Текст книги "Eagle in the Sky"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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Her body was hard and strong and supple, and now that she could place

him she drove at him with the wild terror of a hunted thing.

He was unprepared, her attack took him off-balance, and he went over

backwards with her on top of him, and he dropped the knife and the

lantern into the grass to protect his eyes, for she was tearing at them

with long sharp nails.  He felt them rip into his nose and cheek, and

she screeched like a cat, for she was also an animal in this moment.

He freed the stiff claw from the tangle of her hair, and he drew it

back, holding her off with his right hand and he struck her.

It was like a wooden club, stiff and hard and without feeling.  A single

blow with it had stunned the labrador and broken his jaw.  It hit her

across the temple, a sound like an axe swung at a tree trunk.

It knocked all the fight out of her, and he came up on his knees,

holding her with his good hand and with the other he clubbed her

mercilessly, beat her head back and across with a steady rhythm.  In the

light of the fallen lantern, the black blood spurted from her nose, and

the blows cracked against her skull, steady and unrelenting.  Long after

she was still and senseless he continued to beat her.  Then at last he

let her drop, and he stood up.  He went to the lantern and played the

beam in the grass.  The knife glinted up at him.

There is an ancient ceremony with which a hunt should end.  The

culminating ceremony of the gralloch, when the triumphant huntsman slits

open the paunch of his game, and thrusts his hand into the opening to

draw out the still-warm viscera.

Johan Akkers picked the knife out of the grass and set down the lantern

so the beam fell upon Debra's supine figure.

He went to her and, with his foot, rolled her onto her back.  The dark

black mine of sodden hair smothered her face.

He knelt beside her and hooked one iron-hard finger into the front of

her blouse.  With a single jerk he ripped it cleanly open, and her big

round belly bulged into the lantern light.  it was white and full and

ripe with the dark pit of the navel in its centre.

Akkers giggled and wiped the rain and sweat from his face with his arm.

Then he changed his grip on the knife, reversing it so the blade would

go shallow, opening the paunch neatly from crotch to rib cage without

cutting into the intestines, a stroke as skilful as a surgeon's that he

had performed ten thousand times before.

Movement in the shadows at the edge of the light caused him to glance

up.  He saw the black dog rush silently at him, saw its eyes glow in the

lantern light.

He threw up his arm to guard his throat and the furry body crashed into

him.  They rolled together, with Zulu mouthing him, unable to take a

grip with his injured jaws.

Akkers changed his grip on the hilt of the carving knife and stabbed up

into the dog's rib cage, finding the faithful heart with his first

thrust.  Zulu yelped once, and collapsed.  Akkers pushed his glossy

black body aside, pulling out the knife and he crawled back to where

Debra lay.

The distraction that Zulu had provided gave David a chance to come up.

David ran to Akkers, and the man looked up with the muddy green eyes

glaring in the lantern light.  He growled at David with the long blade

in his hand dulled by the dog's blood.  He started to come to his feet,

ducking his head in exactly the same aggressive gesture as the bull

baboon.

David thrust the barrels of the shotgun into his face and he pulled both

triggers.  The shot hit solidly, without spreadin& tearing into him in

the bright yellow flash and thunder of the muzzle blast, and it took

away the whole of Akkers head above the mouth, blowing it to

nothingness.  He dropped into the grass with his legs kicking

convulsively, and David hurled the shotgun aside and ran to Debra.

He knelt over her and he whispered, My darling, oh my darling.  Forgive

me, please forgive me.  I should never have left you.  Gently he picked

her up and holding her to his chest, he carried her up to the homestead.

Debra's child was born in the dawn.  It was a girl, tiny and wizened and

too early for her term.  If there had been skilled medical attention

available she might have lived, for she fought valiantly.  But David was

clumsy and ignorant of the succour she needed.  He was cut off by the

raging river and the telephone was still dead, and Debra was still

unconscious.

When it was over he wrapped the tiny little blue body in a clean sheet

and laid it tenderly in the cradle that had been prepared for her.  He

felt overwhelmed by a sense of guilt at having failed the two persons

who needed him.

At three o'clock that afternoon, Conrad Berg forced a passage of the

Luzane stream with the water boiling above the level of the big wheels

of his truck, and three hours later they had Debra in a private ward of

the Nelspruit hospital.  Two days later she became conscious once more,

but her face was grotesquely swollen and purple with bruises.

