by Wilbur Smith
Mark lifted himself with enormous effort on one elbow and looked about him, bemused. Propped against the rock wall near his head was his pack. He stared at it for a long time, puzzled and completely bewildered. His last coherent memory had been of engulfing icy waters. Closer at hand was a round-bellied beer pot of dark fire-baked clay, and he reached for it immediately, his hands shaking not only from weakness but from the driving need of his thirst.
The liquid was bitter and medicinal, tasting of herbs and sulphur, but he drank it with panting grateful gulps until his belly bulged and ached.
He lowered the pot then and discovered beside it a bowl of stiff cold maize porridge, salted and flavoured with some wild herb that tasted like sage. He ate half of it and then fell asleep, but this time into a deep healing sleep.
When he awoke again, the rain had stopped and the sun was near its zenith, burning down through the gaps and soaring valleys of the towering cloud ranges.
It required an effort, but Mark rose and staggered to the opening of the rock shelter. He looked down into the flooded bed of the Bubezi River, a roaring red-brown torrent in which huge trees swirled and tumbled on their way to the sea, their bared roots lifted like the crooked arthritic fingers of dying beggars.
Mark peered to the north and realized that the whole basin of swamp and bush had been flooded, the papyrus beds were submerged completely under a dull silver sheet of water that dazzled like a vast mirror, even the big trees on the lower ground were covered to their upper branches, and the higher ridges of ground and the low kopies were islands in the watery waste.
Mark was still too weak to stay long on his feet, and he staggered back to his bed of cut grass. Before he slept again he pondered the attack, and the disquieting problem of how the assassins had known he was here at Chaka's Gate; somehow it was all bound up with Andersland and the death of the old man in the wilderness here. He was still pondering it all when sleep overtook him.
When he awoke, it was morning again, and during the night somebody had replenished the beer pot with the bitter liquid and the food bowl with stiff porridge and a few fragments of some roast flesh, that tasted like chicken but was probably iguana lizard.
The waters had fallen dramatically, the papyrus beds were visible with their long stems flattened and the fluffy heads wadded down by the flood, and the trees were exposed, the lower ground drying out; the Bubezi River in the deep gorge below Mark's shelter had regained some semblance of sanity.
Mark was suddenly aware of his own nudity, and of the stink of fever and body wastes that clung to him. He went down to the water's edge, a long slow journey during which he had to pause often to regain his strength and for the dizziness to stop singing in his ears.
He bathed away the smell and the filth and examined the dark purple bruise where the Mauser bullet had smashed the P. 14 into his chest. Then he dried in the fierce glare of the noon sun. It warmed the last chills of the fever from his body, and he climbed back up to the shelter with a spring and lightness in his step.
in the morning he found that the beer pot and food bowl had disappeared, and he sensed somehow that the gesture was deliberate and carried the message that, as far as his mysterious benefactor was concerned, he was able to fend for himself again, and that he had begun to outlive his welcome.
Mark gathered his possessions, finding that all his clothing had been dried out and stuffed into the canvas pack.
His bandolier of ammunition was there also and the bonehandled hunting knife was in its sheath, but his food Supply was down to one can of baked beans.
He opened it and ate half, saved the rest for his dinner left the pack in the back of the shelter, and set out for the far side of the basin.
It took him almost two hours to find the killing ground, and he recognized it at last only by the dead tree with its twisted arthritic limbs. The ground here was lower than he had imagined, and had been swept by the flood waters, the grass was flattened against the earth, as though brilliantined and combed down, some of the weaker trees had been uprooted and swept away and, in the lower branches of the larger stronger trees, the flood debris clung to mark the high-water level.
Mark searched for some evidence of the fight, but there was none, no body nor abandoned rifle, it was as though it had never been. . . Mark began to doubt his own memory until he slipped his hand into the front of his shirt and fingered the tender bruising.
He searched down the track of the waters, following the direction of the swept grass for half a mile. When he saw vultures sitting in the trees and squabbling noisily in the scrub, he hurried forward, but it was only a rhino calf, too young to have swum against the flood, drowned and already beginning to putrefy.
