointed toward the Old Man, and explained once more how the monsters had leapt down into the forest. How their legs had seemed to keep them stable in the air and allow them to float gracefully. His father did nothing but nod, and then waved his men forward. They advanced along the edge of the cliffs, keeping just inside the tree line as they made their way to the mountaintop. Soon they were walking outside of their normal hunting radius, though it was not entirely uncommon to come out this far for food during droughts. Shumba spied a few old nets woven from liana that had been left to rot and wither in the rains. The vines, tight and strong when first cut, withered quickly in the damp atmosphere. It seemed some days that Shumba’s sole purpose in life was to rebuild huts and nets that had suffered demise from the elements, and would no doubt suffer demise again in just a few days.
    “Stop!” Musa’s hand went up to alert the line of men to stay put. Shumba could not fight his curiosity, however, and inched his way up to the front of the procession. He found his father kneeling over one of the elusive gorillas that roamed the tops of the mountains.
    “What killed it?” Shumba asked.
    His father looked up at him, annoyed to see him standing so close when he’d been told to remain still. But Musa was a man of prudence, and yelling at Shumba right now would do no good. Instead, he stabbed a finger at the two large holes in the gorilla’s chest, and traced the way the animal’s frame was sunken in. “Something has sucked its life away. Something very hungry and dangerous.”
    “What is that thing?” Shumba pointed to the rope of silk trailing back into the jungle.
    “It is a warning to us. Something has come back to reclaim the land. It will eventually destroy us all, I fear.”
     
     
    ***
     
    The river ran brown with mud and stank of rotting biomass. In the trees along the banks countless birds of bright yellow and white flitted from the branches down to the water for a drink and then back again. Derek, Jack and Banga passed under overhanging branches thrumming with fluttering butterflies, trekking toward where the land rose at a more manageable grade to the top of the mountain. Their feet repeatedly sank into