Near the crest of the kopje that stood above the homestead of Jabulani

there was a natural terrace, a platform which overlooked the whole

estate.  It was a remote and peaceful place and they buried the child

there.  Out of the rock of the kopje David built a tomb for her with his

own hands.

It was best that Debra had never felt the child in her arms, or at her

breast.  That she had never heard her cry or smelled the puppy smell of

her.

Her mourning was therefore not crippling and corrosive, and she and

David visited the grave regularly.  One Sunday morning as they sat upon

the stone bench beside it, Debra talked for the first time about another

baby.

You took so long with the first one, Morgan, she complained.  I hope

you've mastered the technique.  They walked down the hill again, put the

rods and a picnic basket into the Land-Rover and drove down to the

pools.

The Mozambique bream came on the bite for an hour just before noon and

they fought over the fat yellow wood grubs that David was baiting. Debra

hung five, all around three pounds in weight, and David had a dozen of

the big blue fish before it went quiet and they propped the rods and

opened the cold box.

They lay together on the rug beneath the outspread branches of the fever

trees, and drank white wine cold from the icebox.

The African spring was giving way to full summer, filling the bush with

bustle and secret activity.  The weaver birds were busy upon their

basket nests, tying them to the bending tips of the reeds, fluttering

brilliant yellow wings as they worked with black heads bobbing.

On the far bank of the pool a tiny bejewelled kingfisher sat his perch

on a dead branch above the still water, plunging suddenly, a speck of

flashing blue to shatter the surface and emerge with a silver sliver

wriggling in his outsize beak.  Hosts of yellow and bronze and white

butterflies lined the water's edge below where they lay, and the bees

flew like golden motes of light to their hive in the cliff, high above

the quiet pools.

The water drew all life to it, and a little after noonday David touched

Debra's arm.

The nyala are here – he whispered.

They came through the grove on the far side of the pool.  Timid and

easily spooked, they approached a few cautious steps at a time before

pausing to stare about them with huge dark eyes, questing muzzles and

widespread ears; striped and dainty and beautiful they blended with the

shadows of the grove.

The does are all belly now, David told her.  They'll be dropping their

lambs within the next few weeks.

Everything is fruitful.  He half-turned towards her and she sensed it

and moved to meet him.  When the nyala had drank and gone, and a

white-headed fish eagle circled high above them on dark chestnut wings,

chanting its weird and haunting cry, they made love in the shade beside

the quiet water.

David studied her face as he loved her.  She lay beneath him with her

eyes closed, and her dark hair spread in a shiny black sheet upon the

rug.  The bruise on her temple had faded to soft yellow and palest blue,

for it was two months since she had left hospital.  The white fleck of

the grenade scar stood out clearly against the pale bruising.  The

colour rose in Debra's cheeks, and the light dew of perspiration bloomed

across her forehead and upper lip and she made little cooing sounds, and

then whimpered softly like a suckling puppy.

David watched her, his whole being engorged and heavy with the weight of

his love.  From above them an errant beam of sunlight broke through the

canopy of leaves and fell full upon her upturned face, lighting it with

a warm golden radiance so that it seemed to be the face of a madonna

from some medieval church window.

It was too much for David and his love broke like a wave, and she felt

it and cried out.  Her eyes flew wide, and he looked down into their

gold-flecked depths.  The pupils were huge black pools but as the

sunlight struck full into them they shrank rapidly to black pinpoints.

Even in the extremity of his love, David was startled by the phenomenon,

and long afterwards when they lay quietly together she asked, What is

it, David?  Is something wrong?  'No, my darling.  What could possible

be wrong?  I feel it, Davey.  You send out the strongest signals I am

sure I could pick them up from half-way around the world.  He laughed,

and drew away from her almost guiltily.

He had imagined it perhaps, a trick of the light, and he tried to

dismiss it from his mind.

In the cool of the evening he packed up the rods and the rag and they

strolled back to where he had parked and they took the firebreak road

home, for David wanted to check the southern fence line.  They had

driven for twenty minutes in silence before Debra touched his arm.

When you are ready to tell me about whatever is bugging you, I'm ready

to listen, and he began talking again to distract both her and himself,

but a little too glibly.

