by Dan Gleed
Almost unable to maintain his sanity, Peter had begun to rock gently from side to side, hands pressed to his temples as he stared, practically unseeing, at the scarcely recognisable ruin of what had once been a vibrant young man. And as he did so, murderous, implacable intent blossomed full-formed in his heart. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would put a bullet through that lion and make sure it didn’t die quickly. For Peter the world had narrowed to a single dreadful spectacle, his whole existence distilled into a dream-like quality. Staggering to his feet he had steadied himself against John, whose distress and grief were all too quickly catching up with his own. Then, with a supreme effort, moving as if on autopilot, Peter had forced himself to step forward, to stoop and gather his son’s bloody remains together and to whisper to John, “Get one of the horse blankets and bring it here to me.”
His night would be spent in vigil. Alone. No one and nothing would come near his son now. Of that he was grimly certain. And from a short distance, John would watch over his boss, his own pain little less. Mzee had been dispatched with me and together we would take the dread news to Peta. It was enough for now. The morning would bring action. And with it, seething revenge.
Chapter 6
It took weeks for my leg to mend, but that was the easy part. What wouldn’t heal was the deep wound I felt in my spirit, the festering knowledge that I had failed. Failed my friend, failed myself, and been found utterly wanting the first time I’d ever needed to show any real courage. And boy, did that hurt. I can remember how the pain dug deep into my psyche, how it got into everything I did or thought, shredding my ego and whispering its insidious charge day in, day out. Slowly but surely, the memory of disaster and its associated pain ate into my soul, destroying me piece by piece more comprehensively than any physical wound could ever achieve. I had survived the leg break, but what I was singularly failing to do was learning to live with myself. True, the neighbours had all shown sympathy, treated me with kid gloves but, even so, I was in such a state of mental turmoil that it only took what, usually mistakenly, I assumed to be a thinly veiled reproach and I was off again.
Except where my father was concerned. He just came right out with it. Expected, of course, but no less destructive for all that. Every reserve I’d ever had was used up, finished. And my guard was down. I remember I became totally vulnerable. Eaten up by the unrelenting blackness of the despair I felt over Matt’s loss. Drowning in a remorseless and relentless self-criticism which can be the most insidious poison of all. Through it all I had tried desperately to come to terms with my cowardice, while picking at the wound almost every minute of every day. I neither knew nor really cared that, actually, I was no less a human than anyone else. I suppose I was too young and my idealism had not yet been tempered in the fires of life. I was completely unable to see that the only difference between me and the people who surrounded me was that I had been forced to meet my supreme test too young. Too untried. And all in the glaring light of the inevitable publicity; not only that of my own community, but that of the furthest reaches of East Africa. Kenya’s one national newspaper had splashed a biased report and an awful photograph of me right across its front page, and then kept the story running for days. There was no escape. No way out of the private Hell in which I was forced to live. I guess my mother had an inkling of the time bomb ticking away in me. So did Rosalind. And apparently they both ached for me. Together, they loved me but, stupidly, I could neither understand nor tap into the support on offer.
Mzee had brought me back as quickly as he could that night. I was barely conscious from the harrowing journey, with the bones of my broken leg grinding to the rhythm of the horse’s lurching, awkward gait. Nevertheless, the old man had pressed on, anxious to reach medical care. And I can remember thinking it would be a close run thing. Either he slowed up, or I wouldn’t make it anyway. At first, our approach had caused a collective sigh of relief amongst the assembled group because they had been waiting for news, any news, with growing apprehension. Several families had gathered swiftly, intuition and a well-developed and practiced sense of community drawing them to the Cryer homestead.
My mother had driven over from Eldoret in a hurry, her sudden high-speed appearance in the old Peugeot van covering everyone in a thin coating of red dust. Old Joe Payne was there, patriarch to the sprawling Moiben community and appreciated for his fund of knowledge on all things African. Flanked by the new arrivals to the community, Ted Lescal and his daughter Rosalind, they made an attractive group. Within minutes the Weavers joined them, driving in from the next farm over to the west. Apparently Mother had barely recognised the Lescals, but she had heard they were pleasant enough, fitting in quickly with the often insular, sometimes taciturn farming community. Together with the Salters and a number of farmhands, they already made a sizeable support party. Everyone had been trying to keep Peta’s spirits up, but the conversation had grown desultory amidst the mounting anxiety, heightened by the swift onset of tropical darkness.
