'Stand,' commanded Petrus' father.
Garret stood and the chief unwrapped the package and handed it to the soldier.
It was a two foot long, cold steel made machete. The handle had been bound in green ox hide and the blade had been hand engraved with the random geometric shapes of traditional Ndebele design. It was a magnificent weapon. Like Petrus' assegai, it too came with a shoulder rig.
Garrett fell to his knees again.
'Thank you, great one,' he said.
The chief smiled.
Next, the village Sangoma, or witchdoctor came to the fore. He flicked a viscous black liquid over both of the friends and then he took a bunch of herbs and barks and started to whip Garret about the neck and shoulders, chanting as he did so.
Garrett grimaced in pain as the ancient witchdoctor whaled away at him, every hit leaving a raised red welt.
'It is a great honor,' encouraged Petrus. 'It will make you strong. Protect you from evil spirits.'
'When is it your turn?' Asked the soldier.
'Already had it done,' answered Petrus.
'When?'
'Oh - long time ago.'
After another two minutes Garrett started to suspect that the Sangoma had simply taken an instant dislike to him and was simply taking the opportunity to smack him senseless with a bundle of twigs.
Finally it stopped and the Sangoma spat in his hand, mixed the sputum with a pinch of brown powder and rubbed it into Garrett's hair.
Then, as one, everybody turned their backs on the two of them and walked away. There were no goodbyes, no good lucks. Nothing.
It was as if they no longer existed.
'Wow,' said Garrett. 'Was it something I said?'
Petrus smiled. 'No. But until we avenge Malusi's murder we walk outside of the tribe. We are as ghosts.'
'Tough break,' said Garrett. 'Who's driving?'
'Me,' answered Petrus. 'I know where we're going. Sort of.'
'Cool,' said Garrett. 'Before we get going,' he continued. 'How did you manage to organize that machete so quickly. I only just told you that I was going to accompany you?'
Petrus said nothing but he had the good grace to look a little sheepish.
'You knew,' exclaimed Garrett. 'You knew that I would come with you.'
Petrus laughed. 'Of course. We are brothers. True?'
Garrett joined in with his laughter.
'True,' he affirmed.
Ten hours of hard driving and Garret and Petrus were getting close to their destination. They were heading for Phalaborwa and had passed through towns with names as English as Ladysmith, Dundee and Newcastle, Afrikaans names like Volksrust and Lydenburg and African names like eNtokozweni and Kwazanele.
The murder had taken place just below Makuleke and Garret and Petrus had decided to follow the road from Makuleke until they found the actual site.
It was easy to find.
The landmine had torn a massive hole in the road. Four foot deep with a diameter of twenty feet across.
Shiny brass cartridges still littered the ground, even though it was a crime scene and the shells should have been collected as evidence.
Entire trees lay on the ground, shattered and stripped by the huge amount of firepower that had been laid down on the unsuspecting rangers.
With practiced sight both Garrett and Petrus relived the firefight. Noting where bodies had fallen and where the fire had come from.
Although literally gallons of blood had been shed during the fight, no sign of any stained the land. This was because any trace would have already been picked at by vultures or licked up by hyenas. In fact, the hyenas would even have swallowed any rocks and stones that had traces of blood on them.
Petrus stopped at the point that deduced that Malusi had been shot and he stood and stared at the patch of ground. 'It was here,' he said.
Garrett cast his eyes about the scene, marking well where each body had fallen and then he agreed.
'Yes. It was there.'
Petrus knelt and wiped his hand across the parched earth on which his young brother had spilled his last life's-blood.
'Talk to me,' he whispered.
The dry air sighed softly across the land, stirring the grass and kicking up tiny puffs of red dust.
'Talk to me,' insisted Petrus.
High above them a flock of mossie sparrows flickered across the sky, abruptly changing direction as a Cape Vulture flew past them.
'Talk to me.'
And in the distance. Right on the very edge of hearing, a lion roared.
