Текст книги "Power of the Sword"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 51 страниц)

While the others stood guard, Klein Boy climbed to the nesting hole, carrying the rawhide bag.

It was many days more before Moses gave his carefully considered summation.

My brother, you and I are no longer of this life or this place. Already I have seen the first restlessness in you. I have seen you look out to the horizon with the expression of a man who longs to breast them. This life, so sweet at first, palls swiftly. The taste of beer goes flat on the tongue, and a man thinks of the brave things he has done, and the braver things which wait for him still somewhere out there. Hendrick smiled. You are a man of many skills, my brother, even that of looking into a man's head and reading his secret thoughts. We cannot stay here. The death stones are too dangerous to keep here, too dangerous to sell., Hendrick nodded. I am listening, he said.

There are things which I have to do. Things which I believe are in my destiny, and of which I have never spoken, not even to you. 'Speak of them now. I speak of the art which the white men call politics and from which we as black men are excluded. Hendrick made a dismissive scornful gesture. You read too many books. There is no profit or reward in that business. Leave it to the white men. You are wrong, my brother. In that art lie treasures which make your little white stones seem paltry. No, do not scoff. Hendrick opened his mouth and then closed it slowly. He had not truly thought about this before, but the young man facing him had a powerful presence, a quivering intensity which stirred and excited him although he did not understand fully the implication of his words.

My brother, I have decided. We will leave here. It is too small for us. Hendrick nodded. The thought did not disturb him. He had been a nomad all his life, and he was ready to move on again.

Not only this kraal, my brother. We will leave this land. 'Leave this land! Hendrick started up and then sank back on his stool.

,We have to do this. This land is too small for us and the stones. Where will we go? His brother held up his hand. We will discuss that soon, but first you must rid us of this white child you have brought amongst us. He is even more dangerous than the stones. He will bring the white police down upon us even more swiftly.

When you have done that, my brother, we will be ready to go on to do what we have to do. Swart Hendrick was a man of great strength, both physical and mental. He feared very little, would attempt anything and suffer much for what he wanted, but always he had followed someone else. Always there had been a man even fiercer and more fearless than he to lead him.

We will do as you say, my brother, he agreed, and he knew instinctively that he had found someone to replace the man he had left to die upon a rock in the desert.

I will wait here until the sun rises tomorrow, Swart Hendrick told the white boy. If you do not return by then, I will know you are safe. ,Will I see you again, Hennie? Manie asked wistfully, and Hendrick hesitated on the brink of empty promise.

I think that our feet will be on different paths from now on, Manie. He reached out and placed a hand on Manfred's shoulder. But I shall think of you often, and, who knows, one day the paths may come together again. He squeezed the boy's shoulder and he noticed that it was sheathed in muscle, like that of a man full grown. Go in peace, and be a man like your father was. He pushed Manfred away lightly, but the white boy lingered. Hendrick, he whispered, there are many things I want to say to you, but I do not have the words.

Hendrick said. We both know. It does not have to be spoken of. Go, Manie. Manfred picked up his pack and blanket roll and stepped out of the undergrowth onto the dusty rutted road. He started down towards the village, towards the spire of the church which he recognized somehow as a symbol of a new existence, that at once both beckoned and repelled him.

At the bend in the road he looked back. There was no sign of the big Ovambo, and he turned and trudged down the main street towards the church at the far end.

Without conscious decision he turned from the main street down a side opening and approached the pastory along the sanitary lane as he had done on the last visit with his father. The narrow lane was hedged with fleshy moroto plants, and he whiffed the sanitary buckets behind the little sliding doors of the outhouses that backed onto the lane. He hesitated at the back gate of the pastory and then lifted the latch and started at a snail's pace up the long pathway.

Halfway along the path he was stopped by a bellow, and he stared about him apprehensively. There was another roar and a loud voice lifted in exhortation or acrimonious argument. It came from a ramshackle building at the bottom of the yard, a large woodshed perhaps.

Manfred sidled down towards the shed and peered around the jamb of the door. The interior was dark but as his eyes adjusted Manfred saw that it was a toolroom, with an anvil and forge at one end and tools hanging on the walls. The earthen floor was bare and in the centre of it knelt Tromp Bierman, the trumpet of God.