Then had come the uneven beat of hooves and a general rush to the corral. Hastily seized paraffin pressure lamps cast warm pools of yellow light at their feet as they ran, compensating for the huge, malevolent shadows dancing counterpoint in the velvet blackness of the African night. As light and shadow mirrored the jerky swing of the hissing lanterns on their hooped metal handles, shouted enquiries brought no response from the two of us riding low in our saddles. Peta, running shoulder to shoulder with Lynn, bit back the sobs she could feel rising in her gullet as she saw who was and, more importantly, who was not there and how we sat our horses. Mzee with his normally ramrod straight back bowed and shoulders slumped. Me, barely holding on as I swayed drunkenly from side to side, throwing the horse’s natural rhythm.
Peta had felt the rising panic and knew she was close to losing control, knew she had to hold on, if only for the sake of her friends. They had lifted me tenderly enough, responding to my sudden howl of pain with swift and efficient consideration, rushing me into the house to fill me with one of the morphine ampoules kept by every isolated homestead. And all the while Mzee had waited outside, waited quietly to unburden himself of every detail of his macabre story, yet in no hurry to condemn Peta to the living nightmare he knew would forever blight her sensitive mother’s soul. Even the men, for all their outward show of strength, would remember this night as perhaps no other. And so, with me temporarily knocked cold, they crowded round the old hunter, a protective ring supporting Peta, and listened to the detail that only a tracker of Mzee’s consummate skill could relate. Every facet vivid and clear to the astute old mind and keen eye that saw everything, missed nothing. And as the story unfolded, their eyes had drifted from Mzee to Peta to my unused rifle now casually propped against the front door jamb. But Peta saw only the shadows flickering across Mzee’s earnest, expressive face, heard only the words of death that numbed her mind as her heart died little by little, and her body ached for the comfort of her husband’s arms. Shuddering, she lived again and again the light, phantom touch of Matt’s hand on her shoulder; his familiar, intimate gesture to the mother he loved. Her pain all the more intense from the so recent yet now forever final parting. Mercifully, when that pain reached full throttle, it had numbed her senses and, later, Peta would remember little of that lonely, empty and unending night.
Chapter 7
Rosalind, or ‘Roz’ as she preferred, leaned towards me, her brow creased with concern. Those who had carried me to the bed had left me lying on my side, upper arm extended across the bare mattress on which they had hastily positioned me. For now I was out cold, with my broken leg held immobile in a temporary splint formed from boards snatched from the very bed on which I lay. Mercifully, the pain would be dulled over the next few hours, but Roz could see there was more troubling me than a mangled leg, bad as that was. They told me later that despite the morphine-fuelled sleep, my head, which in those days was framed in short, dark, almost Romanesque curls, kept rocking left and right while low, feverish mutterin
gs escaped my slack lips.
Even in my obvious vulnerability, Roz later told me she couldn’t help but notice how lean and fit I seemed. How strikingly young I looked, despite the ravages of pain and morphine. Well, young women can be relied upon to respond to those in trouble. So it was hardly surprising that her heart beat a little faster as she stared down at me. It was the first time she had been able to linger beside me and no doubt her eyes had wandered down the length of my body, half naked as I recall, because the rough blanket had slipped from my bare torso. Later she told me her cheeks had flushed a sudden pink as her thoughts caught her unaware and she hastily withdrew the hand that had wandered out to caress my bare forearm, trailed carelessly towards her. Catching herself, she had shaken her head, bringing to an abrupt end the disconcerting thoughts which had so surprised her.
