Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  Up to that moment she had thought it really would be possible to ride to Basutoland. They would scale the Drakensberg and then sneak undetected across the border. But that was before she heard the river, the roar of its passage, before she realized that here was another obstacle she had failed to take into account.

  When she came within sight of the water, she instantly pulled South Wind to a halt. Bloody, frigging hell. She could see already that the river had swollen to a ludicrous degree, and it was raging far above its normal banks — all that rain, that melting snow. The engorged waterway churned up mud and God knew what else, branches of trees, planks of wood. She saw the bloated carcass of some dead ungulate as it swept past. The water had turned brown except where it ran frothing with a thick, speckled foam. It was deep and fast and broad. More scraps of bric-a-brac raced by — clumps of grass, the detritus of old furniture, a splintered sheet of plywood. The flotsam rushed away, vanished downstream, giving her a pretty fair idea of how strong the current was.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” Muletsi said.

  He pulled up beside her, and they both peered down at the water heaving below.

  “Of course, you can.” Although she was far from sure herself. “You just have to try. It’ll be fine.” God, what a load of rot.

  Muletsi turned and looked straight at her. “I can’t swim.”

  What? What was this? He couldn’t swim …? Who is unable to swim?

  “You’re not serious,” she said, which was stupid. She realized this at once, tried to come up with something better. “Okay. Don’t worry. You don’t have to swim. Welshman can swim, hey. Just hold on. Hold onto his mane.”

  “That’s not it,” Muletsi said. “I don’t think Welshman can do it, either.”

  That stopped her. Up to now, this journey had been a question of hope and spunk. If you believed that a thing could be done, then by God you could do it. Simple as that. But now this. This wasn’t a question of belief. It was a question of sheer physical impossibility. Muletsi didn’t think that Welshman could do it, and now, to tell the truth, she wasn’t so sure that South Wind could do it, either — not given the hardship that these two had endured, days on end.

  How that man Mandela had got across, she had no idea, unless he was like Jesus and could walk on water. Somehow, he had managed to ford the river. She supposed the waters had been a good deal lower then. Now the river was up, it was their turn to cross, and Muletsi was right — it didn’t seem doable. If only she’d been wiser, she would have admitted defeat, and they both would have turned around and headed back the way they’d come, to suffer some unknown fate. If only she’d been wiser.

  But she was Hilary Anson. Without stopping to think any further, she gave South Wind a right bloody booting in both his flanks, and — noble idiot that he was — he took several strides down a steep path that descended into the gorge, clattered onto an outcropping of rock, crouched at his hocks and knees, and then exploded, sprang straight into the Tsoelike, with her in the saddle. An instant later, they hit the water and went right under, both of them, and that was shocking. She thought she would drown, and at first that was all she could think of. She did not even register the cold, not at first. All she wanted was to get back to the surface of that river, get her head above water. At last, the daylight burst around her, she clutched Southey’s mane, and it was only then that she remembered what she’d done. She’d bloody well forgotten to remove the standing martingale, the mechanism that held Southey’s frigging head down, just as it was doing now, causing him to thrash and roll and swing his neck in all directions or to try. Nothing worked. He couldn’t raise his bloody noggin. He couldn’t breathe. The martingale was holding his head underwater. If she didn’t get that damned thing off, he’d drown. Oh, for the love of God.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Jack

  Basutoland, Winter 1962

  JACK HAD EXPECTED THERE would be lodging of some description in Qacha’s Nek, some miserable excuse for a hostelry — nothing more than that. But what do you know? Nothing. No accommodation whatso-effing-ever. No place to get the wonky steering attended to, either. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just a miserable, God-forsaken little crap hole without a single distinction to claim for itself except altitude and desolation. Behold: Qacha’s Nek.

  Well, never mind. He’d sort something out, one way or another. No grub, either. That was another thing. He was feeling more than a mite peckish, too. At some point, he’d probably have to cajole a leg of chicken off one of the denizens of the place, if chicken legs there were — that and a bed. Lord Almighty. No hotel, no garage, not even a place to eat. Quite the little tourist resort, Qacha’s Nek. What a country this was.

