‘Well, now that I’ve found my voice, allow me to introduce myself,’ he continued calmly. ‘Bonsoir. Comment allez-vous? The name is Xavier. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have run into you again.’
And with that, and in lieu of a handshake, Xavier lifted the rock high above his head and made good on a promise that he had made to himself during his first night at Leiden Castle.
To kill the man with the swinging hammer.
28
Xavier sat on the bench under the shade of his dying hut, a cut-throat razor swinging between his fingers. Although barely mid-morning, bloated beads of sweat already clung like ticks to his neck. As he held up the blade to his face and prepared for what would be his first shave in more than two weeks, he took a moment to consider his reflection in the steel. He was pleased by what the world saw of him. Unlike so many other hunters who spent their days trawling through the bush, whose hard and sun-lined features embodied the nature of their work, he carried the looks of a man more suited to a life in high political office or perhaps even treading the boards in London’s West End. His dark hair and bright green eyes were undermined only by a faint scar that trailed down the length of his left cheek. The man who gave it to him, in a drunken knife fight outside a bar in Northern Rhodesia, lived to regret it – for a period spanning less than a minute. Despite how the wound had angered him at the time, in many ways he was now grateful to the man. The scar added an agreeable and sometimes necessary edge to his presence. It was of particular use when negotiating with new buyers – men who were not yet familiar with him or his ways, who sometimes imagined they saw kindness or even weakness behind his features where none existed. The old wound acted in tandem with both his large frame and a number of vivid tattoos that stained his arms and neck – etchings of birds, winged horses and black angels coalescing with French verses.
‘What are you going to do with her?’ Requin whispered, perched on the edge of the bench, his eyes shifting between his brother and the naked young prostitute standing in the burning sun. They had picked her up in town and promised her more money if she would accompany them back to their cabin. They had assured her it was only a few miles away. This, like the promise of a larger payment, had been a lie.
‘How about I–’ Requin began.
‘Please let me go! I’ve done everything you’ve asked,’ the girl suddenly pleaded, her face red and swollen from a night spent in Xavier’s bed.
‘Please be quiet, darling,’ Xavier cooed, drawing the cut-throat over his chin.
The girl hugged herself, stepping nervously from foot to foot. ‘You’re going to kill me … aren’t you? I know you are!’
Xavier frowned and pressed the blade to his mouth, encouraging her silence. ‘You’ll be free to go in a few minutes. You have my word.’
She nodded more in hope than expectation, her eyes wet with fear. ‘Really?’
‘Oui,’ he said, and then quickly shook his head, dismissing his reply. ‘Forgive me, sometimes I think I’m still in France.’
The girl bit down on her lip and began to recite a prayer.
When Xavier had finished shaving, he dabbed his face with his shirt and rose to his feet. He rubbed the back of his neck and then smiled generously at the girl. ‘Before you go … I would like one dance. That’s all I ask.’
She shook her head.
‘Please, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want one quick dance and you are free to be on your way.’
Her shoulders slumped and she stepped towards him, her small breasts quivering as she sobbed. Xavier reached for her hand and drew her into him. ‘Wait for it,’ he said, holding a finger up to his ear.
She listened, but could hear nothing. ‘For what?’
‘The music, of course,’ he replied softly, his eyes narrowing. ‘And two … and three and–’ Suddenly they were off, Xavier up on his toes, spinning her around in the ankle-deep sand. Not wanting to anger him, she indulged him, trying her best to follow the silent song.
‘That’s it! Dance! Dance!’ Requin cried out, leaping up and reaching for an imaginary dance partner of his own.
As the three of them kicked up plumes of dust, twirling and swaying as though they were gliding across the polished floor of a Paris ballroom, Xavier began to hum the music in his head. ‘Hmmmm … mmmm … uhhhh … mmmm … mmmm … hmmmm … mmmm … uhhhh … mmmm … uhhhh.’