In the night he rose and went to the bathroom.  When he returned he

stood for many seconds beside their bed looking down at her dark

sleeping shape.  He would have left it then, but at that moment a lion

began roaring down near the pools.  The sound carried clearly through

the still night across the two miles that separated them.

it was the excuse that David needed.  He took the five cell flashlight

from his bedside table and shone it into Debra's face.  it was serene

and lovely, and he felt the urge to stoop and kiss her, but instead he

called.

Debra!  Wake up, darling!  and she stirred and opened her eyes.  He

shone the beam of the flashlight full into them and again, unmistakably,

the wide black circles of the pupils contracted.

What is it, David?  she murmured sleepily, and his voice was husky as he

replied.

There is a lion holding a concert down near the pools.

Thought you might want to listen.  She moved her head, averting her face

slightly, almost as though the powerful beam of the flashlight was

causing discomfort, but her voice was pleased.

Oh yes.  I love that big growly sound.  Where do you suppose this one is

from?  David switched out the flashlight and slipped back into bed

beside her.

Probably coming up from the south.  I bet he has dug a hole under the

fence you could drive a truck through.  He tried to speak naturally as

they reached for each other beneath the bedclothes and lay close and

warm, listening to the far-away roaring until it faded with distance as

the lion moved back towards the reserve.  They made love then, but

afterwards David could not sleep and he lay with Debra in his arms until

the dawn.

Still it was a week before David could bring himself to write the

letter: Dear Dr. Edelman, We agreed that I should write to you if any

change occurred in the condition of Debra's eyes, or her health.

Recently Debra was involved in unfortunate circumstances, in which she

was struck repeated heavy blows about the head and was rendered

unconscious for a period of two and half days.

She was hospitalized for suspected fracture of the skull, and

concussion, but was discharged after ten days.

This occurred about two months ago.  However, I have since noticed that

her eyes have become sensitive to light.  As you are well aware, this

was not previously the case, and she has showed no reaction whatsoever

until this time.  She has also complained of severe headaches.

I have repeatedly tested my observations with sunlight and artificial

light, and there can be no doubt that under the stimulus of a strong

light source, the pupils of her eyes contract instantly and to the same

degree as one would expect in a normal eye.

It now seems possible that your original diagnosis might have to be

revised, but, and I would emphasize this most strongly, I feel that we

should approach this very carefully.  I do not wish to awaken any false

or ill-founded hope.

For your advice in this matter I would be most grateful, and I wait to

hear from you.

Cordially yours, David Morgan.

David sealed and addressed the letter, but when he returned from the

shopping flight to Nelspruit the following week, the envelope was still

buttoned in the top pocket of his leather jacket.

The days settled into their calmly contented routine.

Debra completed the first draft of her new novel, and received a request

from Bobby Dugan to carry out a lecture tour of five major cities in the

United States.  A Place of Our Own had just completed its thirty-second

week on the New York Times bestseller list, and her agent informed her

that she was hotter than a pistol.

David said that as far as he was concerned she was probably a lot hotter

than that.  Debra told him he was a lecher, and she was not certain what

a nice girl like herself was doing shacked up with him.  Then she wrote

to her agent, and refused the lecture tour.

Who needs people?  David agreed with her, knowing that she had made the

decision for him.  He knew also that Debra as a lovely, blind, best

selling authoress would have been a sensation, and a tour would have

launched her into the superstar category.

This made his own procrastination even more corrosive.  He tried to

re-think and rationalize his delay in posting the letter to Dr. Edelman.

He told himself that the light-sensitivity did not mean that Debra could

ever regain her vision; that she was happy now, had adjusted and found

her place and that it would be cruel to disrupt all this and offer her

false hope and probably brutal surgery.

In all his theorizing tried to make Debra's need take priority, but it

was deception and he knew it.  It was special pleading, by David Morgan,

for David Morgan for if Debra ever regained her sight, the delicately

hal anced structure of his own happiness would collapse in ruin.