He was wearing dark suit trousers and a white shirt with the white tie of his office. His suit jacket hung on a pair of blacksmith's tongs above the anvil. Tromp Bierman's bushy beard was pointed to the roof and his eyes were closed, his arms lifted in an attitude of surrender or supplication; but his tone was far from submissive.

Oh Lord God of Israel, I call upon you most urgently to give answer to your servant's prayers for guidance in this matter. How can I perform your will if I do not know what it is? I am only a humble instrument, I dare not take this decision alone. Look down, oh Lord God, have pity on my ignorance and stupidity and make known your intentions, Tromp broke off suddenly and opened his eyes. The great shaggy leonine head turned, and the eyes, like those of an Old Testament prophet, burned into Manfred's soul.

Hastily Manfred snatched the shapeless sweatstained hat from his head and held it with both hands to his chest.

I have come back, Oom, he said. Just like you said I must. Tromp stared at him ferociously. He saw a sturdy lad, broad-shouldered and with powerful shapely limbs, a head of dusty golden curls and contrasting eyebrows black as coal dust over strange topaz-coloured eyes. He tried to see beyond the pale surface of those eyes and was aware of an aura of determination and lucid intelligence that surrounded the youth.

Come here, he ordered, and Manfred dropped his pack and went to him. Tromp seized him by the hand and dragged him down.

Kneel, Jong, get down on your knees and give thanks to your Maker. Praise the Lord God of your fathers that he has heard my supplications on your behalf. Dutifully Manfred closed his eyes and clasped his hand.

Oh Lord, forgive your servant's importunity in bringing to your notice such other trivial matters, when in fact you were occupied with more dire affairs. We thank you for delivering into our care this young person, whom we shall temper and hone into a sword. A mighty blade that shall strike down the Philistine, a weapon that shall be wielded to your glory, in the just and righteous cause of your chosen people, the Afrikaner VoLk. He prodded Manfred with a forefinger like a pruning shear.

Amen! Manfred gasped at the pain.

We will glorify and praise you all the days of our life, O Lord, and we beg of you to bestow upon this chosen son of our people the fortitude and the determination, The prayer, punctuated by Manfred's fervent Amens lasted until Manfred's knees ached and he was dizzy with fatigue and hunger. Then suddenly Tromp hauled him to his feet and marched him up the path to the kitchen door.

Mevrou, the trumpet of God sounded. Where are you, woman? Trudi Bierman rushed breathlessly into the kitchen at the summons and then stopped aghast, staring at the boy in ragged, filthy clothing.

My kitchen, she wailed. My beautiful clean kitchen. I have just waxed the floor.

The Lord God has sent this Jong to us, Tromp intoned.

We will take him into our home. He will eat at our table, he will be as one of our own. But he is filthy as a kaffir. Then wash him, woman, wash him. At that moment a girl slipped timidly through the doorway behind the matronly figure of Trudi Bierman and then stiffened like a frightened fawn as she saw Manfred.

Manfred barely recognized Sarah. She had filled out, firm well-scrubbed flesh covered her elbows, which had so recently been bony lumps on sticklike arms. Her once pale cheeks were apple pink, the eyes that had been lacklustre were clear and bright, her blond hair, brushed until it shone,

was plaited into twin pigtails and pinned on top of her head, and she wore long modest but spotless skirts to her ankles.

She let out a cry and rushed at Manfred with arms outstretched, but Trudi Bierman seized her from behind and shook her soundly.

You lazy wicked girl. I left you to finish your sums. Back you go this instant. She pushed her roughly from the room and turned back to Manfred, her arms folded and her mouth pursed.

You are disgusting, she told him. Your hair is long as a girl's. Those clothes, Her expression hardened even more fearsomely. And we are Christian folk in this house. We'll have none of your father's godless wild ways, do you understand? I'm hungry, Aunt Trudi. You'll eat when everybody else eats, and not before you are clean. She looked at her husband. Menheer, will you show the boy how to build a fire in the hotwater geyser? She stood in the doorway of the tiny bathroom and remorselessly supervised his ablutions, brushing aside all his attempts at modesty and his protests at the temperature of the water, and when he faltered, taking the bar of blue mottled soap herself and scrubbing his most tender and intimate creases and folds.