The Zulu warrior stood up and smiled.
'Let's go,' he said to Garrett. 'We need to find out who did this.
Chapter 7
Bravo Nyathi was fifteen years old. His father had died six weeks before in a car crash leaving behind his mother, Bravo and seven other siblings aged from three to twelve.
Bravo's mother worked in the town of Phalaborwa as a domestic servant. She stayed on the premises and managed to get home once or, if she was lucky, twice a month.
Whenever she did come home she brought food, dried beans, maize meal, salt and sugar. She also gave any extra money to Bravo's grandmother who took care of the family.
But try as she might, Bravo's mother could simply not earn enough to feed nine people and herself. And although granny tried her utmost, collecting worms and grubs to supplement their food, the family was slowly starving to death.
Bravo knew that steps had to be taken. And in a land where adulthood is oft thrust upon the young, he now accepted that he was the de facto man-of-the-house. As such he decided on a plan.
There were rumors of a man in a nearby village. A man that lived in the shadow of the law. A tsotsi. He went by the moniker of King Kentucky and he was both respected and feared by many, if not all.
It was said that The King was a man that offered good money for rhino horn. Bravo was unsure of what exact amounts of cash were involved. The rumor-mill had put about amounts as high as two thousand Rands. Some said even higher. Whatever it was - it was more than Bravo's mother brought home in a year of domestic servitude.
This rumor in itself meant would have meant little to the youthful head-of-the-house because, in reality, although he would have no problem breaking into the Kruger National Game Park, he would have no way of actually killing one of the huge pachyderms. But King Kentucky, who was a wily operator, did more than simply buy the horn. He also hired out rifles and ammunition to the prospective poachers.
That weekend Bravo's mother visited home. She stayed the night, left granny with a wad of savings and left the next day, rushing so that she could get back to work early enough to be able to make her madam her Sunday dinner.
Bravo waited until everyone in the room was asleep and then, slowly and silently, he removed the meager wad of cash from under her pillow and he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
He knew that, without the money that he had just taken, his family would not last beyond the week. But, although he felt nervous, he was confident that he would return within a couple of days bringing back untold wealth. A conquering hero.
He walked through the night, following directions that he had gotten earlier that day. As the sun rose he walked into the King's village. He needed no directions to the tsotsi's house. There was only one western-style abode in the village. A massive sprawling bungalow, painted in many bright colors, a roof of tin and glazed windows in every room.
Bravo walked up to the front door, squatted down and waited. He would never nbe so crass as to knock on the door or call out. King Kentucky was a man of great importance and, as such, it was up to him to deign to notice the young man. Bravo would simply wait for as long as that took.
After two hours the front door opened and a man stepped out. He was huge, four or five vhins, bags of fat under his eyes, hand like over-inflated rubber gloves. and, despite the already appalling Africa heat, he was dressed in a three piece blue and silver pinstripe suit. Dark half moons of sweat had alrea
dy soaked through the underarms, edged with a rime of white salt. His face shone like iot had been rubbed with cooking oil.
He stared at Bravo for a few seconds. The boy did not stand up. That would have been disrespectful.
'What do you want, umfaan, child?'
'I am not an umfaan,' said Bravo. 'I am a madota.'
The big man chuckled, the rumble of V8 engine. 'My mistake. So, amadota. What do you seek.'
'I seek King Kentucky. I wish to work for him.'
'Come with me.'
The man turned and walked back into the house. Bravo stood and followed. The inside of the house was cooler than the outside, but only marginally. The walked down a corridor, past many closed doors. Bravo could hear muted conversation behind some of them
At the end of the corridor was a set of double width doors. The big man opened them and entered. Once again, Bravo followed.
The room contained many books, lined up on the walls like a public library. There was a large wooden desk. Two chairs in front of it and one behind.
The big man went behind the desk and sat down.
'Right,' he said. 'Talk to me.'
'Are you the King?' Asked Bravo.
'Some call me that,' admitted the big man. 'How can I help?'
