Vulture Is a Patient Bird

by James Hadley Chase

  “Themba thinks so, so long as it doesn’t rain too hard. If it really rains then we are in trouble.”

  “Well; some people have all the luck,” Fennel said, looking over at Garry, but Garry wasn’t to be drawn. He got up and walked over to watch Themba cooking the birds. He wished he could speak Afrikaans. There was something about the big Bantu’s face that appealed to him. As if reading his thoughts, Themba looked up and grinned cheerfully and then continued to turn the spit.

  Gaye joined Garry.

  “Hmmmm, smells good… I’m starving.”

  Themba raised a finger and crossed it with, a finger of his left hand.

  “That means you have to wait half an hour,” Garry said. “Come over to the chopper. I’ll tell you about it.”

  They walked over to the helicopter.

  Fennel watched them, his eyes glittering. Ken had no desire to talk to him. He went over and joined Themba. They spoke together in Afrikaans.

  “Looks like rain soon?” Ken said, squatting beside the Bantu.

  “Could come tonight.”

  Ken grimaced.

  “Well, we’ve got the winch. If that doesn’t pull us out, nothing will.”

  “Yes.”

  They talked on. Half an hour later, the birds were cooked. It was dark now and the air heavy and close. They oil sat around the fire, eating with their fingers. Without Fennel, he party could have been gay, but his dour expression and his silence killed any light-hearted atmosphere.

  When they had finished and Themba had cleared up, Ken said, “I’m turning in. We have to be up early tomorrow.”

  “Yes… I’m dying to sleep.” Gaye got to her feet.

  “Give you five minutes to get into your bag,” Ken said, then I’m coming in.”

  Gaye disappeared into the tent.

  “I guess I’ll join you,” Garry said, stretching. “That was some meal.” He looked at Fennel. “You turning in?”

  “Is the smoke sleeping in there?”

  “If you mean is Themba sleeping in there… he is.”

  Fennel spat in the fire.

  “I don’t dig breathing the same air as a black man.”

  “Okay… take your sleeping bag out then.”

  Fennel got swiftly to his feet and advanced on Ken, his fists clenched. He was much more powerfully built than Ken who wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. Garry stepped between them, facing Fennel.

  “I’m getting fed up with you,” he said evenly. “If you’re aching to hit some one, hit me.”

  Fennel eyed him, hesitated, then backed away.

  “Go to hell,” he growled and sat down. He sat by the dying fire long after the others were sleeping, then finally realizing he must get some sleep, he entered the tent and crawled into his sleeping bag.

  Towards 02.00 hrs. the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the tent woke them all.

  Above the sound of the rain came the choked roar of a lion.

  Chapter Six

  Fennel came awake as someone turned on a powerful flashlight. He could see Ken wriggling out of his sleeping bag. Themba held the flashlight and was leaving the tent.

  “Time to go?” Fennel asked with a yawn.

  “Just about. Themba’s getting the breakfast. I’m going down for a swim… coming?”

  Fennel grunted, slipped on his shoes and shorts and grabbed up a towel. He followed Ken out into the damp half light. It had stopped raining, but the clouds were heavy and swollen.

  “Going to be sticky,” Ken said as the two men trotted down to the pool, “but with the winch, and if we’re lucky, we’ll make it.”

  Reaching the pool, they dived in, swam across, turned and swam back and came out. They towelled themselves vigorously, slipped into their shorts, then trotted back to the camp.

  Both Gaye and Garry were up and squatting by the fire watching Themba frying a batch of eggs and bacon.

  By the time they had finished breakfast and Themba had cleared up, it was light enough to move.

  “Well, let’s go,” Ken said. Turning to Garry, he went on, “Do you think you can get the tent down and fold it?”

  “Sure. I’ll pack it in the chopper… right?”

  “If you leave it here, it’ll disappear for sure.” Ken looked a Themba. “All okay?”

  Themba nodded.

  “Let’s synchronize our watches. We’ll call you on radio at 11.00 hrs. just to report progress. After that we’ll call you every two hours… okay?”