When he was finally satisfied, he lowered down and gently kissed the girl’s trembling hand. ‘A pleasure, mademoiselle. What an angel you are.’
The girl blinked uncertainly. ‘Can I go now?’
He bowed and swept an arm out towards the horizon. ‘Of course. I’m a man of my word. You are free to fly.’
Worried that he might change his mind, the girl snatched her soiled dress off the table and fled towards a bank of tall trees. She was miles from anywhere, she knew. But she didn’t care. She had to get away.
As Xavier watched her run, admiring her young form, he slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘I said I’d let you go, mademoiselle. I didn’t say I’d let you live.’ He looked across at his brother and tossed him the cut-throat. ‘Just make sure you put her in the river when you’re done. She must be a memory by sunset.’
Needing no further encouragement, Requin slipped the blade under his belt and ran into the sunshine like a child chasing a butterfly.
Already the blood was rushing into his groin.
29
There was something extraordinary about wandering down the middle of the great Limpopo River. A touch of the forbidden, Derek thought. It felt as though he were exploring a channel of dry ocean bed haunted by the ghosts of old sea wrecks. He found himself checking the horizon every so often, each time expecting to see a wall of water rushing towards him. The chances of the river coming down in flood were remote, but still he watched for it. Just because a child knew he was alone in the dark, that did not stop him from looking over his shoulder. Relieved to have stolen past Crook’s Corner – somewhat providentially under the cover of darkness – Derek had now depleted the last of his rations and was eagerly searching the banks for the distinctive St George’s cross. The promise of fresh food was making his head spin.
Parts of the river were spectacularly dry – a finely ground chalk dust – while other portions were littered with small pans of water, some ring-fenced by crocodiles. Their presence, however, did little to perturb Shawu. When thirsty, she would simply wade out into the water and drink freely. Not surprisingly, the crocodiles were content to make room for her. When Derek wanted a drink he would first have to find an unoccupied pan and then dig a hole a few yards away from it. The water would then drain through the sand, filtering away most of the excrement that so many of the animals left at the water’s edge. It was one of Maquaasi’s earliest and most valuable lessons.
Derek was applying a fresh coat of mud to his arms and neck, cursing the infernal sun and wondering why the hell there were so many clouds in Europe yet such a paucity of them in Africa, when something pulsed in the distance. Intrigued, he cupped his hands over his eyes. It shimmered through the heat before assuming a meaningful shape.
It was the vivid scarlet of the St George’s cross.
‘Yes,’ he uttered, his spirits lifting. He had been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to spot the painted rock and would ghost past it, especially in poor light. He assumed it would be small, perhaps the size of a football. But, as he should have known, Edward had shared his concern and had severely overcompensated, choosing a rock the size and shape of a truck. Although an obscene beacon, it was a welcome sight.
Ignoring his aching legs, he broke into a run. Passing Shawu, his boots churned up small sand clouds until he was scrambling up the bank. He immediately slapped his hands onto the painted rock – just to make sure it was real – and then sunk to his knees and began to dig furiously at its base. He was barely two feet down when his hand struck something solid. He widened the hole, traced a line around the object, and pri
ed it up. It was an old metal case more than twice the size of a large cake tin.
He ran his fingers along its sides and found a small latch. Before opening it, he looked up and saw that Shawu had caught up to him and was now standing in the river bed below, watching with interest.
‘Maybe there’s something in here for you,’ he beamed.
Looking back down, he flicked open the latch and lifted the lid. The contents were wrapped in a fresh cloth firmly secured with twine. Hastily untying the knot, he unfurled the material and nearly wept at what it revealed. A large packet of rusks, handfuls of biscuits, a canister of fruit juice, three more of water, some dried fruit and vegetables, some brandy, a flint and several other basic supplies. There was even a newspaper. But of all the items that competed for his attention, two things immediately commanded it. Wrapped in a smaller cloth was a brandy-soaked fruit cake. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was shoving handfuls of the sticky dessert into his mouth, grateful almost to the point of tears for its inclusion. Nothing, he was certain, had ever tasted this good. As he finished the last of it and felt his stomach stretch and bloat in appreciation, he placed the box down at his feet and pulled out the second item. Staring at it, he noticed his hands were shaking slightly.
