Like Tom, the hyena could be seen, soon lapping up the traces of the morning's spoils, ingesting the sweet carrion through its lulling glands, along the track it follows. Tom absorbed the air of the explorers -- Sucked it down, ingested it. Until he was but a fractured remnant of the Western world -- Still part Africa, not yet civil, holy. He had no real home, not any more, yet he followed a dream, that will of an apparition; dream of a man with a raised and pointed spear. ""That other life is not for you, Tom. "" ""Here you might breathe. . . ."" the warm alcohol releases fears and dreams. "" . . .If you must breathe at all"" . . .