God was punishing them for some transgression or other—of this Peter Gabriel was now certain. A merciless, torrential rain had blanketed the area, unabated, for nearly a fortnight. This made navigating the dense, Burundi woodland especially difficult. They had marched a week solid, buoyed by, what had seemed at the time to be signs of progress, only to find themselves exactly at the spot they had decamped from. Then there was that rain. At times it seemed to be merely indifferent to the misfortunes of the expedition; at others it exhibited what can only be described as consciousness—it knew what they were thinking, their intentions, and it derived some sick pleasure in thwarting them at every turn. Their stores of powder and cannon shot had grown so waterlogged as to be unusable. They were forced to leave it all behind in the jungle. It was only when they stumbled upon these selfsame powder-kegs a week later that they realized they’d been traveling in circles, otherwise they’d be marching blindly still. Now they could only wait, wait for a break in the rain.
Peter Gabriel had a dream—or a waking hallucination—his experience in the Congo had taught him there is no proper difference between the two. Whatever it was, it disturbed him. In it, he found himself transformed—older and wiser, with a long, white beard—a second Noah charged with the task of saving all that was worth saving in the world from the flood that was to come. He built an Ark, one that looked suspiciously like a matte-painted spaceship they’d used as a backdrop at a Genesis concert once. Two of every type of beast on earth boarded the ship. Biko, his beloved Yorkshire terrier-mix was there, as were his goldfish and a long-dead parakeet he’d owned as a boy. Humanity was represented by Kate Bush and himself; he felt strangely at ease about this. The flood itself was pleasant, like the drawing up of a hot bath after a long day out in the garden. The boat rocked gently atop the surface of the water. There was always plenty to eat, and they entertained themselves playing cribbage, games that lasted all night and which, somehow, both sides seemed to win every time.
The rest went according to the Good Book—forty days and forty nights, three birds and the whole bit. The waters receded and they soon found themselves on dry land. Peter Gabriel opened the hatch. But what he saw there was not a new dawning, a clean slate for mankind and another crack at redemption. No—he saw African faces with African smiles, in a colorful array of African garb from every tribe, as far as the eye could see. He was momentarily overjoyed at this sight—having feared all of this was lost to the flood—but that moment was burst instantly when he heard a familiar snickering from the front of the crowd. It was Paul Simon again. And Steve Winwood—inexplicably—was there, admiring some rustic thumb-piano. The American said nothing, only looked at Peter with that wicked grin on his face, and blew a single note from a harmonica. That was the cue, apparently, as Peter was hoisted in the air by the crowd, and carried away helplessly by a river of hands towards certain death…
Peter Gabriel awoke from the dream disoriented, but quickly regained his bearings by the incessant pounding of the rain on his tent. He peered outside. Most of his men were still asleep, save for a few quietly smoking and playing cards. Simon! He cursed the man’s name silently to himself. It was bad enough that there was no place on the continent where he was safe from this man’s grasp, but now the bastard was colonizing his own dreams as well. Peter was seized by one of his now-frequent migraines. He fumbled around through his rucksack for some laudanum but found none—he had used up the last of it in an unsuccessful suicide attempt that, naturally, he had no recollection of. They were really bent over the barrel now, he thought. Here they were, trapped in the jungle with precious little in the way of provisions and even less ammunition, a date with destiny looming on the horizon. Simon was less a man than a force of nature at this point. His army grew at the rate Gabriel’s was dwindling, and was fully stocked with all the latest artillery. This was a man who would dynamite Victoria Falls to rubble if he thought it would shave just one hour off his travel time. And it was this very man who awaited them—exactly where no one could say—this man with whom they were now locked in some dance of death, circling the continent. The throbbing in Peter’s temples worsened, as if the very drums of war were pounding in his head, hastening towards one final, dramatic confrontation that grew more inevitable by the hour…
For the love of God, send aid! And by aid I don’t mean sacks of flour and powdered milk and medicines of dubious origin—no, I speak of human beings with love in their hearts, sturdy constitutions, and a sense of purpose and the magnitude of the situation here. While economic aid is indeed necessary, I fear it is useless without the right people to carry it out. It is only by a combination of these, of economic and LIVE AID, that we can rescue these unfortunate souls from the brink of extinction. But time is of the essence, Madam Prime Minister, as I can feel the mouth of Hades growing wider everyday.
