Текст книги "The Burning Shore"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Swart Hendrick and the camp servants ran out to meet him, agog with curiosity, and Lothar gave his orders.

I want a separate shelter for the woman, alongside mine. Thatch the roof to keep it cool, and hang canvas sides we can raise to let in the breeze, and I want it ready by nightfall. He carried Centaine to his own cot and bathed her again before dressing her in one of the long nightgowns that Anna Stok had provided.

She was still not conscious, though once she opened her eyes. They were unfocused and dreamy, and she muttered in French so he could not understand.

He told her, You are safe. You are with friends. The pupils of her eyes reacted to light, which he knew was an encouraging sign, but the lids fluttered closed and she relapsed into unconsciousness, or sleep from which he was careful not to rouse her.

With access to his medicine chest again, Lothar was able to redress her wounds, spreading them liberally with an ointment which was his favourite cure-all inherited from his mother. He bound them up in fresh bandages.

By this time the child was once again hungry and letting it be widely known. Lothar had a milch-goat amongst his stock, and he held Shasa on his lap while he fed him the diluted goat's milk. Afterwards he tried to make Centaine drink a little warm soup, but she struggled weakly and almost choked. So he carried her to the shelter which his servants had completed, and laid her on a cot of laced rawhide thongs with a sheepskin mattress and fresh blankets. He placed the child besided her and during the night he woke more than once from a light sleep to go to them.

just before dawn he at last fell into deep sleep, only to be shaken awake almost immediately.

What is it? He reached instinctively for the rifle at his head.

Come quickly! Swart Hendrick's hoarse whisper at his ear. The cattle were restless. I thought it might be a lion. What is it, man? Lothar demanded irritably. Get on with it, spit it out. It was not a lion, much worse! There are wild San out there. They have been creeping around the camp all night. I think they are after the cattle. Lothar swung his legs over the cot and groped for his boots.

Have Vark Jan and Klein Boy returned yet? It would be easier with a large party.

Not yet, Hendrick shook his head.

Very well, we'll hunt alone. Saddle the horses. We must not let the little yellow devils get too much of a start on us. As he stood up, he checked the load of the Mauser, then pulled the sheepskin off his cot and stooped out of the shelter. He hurried to where Swart Hendrick was holding the horses.

O'wa had not been able to force himself to approach closer than two hundred paces to the camp of the strangers.

Even at that distance the strange sounds and odours that carried to him confused him. The ring of axe on wood, the clatter of a bucket, the bleat of a goat made him start; the smell of paraffin and soap, of coffee and woollen clothing troubled him, while the sounds of men speaking in unfamiliar cadence and harsh sibilance were as terrifying to him as the hissing of serpents.

He lay against the earth, his heart hammering painfully, and whispered to H'ani, Nam Child is with her own kind at last. She is lost to us, old grandmother. This is a sickness of the head, this crazy following after her. We both knew well that the others will murder us if they discover that we are here. Nam Child is hurt. You read the sign beneath the mopani tree where the naked carcass of the lion lay, H'ani whispered back. You saw her blood on the earth She is with her own kind, O'wa repeated stubbornly. They will care for her. She does not need us any more.

She went in the night and left us without a word of farewell. Old grandfather, I know that what you say is true, but how will I ever smile again if I never know how badly she has been hurt? How will I ever sleep again if I never see little Shasa safe at her breast? You risk both our lives for a glimpse of someone who has departed. They are dead to us now, leave them be. I risk my own life, my husband, for to me it has no further value if I do not know that Nam Child, the daughter of my heart if not of my own womb, is alive and will stay alive. I risk my own life for the touch of Shasa once more. I do not ask you to come with me. H'ani rose, and before he could protest, scuttled away into the shadows, heading towards the faint glow where the watch-fire showed through the trees. O'wa came up on his knees, but his courage failed him again, and he lay and covered his head with an arm.

Oh, stupid old woman, he lamented. Do you not know that without you my heart is a desert? When they kill you, I will die a hundred deaths to your one. H'ani crept towards the camp, circling downwind, watching the drift of smoke from the fire, for she knew that if the cattle or the horses scented her, they would stamp and mill and alert the camp. Every few paces she sank to the ground and listened with all her soul, staring into the shadows around the wagons and the crude huts of the encampment, watching for those tall, very black men, dressed in outlandish apparel and hung with glittering metal weapons.