  Well, that was fine. He wasn’t on holiday, anyhow. He was here to get a job done. He climbed back into the Land Rover, released the brake, pushed down on the clutch, and shoved the shift into first. He lurched out onto the bit of path that passed for a high street in this miserable locale.

  He had to keep his wits about him to avoid colliding with sundry goats, mongrels, and pickaninnies, all of whom seemed to be beside themselves with joy to see him — a stranger in their town and, what was more, a white man. The tykes crowed and waved while he picked his way among them, marvelling at what a congregation of cuteness they were. What happened to the little buggers? They started out so well, so happy, so trusting, so prone to laughter, all bobbing up and down on their crooked little toes. But sooner or later they went bad. They all did.

  He aimed the Land Rover down the lopsided path, past the children and the dogs. He had an idea that he could jimmy the vehicle into a protected spot somewhere on the downward slope. Once he’d got the Land Rover put to rights, he would get out and proceed on foot. He felt certain that a pair of travellers on horseback would be visible for a good long distance from up here.

  He flung the wheel to the right, and the Land Rover wobbled over a rocky outcropping. Off to the left, some small, shaggy horses were grazing by a stand of eucalyptus trees. Ponies, really. Basotho ponies, as likely as not. Hardy creatures, it was said. Right away, he knew what he would do — get himself a proper mode of transportation, one suited to local conditions, as you might say. One of these ponies would do just fine, strong enough to carry a lean sort of man, which he was.

  He fought off another lurch in the steering, spun the wheel, and that was when it bloody well happened. The disk seemed to fly from his grip, and the Land Rover tossed itself to the right. Before you could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” it broke free of the path and tumbled straight into a pile of rocks that was meant to be a fence of some kind. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop, and he kept right on going, square into the windscreen. He cracked his forehead against the glass and damned near blacked right out.

  Effing hell. Meanwhile, the steering wheel had caught him full in the chest. And one of his legs had got twisted around somehow. The vehicle rocked back, and so did he, and now here he was, blood streaming down his face. Not only that, but he was having trouble breathing on account of what must have been a rack of broken ribs, plus a howling pain in one of his legs. Jesus effing hell.

  He kept calm. Tried to. First thing he did was check the cubby-hole for the pistol, the box of shells, and the field glasses, all of which he salvaged and stuffed into the pockets of his anorak. That done, he jimmied open the door and toppled out onto the rocks and mud and patchy bits of dead grass, landed on his head. He was suffering a profound shortness of breath and, at first, he thought he was choking to death. You’d panic then. Any bloke would. Here he lay, flat on the ground, and he heaved and gasped, slowly recovering an approximation of his customary wind and mental acuity.

  He tested himself.

  Name: Jack Tanner.

  Age: Thirty-nine.

  Nationality: English-born, if it please your Lordship.

  Dependents: None that he knew of. Granted, he hadn’t been keeping track.

  Current location: Qacha’s Nek, or somewhere thereabouts.

&nb
sp; He could have gone on, but he heard a man’s voice from somewhere not far off. He got himself twisted around a bit so that he could gaze straight up and saw a black mug peering down at him.

  It said, “You all right, baas?”

  Dear God, was it not apparent that all right was exactly what he was not? But in the interest of moving matters along, he said that he was passably fine — and that was how he made the acquaintance of Yul Brynner Dlamini, so named because he was without facial hair of any kind.

  “It’s a nickname,” he said. He hadn’t been born Yul Brynner. It was a moniker acquired much later in life, for reasons now apparent. He was all for taking Jack over to his nearby abode in order to attend to these fresh injuries. His spouse was a midwife, he said, which meant she possessed nursing skills of a kind. Jack was briefly tempted to take the man up on his offer, but on the whole he believed he should push on. What he needed was a four-legged means of conveyance, and one of these sturdy creatures would meet his requirements, if Yul Brynner Dlamini happened to know how such a transaction could be effected.

  As it happened the man did. He said so at once.

  Jack had thought as much. Nice to see the old familiar gears still working in unison. “Fine,” he said. “That’s just fine.”