It was an envelope.
Derek,
For the second time this year, I’m writing a letter that I pray finds you in good health.
In travelling here we crossed over vast tracts of burnt land and I can only hope and trust that you and Shawu were untouched by it.
Speaking of the great elephant, I hope there is no longer a cloud over her health and that she is recovering well. Upon which, I have some wonderful news to share with you. Andrew and I managed to find the place where Shawu’s family came under attack and have made a fascinating discovery. We found several tracks leading away from the area. We believe that Shawu is not the sole survivor. We suspect strongly that there are others. And if this is true then there is a good chance that she is trying to track them down. You may soon be the guardian of a remarkable herd.
Of course, you may well have already worked this out for yourself. In which case I have no doubt that you are just as encouraged as we are.
Anyway, I hope the supplies we have left you will serve you well and go some distance towards giving you the strength you will no doubt need for the next part of your journey.
I look forward to hearing about your exploits so far, but in truth would settle for plain news that you are alive and in good spirits.
And that the gods have not found you with one of their baobabs.
Yours,
Ed
Surprised by the general solemnity of his brother’s words, Derek took a moment before slipping the page into his pocket. He withdrew his own letter and dropped it into the empty case. After he had buried it, he straightened up and saw that Shawu had still not moved. Despite the urgency of her passage, she seemed strangely content to wait for him. Only when he made his way down the embankment, did she begin to lumber forward.
As she drifted past him, floating as she always did, Derek smiled and held out a large orange.
‘I was right,’ he said. ‘There was something in there for you.’
30
While initially buoyed by the riverside consignment, the next five days gradually punctured Derek’s spirit. Conditions bordered on the unbearable. The searing heat and increasingly powdery river sand made walking extremely difficult. The only available cloud cover was created by sporadic swarms of flying insects, mostly mosquitoes, hovering at around mouth height. In some places, Derek had to breathe through his handkerchief to guard his throat from Africa’s most prolific murderer. To make matters worse, he was feeling decidedly weak and out of kilter and was beginning to wonder if he had contracted something worthy of concern. His ailments did not appear severe enough to suggest malaria, but his chest was tight and although he wasn’t quite hallucinating, some of his thoughts had become noticeably disjointed and irrational. Perhaps it was the sustained exposure to the heat, he thought. He found that he would coast between moments of ambivalence and periods in which he was gripped by a powerful paranoia, suddenly concerned that there were troops of poachers and ranks of German soldiers hiding among the trees on the riverbank. As if symptomatic of his misfiring mind, his body was also beginning to deteriorate. His ankles and knees ached from the mileage and his feet were bruised and blistered. Small pockets of blood pushed against two of his toenails. Still, the worst of it was the sun. The unyielding devil orb that brought on headaches so compelling that he was forced to walk for periods with his eyes shut. In stark contrast, Shawu was prospering, even revelling, in the conditions. Her limp had all but vanished and the sun was drying up and healing her wounds – the scabs from the lions darkening and crumbling away to nothing. To his considerable relief, her health no longer seemed in jeopardy.
As the late afternoon’s edges were finally blunted, Shawu veered off towards a small alcove against the riverbank. Grateful that the day’s journey was over, Derek dropped his bag and collapsed onto his back. Without looking, he reached over and fumbled for one of the water canisters from his bag. He took three large gulps before glancing up at the riverbank. As loathsome as it was, he knew that he would soon have to find somewhere to hang his hammock, as he was easy pickings for any number of night predators patrolling the river bed. But just not right now. He first needed a few minutes to relax. A chance to catch his breath, to give his pounding feet a break.