'I want to hire a gun,' said Bravo.
The big man shook his head. 'No.'
'I have too,' insisted the boy. 'My family are starving. I need money.'
'I don't hire guns to children,' said the King. Before Bravo could argue the big man held his hand up. 'My word is final, boy. Do not anger me. If I rent you a gun, it will end in your death. Or maybe you will be arrested and the what? Personally I don't care about you but if the police get you then I am out by one gun. No. Leave.'
'I have money,' said Bravo, pulling the sheaf out and placing onb the desk in front of the King.
'I have spoken,' commanded the big man. 'If you are so interested in a life of crime then start with a knife. Sneak into someone's house at night, cut their throat and take their money. That way is better. You don't need a gun.'
'I don't want to steal,' said Bravo. 'What would be the point? No one here has any money except for you and no one would steal from you.'
'Well the why do you want a gun?'
'To kill the obhejane, the rhino.'
The King burst out laughing. 'You? Have you ever seen a rhino, boy?'
Bravo nodded. 'Plenty times. I live next to the fence at the Kruger Park. I know where all the holes in the fence are. Often, when I was younger, my friends and I would go into the park to look for Mopani worms and hunt birds. There I saw the rhino.'
The King stopped laughing and looked at the boy for a while. Solemn faced, intelligent, and desperate.
'So, you think that you could kill one and cut off its horn?'
'Yes,' affirmed Bravo.
The big man nodded. 'I think that you could,' he said. 'Wait.'
The King picked up a cell phone from his desk and dialed an number. Bravo could hear a phone ringing in another room in the vast rambling house.
'Sipho,' greeted the King. 'Bring me one of the old SKS rifles with five rounds of ammunition.' He looked up at Bravo. 'Would you like something to drink?'
The boy shrugged.
'Also, bring me a castle beer and a can of Fanta Orange. Be quick.' He disconnected the call and placed the phone back on the desktop.
A mere few minutes later someone knocked on the door and then walked in. They came forward and laid down a rifle on the desktop. It was wrapped in a piece of sacking. Next to it the placed a bottle of Castle lager and an ice cold can of Fanta Orange.
The King slid the can across to Bravo. The boy popped the seal and took a long swallow. His eyes watered with pleasure as the sweet ice-cold soda fizzed down his throat. It was the first time that he had ever tasted a soda and, to him, it was the most luxurious experience of his life.
In that instant he vowed to himself that, when he had killed his rhino and King Kentucky had paid him, he would purchase an entire case of the bright orange pop and drink it all in one sitting.
The King picked up the old Russian SKS rifle and unwrapped the sacking off it. It was already loaded. Five rounds in the magazine.
'Do you know how to work this?' He asked
Bravo shook his head. He had seen rifles before. AK 47's and bolt action hunting rifles but he had never actually held one.
'It's very simple,' said the big man. 'Inside there are five bullets. Don't worry about how they got there or such what, it doesn't concern you. This here is the trigger. You point the rifle at the rhino and pull the trigger. Each time you pull it the rifle will discharge one bullet. But before you do so you need to flick this small switch,' he indicated the safety. 'It must show this single dot here. Once you have done that it is good to go. Now, remember - you need to get close. As close as you can. Then you point at the rhino's head, preferably its eye, and pull the trigger until the bullets stop coming out. Okay? Then, when the rhino falls down you must take a knife and cut out its horn. Make sure that you cut deep, much of the horn is in the base. Do you have a big knife?'
Bravo nodded.
'Good.'
The King handed over the assault rifle. Bravo grunted as he took it. It was heavier than it looked.
'Now,' continued the King. 'Where do you live?'
Bravo told him.
'Good. You have three days to return with my rifle and my horn. If you do not come back within three days I will send my men to come looking for you. You do not ant that.'
'I will not let you down,' said Bravo.
'I know,' agreed King Kentucky as he pocketed the bundle of notes that Bravo had placed on the table.