  They checked their watches, then Garry offered his hand.

  “Good luck… watch that bastard.”

  Fennel was putting his tool kit in the Land Rover. He got in at the back and sat on the bench seat, staring moodily ahead.

  “Sweet type, isn’t he?” Ken grinned. He turned to Gaye and shook hands. They watched him slide into the driving seat. Themba waved a cheerful hand and got in the front seat beside Ken.

  Ken drove into the jungle where it was dark enough for him to put on the headlights. He drove slowly, and Fennel wondered how the hell anyone could know where he was going in this dense jungle. Themba was continually directing Ken. Maybe this blackie wasn’t all that of a monkey, Fennel thought. He knew he himself would be helpless on his own, and this thought riled him.

  As they progressed, the sun began to come up and Ken switched off the headlights. He was able to increase speed’ slightly. It was a nagging, bumpy ride and Fennel had to hang on.

  Themba suddenly pointed and Ken slowed.

  “To your right… a rhino!”

  Fennel swivelled his head.

  Standing not more than twenty metres away was a huge rhinoceros. The ungainly animal slowly turned its head to stare at them. Fennel eyed the big horn and he reached for the Springfield, aware his heart was beginning to thump.

  “They’re dangerous, aren’t they?” he asked, his voice low. “That’s the white rhino. He’s docile,” Ken told him. “It’s the black one you have to watch out for.”

  He drove on, increasing speed. At this hour the bush seemed alive with game. Herds of impala scattered at the approach of the Land Rover. Two warthogs went crashing into the shrubs, their tails up like periscopes. Black bellied storks watched them from the tree tops. It was as they were nearing the edge of the bush that Themba pointed, and Ken said, “Lions!”

  Lying by the side of the track were two full grown male lions. Fennel calculated they would pass within four metres of them.

  “You’re not passing those bastards?” he demanded.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Ken said cheerfully. “You leave a lion alone and he’ll leave you alone.”

  But Fennel wasn’t convinced. He picked up the Springfield, his finger curling around the trigger.

  They were nearly on the lions now. Both beasts raised their heads and regarded the on-coming Land Rover with sleepy indifference. Fennel felt sweat on his face. As they passed, they were so close he could have touched the lions with the end of the rifle.

  “See?” Ken said. “You don’t have to worry about lions, but you wound one and go in after him and you’ll have a hell of a lot to worry about.”

  Fennel put down the rifle and wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.

  “That was too damn close.”

  They came out of the jungle on to a dirt road. Themba indicated that Ken should turn to the right.

  “This is the road leading to Kahlenberg’s estate… the whole sixty kilometres of it,” Ken said after he had talked with Themba. He looked at his watch. The time was 08.00 hrs. “Themba reckons we’ll get to the edge of the estate in three hours. We’ll radio back to Garry when we get there.”

  “Three hours to do sixty kilometres. You nuts?”

  “The road’s bad. It could take us longer.”

  The road was bad, and gradually deteriorated. It was climbing gently all the time. The night’s rain had softened the surface and the Land Rover began to slide a little. Ahead of them was a very sharp rise and as Ken increased speed
for the run up, the back wheels slid and Ken hurriedly steered into the skid just as it seemed they were about to leave the road.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” Fennel snarled, startled.

  “I can do without a back seat driver,” Ken returned. “Just shut up, will you?”

  The Land Rover crawled up the rise and Ken slammed on his brakes when he saw the dip below was full of water and there was another sharp rise to get out of the dip.

  “We’re not going through that,” he said and put the truck into reverse, slowly sliding back down the rise. He then drove off the road and on to the tangle of dead branches, shrubs and coarse, rain soaked grass. They hadn’t gone more than ten metres when the rear wheels spun and Fennel felt the truck sink.

  Ken gave the engine more gas, resulting only in producing a shower of wet, sticky mud that sprinkled them as the wheels spun.

  Themba sprang out and went around to the back. Ken engaged gear while Themba pushed, but they only sank deeper.

  Ken turned, and as he disengaged gear, he looked straight at Fennel.

