Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  Who is it" Shasa whispered, his eyes wide with superstitious awe.

  The witch of the mountain. Annalisa took his hand. I found her bones lying here, and I made this magic place. How do you know she's a witch? Shasa had a bad attack of the creeps by now, and his whisper shook and cracked.

  She told me so. That raised such frightful images that he did not question her further; skulls and bones were creepy enough, voices from beyond were a hundred times worse, and the hairs at the back of- his neck and along his arms itched and stood erect. lie watched while she changed the withered flowers for the fresh yellow acacia blossom and then sat back on her ankles and took his hand again.

  The witch will grant you one wish, she whispered, and he thought about it.

  What do you want? she tugged his hand, Can I wish for anything? Yes, anything, she nodded, watching his face eagerly.

  Staring at the bleached skull his awe faded; he was suddenly aware of a new sensation. Something seemed to reach out to him, a sensation of warmth and familiar comfort that he had known before only as an infant when his mother held him to her bosom.

  There were still small pieces of dried scalp attached to the dome of the skull, like brown parchment, and tiny peppercorns of black hair, soft furry little balls like those on the head of the tame Bushman who herded the milk cows at the way station on the road from Windhoek.

  Anything? he repeated. I can wish for anything? Yes, anything you want. Annalisa leaned against his side, and she was soft and warm and her body smelled of fresh sweet young sweat.

  Shasa leaned forward and touched the skull on its white bony forehead, and the sense of warmth and comfort was stronger. He was aware of a benign feeling, of love, that was not too strong a word, yes, of love, as though he were being overlooked by someone or something that cared for him very deeply.

  I wish, he said softly, almost dreamily, I wish for enormous power. He imagined a prickling sensation in the fingertips that touched the skull, like the discharge of static electricity, and he jerked his hand away sharply.

  Annalisa exclaimed in exasperation and pulled her body away from him at the same time. That's a silly wish. She was dearly piqued, and he could not understand why. You are a stupid boy, and the witch won't grant a stupid wish like that. She flounced to her feet and drew the screening branch over the niche. It's late. We must go back. Shasa did not want to leave this place, and he lingered.

  Annalisa called from up the slope. Come on, it will be dark in an hour. When he reached the path again she was sitting propped against the rock wall of the cliff facing him.

  I've hurt myself. She said it like an accusation. They were both flushed and panting from the climb.

  I'm sorry, he gasped. How did you hurt yourself? She pulled the hem of her skirt halfway up her thigh. One of the red-tipped wait-a-bit thorns had rowelled her, raising a long red scratch across the smooth buttery skin of her inner thigh. It had barely broken the skin, but a line of blood droplets had welled up, like a necklace of tiny bright rubies.

  He stared at it as though mesmerized and she sank back against the rock, lifted her knees and spread her thighs, holding the bunch of her skirts into her crotch.

  Put some spit on it, she ordered.

  Obediently he knelt between her feet and wet his forefinger.

  ,your finger is dirty, she admonished him.

  what shall I do then? He was at a loss.

  With your tongue, put spit on it with your tongue. He leaned forward and touched the wound with the tip of his tongue. Her blood had a strange salty metallic taste as he licked it.

  She placed one hand on the nape of his neck and stroked the dense dark curl of his hair.

  Yes, like that, clean it, she murmured. Her fingers twisted into his hair and she held his head, pressing his face to her skin, and then deliberately directed him higher, raising her skirt slowly with her free hand as his mouth travelled upwards.

  Then peering between the spread of her thighs, he saw that she was sitting on a piece of her clothing, a scrap of white cloth printed with pink roses, and with a tingle of shock he realized that in the few minutes that she had been alone she must have removed her panties and spread them as a cushion on the soft moss-covered earth. She was naked under the skirt.

  Shasa woke with a start and he could not think where he was. The ground was hard under his back and a pebble was digging into his shoulder, there was a weight across his chest making it difficult for him to breathe. He was cold, and it was dark. Prester John stamped and snorted and he saw the

  4i pony's head silhouetted against the stars.