  Half an hour later, having supped upon a bowl of something that narrowly passed for soup, he was on his way once again, this time slumped upon the back of a particularly brawny grey gelding. Either the creature didn’t have a name or Jack had forgotten what it was. Elvis was the label he settled on, in recognition of the animal’s squiggly way of moving, like the King himself. Jack peered at the trail that wound below him and noticed a sort of natural belvedere, a rocky ledge covered with moss and flanked by a few barren shrubs. He would make for that. He would dismount down there, find himself a good spot for a piss, then set up a lookout. Take his bearings. Catch his breath.

  When he reached the indicated spot, he eased himself off Elvis’s back. At once a stabbing pain pierced his chest. Mother of effing Christ. But there was nothing to be done save grin and withstand. He looped the reins around the branch of some kind of acacia shrub, and old Elvis seemed as happy as any four-legged creature could ever be, poking through the slats of snow to feast on wrinkled brown leaves, clumps of lifeless grass.

  Jack managed to attend to his business and even to button up his trousers when said business was done. He got the field glasses out and peered through the lenses. He fiddled with the focus, and the land below sprang into clearer view. Here and there, the afternoon sunshine broke through the clouds like spotlights. He felt as if those shifting rays were doing just what he was doing himself, searching across the terrain for a pair of riders. He was sure to see them if they approached this way, and he was just as sure they would. He took a deep breath, gasped at the stabbing pain. Come on, you effing Berkeley Hunt, you and your effing slut.

  Just you come.

  FORTY-SIX

  Muletsi

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  “HILARY …!”

  Muletsi did not stop to think. He drove his heels into Welshman’s flanks, and the old codger did what no sentient creature had any business doing — certainly not an animal of Welshman’s sober and cautious instincts. He slithered down the rocky path, scrambled onto the outcrop of stone, arched his back, and hurled himself into the air. A moment later he plunged into the swirling brown waters of the Tsoelike River. Muletsi clamped his mouth shut and staunched his breath just before the water hit him like a series of blows. He struggled to hang on, one hand clenching the pommel of the saddle, the other grasping at Welshman’s mane. He felt himself go under, and he gritted his teeth, pursed his lips, to keep the water out. Finally, a light erupted, and his head burst above the river’s surface. He rolled over onto his back, gasping for air, still clinging to Welshman’s mane. The current dragged them both downstream.

  “Hilary!” he shouted. “Hilary!”

  Welshman swung his head to the side, and his great body listed, his legs struggling for purchase against the river’s pull. There was nothing Muletsi could do but hold on. For a few moments it felt as if they were not moving at all, both of them motionless in the churning swell. But that was an illusion. He caught sight of the muddy banks and scrub trees that marked the far shore. The land raced by, shockingly fast. He shouted Hilary’s name again, and then he was pulled under once more, gagging and flailing about. He fought to get his head up and into the air, terrified at what might happen if he lost his grip on Welshman. He could not swim.

  Gradually, he managed to steady his breathing. He peered ahead, above the river’s spinning surface, straining for a glimpse of South Wind or Hilary or both of them together. But he could make out nothing except a brown rush of water, a spiralling froth, the sight of Welshman’s head. On his own he would have had no idea what to do. He could have done nothing but let this current bear him where it would, to some cold and lonely end. Thank God for horses that had some wit and muscle, more of both than he’d ever possessed. Welshman kept beating against the water with his huge legs, striding through the river, crossways to the current. Before long, even Muletsi could sense it. Foot by foot, they were working their way across the water, not directly but on a long, curving course that was aslant to the river’s flow. It seemed that Welshman knew exactly what he was doing. Muletsi ceased to struggle, just held on. Stop thinking. He allowed Welshman to do what horses can manage for themselves far better than the fools who ride them. Get out alive.

  Closer to the far shore, the current slowed and gyrated in eddies that carried both of them nearer and nearer to land. When Welshman found some footing at last, he heaved himself up toward the bank, far faster than Muletsi expected. He wasn’t quick enough to position himself in the saddle and so lost his grasp on Welshman’s mane. He felt the river bottom with his feet. He tried to stand, but the current was still too strong. He reached out blindly and somehow managed to close his grip on the saddle’s knee roll, just as Welshman clambered ashore, dragging Muletsi with him.