Mark walked back to the dead tree and sat down to smoke the last cigarette in his tin, relishing every draw, stubbing it out half-finished and carefully returning the butt to the flat tin with its picture of the black cat, and the trade mark Craven A.
He was about to stand when something sparkled in the sunlight at his feet, and he dug it out of the still damp earth with his finger.
It was a brass cartridge case, and when he sniffed at it, there was still the faint trace of burned cordite. Stamped into the base was the lettering Mauser Fabriken. 9 mm and he turned it thoughtfully between his: fingers.
The correct thing was to report the whole affair to the nearest police station, but twice already he had learned the folly of calling attention to himself while some remorseless enemy hunted him from cover.
Mark stood up and went down the gentle slope to the edge of the swamp pools. A moment longer he examined the brass cartridge case, then he hurled it far out into the black water.
At the rock shelter he hefted his pack on to his shoulders, bouncing from the knees to settle the straps. Then, as he crossed to the entrance, he saw the footprints in the fine cold ash dust of the fire. Broad, bare-footed, he recognized them instantly.
On an impulse he slipped the sheathed hunting knife off his belt, and laid it carefully exposed in an offertory position at the base of the shelter wall; then, with a stub of charcoal from the dead fire, he traced two ancient symbols on the rock above it, the symbols that old David had told him stood for The -bowed-slave-who-bears-gifts. He hoped Pungushe, the poacher, would come again to the rock shelter and that he could interpret the symbols and accept the gift.
On the slope of the south butt of Chaka's Gate, Mark paused again and looked back into the great sweep of wilderness, and he spoke aloud, softly, because he knew that if the old man were listening, he would hear, no matter how low the voice. All he had learned and experienced here had hardened his resolve to come to the truth and to unravel the mystery and answer the questions that still hid the facts of the old man's death. I'll come again, some day. Then he turned away towards the south, lengthening his stride and swinging into the gait just short of a trot that the Zulus call Winza umhlabathi- or eat the earth greedily.
The suit felt unfamiliar and confining on his body, and the starched collar was like a slave's ring about Mark's throat, the pavement hard and unyielding to his tread and the clank of the trams and the honk and growl and clash of train and automobile were almost deafening after the great silences of the bush, and yet there was excitement and stimulation in the hurrying tide of human beings that swirled around him, strident and colourful and alive.
The tropical hot-house of Durban town encouraged all growth of life, and the diversity of human beings that thronged her streets never failed to intrigue Mark; the Hindu women in their shimmering saris of gaudy silk with jewels in their pierced nostrils and golden sandals on their feet; the Zulus, moon-faced and tall, their wives with the conical ochre headdresses of mud and plaited hair that they wore for a lifetime, bare-breasted under their cloaks, big stately breasts fruitful and full as those of the earth mother, to which their infants clung like fat little leeches, and the short leather aprons high on their strong glossy dark thighs swinging as they walked; the men in loincloths muscled and dignified,
or wearing the cast-off rags of Western clothing with the same jaunty panache and self-conscious assurance that the mayor wore his robes of office; the white women, remote and cool and unhurried, followed by a servant as they shopped or encapsuled in their speeding vehicles; their men in dark suits and the starched collars better suited to the climes of their native north, many of them yellowed with fever and fat with rich foods as they hurried about their affairs, their faces set in that small perpetual frown, each creating for himself an isolation of the spirit in the press of human bodies.
It was strange to be back in the city. Half of Mark's soul hated it while the other half welcomed it, and he hurried to find the human company for which he had sometimes hungered these long weeks just past. Good God, my dear old sport. Dicky Lancome, with a red carnation in his button-hole, hurried to meet him across the showroom floor. I am delighted to have you back. I was expecting you weeks ago. Business has been deadly slow, the girls have been ugly, tiresome and uncooperative; the weather absolutely frightful, you have missed nothing, old son, absolutely nothing. He held Mark off at arm's length and surveyed him with a fond and brotherly eye. My God, you look as though you've been on the Riviera, brown as a pork sausage but not as fat. God, I do declare you've lost weight again -'and he patted his own waistcoat which was straining its buttons around the growing bulge of his belly. I must go on a diet, which reminds me, lunch-time! You will be my guest, old boy, I insist, I absolutely insist. Dicky began his diet with a plate piled high with steaming rice, coloured to light gold and flavoured with saffron; over this was poured rich, chunky mutton curry, redolent with Hindu herbs and garnished with mango chutney, ground coconuts, grated Bombay Duck and half a dozen other sauces, and as the turbaned Indian waiter offered him the silver tray of salads, he loaded his side plate enthusiastically without interrupting his questioning.