Then with only a skimpy towel about his waist she led him by the ear down the back steps and sat him on a fruit box. She armed herself with a pair of sheep shears and Manfred's blond hair fell about his shoulders like wheat before the scythe. When he ran his hand over his scalp it was stubbly and bristly and the back of his neck and the skin behind his ears felt cool and draughty.

Trudi Bierman gathered up his discarded clothing with a pantomime of distaste and opened the furnace of the geyser.

Manfred was only just in time to rescue his jacket, and when she saw his expression as he backed away from her, holding the garment behind his back and surreptitiously fingering the small lumps in the lining, she shrugged.

Very well, perhaps with a wash and a few patches. In the meantime I'll find you some of the dominie's old things. Trudi Bierman took Manfred's appetite as a personal challenge to her kitchen and her culinary skills. She kept heaping his plate even before he had finished, standing over him with a ladle in one hand and the handle of the stew-pot in the other. When at last he fell back satiated, she went to fetch the milk tart from the pantry with a victorious gleam in her eye.

As strangers in the family, Manfred and Sarah were allocated the lowliest seats in the centre of the table, the two plump, pudding-faced, blond Bierman daughters sitting above them.

Sarah picked at her food so lightly that she earned Trudi Bierman's ire. I didn't cook good food for you to fiddle with, young lady. You'll sit here as long as it takes you to clean your plate, spinach and all, even if that takes all night., And Sarah chewed mechanically, never taking her eyes from Manfred's face.

It was the first time that Manfred had paid for a meal with two graces, before and after, and each of them seemed interminable. He was nodding and swaying in his chair when Tromp Bierman startled him fully awake with an Amen like a salvo of artillery.

The pastory was already groaning at the seams with Sarah and the Bierman offspring. There was no place for Manfred, so he was allocated a corner of the tool-shed at the bottom of the yard. Aunt Trudi had turned a packing case on end to act as a cupboard for his few cast-off items of clothing and there was an iron bed with a hard lumpy coir mattress and a faded old curtain hung on a string to screen his sleeping corner.

Don't waste the candle, Aunt Trudi cautioned him from the doorway of the tool-shed. You will only get a new one on the first day of each month. We are thrifty folk here.

None of your father's extravagances, thank you! Manfred pulled the thin grey blanket over his head to protect his naked scalp from the chill. It was the first time in his life that he had had a bed and room of his own and he revelled in the sensation, sniffing the aroma of axle grease and paraffin and the dead coals in the forge as he fell asleep.

He woke to a light touch on his cheek and cried out confused images rushed out of the darkness to terrify him.

He had dreamed of his father's hand, reeking of gangrene, that had reached across from the far side of the grave and he struggled up from under the blanket.

Manie, Manie. It's me. Sarah's voice was as terrified as his own cry had been. She was silhouetted by the moonlight through the single un-curtained window, thin and shivering in a white nightdress, her hair brushed out and hanging to her shoulders in a silvery cloud.

What are you doing here? he mumbled. You mustn't come here. You must go. If they find you here they will, he broke off. He was not sure what the consequences would be, but he knew instinctively that they would be severe.

This strange but pleasant new sense of security and belonging would be shattered.

I've been so unhappy. He could tell by her voice that she was crying. Ever since you went away. The girls are so cruel they call me vuilgoed, "trash". They tease me because I can't read and do sums the way they can and because I speak funny. I've cried every night since you went away. Manfred's heart went out to her, and despite his nervousness at being discovered, he reached out for her and drew her down onto the bed. I'm here now. I'll look after you, Sarie, he whispered. I won't let them tease you any more. She sobbed against his neck, and he told her sternly, I don't want any more crying, Sarie. You aren't a baby any more. You must be brave. I was crying because I was happy, she sniffed.

No more crying, not even when you are happy, he ordered. Do you understand? And she nodded furiously, and made a little choking sound as she brought her tears under control.

I've thought about you every day, she whispered. I prayed to God to bring you back like you promised. Can I get into bed with you, Manie? I'm cold. No, he said firmly. You must go back, before they catch you here. Just for a moment, she pleaded and before he could protest she had wriggled around, lifted the blanket and slipped under the corner.

She wrapped herself around him. The nightdress was thin and worn, her body cold and shivery, and he could not bring himself to chase her out.

