by Bob Bidecant
*****
The water hit him fiercely in the face bringing him around. Jaak felt himself lifted up onto his feet and his back forced roughly against something hard, he was totally confused, and had no idea where he was. After several seconds his vision cleared and he saw the uniform. The soldier standing before him was holding his shirt collar roughly with two hands balled into fists and digging into his throat, shouting at him. Jaak felt a rage building up in his body. He looked down and saw the bayonet in the soldier’s waist band. In one fluid movement he pulled it out of the sheath and pushed it into his stomach pulling it upwards with all his strength. The soldier gasped once and released his grip on Jaak, slipping to the ground. Jaak fell back and stood shakily against the wagon, he reached his left hand out behind him to steady himself. A noose was thrown over his neck from behind and he felt himself pulled backwards into the wagon, the wood and metalwork digging into his back. Hands gripped both his arms and something hard was used to hit his right hand repeatedly forcing him to drop the bayonet. As soon as it fell from his hand, his right arm was twisted behind his back and then the left one. His legs were kicked away from him and he hit the floor face first. A knee dug into his back knocking the wind from him as a rope bound his hands and then legs. Finally they released their grip and turned him over. A large fist landed directly on his mouth, the next one in his eye. Then two more that he didn’t even feel. Five burly soldiers lifted him up and threw him into the back of the wagon. The wagon pulled away, the driver deliberately rolling over every hole along the rough dirt track, the vibrations adding to his discomfort. Jaak wriggled his body over to relieve the pain in his side. He stared across the floor of the wagon.
A low whine escaped from deep inside him, he couldn’t control it, he was unable to stop and breathe in. The noise just kept coming. The driver shuddered at the sound. It was more like an animal than a man. Lying next to Jaak in the wagon was the lifeless body of Emma.
2.9
‘He will be charged with her murder and killing one of my men,’ said the officer. ‘Throw him into a cell on his own.’ The Sergeant sitting behind a small wooden desk looked at the captain and then Jaak pinned between two soldiers.
‘There is nobody in any of the cells anyway Sir,’ the Sergeant replied.’ It’s been quiet. Put him in number three.’ Two military guards walked Jaak to a cell and took him inside. They untied the remaining rope binding him and pushed him roughly further inside then turned and left, they slammed the heavy wooden door and he was alone in the cell, surrounded by whitewashed brick walls. It wasn’t the first time Jaak had been in a prison cell.
Outside in the guard room the Sergeant nodded to his corporal to open the front door. As he stood there was another knock.
‘Wait a minute.’ he called as he struggled to turn the old key.
A second corporal entered with a civilian.
‘This is the storekeeper Sergeant, he didn’t want to come.’ he pushed the skinny individual forward towards the desk.
‘Just go and have a look at the prisoner Sir and tell us if it was the same man who sold you the mining equipment ‘
‘Will he see me? The man asked nervously.
‘He will but it doesn’t matter, he is up before the beak tomorrow to be formally charged and a date set for a trial. Then he will be moved to the main prison. The storekeeper was taken to the cell Jaak was in, the guard opened a small window in the door and the storekeeper looked at him. He shook his head and the guard closed the window. They all returned to the front office.
‘Is that the man who sold you the digging equipment?’ the Sergeant asked him.
‘No, that’s not him, can I go now?’ he replied.
The Sergeant didn’t look up from the report he was writing.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure, I already told them the man had short hair and was clean shaven when he came in my store.’
‘So if he had short hair and was clean shaven he might look a bit like him?’
‘I don’t know.’ replied the storekeeper.
‘That’s a much better answer, now go on, on your way and don’t be late tomorrow.’
Thirty minutes later two guards entered Jaak’s cell with a nervous looking barber carrying a bowl, scissors and shaving equipment. They shackled his arms to the bed he was sat on.
‘For your death mask.’ the guard teased him, leaning his head to one side and imitating a man hanging with his free hand. Jaak did not move as the barber cut his hair short and then lathered his face, he noticed the barbers hands were shaking. He stretched Jaak’s skin with his left thumb and slowly worked the straight edge barber razor down Jaak’s cheeks in small movements and then delicately around his mouth and chin. He nicked Jaak’s lip and stood back watching a small trickle of blood appear.
‘Sorry.’ He stuttered and closed the razor. Picking up the bowl he hurriedly threw the brush and scissors in and left. Jaak licked the blood from his lip and spat it out on the floor. It was the first time in many years that he could feel the skin on his face. As he lay on the hard bed he kept feeling his face, his fingertips stroking the contours of his face, he winced as he touched the sensitive areas that had been punched but it felt strange, it felt nice, he fell asleep thinking about Emma.
2.10
The storekeeper walked hurriedly back to his shop and cursed himself for getting involved. A few days before a man had tried to sell him some equipment. When he inspected it he realised that it had never been used and it was the ones he had sold to some immigrants only the day before. It was the third time in a week he had been offered his own equipment back days after selling it. He became suspicious and reported it to the local constabulary. The Army sent a patrol out to the gold fields with descriptions to ask if anybody had seen the new arrivals. They had plenty of witnesses that had seen them leave the town but none saw them arrive at any of the fields. Returning to the town the tracker with them spotted something, the troop waited while he looked more closely. He walked back to the captain and opened his handkerchief.
‘It looks like chalk.’ The captain said impatiently.
‘From Hyenas, you can tell what they have eaten from these. It is the bits they can’t digest.’ He explained as he laid the handkerchief on the floor. The captain lent on one knee and looked more closely as the tracker broke up the chalky pellets with the edge of his knife.
‘Good god, the poor buggers,’ he whispered as he looked at the matted ball of bright red hair. It matched the colour of one of the missing men. ‘I don’t understand, so you think the Hyenas killed them?’ he asked the tracker.
‘No, Hyenas ate them but didn’t kill them. Not unless they have learnt to fire a gun.’ He said lifting the matted hair over to reveal two bullets entangled in it.
‘Mount up, let’s find these murdering robbing bastards.’