They were all asleep, she could make out the shapes around the fire and the stink of their bodies in her nostrils made her shake with fear. She forced herself to rise and go forward, keeping one of the wagons between her and the sleeping men, until she could crouch beside the tall rear wheel of the wagon.

She was certain that Nam Child was in one of the thatched shelters, but to choose the wrong one would bring disaster upon her. She decided on the nearest of the shelters and crawled on her hands and knees to the entrance. Her eyes were good in the gloom, almost like those of a cat, but all she could see was a dark indefinite bundle on a raised structure at the far end of the shelter, a human shape, perhaps, but there was no way of being certain.

The shape stirred, and then coughed and grunted.

A man! Her heart thudded so loudly, she was certain it would wake him. She drew back, and crawled to the second shelter.

Here there was another sleeping form. H'ani crept towards it timidly, and when she was within arm's length, her nostrils flared. She recognized the milky smell of Shasa, and the odour of Nam Child's skin which to the old woman was as sweet as the wild melon.

She knelt beside the cot, and Shasa sensed her presence and whimpered. H'ani touched his forehead, and then slipped the tip of her little finger into his mouth. She had taught him well, all Bushmen children learned to be still under this special restraint, for the safety of the clan could depend on their silence. Sasha relaxed under the familiar touch and smell of the old woman.

H'ani felt for Nam Child's face. The heat of her cheeks told her that Nam Child was in light fever, and she leaned forward and smelled her breath. It was soured with pain and sickness, but lacked the rank feral stench of virulent infection. H'ani longed for the opportunity to examine and dress her wounds, but knew it was vain.

Instead she placed her lips against the girl's ear and whispered, My heart, my little bird, I call all the spirits of the clan to protect you. Your old grandfather and I will dance for you, to strengthen and cure you. The old woman's voice reached something deep in the unconscious girl's being. Images formed in her mind.

Old grandmother, she muttered, and smiled at the dream images. Old grandmother– I am with you, H'ani replied. I will be with you always and always– That was all she could say, for she could not risk the sob that crouched in her throat ready to burst through her lips. She touched them each once more, the child and the mother, on their lips and their closed eyes, then she rose and scuttled from the shelter. Her tears blinded her, her grief swamped her senses, she passed close to the thorn laager where the horses stood.

One of the horses snorted and stamped and tossed its head at the sharp unfamiliar scent. As H'ani disappeared into the night, one of the men lying beside the fire sat up and threw aside his blanket to go to the restless horses.

Halfway there, he paused and then stooped over the tiny footprint in the dust.

It was strange how weary H'ani felt now, as she and O'wa made their way back around the base of the mountain towards the secret valley.

While they had followed the trail of Nam Child and Shasa, she had felt as though she could run for ever, as though she were a young woman again, imbued with boundless energy and strength in her concern for the safety of the two she loved as dearly as she loved her ancient husband. Now, however, when she had turned her back upon them for ever, she felt the full weight of her age, and it pressed her down so that her usual alert swinging trot was reduced to a heavy plod, and the weariness ached in her legs and up her spine.

In front of her O'wa moved as slowly, and she sensed the effort that each pace cost him. in the time that it had taken the sun to rise a handspan above the horizon, both of them had been deprived of the force and purpose that made survival in their harsh world possible. Once more they had suffered terrible bereavement, but this time they did not have the will to rise above it.

Ahead of her O'wa hatted and sank down on his haunches. She had never in all the long years seen him so beaten, and when she squatted beside him, he turned his head slowly to her. Old grandmother, I am tired, he whispered. I would like to sleep for a long time. The sun hurts my eyes. He held up his hand to shield them.

It has been a long hard road, old grandfather, but we are at peace with the spirits of our clan, and Nam Child is safe with her own kind. We can rest awhile now. Suddenly she felt the grief come up her throat and she choked upon it, but there were no tears. It seemed that all the moisture had dried from her wizened old frame.

There were no tears, but the need to weep was like an arrow in her chest, and she rocked on her heels and made a little humming sound in her throat to try to alleviate the pain, so she did not hear the horses coming.