,Five minutes, he muttered. Then you have to go. Swiftly the heat flowed back into her small body, and her hair was soft against his face and smelt good, like the fur of an unweaned kitten, milky and warm. She made him feel old and important, and he stroked her hair with a paternal proprietary feeling.

Do you think God answers our prayers? she asked softly.

I prayed the hardest I know how, and here you are, just like I asked. She was silent a moment. But it took a long time and a lot of prayers. I don't know about prayers, he admitted. My pa never prayed much. He never taught me how. Well, you better get used to it now, she warned him. In this house, everybody prays all the time. When she at last crept out of the tool-shed back to the big house, she left a warm patch on the mattress, and a warmer place in his heart.

It was still dark when Manfred was roused by a blast from the Trumpet of God in person.

Ten seconds and then you get a bucket of cold water, long. And Uncle Tromp led him, shivering and covered in goosebumps, to the trough beside the stables.

Cold water is the best cure for the sins of the young flesh, Jong, Uncle Tromp told him with relish. You will muck out the stables and curry the pony before breakfast, do you hear? The day was a dizzying succession of labour and prayer, the household chores sandwiched between long sessions of school work and even longer sessions on their knees, while either Uncle Tromp or Aunt Trudi exhorted God to step up their performance or visit them with all kinds of retribution.

Yet by the end of the first week Manfred had subtly rearranged the pecking order amongst the perman younger members of the household. He had quelled the Bierman girls first furtive but concerted attempts at mockery with a steady implacable stare from his yellow eyes, and they retreated in twittering consternation.

Over the school books it was different. His cousins were all dedicated scholars, with the benefit of a lifetime of enforced study. As Manfred grimly applied himself to the tome of German grammar and Melckes Mathematics for Secondary Schools, their smug self-satisfied smiles at his floundering replies to Aunt Trudi's catechism were all the incentive he needed.

I'll show them, he promised himself, and he was so committed to the task of catching and overhauling his cousins that it was days before he became aware of how the Bierman girls were victimizing little Sarah. Their cruelty was refined and secretive; a jibe, a name, a mocking face; calculated exclusion from their games and laughter; sabotage of her domestic chores, a soot stain on garments Sarah had just ironed, rumpled linen on a bed she had just made, grease marks on dishes she had washed; and vicious grins when Sarah was chastised for laziness and negligence by Aunt Trudy who was only too pleased to perform this godly duty, with the back of a hairbrush.

Manfred caught each of the Bierman girls alone. Held them by the pigtails and looked into their eyes from a range of a few inches while he spoke in a soft measured voice that hissed with passion and ended – and don't run and tell tales to your mother, either. Their deliberate cruelty ended with dramatic suddenness, and under Manfred's protection Sarah was left severely alone.

At the end of that first week, after the fifth church service of a long, tedious Sunday, one of the cousins appeared in the doorway of the tool-shed where Manfred was stretched on his bed with his German grammar.

My pa wants to see you in his study. And the messenger wrung one hand in a parody of looming disaster.

Manfred soused his short-cropped hair under the tap and tried to brush it flat in the splinter of mirror wedged above his bed. It immediately sprang up again in damp spikes and he gave up the effort and hurried to answer the summons.

He had never been allowed into the front rooms of the pastory. They were sacrosanct, and of these the dominie's

study was the holy of holies. He knew from warnings, repeated by his cousins with morbid relish, that a summons to this room was always associated with punishment and pain. He trembled on the threshold, knowing that Sarah's nightly visits to the tool-shed had been discovered, and he started wildly at the bellow that answered his timid knock, then pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.

Uncle Tromp stood behind the sombre stinkwood desk, leaning on clenched fists that were placed in the centre of the blotter. Come in, Jong. Shut the door. Don't just stand there! he roared and dropped heavily into his chair.

Manfred stood before him, trying to form the words of repentance and atonement, but before he could utter them, Uncle Tromp spoke again.

Well, Jong, I have had reports of you from your aunt. His tone was at odds with his ferocious expression. She tells me that your education has been sadly neglected, but that You are willing and seem to be applying yourself. Manfred sagged with relief so intense that he had difficulty following the long exhortation that followed. We are the underdogs, long. We are the victims of oppression and Milnerism. Manfred knew about Lord Milner from his father; the notorious English governor and opponent of Afrikanderdom under whose decree all children who spoke the Afrikaans language in school were forced to wear a dunce's cap with the legend I am a donkey, I spoke Dutch inscribed upon it. There is Only one way that we can overcome our enemies, Jong. We have to become cleverer and stronger and more ruthless than they are. The Trumpet of God became so absorbed by his own words, that he lifted his gaze to the elaborate patterns of the fancy plastered ceiling and his eyes glazed over with a mixture of religious and political fanaticism, leaving Manfred free to glance around him furtively at the over-furnished room.

