Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Power,’ he whispered to himself. ‘One day I will have power. Enormous power.’

  The work in the mill house was more exacting and interesting. The friable weathered ore was loaded into the bins and then fed through the hoppers into the rollers which crushed it to the correct consistency for the washing gear. The machinery was massive and powerful, the din almost deafening as the ore tumbled out of the hoppers into the feed chute and was sucked into the spinning steel rollers with a continuous roar. One hundred and fifty tons an hour; it went in one end as chalky lumps the size of ripe watermelons and poured out the far end as gravel and dust.

  Annalisa’s brother, Stoffel, who had on Shasa’s last visit to the H’ani adjusted the timing on his old Ford and who was also the skilled mimic of bird calls, was now an apprentice in the mill house. He was delegated to show Shasa around, and undertook the assignment with gusto and relish.

  ‘You have to be goddamned careful with the mucking settings on the rollers or you crush the bloody diamonds to powder.’ Stoffel emphasized his newly acquired manliness and authority with oaths and obscenity.

  ‘Come on, Shasa, I’ll show you the grease points. All points have to be grease-gunned at the beginning of every shift.’ He crawled under the bank of thundering rollers, shouting into Shasa’s ear to make himself heard. ‘Last month one of the other apprentices got his mucking arm in the bearing. It pulled it off like a chicken’s wing, man. You should have seen the blood.’ Ghoulishly he pointed out the dried stains on the concrete floor and galvanized walls. ‘Man, I tell you, he squirted blood like a garden hose.’

  Stoffel climbed the steel catwalk like a monkey and they looked down on the roller mill tables. ‘One of the Ovambo kaffirs fell off here, right smack into the ore bin, there wasn’t even a scrap of bone bigger than your finger left of him when he came out the other end of the rollers. Ja, man, it’s a bloody dangerous job,’ he told Shasa proudly. ‘You’ve got to keep on your mucking toes all the time.’

  When the mine hooter blew the lunch hour he led Shasa around to the shady side of the mill house and they perched comfortably on the ventilator housing. Under the sanction of the work place they could associate quite openly, and Shasa felt grown-up and important in his blue workman’s overalls as he opened the lunch box that the chef at the bungalow had sent down for him.

  ‘Chicken and tongue sandwiches and jam roly-poly,’ he checked the contents. ‘Do you want some, Stoffel?’

  ‘No, man. Here comes my sister with my lunch.’ And Shasa lost all interest in his own lunch box.

  Annalisa was pedalling down the avenue on a black-framed Rudge with the nest of canteens dangling from the handlebars. It was the first time that he had seen her since the meeting at the pumphouse, though he had looked for her each day since then. She had tucked her skirts into her bloomers to keep them clear of the chain. She stood up on the pedals and her legs pumped rhythmically as she came through the gates of the mill house and the wind flattened the thin stuff of her dress against the front of her body. Her breasts were disproportionately large for her slim brown limbs.

  Shasa watched her with total fascination. She became aware of him, sitting beside her brother, and her entire bearing changed. She dropped back onto the saddle and squared her shoulders, lifting one hand from the handlebars to try and smooth the windblown tangle of her hair. She braked the Rudge, stepped down off the pedals and propped the machine against the bottom of the ventilator housing.

  ‘What’s for lunch, Lisa?’ Stoffel Botha demanded.

  ‘Sausage and mash.’ She handed the canteens up to him. ‘Same as always.’

  The sleeves of her dress were cut back and when she lifted her arms Shasa saw the bush of coarse blond hair in her armpits tangled and wet with perspiration and he crossed his legs quickly.

  ‘Sis, man!’ Stoffel registered his disgust. ‘It’s always sausage and mash!’

  ‘Next time I’ll ask Ma to cook fillet steak and mushrooms.’ She lowered her arms and Shasa realized he was staring but could not stop himself. She pulled the opening at the neck of her blouse closed and he saw a faint flush under the suntanned skin at her throat, but she had not yet looked directly at him.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Stoffel dismissed her, but she lingered.

  ‘You can have some of mine,’ Shasa offered.

  ‘I’ll swop you,’ Stoffel offered generously, and Shasa glanced into the canteen and saw the lumpy potato mash swimming in thin greasy gravy.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ He spoke to the girl for the first time. ‘Would you like a sandwich, Annalisa?’

  She smoothed the skirt over her hips and looked directly at him at last. Her eyes slanted like a wild cat’s, and she grinned slyly.

  ‘When I want something from you, Shasa Courtney, I will whistle for it – like this.’ She pouted her lips into a rosy cupid’s bow and whistled like a snake charmer, at the same time slowly raising her forefinger in an unmistakably obscene gesture.

  Stoffel let out a delighted guffaw and punched Shasa’s arm. ‘Man, she’s got the hots for you!’

  While Shasa blushed scarlet, and sat speechless with shock, Annalisa turned away deliberately and picked up the bicycle. She went out through the gates standing on the pedals and swinging the Rudge from side to side under her so that her tight round buttocks oscillated with each stroke.

  That evening as he turned Prester John onto the pipe track Shasa’s pulse started to gallop with anticipation, and as he approached the pumphouse he slowed the pony to a walk, afraid of disappointment, reluctant to turn the corner of the building.