  Suddenly he remembered. Annalisa's leg was thrown over his and her face was against his throat; she sprawled half across his chest. He pushed her off so violently that she woke with a cry.

  It's dark! he said stupidly. They'll be out looking for us by now! He tried to stand but his breeches were around his knees.

  He remembered vividly the practised way that she had unbuttoned them and worked them over his hips. He yanked them up and fumbled with his fly.

  We've got to get back. My mother- Annalisa was on her feet beside him, hopping on one leg as she tried to find the opening of her panties with her bare foot. Shasa looked at the stars. Orion was on the horizon.

  It's after nine o'clock, he said gloomily.

  You should have stayed awake, she whined, and put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. My Pa will lather me. He said next time he'd kill me. Shasa shrugged off her hand. He wanted to get away from her yet he knew he could not.

  It was your fault. She stooped and grabbed her panties at the ankles, hoisted them to her waist and then settled her skirts over them. I'm going to tell Pa. that it was your fault.

  He'll take the sjambok to me this time. Oh! he'll whop the skin off me. Shasa unhitched the pony and his hands were shaking. He could not think clearly, he was still half asleep and groggy.

  I won't let him. His gallantry was half-hearted and unconvincing. I won't let him hurt you. It seemed only to infuriate her. What can you do? You're only a baby. The word triggered something else in her mind.

  What will happen if you've given me a baby, hey? It will be

  a bastard; did you think of that while you were sticking that thing of yours into me? she demanded waspishly.

  Shasa was stung by the unfairness of her accusation. You showed me how. I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't. A fat lot of good that's going to do us., She was weeping now. I wish we could just run away., The notion held a definite appeal for Shasa, and he discarded it only reluctantly. Come on, he said, and boosted her up onto Prester John's back and then swung up behind her.

  They saw the torches of the search parties down on the plain below them as they turned the shoulder of the mountain. There were headlights on the road also, moving slowly, obviously searching the verges, and faintly they heard the shouts of the searchers, calling for them as they moved about in the forest far below.

  My Pa's going to kill me this time. He'll know what we've been doing, she snuffled and sobbed and her self-pity irritated him. He had long ago given up trying to comfort her.

  How will he know? he snapped. He wasn't there. You don't think you were the first one I've done it with, she demanded, seeking to injure him. I've done it with plenty of others, and Pa has caught me twice. Oh, he'll know all right., At the thought of her performing those strangely marvelous tricks of hers with others, Shasa felt a hot rush of jealousy which was gradually cooled by reason.

  Well! he pointed out. If he knows about all the others, it isn't going to do you much good to try to put the blame on me. She had trapped herself and she let out another brokenhearted sob, and was still weeping theatrically when they met the search party coming on foot along the pipe track.

  Shasa and Annalisa. sat on opposite sides of the bungalow's drawing-room, instinctively keeping as far from each other as possible.

  As they heard the Daimler pull up outside in a flare of headlights and crunch of gravel, Annalisa began to
weep again, snuffling and rubbing her eyes to work up a few more tears.

  They heard Centaine's quick light tread across the verandah, followed by Twenty-man-jones more deliberate storklike steps.

  Shasa stood up and held his hands in front of him in the attitude of the penitent as Centaine stopped in the doorway.

  She was dressed in jodhpurs and riding-boots and a tweed hacking jacket, with a yellow scarf knotted at her throat.

  She was flushed, and relieved and furious as an avenging angel.

  Annahsa saw her face and let out a howl of anguish, only half acting.

  Shut your mouth, girl, Centaine told her quietly. Or I'll see you get good reason to blubber. She turned to Shasa.

  Are either of you hurt? No, Mater. He hung his head.