  “Let’s get this straight, Lew. Are you with us or are you just a goddamn passenger?”

  Fennel hesitated, then got down from the Land Rover. His bull strength combined with Themba’s weight began to tell. There was more splattering of mud, then the tyres got a new purchase and the Land Rover came out of the two holes it had dug. Walking beside it, ready to go into action again, Fennel and Themba, watched warily. Twice the Land Rover skidded but righted itself. They were past the dip now and Ken steered back on the road.

  “See what I mean?” he said. “Twenty minutes wasted.”

  Fennel grunted and climbed on board. He was breathing heavily. By now the sun was hot and beat down on them. Ken increased speed and they continued to climb, banging and bumping over the stony road, avoiding the water filled pot-holes where he could, and when he couldn’t, banging into them, jolting them all and making Fennel curse.

  The road narrowed suddenly and became nothing better than a rough track, strewn with fair-sized boulders. Three times during the next hundred metres, Themba had to jump down and heave the rocks out of the way. They were now crawling at around ten kilometres an hour.

  It didn’t look to Fennel as if any vehicle had ever come along this narrow track which kept climbing. Branches of trees hung low, causing both men to keep ducking. Themba was walking ahead now as the Land Rover’s speed was even more reduced.

  “You mean we’ve got another fifty kilometres of this bitching road to drive on? Fennel exclaimed as he ducked under another branch.

  “That’s about it. According to Themba it gets worse as we go on, but at least we are moving.”

  That appeared to be a rash thing to have said for almost immediately they struck a soft patch of ground and before Ken could control the skid, they had slid off the narrow track and the offside wheels slammed down into a gutter.

  They stopped.

  “Themba came running back as Ken got out of the Land Rover. The two men surveyed the position of the wheels and discussed it together while Fennel got down and lit a cigarette. He felt irritatingly useless. To him, they looked stuck for good.

  “Only thing to do is to lift her out,” Ken said.

  He began to unload the truck, handing the jerrycans of water and gas to Themba. Fennel got the rucksacks, sleeping bags and his heavy tool bag out.

  “Back wheels first,” Ken said.

  The three men got grips and at Ken’s shout, heaved up. Their combined strength lifted the wheels and the next heave got the tail of the truck back on to the road.

  “I can pull her out now,” Ken said. “You two shove against the side in case she slides in again.”

  Three minutes later, the Land Rover was once more on the road. They hastily reloaded, then Fennel said, “I’m having a drink.”

  Ken nodded and Themba opened two bottles of beer and a bottle of tonic water for himself.

  Fennel looked at Themba.

  “You say it’s going to get worse?”

  “So he says,” Ken broke in. “No use talking to him, he doesn’t understand English.”

  Fennel emptied his bottle of beer.

  “Looks like we three have picked the crappy end of the stick, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” Ken finished his beer, tossed the bottle into the gutter and climbed under the driving wheel. “Let’s go.”

  At least the two incidents seemed to have made Fennel more human, he thought as he engaged gear. He had spoken to Themba and he had shown a spark of comradeship.

  They now came to a series of steep hairpin bends. Using the four wheel drive, Ken continued the climb but at not much more than twelve kilometres an hour. The exertion of dragging the wheel around as he came into the bends and then straightening was making him sweat. The bends seemed to go on and on and they climbed higher and higher.

  Fennel leaned forward.

  “Want me to take a turn? I can handle this crate.”

  Ken shook his head.

  “Thanks… I can cope.” He spoke to Themba in Afrikaans and Themba replied.

  Feeling out of it, Fennel demanded, “What are you talking about?”

  “At the top is the bad place. Themba says this is where we could get stuck for good.”

  “That’s fine! Bad place! What the hell does he call this?” Ken laughed.

  “From what he says, this is like driving down Piccadilly to what we’re coming to.”

  Then from nowhere grey sluggish clouds crossed the sun, shutting it out and it turned cold. As Ken left the last hairpin bend and started up a long narrow, rocky rise, the rain came down in solid warm sheets.