Bookshelves covered three walls, all of them stacked with religious and serious tomes. John Calvin and the authors of the Presbyterian form of church government predominated, though there were works of history and philosophy, law and biography, dictionaries and encyclopaedia and shelves of hymns and collected sermons in High Dutch, German and English.

The fourth wall, directly behind Uncle Tromp's desk, carried a gallery of photographs, stern ancestors in Sunday finery in the top row and then, below them, devout congregations or learned members of synod, all featuring amongst them the unmistakable likeness of Tromp Bierman – a gradually maturing and ageing succession of Tromps, from cleanshaven and bright-eyed youth to bearded leonine maturity in the front row.

Then, quite incongruously and startlingly, a framed and yellowing photograph, the largest of them all and situated in the most prominent position, depicting a young man stripped to the waist, wearing full-length tights, and about his middle a magnificent belt, gleaming with engraved silver buckles and medallions.

The man in the photograph was Tromp Bierman aged no more than twenty-five, cleanshaven, his hair parted in the middle and plastered flat with brilliantine, his powerful body marvellously muscled, his clenched fists held before him, crouching in the classic stance of the pugilist. A small table in front of him held a treasure of glittering cups and sporting trophies. The young man smiled out of the photograph, strikingly handsome, and in Manfred's eyes, impossibly dashing and romantic.

You are a boxer, he blurted out, unable to contain his wonder and admiration, and the Trumpet of God was cut off in mid-blast. The great shaggy head lowered, the eyes blinking as they readjusted to reality and then swivelling to follow Manfred's gaze.

Not just a boxer, said Uncle Tromp. But a champion.

Light heavyweight champion of the Union of South Africa. He looked back and saw the expression on Manfred's face, and his own expression warmed and melted with remembrance and gratification.

Did you win all those cups, and that belt? I surely did, Jong.

I smote the Philistines hip and thigh. I struck them down in their multitudes. Did you only fight Philistines, Uncle Tromp? They were all Philistines, Jong. As soon as they stepped into the ring with me they became Philistines and I fell upon them without mercy, like the hammer and the sword of the Almighty. Tromp Bierman lifted his clenched fists in front of him and shot out a swift tattoo of punches, firing them across the desk, stopping each blow only inches from Manfred's nose.

I made my living with these fists, jong. All corners at ten pounds a time. I fought Mike Williams and put him down in the sixth, the great Mike Williams himself. He grunted as he weaved and boxed in his chair Ha! Ha! Left! Right!

Left! I even thrashed the black Jephta, and I took the title from Jack Lalor in 1916. I can still hear the cheers now as Lalor hit the canvas. Sweet, my Jong, so very sweet, he broke off, and replaced his hands in his lap, his expression becoming dignified and stern once again. Then your Aunt Trudi and the Lord God of Israel called me from the ring to more important work. And the gleam of battle lust faded regretfully from Uncle Tromp's eyes.

Boxing and being champion, that would be the most important thing for me, Manfred breathed, and Tromp's gaze focused thoughtfully upon him. He looked him over carefully from the top of his cropped head to his large but well-proportioned feet in battered velskoen.

YOU want to learn to fight? He dropped his voice, and glanced at the door, a conspiratorial gesture.

Manfred could not answer; his throat was closed with excitement, but he nodded vigorously and Uncle Tromp went on in his normal piercing tones.

Your Aunt Trudi doesn't approve of brawling. Quite right too! Fisticuff s are for hooligans. Put the thought from your mind, Jong. Think on higher planes. He shook his head so A vigorously that his beard was disarranged, it took that effort to dislodge the notion from his own head, and he combed his beard with his fingers as he went on.

TO return to what I was saying. Your aunt and I think it best that you drop the name De La Rey for the time being.