  He kept hold of the saddle for as long as he could, then loosened his fingers, too cold to hang on. Under his own power, he clambered up through the scrub trees, dead grass, and mud on the bank and soon collapsed onto his front side. He sprawled there, chest heaving. Meanwhile, Welshman scrambled onto a forested bank that ran alongside the river’s flow and proceeded to amble further downstream, as if he needed a little time to be alone, to reflect on what had just happened here. Muletsi raised his head and watched the horse, too tired at first to do anything else, too tired and too stunned. Then he remembered — Hilary.

  He climbed to his feet and peered downriver, where the racing water veered to his left. He could make out nothing that resembled a woman or her horse. It seemed the only thing to do was to retrieve Welshman, climb back into the saddle, and ride along the river’s shore, hoping to find Hilary somehow. What an idiot she’d been to urge South Wind into the drink like that. But never mind. He turned to make his way in Welshman’s tracks, and only then did he truly realize how cold he was, how frigid and wet, how drenched to the bone. He’d be lucky not to perish of hypothermia. Neither of them had thought of that.

  Soon his limbs began to shake, and he found he could not stand. He collapsed into a sort of crouch, trying to marshal whatever strength he could find. After a time he managed to raise himself to his feet once more, and he stumbled over toward Welshman, who had come to a halt. The horse lifted his great head, perked his ears, and gazed back, as if vaguely surprised to see Muletsi again and not altogether happy at the sight.

  Now it got complicated. No sooner did Muletsi advance within several feet of the horse than Welshman loped a few paces further away. This sequence repeated itself over and over, like a succession of turns in a futile dance. Each time Muletsi got near the animal, almost close enough to lunge ahead and snatch the draggled reins, Welshman scooted off several paces more, as if they both had all the time in the world. Muletsi made another stab at the reins, lan
ding on his knees, empty-handed, as Welshman trotted away yet again, this time putting considerable distance between himself and his former rider. It wasn’t long before he disappeared beyond a thicket of trees while Muletsi remained out in the open.

  “Christ. You miserable bugger. Come back!”

  The words had barely left his mouth before he became aware of some other movement, something quite apart from Welshman. A change of shadow and light on the margins of his vision — that was all he sensed at first. He looked up and blinked, straining to see, despite being deprived of his glasses. Before too long he was able to make out a blurry but strangely familiar figure approaching down a rocky slope amid scraggly grass and sharp pillars of stone — a man riding a stout grey pony and looking for all the world like the angel of death. Muletsi said nothing, merely waited as the image drew near.

  “Well, well, well,” said the man, now only a few yards away. “What have we here?”

  Muletsi recognized him, of course, despite his own imperfect vision and never mind the man’s wretched condition, his blood-encrusted face riddled with cuts and bruises. He slouched on the pony’s back as if his frame had collapsed, as if his collarbone and most of his ribs were bust.

  “Hold hard, Elvis,” the man said, his voice strained and creaky. “Why, what do we have here? Ha. If it ain’t my old friend Berkeley. Berkeley Hunt to the cognoscenti.” He laughed and shook his head, groaned at the pain he must have been feeling. He really was in a bad way. Now he rummaged in the pocket of his coat. When his hand reappeared, it was clutching a gun. Muletsi stiffened at once. He thought he should turn and run, but what was the use? He would never get away.

  Besides, it seemed that this was just a warning on Jack’s part, this brandishing of a weapon. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He told Muletsi to stand up. Stand up like a man. Slowly, unsteadily, Muletsi did as Jack Tanner bid. Muletsi stood, and he waited for what would come next, wondering if it would come soon. But the man seemed more interested in talking than in shooting. He seemed willing to take his own sweet time, rambling on in a sorely laboured voice, making little or no sense, cursing this, blaming that. He seemed to be halfway out of his mind, a condition that no doubt resulted in part from his many injuries. Time passed, and more time passed until even Jack seemed to grow tired of his verbosity. He raised the firearm and pointed it at Muletsi’s forehead, from not a dozen feet away.