Raised voices transported her back to reality and a renewed awareness that she couldn’t actually hear what was going on out on the veranda. But she could sense the mood had changed. There was a new tone to their distant voices as they plied Mzee with sharp questions. What was going on? For a moment she was torn between staying with me as I lay helpless in front of her and joining her father outside, but she had promised to stand watch. Moreover, she found she couldn’t actually bring herself to leave, despite developments. Particularly as I had begun to jerk roughly from side to side, making her afraid I would damage myself even more. Even so, impatience gripped her as she strained to listen, only to discover it was hopeless. She would just have to wait. And when finally she did hear, she wished she hadn’t.
* * *
The funeral had been harrowing for everyone. Matt, or what little there was left of him, had been buried in the community graveyard beside the tiny church that was so much a part of ‘expat’ life, redolent in every line and fixture of its English country counterpart. The design, even down to the grey stone from which it had been built, spoke of a never quite extinguished longing for the ‘old’ country. Standing foursquare, it sat on the side of a hill overlooking the large dam that provided not only a natural social centre for the community with its forever open bar, but also a sleepy sailing club, its members free to make desultory use of one of the area’s few dependable water sources. A precious asset when all but the deepest boreholes had dried to a trickle. However, despite the sombre nature of the day, it had not been all bad for Roz. She was beginning to appreciate her new neighbours, to savour time with them, enchanted by their open-handed hospitality, impressed by the protective way in which they had drawn around the Cryers. Just as naturally as they had encompassed my ‘outsider’ mother within their community family, so it had proved with Roz, who was beginning to feel accepted and who, despite recent events, had started to quite like the place. And daily cycling visits to my home weren’t exactly detracting from the process.
“Morning, Mrs Moncton.” Roz’s cheerful call preceded her as she rounded the open door into the cool but austere sitting room that reflected my father more than it did my mother. Roz was certain he was out, or she would never have come so early. She had already learned to give him a wide berth and couldn’t understand how a woman as nice as my mother could love such an unpleasant man; “always assuming she does”, she had thought on occasion. She knew her own mother and father couldn’t get enough of each other, and the strength of their affection meant her home was almost always cheerful and welcoming. The ever-tense atmosphere of the Moncton home was the very opposite.
Nevertheless, I had apparently become an irresistible lure to Roz, who by now (I later realised) was falling ever more deeply in love and was determined to see me whenever she could. It certainly hadn’t been like that from the start but, during the long weeks of my recovery, when the only excuse she’d needed had been caring friendliness, we had cemented a bond that had begun to blossom into something rather more. For Roz, at least. What she couldn’t understand was why my moods fluctuated so much. One moment I tried hard to be attentive and charming, the next I found myself growing cold and indifferent to the point of rudeness. I couldn’t help it, even though I was aware I was hurting her. But Roz had always been encouraged to be open about her emotions and she was determined to get to the bottom of the conundrum, to confront me head on if necessary.
I suppose that day had begun as well as any. I was sitting on the step at the back of the house, enjoying the morning sun before the advancing hours drew it to its zenith and direct sunlight became too hot to endure. My mind was where it always was these days, on Cat Hill whilst, almost unseeing, I had been watching a trail of soldier ants hurry past in a long, snaking line on their way to some unguessed destination, no doubt drawn by the scent of scurrying prey. The thought of yet another victim was making me wince, but just then Roz’s cheery call to my mother cut through my reverie. Heaving a sigh of resignation, I turned to greet her.
“Hi, Roz. How’s it going?” She looked utterly beautiful in her wide white skirt, the light cotton puffed out over layers of crisp netting edged with narrow rainbow ribbons, the whole set off by a blouse the colour of her light blue eyes. So stunning was the effect that, momentarily, the breath caught in my throat and my heart somersaulted. For a moment she even made me forget the pain twisting in my gut. But only for a moment, until the brutal accusations came flooding back into my still aching mind. I remember wondering, “How could I let this beautiful young girl waste her love over such a coward, such a pariah?” Reluctantly, I killed the smile and, by sheer force of will, eradicated the tenderness she had no doubt already caught dancing in my eyes. All I could offer anyone attached to me was a life of rejection and so, almost subconsciously, I had put on my best impersonation of impassivity in an effort to blot out all hope for either of us. Watching as she filled up with tears, I almost felt the shadow of despondency draw its cold embrace around the morning. It was time to talk.