It was O'wa who dropped his hand from his eyes and cocked his head to the tremor on the still morning air, and when H'ani saw the fright in his eyes, she listened and heard it also.

We are discovered, said O'wa, and for a moment H'ani felt drained of even the will to run and hide.

They are close already. The same resignation was in his eyes, and it spurred the old woman.

She pulled him to his feet. On the open ground they will run us down with the ease of a cheetah taking a lame gazelle. She turned and looked to the mountain.

They were at the foot of the scree slope, with scattered brush and loose rock ramping gently up to the mountain's bulk.

If, H'ani whispered, if we could reach the top, no horse could follow us. It is too high, too steep, O'wa protested.

There is a way. With a bony finger, H'ani pointed out the faint track that zigzagged up the vast bare rocky flank of the mountain.

Look, old grandfather, see, the spirits of the mountain are showing us the way. Those are klipSpTinger, O'wa muttered. The two tiny chamois-like antelope, alarmed by the approach of horsemen in the forest below, went prancing lightly up the barely discernible track. They are not mountain spirits, O'wa repeated, watching the nimble brown animals fly almost straight up the tall rock-face.

I say they are spirits in the guise of antelope. H'ani dragged him towards the scree slope. I say they are showing us the way to escape our enemies. Hurry, you stupid and argumentative old man, there is no other way open to us. She took his hand in hers, and together they hopped and skipped from boulder to boulder, climbing with the awkward agility of a pair of ancient baboons up the tumbled rock of the scree slope.

However, before they reached the base of the cliff, O'wa was dragging back on her hand, and gasping with pain, reeling weakly as she urged him on.

My chest, he cried and staggered. In my chest an animal is eating my flesh, I can feel its teeth– and he fell heavily between two boulders.

We cannot stop, H'ani pleaded as she stood over him. We must go on.

She tried to drag him up.

There is such pain, he wheezed. I can feel its teeth ripping out my heart. With all her strength she heaved him into a sitting position, and at that moment there was a faint shout from the foot of the scree slope below them.

They have seen us, H'ani said, looking down at the two horsemen as they rode out of the forest. They are coming up after us. She watched them jump down from their horses, tether them and then come at the slope. One was a black man and the other had a head that shone like sunlight off a sheet of still water, and as they came on to the slope they shouted again, a fierce and jubilant sound, like the clamour of hunting hounds when they first take the scent.

That sound roused O'wa and with H'ani's help he came unsteadily to his feet, clutching at his chest. His lips had blanched and his eyes were like those of a mortally wounded gazelle; they terrified her as much as the shouts of the men below.

We must go on. Half-carrying, half-dragging him, she led him to the base of the cliff.

I cannot do it. His voice was so faint she had to put her ear to his lips. I cannot go up there. You can, she told him stoutly. I will lead you, place your feet where I place mine. And she went on to the rock, on to the steep pathway that the klipspringer had marked with their sharp pointed hooves, and behind her the old man came on unsteadily.

one hundred feet up they found a ledge, and it shielded them from the men below. They toiled upwards, clinging to the harsh abrasive surface with their fingertips, and the open drop below them seemed to steady O'wa. He climbed more determinedly. Once when he hesitated and swayed outwards from the wall, she reached back and caught his arm and held him until the fit of vertigo passed.

Follow me, she told him. Do not look down, old grandfather. Watch my feet and follow me. They went upwards, higher and still higher, and although the plain opened below them, yet the hunters were hidden beneath the sheer of the cliff.

Only a little further, she told him. See, there is the crest, just a little further and we will be safe. Here, give me your hand. And she reached out to help him over a bad place where the drop opened below them and they had to step across the void.

H'ani looked down between her feet and she saw them again, dwarfed by distance and foreshortened and misshapened by the overhead perspective. The two hunters were still at the base of the cliff, directly below her, looking up at her. The white man's face shone like a cloud, so strangely pale and yet so malignant, she thought. He lifted his arms and pointed at her with the long staff he carried.

H'ani had never seen a rifle before, and made no effort to hide herself as she stared down at him. She knew she was far out of range of an arrow from even the most powerful bow, and, unafraid, she leaned out from the narrow ledge for a better view of her enemy. She saw the white man's extended arms jerk, and a little feather of white smoke flew from the tip of his staff.