One morning he drove the Land-Rover alone to the farthest limits of

Jabulani and parked in a hidden place amongst camel Thorn trees.  He

switched off the engine and, still sitting in the driving-seat, he

adjusted the driving-mirror and stared at his own face.  For nearly an

hour he studied that ravage expanse of inhuman flesh, trying to find

some redeeming feature in it, apart from the eyes, and at the end he

knew that no sighted woman would ever be able to live close to that,

would ever be able to smile at it, kiss and touch it, to reach up and

caress it in the critical moments of love.

He drove home slowly, and Debra was waiting for him on the shady cool

stoop and she laughed and ran down the steps into the sunlight when she

heard the Land-Rover.  She wore faded denims and a bright pink blouse,

and when he came to her she lifted her face and groped blindly but

joyously with her lips for his.

Debra had arranged a barbecue for that evening, and although they sat

close about the open fire under the trees and listened to the night

sounds, the night was cool.  Debra wore a cashmere sweater over her

shoulders, and David had thrown on his flying jacket.

The letter lay against his heart, and it seemed to burn into his flesh.

He unbuttoned the leather flap and took it out.  While Debra chatted

happily beside him, spreading her hands to the crackling leaping flames,

David examined the envelope turning it slowly over and over in his

hands.

Then suddenly, as though it were.  a live scorpion, he threw it from him

and watched it blacken and curl and crumple to ash in the flames of the

fire.

It was not so easily done, however, and that night as he lay awake, the

words of the letter marched in solemn procession through his brain,

meticulously preserved and perfectly remembered.  They gave him no

respite, and though his eyes were gravelly and his head ached with

fatigue, he could not sleep.

During the days that followed he was silent and edgy.

Debra sensed it, despite all his efforts to conceal it and she was

seriously alarmed, believing that he was angry with her.  She was

anxiously loving, distracted from all else but the need to find and cure

the cause of David's ills.

Her concern only served to make David's guilt deeper.

Almost in an act of desperation they drove one evening down to the

String of Pearls, and leaving the Land Rover they walked hand in hand to

the water's edge.

They found a fallen log screened by reeds and sat quietly together.  For

once neither of them had anything to say to each other.

As the big red sun sank to the tree-tops and the gloom thickened amongst

the trees of the grove, the nyala herd came stepping lightly and

fearfully through the shadows.

David nudged Debra, and she turned her head into a listening attitude

and moved a little closer to him as he whispered.

They are really spooky this evening, they look as though they are

standing on springs and I can see their muscles trembling from here. The

old bulls seem to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, they are

listening so hard their ears have stretched to twice their usual length,

I swear.  There must be a leopard lurking along the edge of the reed

bed, he broke off, and exclaimed softly, oh, so that's it?" "What is it,

David?" Debra tugged at his arm insistently, her curiosity spurring her.

A new fawn!  David's delight was in his voice.  One of the does has

lambed.  Oh God, Debra!  His legs are still wobbly and he is the palest

creamy beige– He described the fawn to her as it followed the mother

unsteadily into the open.  Debra was listening with such intensity, that

it was clear the act of birth and the state of maternity had touched

some deep chord within her.

Perhaps she was remembering her own dead infant.  Her grip on his arm

tightened, and her blind eyes seemed to glow in the gathering dusk, and

suddenly she spoke.

Her voice low, but achingly clear, filled with all the longing and

sadness which she had suppressed.

I wish I could see it, she said.  Oh God!  God Let me see.  Please, let

me see!  and suddenly she was weeping, great racking sobs that shook her

whole body.

Across the pool the nyala herd took fright, and dashed away among the

trees.  David took Debra and held her fiercely to his chest, cradling

her head, so her tears were wet and cold through the fabric of his

shirt, and he felt the icy winds of despair blow across his soul.

He re-wrote the letter that night by the light of a gas lamp while Debra

sat across the room knitting a jersey she had promised him for the

winter and believing that he was busy with the estate accounts.  David

found that he could repeat the words of the ari nal letter perfectly and

it took him only a few minutes to complete and seal it.

Are you working on the book tomorrow morning?  he asked casually, and

when she told him she was, he went on.  I have to nip into Nelspruit for

an hour or two.

David flew high as though to divorce himself from the earth.  He could

not really believe he was going to do it.  He could not believe that he

was capable of such sacrifice.  He wondered whether it was really

possible to love somebody so deeply that he would chance destroying that

love for the good of the other, and he knew that it was, and as he flew

on southwards he found that he could face it at last.