“Paul, why? Why do you cut me out? I hate it when you do that. What’s wrong? Don’t you want to see me? Are you trying to hurt me? Do you want me to go? I will if that’s what you want.”
I could hear the ache in her voice as the words tumbled out and it twisted the knife even further, but I felt helpless to do anything about it. Blind instinct would have had me struggle to my feet there and then, reaching out to her, holding her tight and whispering the nascent love I knew was struggling to get out into the light. Love that, even then, was becoming ever more desperate to declare itself. Yet I simply could not prevail against the desolation that configured the grey plains of my mental horizon. I might as well have bayed for the moon. Anguish bit deep, giving birth to a morbid determination to see this rejection through. True, I could still feel for others, but only just. And yet, in spite of everything, I still cared enough to want to save this girl from any further pain, pain I knew would follow as surely as night follows day; pain that would get worse the longer I dragged it out. It was starkly clear. I had done enough damage already, allowed her to get too close, too soon. She was starting to rely on me, just like Matt had done. Matt! His very name was able to induce a violent reaction within me. The breath hissed out between my teeth as the demon of guilt dug its filthy talons into my crumbling, almost surrendered will and I turned to face the wall before she saw too much of this new and alien hardness. I had no option but to sever the link between head and heart. Permanently. To this day, I believe that at the time I had no choice. I had to distance myself from everyone – family, friends and particularly Roz. And I had to start immediately.
“Roz, I –.” How to say this? I shook my head distractedly and began again. “Roz, I’m sorry. I just can’t go on with this. It’s too much. You’ve been really kind, a good friend and believe me, I’ve appreciated your company, but I’m no good for you. No good. And I know I don’t feel, can’t feel, the same way you do.”
My voice had grown almost inaudible, so I set off once more.
“Please, you have to understand. I’m not in love with you and I doubt I ever will be. In fact, I’m not even sure I want to see you again. I’
m sorry, Roz. Really I am, but you must understand this can’t go anywhere. There’d be no future in it. Please try to understand. Please, Roz.”
I had said it and the harsh polemic finally faltered and died. But all I had achieved was to draw a mantle of depression firmly over my own heart as well as hers. So, to mask the feeling still reflecting in my eyes, I remember turning abruptly and staring out over the veranda at the familiar but now strangely blurred skyline. Tears pricked my eyelids and behind me I heard Roz stepping back as though she had been slapped. Given the unexpected sting of the confrontation, she might as well have been. Too numb to reply, she stared at the only bit of me she could see. My stiffened back, which was trying desperately to shut her out, daring her to cross the divide. Biting back the tears, however, she refused to leave immediately, refused to believe she had just been summarily dismissed.
“How could you say that? You know we’re good together. And who do you think you are, anyway?” A sudden need to strike back loosened her tongue. “You were happy enough to have me here when you really needed company. You were pleased enough to see me then. And what about yesterday? Are you going to tell me that meant nothing to you?”
Accompanying her declaration, a picture of that event floated into my mind. The two of us together at the end of the track that led from home, revelling in the solitude, the silence, holding hands, watching a pair of buzzards wheel and dip in the turquoise sky as they rode the long thermals, feathers glinting in unison as soaring, synchronised flight took them through lazy arcs past the flaring sun. I had managed the short walk with just a stick, crutches firmly put aside and, with the exercise my spirits had lifted and she had no doubt sensed the black cloud shredding away in the warmth of our mutual attraction. Animated conversation and slow, affectionate laughter had punctuated each precious minute, but now all that had been changed by my sudden outburst, which still clutched her in bewildered disbelief. The abyss of rejection yawned wide and cruel, so coldly insensitive in the strength of its finality. Yet she had stood her ground for what seemed an age, hearing only the slow ticking of the old grandfather clock in the passageway behind her. Dazed.