She never heard the rifle shot, for the bullet arrived before the sound. It was a soft lead-nosed Mauser bullet and it entered low down in the front of her stomach and passed obliquely upwards, traversing her body, tearing through her bowels and her stomach, up through one lung and out through her back a few inches to one side of the spinal column. The force of the impact flung her backwards against the rock wall, and then her lifeless body bounced loosely forward and spun out over the edge.

Opwa cried out and reached for her as she went over.

He touched her with his fingertips, before she fell away from him and he teetered on the brink of the precipice.

My life! he called after her. My little heart! And the pain and the grief were too intense to be borne. He let his body sway outwards, and as it passed its centre of gravity, he cried softly, I am coming with you, old grandmother, to the very end of the journey."And he let himself plunge unresisting into the void, and the wind ripped at him as he fell, but he made not another sound, not ever.

Lothar De La Rey had to climb twenty feet to where the body of one Bushman had wedged in a crack in the cliff face.

He saw it was the corpse of an old man, wrinkled and skeletal-thin, crushed by the fall and with the skin and flesh ripped away to expose the bone of his skull. There was very little blood, almost as though the sun and the wind had desiccated the tiny body while it was still alive.

About the narrow, childlike waist there was a brief loin-cover of tanned rawhide and then, remarkably, a Ianyard from which dangled a clasp knife. It was an Admiralty-type knife with a horn handle such as British sailors carried, and Lothar had not expected to find a tool like this one on a Bushman's corpse in the wastes of the Kalahari. He unlooped the lanyard and dropped the knife into his pocket. There was nothing else of value or interest on the body, and he certainly would not bother to bury it. He left the old man jammed into the rocky crevice and climbed back down to where Swart Hendrick waited for him.

What did you find? Hendrick demanded.

Just an old man, but he had this. Lothar showed him the knife and Swart Hendrick nodded without particular interest.

Ja. They are terrible thieves, like monkeys. That's why they were creeping around our camp. Into the kloof there, amongst that horn bush. It will be dangerous to climb down. I would leave it. Stay here, then, Lothar told him and went to the edge of the deep ravine and looked down. The bottom was choked with dense Thorn growth, and the climb would indeed be dangerous, but Lothar felt a perverse whim to go against Swart Hendrick's advice.

it took him twenty minutes to reach the bottom of the ravine, and as long again to find the corpse of the Bushman he had shot. It was like trying to find a dead pheasant in thick scrub without a good gundog to sniff it out, and in the end it was only the buzz of big metallic-blue flies that led him to the hand protruding from a clump of scrub, with the pink palm uppermost. He dragged the body out of the thorn scrub by the wrist and realized that it was a female, an ancient hag with impossibly wrinkled skin and dangling breasts like a pair of empty tobacco pouches.

He grunted with satisfaction when he saw the bullet hole exactly where he had aimed. It had been an extremely difficult shot, at that range and deflected. He transferred his attention immediately from the bullet wound to the extraordinary decoration that the old woman wore around her neck.

Lothar had never seen anything like it in southern Africa, although in his father's collection there had been a Masai necklace from east Africa, which was vaguely similar. However, the Masai jewellery had been made with trade beads, while for this collar the old woman had collected coloured pebbles and had graded and arranged them with remarkable aesthetic appreciation. Then she had most cunningly fastened them into a breast plate that was at once strong and decorative.

Lothar realized that it would have considerable value for its rarity, and he rolled the old woman on to her face to unknot the string that held it at the back of her neck.

Blood from the massive exit wound had soaked the string, run down it and clotted on some of the coloured stones, but he wiped it off carefully.

Many of the stones were in their original crystalline form, and others were water-worn and polished. The old woman had probably picked them out of the gravel banks in the dry river beds. He turned them to catch the light and smiled with pleasure at the lovely sparkle of reflected sunlight. He wrapped the necklace in his bandanna and placed it carefully in his breast pocket.

One last glance at the dead Bushwoman convinced him that there was nothing else of interest about her, and Lothar left her lying on her face and turned to the difficult climb up the ravine wall to where Swart Hendrick waited above him.