He watched as Shawu used her great bullet-pierced ears to fan herself. For the first time since he had known her, she seemed somehow lighter, more at ease with herself and her surroundings. Perhaps it was down to her improving health, he thought. Or, more likely, because she sensed they were closing in on her family and there was finally real cause for hope.
‘We’re not far now. Are we, Shawu?’ he called out.
She turned to look at him. In his mild delirium, he half-expected her to answer.
‘I can’t wait for us to find them,’ he continued, and then laughed. ‘It’s going to be one hell of a reunion.’
Reacting to the elevated pitch in his voice, something lively and propitious skipped across her eyes. Fanning herself more forcibly now, she suddenly shifted her weight onto her right side.
And now? Derek wondered.
Still listing, like a ship in a slow death roll, she raised her left front leg. The vast grey hull of her torso then swayed across and she lifted her right front leg. Then her back legs were brought into play, each lifting in turn. Back left. Back right. Front left. Front right. Repeat.
‘What the hell are you doing, Shawu?’ he shouted. Perhaps he was more ill than he thought. Was this a delusion? How could he tell? Mad people didn’t know they were mad, did they? Widening his stare, he watched as she continued the patterned movement for another minute, before drawing to a halt and leaning against the bank.
Sinking his head back into the sand, Derek closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what he had either just witnessed or had conjured up in his ailing mind. His last exhausted thought, before his weariness consumed him, seemed like lunacy.
He heard and then felt himself laugh, his cackles echoing across the river bed. Either he was considerably worse off than he thought, or Shawu – a member of an ancient elephant tribe – an animal capable of pulverising almost any living thing into oblivion, had just danced a jig for him.
Daybreak.
Derek tried to open his eyes beyond a narrow crack, but couldn’t at first. His eyelids, he was convinced, had been stitched together. As his mind peeled through layers of information, he began to get his bearings. The war was over, thank God for that. He was in Africa. In the bush. Following Shawu. Protecting her. But where the hell was he lying? He again tried to open his eyes and this time managed a slightly more expansive view of the world. His enemy, the sun, had only just breached the horizon and the familiar songs of river birds chorused as one. But why wasn’t he in his ham
mock? Had one of the ropes failed during the night? Had he fallen and hit his head? Was that why he felt so weary? As he moved his hands up from his sides, he felt the dry river sand drag along his knuckles. And that triggered his memory.
All at once, he was wide awake. He bolted upright and quickly scanned the area around him, realising that he had slept the entire night completely exposed in the river bed. He glanced down at his body, suddenly expecting to find one of his limbs missing, but was relieved to discover his appendages where he had left them. He had been extraordinarily fortunate. Any number of predators could have dragged him away to a violent and gruesome death. Although still vulnerable in the hammock, he always positioned himself as high up between two trees as possible, limiting his risk to only a desperate lion or a hungry leopard, perhaps, willing to scale the tree to get to him. And, even then, he gambled that the movement on the branches would rouse him before the animal could reach him. At which point he could use his rifle to defend himself. He checked the sand around him for tracks and was at once taken aback by what he discovered. There were some definite markings less than ten yards away from him, but they were not the prints of a predator. He felt a knot of emotion coil and expand in his throat. Realising how exposed he was, the great elephant had kept watch over him during the night. And for a few hours at least, the tables had been turned.
Shawu, the dancing elephant, had been his protector.
31
Derek rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Grateful to still have legs to stand on, he stretched, took in the early-morning air, and brushed a few stubborn grains of sand from his face. He had slept like the dead – an expression that so easily might have been a declaration of fact rather than a turn of phrase. Feeling slightly more like himself, he looked around, expecting to find Shawu somewhere up on the banks feeding, but couldn’t immediately spot her. He studied the trees for movement but, save for a lone buck and a few darting birds, everything was still. He gazed down the mouth of the river in both directions, but saw only blue sky and a forever vein of caramel sand.
Journey from Darkness Page 13