  Yet he was still not prepared for the shock when he saw her. She was draped languidly against one of the stanchions of the pipeline, and Shasa was speechless as she came slowly upright and sauntered to the head of his pony without looking up at the rider.

  She held the cheek strap of his halter and crooned to the pony. ‘What a pretty boy.’ The pony blew through his nostrils, and shifted his weight. ‘What a lovely soft nose.’ She stroked his muzzle with a lingering touch.

  ‘Would you like a little kiss then, my pretty boy.’ She pursed her lips, pink and soft and moist, and glanced up at Shasa before she leaned forward and deliberately kissed the pony’s muzzle, slipping her arms around his neck. She held the kiss for long seconds and then laid her cheek against the pony’s cheek. Beginning to sway, humming softly in her throat and rocking her hips gently, she at last looked up at Shasa with those sly slanting eyes.

  He was struggling to find something to say, confused by the rush of his emotions, and she moved slowly to the pony’s shoulder and stroked his flank.

  ‘So strong.’ Her hand brushed Shasa’s thigh lightly, almost unintentionally, and then came back more deliberately and she was no longer looking at his face. He could not cover himself, could not hide his violent reaction to her touch, and suddenly she let out a shocking screech of laughter and stood back with both hands on her hips.

  ‘Are you going to camp out, Shasa Courtney?’ she demanded, and he was puzzled and embarrassed. He shook his head dumbly.

  ‘Then what are you putting up a tent for?’ She hooted, gazing shamelessly at the front of his breeches and he doubled up awkwardly in the saddle. With a disconcerting change of mood, she seemed to take pity on him and she went back to the pony’s head and led him along the track, giving Shasa a chance to recover his composure.

  ‘What did my brother tell you about me?’ she asked, without looking round.

  ‘Nothing,’ he assured her.

  ‘Don’t believe what he says.’ She was unconvinced. ‘He always tries to make out bad things about me. Did he tell you about Fourie, the driver?’ Everybody at the mine knew how Gerhard Fourie’s wife had caught the two of them in the cab of his truck after the Christmas party. Fourie’s wife was older than Annalisa’s mother, but she had blackened both the girl’s eyes and torn her only good dress to tatters.

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ Shasa reiterated stoutly, and then with i
nterest, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘It was all lies.’ And then, with another change of direction, ‘Would you like me to show you something?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Shasa answered with alacrity. He had an inkling of what it might be.

  ‘Give me an arm.’ She came to his stirrup and he leaned down and they hooked elbows. He swung her up and she was light and strong. She sat behind him astride the pony’s rump and slid both arms around Shasa’s waist.

  ‘Take the path to the left.’ She directed him and they rode in silence for ten minutes.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Almost fifteen.’ He stretched the truth a little and she said, ‘I’ll be sixteen in two months.’ If there had been any doubts as to who was in charge, this declaration effectively settled it. Shasa deferred to her and she felt it in his carriage. She pressed her breasts to his back as though to emphasize her control and they were big and rubbery hard and burned him through his thin cotton shirt.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked after another long silence. They had by-passed the bungalow.

  ‘Hush up! I’ll show you when we get there.’

  The track had narrowed and become rougher. Shasa doubted anybody had passed this way in months, other than the small wild beasts that still lived this close to the mine. Finally it petered out altogether against the base of the cliff, and Annalisa slid down from the pony’s back.

  ‘Leave your horse here.’

  He tethered the pony and looked around him with interest. He had never been so far along the base of the cliffs. They must be three miles from the bungalow at least.

  Below them the scree slope plunged downwards at a steep angle, and the ground was riven with gorges and ravines, all of them choked with rank thorny undergrowth.

  ‘Come on,’ Annalisa ordered. ‘We haven’t got much time. It will be dark soon.’ She ducked under a branch and started down the slope.

  ‘Hey!’ Shasa cautioned her. ‘You can’t go down there. You’ll hurt yourself.’

  ‘You’re scared,’ she mocked.

  ‘I am not.’ The taunt goaded him onto the rock-strewn slope and they climbed downwards. Once Annalisa paused to pluck a spray of yellow flowers from a thorn bush, then they went on, helping each other over the bad places, crouching under the thorn branches, teetering on the boulders and hopping across the gaps like a pair of rock rabbits until they reached the bottom of the ravine and paused to catch their breath.

  Shasa bent backwards from the waist and stared up at the cliff that towered above them, sheer as a fortress wall, but Annalisa tugged his arm to gain his attention.

  ‘It’s a secret. You have to swear an oath not to tell anybody, especially not my brother.’

  ‘All right, I swear.’

  ‘You have to do it properly. Lift your right hand and put the other on your heart.’ Solemnly she led him through the oath, and then took his hand and drew him to a lichen-covered pile of boulders. ‘Kneel down!’

  He obeyed, and she carefully pulled aside a leafy branch that screened a niche amongst the boulders. Shasa gasped and pulled back, coming half to his feet. The niche was shaped like a shrine. There was a collection of empty glass jars arranged on the floor but the wild flowers in them had withered and turned brown. Beyond the floral offering a pile of white bones had been carefully arranged in a small pyramid and surmounting this was a human skull, with gaping eye sockets and yellow teeth.

  ‘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. He 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 clearly 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 t
he 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 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.