Centaine became aware of the feeling of woven cloth upon her body, and it was so unfamiliar that it brought her to the very threshold of consciousness. She thought that she lay upon something soft, but she knew that was impossible, as was the filtered light through green canvas.

She was too tired to ponder these things, and when she tried to keep her eyelids open, they drooped against her best efforts and she became aware of her weakness. Her insides had been scooped out of her as though she were a soft-boiled egg, and only her brittle outer shell remained. The thought made her want to smile, but even that effort was too great and she drifted away into that lulling darkness again.

When next she became aware, it was to the sound of someone singing softly. She lay with her eyes closed and realized that she could understand the words. It was a love song, a lament for a girl that the singer had known before the war began.

It was a man's voice, and she thought it was one of the most thrilling voices she had ever heard. She did not want the song to end, but suddenly it broke off, and the man laughed.

So, you like that do you? he said in Afrikaans, and a child said, Da! Da! so loudly and so clearly that Centaine's eyelids flew open. It was Shasa's voice and every memory of that night with the lion in the mopani came rushing back at her, and she wanted to scream again.

My baby, save my baby! and she rolled her head from side to side, and found she was alone in a hut with thatched roof and canvas sides. She lay on a camp cot, and she was dressed in a long cool cotton nightgown.

Shasa! she called out, and tried to sit up. She managed only a spasmodic jerk, and her voice was a dull, hoarse whisper.

Shasa! This time she summoned all her strength. Shasa! and it came out as a croak.

There was a startled exclamation, and she heard a stoat clatter as it was overturned. The hut darkened as someone stepped into the doorway, and she rolled her head towards the opening, A man stood there. He was holding Shasa on his hip.

He was tall, with wide shoulders, but the light was behind him so she could not see his face.

So, the sleeping princess awakes– that deep, thrilling voice -at last, at long last. Still carrying her son, he stepped to the side of her cot and bent over her.

We have been worried, he said gently, and she looked up into the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, a golden man, with golden hair and yellow leopard's eyes in his tanned golden face.

On his hip Shasa bounced up and down and reached towards her.

Mama! My baby! She lifted one hand, and the stranger swung Shasa off his hip and placed him beside her on the cot.

Then he lifted Centaine's shoulders and propped her into a sitting position with a bolster behind her. His hands were brown and strong, yet the fingers were as elegant as those of a pianist.

Who are you? Her voice was a husky whisper, and there were dark smears below her eyes, the colour of fresh bruises.

My name is Lothar De La Rey, he answered, and Shasa clenched his fists and pounded his mother's shoulder in a gesture of overwhelming affection.

Gently! Lothar caught his wrist to restrain him. Your mama is not up to so much love, not yet. She saw how Lothar's expression softened as he looked at the child.

What happened to me? Centaine asked. Where am YOU were attacked and mauled by a lion. When I shot the beast, you fell out of the tree. She nodded. Yes, I remember that, but afterwards You suffered concussion and then the wounds from the lion claws mortified. How long? she breathed.

Six days, but the worst is past. Your leg is still very swollen and inflamed, Mevrou Courtney. She started. You use that name.

Where did you learn that name? i know that your name is Mevrou Centaine Courtney and that you were a survivor from the hospital ship Protea Castle. How? How do you know these things? I was sent by your father-in-law to search for you. My father-in-law? Colonel Courtney, and that woman, Anna Stok. Anna? Anna is alive? Centaine reached out and seized his wrist. is no doubt about that at all! Lothar laughed. ThereShe is very much alive. That is the most wonderful news! I thought she was drowned -Centaine broke off as she realized that she was still holding his wrist. She let her hand fall to her side and sank back against the bolster.

Tell me, she whispered, tell me everything. How is she? How did you know where to find me? Where is Anna now? When will I see her? Lothar laughed again. His teeth were very white. So many questions! He drew the stool to her cot. Where shall I begin? Begin with Anna, tell me all about her. He talked and she listened avidly, watching his face, asking another question as soon as one was answered, fighting off the weakness of her body to revel in the sound of his voice, in the intense pleasure of hearing glad tidings of the real world from which she had been so long excluded, of communicating with one of her own kind and looking on a white and civilized face again.