  The three men were soaked to the skin in seconds and Ken, blinded, stopped the Land Rover. They all crouched forward, shielding their faces with their arms while the rain slammed down on their bowed backs. They remained like that for some minutes. Water was in the Land Rover and sloshing around. Fennel’s shoes, and water lay inches deep on the tarpaulin covering their equipment.

  Abruptly as it began, the rain ceased, the clouds moved away and the sun came out. In a very few minutes their clothes began to steam.

  “This is one hell of a picnic,” Fennel said. “My goddamn cigarettes are soaked!”

  Ken took a pack from the glove compartment and offered it. “Take these.”

  “I’ll take one… keep the rest in there. If the bitch is going to

  start again, we don’t want to run short.”

  They both lit up and then got back into the truck. Themba had walked on ahead. By now he was at the top of the rise and stood waiting.

  As they reached him, he motioned Ken to stop. Both men looked beyond him at the road ahead. They appeared to be on the top of a mountain and the track abruptly narrowed. One side was a sloping bank of coarse grass and shrubs; the other side was a sheer drop into the valley.

  Fennel stood up in the Land Rover and stared at the track. He was never sure of himself when in high places, and the sight of the distant valley far below and the narrowness of the rough track brought him out in a sweat.

  “We’re bitched!” he said, his voice unsteady. “We can’t hope to get through there!”

  Ken turned and looked sharply at him. Seeing his ashen face and how his hands were shaking, he realized this was a man with no head for heights and felt sorry for him.

  “Look, Lew, you get out. I think I can get through. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but it can be done.”

  “Don’t be a fool! You’ll kill your goddamn self!”

  Ken shouted to Themba. “Can I do it?”

  The Bantu stood in the middle of the track and regarded the Land Rover, then he nodded.

  “Just,” he said.

  “What’s he say?” Fennel demanded.

  “He thinks it’s all right.”

  “All right? Hell! You’ll go over!”

  “You get out.”

  Fennel hesitated, then picking up his tool bag,
he got down on to the track.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, sweat pouring down his face, “If you’re going to kill yourself, I’m goin to get all the equipment off first. If she goes over, we’ll be stuck without food or drink.”

  “Maybe you have something there,” Ken said with a wide grin. He climbed over the back and Themba realizing what they were doing joined them. The three men carefully lifted off the tarpaulin, draining the rain water on to the track, then they hastily unloaded all the equipment.

  Fennel glanced at his watch. It was 10.55 hrs.

  “We’ll have a beer,” he said. “In five minutes you have to contact Edwards. How much farther have we to go?”

  Ken consulted Themba as he opened two beer bottles.

  “About twenty kilometres. Then another ten kilometres to the big house,” Themba told him.

  Ken translated.

  “Rough going?”

  Themba said once over this bit the going was good.

  They finished the beer and then Ken picked up the two-way radio.

  “Ken to Garry… are you receiving me?”

  Immediately: “Garry to Ken… loud and clear. How goes it?”

  Briefly Ken explained the situation.

  “Sounds dicey. Look, Ken, why not use the winch? Anchor ahead and wind yourself in. If the truck slips you have a chance to jump.”

  “Idea. Roger. Call you back. Out.”

  “I bet he feels smug,” Fennel growled. “Did he say if he’s laid that bitch yet?”

  “Skip it, Lew,” Ken said impatiently. He talked to Themba who nodded and taking the tarpaulin cover off the winch, he ran the cable out until he was beyond the narrowest part of the track. Ken gave Fennel the drag.

  “You any good at splicing? It’s got to be secure.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  Averting his eyes from the drop on his right, Fennel joined Themba, anchor in hand, his tool bag slung over his shoulder. It took him a little over half an hour before he was satisfied. While he worked, Ken sat behind the wheel and smoked. He had steady nerves and was quite cool. He knew there was a risk, but he was also confident that he could get through.

  Finally Fennel stood up.

  “It’s okay.”

  He had fixed the drag firmly in a root of a massive tree, growing nearby and using a club hammer, he hammered the drag well home.