God, I envy you, old boy. Often promised myself that.
One man against the wilderness, pioneer stuff, hunting and fishing for the pot. He waved the waiter away and lifted a quart stein of lager beer to salute Mark. Cheers, old boy, tell me all about it. Dicky was silent at last, although he did the curry full justice, while Mark told him about it, about the beauty and the solitude, about the busliveld dawn and the starry silent nights, and he sighed occasionally and shook his head wistfully. Wish I could do it, old boy. You could, Mark pointed out, and Dicky looked startled. It's out there now. It won't go away. But what about my job, old boy? Can't just drop everything and walk away. Do you enjoy your job that much? Mark asked softly. Does peddling motorcars feed your soul? Hey! Dicky began to look uncomfortable. It's not a case of enjoying it. I mean nobody really enjoys having to work, do they? I mean it's just something one does, you know. One is lucky to find something one can do reasonably well where one can earn an honest coin, and one does I wonder, Mark mused. Tell me, Dicky, what is most important, the coin or the good feeling down there in your guts? Dicky stared at him, his lower jaw sagging slightly, exposing a mouthful of half-masticated rice. Out there, I felt clean and tall, Mark went on, fiddling with his beer stein. There were no bosses, no clients, no hustling for a commission. I don't know, Dicky, out there I felt important. Important? Dicky swallowed the unchewed curry noisily. Important?
Hey now, old boy, they're selling rakes like you and me on the street corners at ninepence a bunch. He washed down the rice with a swallow of beer, and then patted the froth from his upper lip with the crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket. Take an old dog's advice, when you say your prayers at night give thanks that you are a good motorcar salesman, and that you have found that out. just do it, old son, and don't think about it, or it will break your heart. He spoke with an air of finality that declared the subject closed, and stooped to open his brief case on the floor beside his chair. Here, I've something for you. There were a dozen thick letters in Marion Littlejohn's neat feminine hand, all in blue envelopes, a colour which she had explained in previous letters indicated undying love; there was also an account for a disputed twelve and sixpence which his tailor insisted Mark had underpaid; and there was another envelope of marbled paper, pale beige and watered expensively, with Mark's name blazoned across it in a peremptory, arrogant hand, and no address.
Mark singled it out and turned it over to examine the crest, thickly crusted in heavy embossing that stood out on the flap.
Dicky watched him open it and then leaned forward to read it unashamedly, but Mark saved him the effort and flipped it across to him.