The day was almost gone, the evening gloom filling her little shelter when Shasa let out a demanding shout and Lothar broke off.

He is hungry."I will feed him if you will leave us a while, Mijnheer."No, Lothar shook his head. You have lost your milk.

Centaine's head jerked as though the words were a blow in her face, and she stared at him while thoughts tumbled and crowded in her mind. Up to that moment she had been so wrapped up in listening and questioning that she had not considered that there was no other woman in the camp, that for six days she had been entirely helpless, and that somebody had tended her, washed her and changed her, fed her and dressed her wounds. But his words, such an intimate subject spoken of in direct fashion, brought all this home to her, and as she stared at him, she felt herself begin to blush with shame. Her cheeks flamed, those long brown fingers of his must have touched her where only one other man had touched before. She felt her eyes smart, as she realized what those yellow eyes of his must have looked upon.

She felt herself burning up with embarrassment, and then incredibly with a hot and shameful excitement, so that she had difficulty breathing, and she lowered her eyes and turned her head away so that he could not see her scarlet cheeks.

Lothar seemed to be entirely unaware of her predicament. Come on, soldier, let's show mama our new trick. He lifted SHasa and fed him with a spoon, and Shasa bounced on his lip and said, Hum! Hum! as he saw each spoonful coming, and then launched himself at it with mouth wide open. He likes you, Centaine said.

We are friends, Lothar admitted, as he removed the heavy coating of gruel from Shasa's forehead and chin and ears with a damp cloth.

You are good with children, Centaine whispered and saw the sudden biting pain reflected in the darkening gold of his eyes.

Once I had a son, he said, and placed Shasa at her side, then picked up the spoon and empty bowl and went to the doorway.

Where is your son? she called softly after him, and he paused in the opening, then turned slowly back to her. My son is dead, he said softly.

She was ripe and over-ripe for love. Her loneliness was a hunger so intense that it seemed it could not be assuaged, not even by those long languid conversations under the awning of the wagon tent when, with Shasa between them, they talked away the hottest hours of those lazy African days.

Mostly they discussed the things she held dearest, music and books. Although he preferred Goethe to Victor Hugo and Wagner to Verdi, these differences gave them grounds for amusing and satisfying dispute. in those arguments she discovered that his learning and scholarship far exceeded her own, but she strangely did not resent it.

it merely made her more attentive to his voice. It was a marvelous voice; after the clicking and grunting of the San language, she could listen to it for the lilt and cadence as though it were music in itself.

Sing for me! she ordered, when they had for the moment exhausted a particular topic. Both Shasa and I command it.

Your servant, of course! he smiled, and gave them a mocking little bow, then he sang without any selfconsciousness.

Take the chick and the hen will follow you Centaine had often heard Anna repeat the old proverb, and when she watched Shasa riding around the camp on Lothar's shoulder, she realized the wisdom behind it, for her eyes and her heart followed both of them.

At first she felt quick resentment whenever Shasa greeted Lothar with cries of Da! Da! That name should have been reserved for Michael alone. Then with a painful stab she remembered that Michael was lying in the cemetery at Mort Homme.

After that it was easy to smile when Shasals first attempts at walking unaided on his own two legs ended with a precipitous and headlong return to earth and he bawled for Lothar and crawled to him, seeking comfort.

It was Lothar's tenderness and gentleness with her son that nudged her affections and her need for him forward, for she recognized that beneath that handsome exterior he was a hard man and fierce. She saw the awe and respect in which his own men held him, and they were tough men themselves.

just once she witnessed him in a cold, killing rage that terrified her as much as it did the man against whom it was directed. Vark Jan, the wrinkled yellow Khoisan, in indolence and ignorance had ridden Lothar's hunting horse with an ill-fitting saddle and galled the creature's back almost to the bone. Lothar had knocked Vark Jan down with a fist to the head, and then cut the jacket and shirt off his back with razor strokes from his sjambok, a five-foot whip of cured hippo-hide, and left him unconscious in a puddle of his own blood.

The violence had appalled and frightened Centaine, for she had witnessed every brutal detail from where she lay on her cot beneath the awning. Later, however, when she was alone in her shelter, her revulsion faded and in its place was a trembly feeling of exhilaration and a heat in the pit of her stomach.