  Prester John? Oh, he's in good fettle. So, that's it then. She did not have to elaborate. Dr Twenty-man-Jones, will you take this young lady down to her father? I have no doubt that he will know how to deal with her. Centaine had spoken briefly to the father only an hour before, big and bald and paunchy with tattoos on his muscled arms, belligerent and red-eyed, reeking of cheap brandy and opening and closing his hairy paws as he mouthed his intentions towards his only daughter.

  Twenty-man-Jones took the girl by her wrist, pulled her to her feet and led her snivelling towards the door. As he passed Centaine, her expression softened and she touched his arm.

  What ever would I do without you, Dr Twenty-man-jones? she asked quietly.

  I suspect that you would get along very well on your own, Mrs Courtney, but I'm glad I could help. He dragged Annalisa from the room and they heard the whirr of the Daimler's engine.

  Centaine's expression hardened again and she turned back to Shasa.

  He fidgeted under her scrutiny.

  You've been disobedient, she told him. I warned you away from that little poule. Yes, Mater. She's been with half the men on the mine. We'll have to take you to a doctor when we get back to Windhoek. He shuddered and glanced down at himself involuntarily at the thought of a host of disgusting microbes crawling over his most intimate flesh.

  Disobedience is bad enough, but what have you done that is truly unforgivable? she demanded.

  Shasa could think of at least a dozen trespasses without really extending himself.

  You've been stupid, Centaine said. You've been stupid enough to get caught out. That is the worst sin. You've made a laughing stock of yourself with everybody on the mine.

  How will you ever be able to lead and command when you cheapen yourself like this? I didn't think of that, Mater. I didn't think of anything much. It just all sort of happened. Well, think of it now, she told him. While you are taking a long hot bath with half a bottle of Lysol in it, think hard about it. Goodnight. Goodnight, Mater. He came to her and after a moment she offered her cheek. I'm sorry, Mater. He kissed her cheek. I'm sorry I made you ashamed of me. She wanted to throw her arms around him and pull his beautiful beloved head to her and hold him hard and tell him that she would never be ashamed of him.

  Goodnight, Shasa, she said, standing cool and erect until he left the room and she heard his footsteps drag disconsolately down the passage. Then her shoulders slumped.

  Oh, my darling, oh my baby, she whispered. Suddenly, for the first time in many years, she felt the need for an opiate. She crossed quickly to the massive stinkwood cabinet and poured cognac from one of the heavy decanters and took a mouthful. The spirit was peppery on her tongue and the fumes brought tears to her eyes. She swallowed it down and set the glass aside.

  That isn't going to help much, she decided, and crossed to her desk. She sat down in the wingbacked buttoned leather chair and she felt small and frail and vulnerable. For Centaine, it was an alien emotion and it frightened her.

  It's happened, she whispered. He is becoming a man. Suddenly she hated the girl. The dirty little harlot. He isn't ready for that yet. Too early she has let the demon out, the demon of his de Thiry blood. She was intimate with that same demon, for it had plagued her all her life. That wild A passionate de Thiry blood.

  Oh my darling. She was going to lose some part of him now, had already lost it, she realized. Loneliness came to her like a ravening beast that had lain in ambush for her all these years.

  There had only been two men who might have assuaged that loneliness. Shasa's father had died in his frail machine of canvas and wood while she had stood by helplessly and watched him blacken and burn. The other man had placed himself beyond her reach for ever with one brutal senseless act. Michael Courtney and Lothar De La Rey, both dead to her now.

  Since then there had been lovers, many lovers, brief transient affairs experienced only at the level of the flesh, a mere antidote for the boil of her blood. None of them had been allowed to pass into that deep place of her soul. But now the beast of loneliness burst through those guarded portals and laid waste her secret places. 1A If only there was someone, she lamented as she had done only once before in her life, when she lay upon the child-bed on which she have given birth to Lothar De La Rey's goldheaded bastard. if only there was somebody I could love and who would love me in return. She leaned forward in the big leather chair and picked up the silver-framed photograph, the photograph that she carried with her wherever she travelled, and studied the face of the young man in the centre of the group of fliers.