'Now go,' he commanded as he threw the piece of sacking at Bravo. 'Wrap the weapon in that to conceal it. I will see you before three days is up.'
The boy bowed deeply and left the room.
Chapter 8
Garret and Petrus had simply consulted their map book and chosen the village that was closest to the point where Malusi had been ambushed. It seemed like a logical place to start their enquiries.
It was a mere fifteen-minute drive and by the time that they arrived the local headman was already waiting for him, having spotted the dust cloud from their vehicle some five minutes before.
The two of them climbed out of the cab and stretched, popping joints and groaning at stiff muscles.
The headman approached.
'Welcome, strangers,' he said as he walked towards them.
Garrett looked up and was surprised to see the man do a visible double take as he saw Petrus. He was even more surprised when the headman immediately prostrated himself on the ground in front of the Zulu prince.
'Baba,' he said. 'I cannot express my happiness at seeing your countenance once again. Truly, we all believed that you were dead.'
'Yeah well, apparently not,' said Petrus. 'Stand, old one. I come in peace, simply looking for information. Relax.'
'I see that one of us commands a little respect around here,' said Garrett.
Petrus grinned wryly. 'Yep. Probably got me mixed up with someone else. It happens a lot.'
The headman stood and beckoned them to follow him. As he walked he called for people, shouting out a string of instructions as they arrived to his calls. By the time they arrived at his hut, beer was already being brought and fires were been started.
The plaintive bleating of a goat could be heard as the villagers prepared it for slaughter.
Three small stools were placed outside the entrance to the headman's hut and small beerpots were offered.
Petrus lifted his pot, downed it in one mighty draft and smacked his lips loudly in appreciation. Taking his lead from him, Garrett proceeded to do the same.
The headman grinned and nodded, well pleased at their obvious enjoyment of his proffered refreshments.
Within minutes a platter of sliced goat meat arrived, prepared with the speed and skill of a master butcher. The chief scattered
a liberal handful of salt onto it and threw it straight onto the fire. It sizzled and spat and smoked. The fat melted and ran into the flames causing them to flare up in an orgy of heat.
Using his bare hands the chief flicked the charred slabs of meat from the fire and flicked them onto the wooden platter.
They ate without cutlery, using their teeth to saw through the tough, fragrant salted meat.
The strong gamey taste went perfectly with the tart African beer and Garrett ate his fill with genuine pleasure.
After they had eaten Garrett produced a pack of Gauloise and offered the headman and then Petrus. They all sat in silence for a while before they spoke and, when they finally did, it was, as custom dictated, initially about inconsequentialities. Weather, crops, cattle. The state of the youth. Petrus' father's health.
Finally Petrus deemed that it was time to discuss the real reasons that they were there.
Petrus told of his brother's murder and he resultant charge of vengeance that had been laid on him.
Then he lent forward and lowered his voice so that the headman had to lean towards him to hear.
'I need to know who did this,' he said.
The headman looked nervous. 'It had nothing to do with me or my people,' he said.
Petrus nodded. 'I know that,' he said. His voice now a sibilant whisper. 'If I even slightly suspected that you were involved, even now your family would be weeping over your corpse as their houses burned to the ground.'
The headman shuddered. 'There are many bad men around here. And many could have been involved. But, if I had to name one person who would know I would say; The General.'
'The General,' repeated Petrus.
'Yes. He is a youngster. One of the new breed. Doesn't respect the old ways, thinks that he's an American. Wears gold jewelry, sunglasses, tracksuits. Runs a village up North for a way. He works with some white men. Foreigners. He provides local muscle. Trackers. Information. They go into the Kruger with the white men and kill the obhejane. Also they kill anyone who tries to stop them. Even anyone who refuses to work for them. He tells everyone that he is ex Umkontowisiswe, ANC freedom fighter. But he is a liar. He is too young to have taken part in the struggle. Maybe he has had some military training because he runs the village like an army base.'
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 46