Regimental dinner, he explained. You'll just make it, Dicky pointed out. Friday the 16th. Then his voice changed, imitating a regiment sergeant-major. Two oh hundred hours sharpish. Dress formal and R. S. bloody V. P. Take your dressing from the right, you lucky brighter, your guinea has been paid by your Colonel-in-Chief, Lord Muck-a-Muck General Courtney his exalted self. Off you go, my boy, drink his champagne and steal a handful of cigars. Up the workers! say! I think I'll give it a miss, murmured Mark, and placed Marion's letters in his inside pocket, to prevent Dicky reading those also. You've gone bush-crazy, the sun touched you, old boy, Dicky declared solemnly. Think of those three hundred potential owners of Cadillacs sitting around one table, pissed to the wide, and smoking free cigars. Captive audience. Whip around the table and peddle them a Cadillac each while they are still stunned by the speeches. Were you in France? Mark asked. Not France. Dicky's expression changed. Palestine, Gallipoli and suchlike sunny climes. The memory darkened his eyes. Then you'll know why I don't feel like going up to the old fort to celebrate the experience, Mark told him, and Dicky Lancome studied him across the loaded table. He had made himself a judge of character, of men and their workings. He had to be a good judge to be a good salesman, so he was surprised that he had not recognized the change in Mark sooner. Looking at him now, Dicky knew that he had acquired something, some new reserve of strength and resolution the likes of which few men gathered about them in a lifetime. Suddenly he felt a humility in Mark's presence, and although it was tinged with envy, the envy was without rancour. Here was a man who was going somewhere, to a place where he would never be able to follow, a path that needed a man with a lion's liver to tread. He wanted to reach across the table and shake Mark's hand and wish him well on the journey, but instead he spoke quietly, dropping the usual light and cavalier facade. I wish you'd think about it, Mark. General Courtney came to see me himself, and he went on to tell him of the visit, of Sean Courtney's anger when he had heard that Mark had been discharged at his daughter's behest. He asked for you to be there especially, Mark, and he really meant it. Mark showed his invitation at the gates, and was passed through the massive stone outer fortifications, There were fairy lights strung in the trees along the pathway that led through the gardens of the old fort, giving the evening a frivolous carnival feeling at odds with the usual atmosphere this bastion had known from the earliest British occupation, through siege and war with Dutch and Zulu; many of the Empire's warriors who had paused here on their occasions.
There were other guests ahead of and behind him on the pathway, but Mark avoided them, feeling self-conscious in the dinner-jacket he had hired from the pawnbroker when he retrieved his decorations. The garment had the venerable greenish tinge of age, and was ventilated in places by the ravages of moths. It was too tight across the shoulders and too full in the belly, and it exposed too much cuff and sock, but when he had pointed this out to the pawnbroker, the man had asked him to finger the pure silk lining and had reduced the hire fee to five shillings.
Miserably he joined the file of other dinner-jacketed figures on the steps of the drillhall and when his turn came, he stepped up to the reception! Then, So! said General Sean Courtney. You came. The craggy features were suddenly boyish, as he took Mark's hand in a grip that felt like tortoise-shell, cool and hard and calloused. He stood at the head of the reception line like a tower, broad and powerful, resplendent in immaculately cut black and crisp starched white with a gaudy block of silk ribbons and enamel crosses and orders across
his chest. With a twitch of an imperial eyebrow, he summoned one of his staff. This is Mr Mark Anders, he said. You remember the old firm of Anders and MacDonald, 1 st brigade? Indeed, sir. The officer looked at Mark with quick interest, his eye dropping from his face to the silk ribbons on his lapel and back to his face. Look after him, said General Courtney, and then to Mark, Get yourself a drink, son, and I'll talk to you later. He released Mark's hand and turned to the next in line, but such was the magnetism and charm of the big man that after the brief contact and the few gruff words, Mark was no longer the gawky stranger, callow and awkward in cast-off clothes, but an honoured guest, worthy of special attention.
The subaltern took his charge seriously and led Mark into the dense crowd of black-clad mates, all of them still subdued and self-conscious in their unaccustomed finery, standing in stiff knots, although the waiters moved among them bearing silver trays laden with the regiment's hospitality. Whisky, is it? asked the subaltern, and picked a glass from one of the trays. All liquid refreshment tonight is with the General's compliments, and took another glass for himself. Cheers! Now let's see, 1 st brigade -'and he looked around. You must remember Hooper, or Dennison? He remembered them and others, dozens of them, some were vaguely familiar features, just shades at the edge of his memory, but others he knew well, had liked, or disliked, and even hated. With some he had shared food, or passed a cigarette butt back and forth, with others he had shared moments of terror or exquisite boredom; the good ones, the workers, the cowards and the shirkers and the bullies were all there, and the whisky came endlessly on silver trays.
They remembered him also, men he had never seen in his life came up to him. You remember me, I was section leader at D'Arcy Wood when you and MacDonald -'And others, Are you the Anders, I thought you'd be older somehow, your glass is empty, and the whisky kept coming on the silver trays, and Mark felt tall and clever, for men listened when he talked, and witty, for men laughed when he jested.