Of all persons, Debra needed her vision, for without it the great wings

of her talent were clipped.  Unless she could see it, she could not

describe it.  She had been granted the gift of the writer, and then half

of it had been taken from her.  He understood her cry, Oh God!

God!  Let me see.  Please, let me see, and he found himself wishing it

for her also.  Beside her need his seemed trivial and petty, and

silently he prayed.

Please God, let her see again He landed the Navajo at the airstrip and

called the taxi and had it drive him directly to the Post Office, and

wait while he posted the letter and collected the incoming mail from the

box.

Where now?  the driver asked as he came out of the building, and he was

about to tell him to drive back to the airfield when he had inspiration.

Take me down to the bottle store, please, he told the driver and he

bought a case of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

He flew homewards with a soaring lightness of the spirit.  The wheel was

spinning and the ball clicking, nothing he could do now would dictate

its fall.  He was free of doubt, free of guilt, whatever the outcome, he

knew he could meet it.

Debra sensed it almost immediately, and she laughed aloud with relief,

and hugged him about the neck.

But what happened?  she kept demanding.  For weeks you were miserable. I

was worrying myself sick, and then you go off for an hour or two and you

come back humming like a dynamo.  What on earth is going on, Morgan?  I

have just found out how much I love you, he told her, returning her hug.

Plenty?  she demanded.  Plenty!  he agreed.  That's my baby!  she

applauded him.

The Veuve Clicquot came in useful.  in the batch of mail that David

brought back with him from Nelspruit was a letter from Bobby Dugan.  He

was very high on the first chapters of the new novel that Debra had

airmailed to him, and so were the publishers; he had managed to hit them

for an advance of $100,000 .

You're rich!  David laughed, looking up from the letter.

The only reason you married me, agreed Debra.  Fortune hunter!  but she

was laughing with excitement, and David was proud and happy for her.

They like it, David.  Debra was serious then.  They really like it.  I

was so worried.  "The money was meaningless, except as a measure of the

book's value.  Big money is the sincerest type of praise.

They would have to be feeble-minded not to like it, David told her, and

then went on.  It just so happens that I have a case of French champagne

with me, shall I put a bottle or ten on the ice?

Morgan, man of vision, Debra said.  At times like this, I know why I

love you.  The weeks that followed were as good then as they had ever

been.  David's appreciation was sharper, edged by the storm shadows on

the horizon, the time of plenty made more poignant by the possibility of

the drought years coming.  He tried to draw it out beyond its natural

time.  It was five weeks more before he flew to Nelspruit again, and

then only because Debra was anxious to learn of any further news from

her publishers and agent, and to pick up her typing.

I would like to have my hair set, and although I know we don't really

need them, David, my darling, we should keep in touch with people, like

once a month, don't you think?  Has it been that long?  David asked

innocently, although each day had been carefully weighed and tallied,

the actuality savoured and the memory stored for the lean times ahead.

David left Debra at the beauty salon, and as he went out he could hear

her pleading with the girl not to put it up into those tight little

curls and plaster it with lacquer and even in the anxiety of the moment,

David grinned for he had always thought of the hairstyle she was

describing as Modem Cape Dutch or Randburg Renaissance.

The postbox was crammed full and David sorted quickly through the junk

mail and picked out the letters from Debra's American agent, and two

envelopes with Israeli stamps.  Of these one was addressed in a doctor's

prescription scrawl, and David was surprised that it had found its

destination.  The writing on the second envelope was unmistakable, it

marched in martial ranks, each letter in step with the next, and the

high strokes were like the weapons of a company of pike men, spiky and

abrupt.

David found a bench in the park under the purple jacaranda trees, and he

opened Edelman's letter first.

It was in Hebrew, which made deciphering even more difficult.

Dear David, Your letter came as a surprise, and I have since studied the

X-ray plates once more.  They seem unequivocal, and upon an

interpretation of them I would not hesitate to confirm my original

prognosis Despite himself, David felt the small stirrings of relief.

However, if I have learned anything in twenty-five years of practice, it

is humility.  I can only accept that your observations of

light-sensitivity are correct.

Having done so, then I must also accept that there is at least partial

function of the optic nerves.  This presupposes that the nerve was not

completely divided, and it seems reasonable to believe now that it was

only partially severed, and that now, possibly due to the head blows

that Debra received, it has regained some function.