  For the

  first time she realized that over the years the picture had faded and yellowed and the features of Michael Courtney, Shasa's father, had blurred. She stared at the handsome young face and tried desperately to make the picture clearer and crisper in her own memory, but it seemed to smear and recede even further from her.

  Oh Michael! she whispered. It was all so long ago. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have tried to be strong and brave.

  I've tried for your sake and the sake of your son, but She set the frame back upon the desk and crossed to the window. She stared out into the darkness. I'm going to lose my baby, she thought. And then one day I will be alone and old and ugly, and I'm afraid. She found she was shivering, hugging her own arms, but then her reaction was swift and unequivocal.

  There is no time for weakness and self-pity on the journey that you have chosen. She steeled herself, standing small and erect and alone in the silent darkened house. You have to go on. There is no turning back, no faltering, you have to go on to the end. Where is Stoffel Botha? Shasa demanded of the mill house supervisor when the mine hooter blew to signal the beginning of the lunch hour. Why isn't he here? Who knows? The supervisor shrugged. I had a note from the main office saying he wasn't coming. They didn't tell me why. Perhaps he has been fired. I don't know. I don't care, he was a cocky little bastard, anyway. And for the rest of the shift Shasa tried to suppress his feeling of guilt by concentrating on the run of ore through the thundering rollers.

  When the final hooter blew, and the cry of Shahile! It has struck! was shouted from one gang of black labourers to the next, Shasa mounted Prester John and turned his head towards the avenue of cottages in which Annalisa's family lived. He knew he was risking his mother's wrath, but a defiant sense of chivalry urged him on. He had to find out how much damage and unhappiness he had caused.

  However, at the gates of the mill house he was distracted.

  Moses, the boss-boy from the weathering grounds, stepped in front of Prester John and took his head.

  I see you, Good Water, he greeted Shasa in his soft deep voice.

  Oh Moses. Shasa smiled with pleasure, his other troubles forgotten for the moment. I was going to visit you. I have brought your book. The Ovambo handed the thick copy of History of England up to him.

  You couldn't possibly have read it, Shasa protested. Not so soon. it took even me months. I will never read it, Good Water. I am leaving the H'ani Mine. I go with the trucks to Windhoek tomorrow morning. Oh no! Shasa swung down out of the saddle and gripped his arm. Why do you want to go, Moses? Shasa feigned ignorance out of a sense of his guilt and complicity.

  It is not for me to
want or not to want. The tall boss-boy shrugged. Many men are leaving on the trucks tomorrow.

  Doctela has chosen them, and the lady your mother has explained the reason and given us a month's wages. A man like me does not ask questions, Good Water. He smiled, a sad bitter grimace. Here is your book. Keep it. Shasa pushed it back. It is my gift to you. Very well, Good Water. I will keep it to remind me of you. Stay in peace. He turned away.

  Moses Shasa called him back and then could find 1, nothing to say. He thrust out his hand impulsively and the Ovambo stepped back from it. A white man and a black man did not shake hands.

  Go in peace, Shasa insisted, and Moses glanced around almost furtively before he accepted the grip. His skin was strangely cool. Shasa wondered if all black skin was like that.

  We are friends, Shasa said, prolonging the contact. We are, aren't we? I do not know.

  What do you mean? I do not know if it is possible for us to be friends. Gently he freed his hand and turned away. He did not look back at Shasa as he skirted the security fence and went down to the compound.

  The convoy of heavy trucks ground across the plains, keeping open intervals to avoid the dust thrown up by the receding vehicle. The dust rose in a feathery spray, high in p the still heated air like the yellow smoke from a bush fire burning on a wide front.

  Gerhard Fourie, in the lead truck, slumped at the wheel with his belly hanging into his lap; it had forced open the buttons of his shirt, exposing the hairy pit of his navel. Every few seconds he glanced up from the road to the rearview mirror above his head.