You shall adopt the name Bierman until the notoriety of your father's trial fades. There has already been too much mention of that name in the newspapers, those organs of Lucifer. Your aunt is quite right in not allowing them into this house. There will be a great hoo-ha once the trial of your father begins in Windhoek next month. It could bring shame and disgrace on you and this family. My father's trial? Manfred stared at him without comprehension. But my father is dead. Dead? Is that what you thought? Tromp stood up and came around the desk. Forgive me, Jong. He placed both his huge hands on Manfred's shoulders. I have caused you unnecessary suffering by not speaking of this earlier. Your father is not dead. He has been captured by the police, and he will stand trial for his life at the Supreme Court in Windhoek on the twentieth of next month. He steadied Manfred as the boy reeled at the impact of the words and then went on with a gentle rumble. Now you understand why we want you to change your name, Jong. Sarah had hurried through her ironing and sneaked out of the house. She was perched now on top of the woodpile with her knees drawn up under her chin, hugging her legs with both arms as she watched Manfred at work. She loved to watch him with the axe. It was a long two -handed axe, with a red-painted head and a bright edge to the blade. Manie sharpened it on the whetstone until he could shave the fine gold hair off the back of his hand with it.

He had taken off his shirt and given it to her to hold. His chest and back were all shiny with sweat. She liked the way he smelled when he sweated, like newly baked bread, or like a sun-warm fig just picked from the tree.

Manfred laid another log in the cradle and stood back. He spat on the palms of his hands. He always did that and she involuntarily worked up a ball of spit in her own mouth in sympathy. Then he hefted the long axe and she tensed herself .

Five times table, he ordered, and swung the axe in a long looping blow. It hummed faintly over his head as he brought it down. The bright blade buried itself in the log with a clunk and at the same instant Manie gave a sharp explosive grunt of effort.

Five ones are five, she recited in time to the swinging axe.

Five twos are ten. Manie grunted and a white wedge of wood flew as high as his head.

Five threes are fifteen. The axe head spun a bright circle m the yellow light of the lowering sun, and Sarah chanted shrilly as the wood chips pelted down like hail.

The log dropped from the cradle in two pieces just as Sarah cried, 'Five tens are fifty. Manie stepped back and leaned on the axe handle, and grinned at her.

Very good, Sarie, not a single mistake. She preened with pleasure, and then stared over his shoulder, her expression suddenly stricken and guilty. She leapt down from the woodpile and in a swirl of skirts scampered back up the path to the house.

Manie turned quickly. Uncle Tromp was leaning against the corner of the tool-shed watching him.

I'm sorry, Uncle Tromp. He ducked his head. I know she shouldn't be here, but I just can't send her away. Uncle Tromp pushed himself away from the wall and came slowly to where Manfred stood. He moved like a great bear with long arms dangling, and he circled Manfred slowly, examining him with a small distracted frown creasing his forehead.

Manfred squirmed self-consciously, and Uncle Tromp prodded his gut with a large painful finger.

How old are you, jong? Manfred told him and Uncle Tromp nodded. 'Three years to full growth. You'll class light-heavy, I'd say, unless you make a spurt at the end and go full heavyweight. Manfred felt his skin prickle at the unfamiliar but somehow tremendously exciting terms, and Uncle Tromp left him and went to the woodpile. Deliberately he stripped off the dark jacket of his suit and folded it neatly. He laid it on the woodpile and then un-knotted. his white minister's tie and laid that meticulously on top of his jacket. He came back to Manfred rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

So you want to be a boxer? he asked, and Manfred nodded, unable to speak.

Put the axe away. Manfred buried the blade in the chopping stump and faced his uncle again. Uncle Tromp held up his open right hand, palm towards Manfred.

Hit it, he said. Manfred clenched his fist and made a tentative rOund-arm swing.

,you aren't knitting socks, long, you aren't kneading bread.

What are you, a man or a kitchen maid? Hit it, man. Hit it!

That's better, don't swing it around the back of your head, shoot it out! Harder! Harder! That's more like it. Now your left, that's it! Left! Right! Left! Uncle Tromp was holding up both hands now, swaying and dancing in front of him, and Manfred followed him eagerly, socking alternate fists into the big open palms.

All right. Tromp dropped his hands. Now hit me. Hit me in the face. Go on, hard as you can. Right on the button.

Let's see you knock me on my back. Manfred dropped his hands and stepped back.