The crucial question is just how great that recovery is, and again I

must warn you that it may be as minimal as it is at the present time,

when it amounts to nothing more than light sensitivity without any

increase to the amount of vision.  It may, however, be greater, and it

is within the realms of possibility that with treatment some portion of

sight may be regained.

I do not expect, however, that this will ever amount to more than a

vague definition of light or shape, and a decision would have to be made

as to whether any possible benefit might not be outweighed by the

undesirability of surgery within such a vulnerable area.

I would, of course, be all too willing to examine Debra myself. However,

it will probably be incan venient for you to journey to Jerusalem, and I

have therefore taken the liberty of writing to a colleague of mine in

Cape Town who is one of the leading world authorities on optical trauma.

He is Dr. Ruben Friedman and I enclose a copy of my letter to him.

You will see that I have also despatched to him Debra's original X-ray

plates and a clinical history of her case.

I would recommend most strongly that you take the first opportunity of

presenting Debra to Dr. Friedman, and that you place in him your

complete confidence.  I might add that the optical unit of Groote Schuur

Hospital is rightly world-renowned and fully equipped to provide any

treatment necessary

, they do not restrict their activities to heart transplants!

I have taken the liberty of showing your letter to General Mordecai, and

of discussing the case with him David folded the letter the carefully.

Why the hell did he have to bring the Brig into it, talk about a war

horse in a rose garden, and he opened the Brig's letter.

Dear David, Dr. Edelman has spoken with me.  I have telephoned Friedman

in Cape Town, and he has agreed to see Debra.

For some years I have been postponing a lecture tour to South Africa

which the S.  A.  Zionist Council has been urging upon me.  I have today

written to them and asked them to make the arrangements.

This will give us the excuse to bring Debra to Cape Town.  Tell her I

have insufficient time to visit you on your farm but insist upon seeing

her.

I will give you my dates later, and expect to see you then It was in

typical style, brusque and commanding, presupposing aquiescence.  It was

out of David's hands now.

There was no turning back, but there was still the chance that it would

not work.  He found himself hoping for that, and his own selfishness

sickened him a little.

He turned over the letter and on the reverse he drafted a dummy letter

from the Brig setting out his plans for the forthcoming tour.  This was

for Debra, and he found faint amusement in aping the Brig's style, so

that he might read it aloud to Debra convincingly.

Debra was ecstatic when he read it to her and he experienced a twinge of

conscience at his deceit.

It will be wonderful seeing him again, I wonder if Mother will be coming

out with him -?  He didn't say, but I doubt it.  'David sorted the

American mail into chronological order from the post marks, and read

them to her.  The first two were editorial comment on Burning Bright and

were set aside for detailed reply, but the third letter was another with

hard news.

United Artists wanted to film A Place of our Owen and were talking

impressively heavy figures for the twelve-month option against an

outright purchase of the property and a small percentage of the profits.

However, if Debra would go to California and write the screenplay, Bobby

Dugan felt sure he could roll it all into a quartermillion-dollar

package.  He wanted her to weigh the fact that even established

novelists were seldom asked to write their own screenplays– this was an

offer not to be lightly spurned, and he urged Debra to accept.

Who needs people?  Debra laughed it away quickly, too quickly, and David

caught the wistful expression before she turned her head away and asked

brighty, Have you got any of that champagne left, Morgan?  I think we

can celebrate, don't you?

The way you're going, Morgan, I'd best lay in a store of the stuff, he

replied, and went to the gas refrigerator.

It foamed to the rim of the glass as he poured the wine, and before it

subsided and he had carried the glass to her, he had made his decision.

Let's take his advice seriously, and think about you going to Hollywood,

he said, and put the glass in her hand.

What's to think about?  she asked.  This is where we belong.  'No, let's

wait a while before replying What do you mean? She lowered the glass

without tasting the wine.

We will wait until, let's say, until after we have seen the Brig in Cape

Town.  Why?  She looked puzzled.  Why should it be different then?

No reason.  It's just that it is an important decision the choice of

time is arbitrary, however.  Beseder!  she agreed readily, and raised

the glass to toast him.  I love you.  I love you, he said, and as he