Mustache Safari

By Rosemary E. Johnson

The mud hut was thatched with grass that stuck out like my hair in the morning. Its only difference from the other huts was the paper nailed to the door. I had to squint to read the orange gel pen writing: Archibald Waverly.

I knocked.

An old man with tufts of white hair springing from beneath a khaki pith helmet opened the door. “Hello. It’s a good thing I’ve had my coffee, or I’d be saying ‘goodbye.’”

I cleared my throat, slightly in awe that I actually stood face to face with the famous safari guide. “I’ve heard you’re the foremost African expert at finding wild mustaches. It’s my lifelong dream to observe them in person. Is there an opening in your schedule to guide a safari for me?”

Archibald harrumphed. “I only guide on odd Thursdays between November fifth and May thirteenth.”

I pulled out my pocket calendar and flipped to the current month—April. Today was Thursday the twenty-ninth. I turned it around so he could see.

“You’re in luck, young man.” He thwacked me on the shoulder and beckoned me inside.

I leaped into the hut behind him. I already had everything I needed in my pack, so I watched while Archibald prepared his. He went light—a canteen, binoculars, and a book titled Wilderness Necessities: Cakes You Can Bake Without an Oven.

“Let’s go.” He gave his pith helmet a slap. “We’ll take the quad.”

Halfway to the squat, tan-colored vehicle, he stopped short and grabbed my elbow. “Remember, if all else fails, bless the rain. Shower it with blessings. Understood?”

I didn’t understand, but I nodded anyway. I climbed into the backseat, and we were off in a cloud of dust.

When Archibald stopped the quad, he coughed and scratched an eyebrow. “We’ll walk from here. Mustaches are quite elusive and startle easily.”

“Yes.” I’d read every book on the subject I could find. I probably knew as much about them as he did, excepting firsthand experience. Hopefully, after today I’d have some of that, too. If I did well, Archibald might even agree to teach me.

He moved through the knee-high, brittle grasses like a cheetah. I slunk after him, thankful for the hours I’d spent practicing in the fields back home. I didn’t particularly miss home. Not compared to the Serengeti that surrounded me, bursting with life and smells and sounds. A hundred men couldn’t drag me away from here.

Ahead of us, the ground sloped toward a river shaded by umbrella-shaped acacia trees. Archibald paused and whispered, “This is one of their watering holes. Be careful; if you get too close, they’ll catch your scent and attack.”

I nodded, recalling tales of explorers suffocated beneath dozens of stampeding mustaches. Only through time, patience, and skill could mustaches be tamed and kept as pets. I rubbed the bare skin beneath my nose. Maybe someday I’d have my own. Today I was content just to get a real-life glimpse of one.

Archibald settled on the ground among the trees. I sat next to him, about to ask where the mustaches had gone, but he plopped his hand over my mouth and shook his head. Pulling out the book about ovenless cakes, he began to read.

Apparently, we must wait.

The sun had tilted toward the western horizon, turning the grass to glowing gold, when Archibald slipped the book into his belt and rose to a crouch. Silently, he pointed.

I stifled a gasp. Dotting the red mud of the riverbank were two mustaches. One was full, blonde, and bristly. The other was thin and dark and curled on the ends. As we watched, more and more joined the first two until I lost count. Ginger, brown, salt and pepper, thick, long, and fluffy, they hopped to and from the river, making little indentations in the mud. I crept closer—near enough to hear their soft cooing noises—then closer still.

The wind changed, and the mustaches turned toward me with one accord. The things I’d dreamed of watching my entire life were now looking at me, too. I was mesmerized.

“Run!” Archibald’s catlike grace was gone. He hurtled through the underbrush. I snapped out of my daze, comprehended the reality of multitudinous small, hairy things rushing at me, and bolted.

It was too late.

The first tickle was on my ankle. I shook my foot, stumbled, and fell. They swarmed over me. Mustaches galloped up my legs, their cooing replaced by snuffles and shrieks. Swatting did no good; for every one I brushed off, three more took its place. I opened my mouth to gulp in air and almost swallowed a prickly mustache.

A few feet ahead, Archibald collapsed to his knees, mustaches seething around his neck.

His garbled shouting clicked in my brain, a real miracle in my panic. If all else fails, bless the rain. With my last breath before my mouth filled with mustaches, I yelped toward the sky, “Bless you!”

“I didn’t sneeze, but thank you.” Archibald batted a gray handlebar mustache from his cheek and gagged as one wiggled into his mouth.

Mustaches jumped onto my eyes, and the world became a dark, scratchy place. I must’ve looked like a ginormous hairball.

Thunder cracked overhead. The mustaches froze. I waited, trembling.

Rain splattered down. With tiny squeaks, the mustaches fled, making the grasses wobble and wave. I remained sprawled on the ground, soaking in every drop of delicious precipitation.

“Well done, young man.” Archibald stood and flicked stray hairs from his soggy uniform. “Do you like chocolate cake?”

“Very much.”

“Then come home, and I’ll try this new recipe. Next odd Thursday we can go looking for beards, and when you’re experienced enough, eyebrows.”

A thrill of excitement made me shiver. “You mean I can stay?”

Archibald winked.

I tromped after him toward the quad. The sky had cleared, the setting sun warmed my back, and drums echoed in the night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rosemary Johnson is a dragon-loving, cat-whispering writer and college student. Epic fantasy is her favorite to write, but she enjoys exploring other genres, too. She’s studying for a degree in Linguistics so she can do Bible translation, is a submissions coordinator for Havok, and has ten short stories published so far with another upcoming as a staff feature in Havok’s second anthology.

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