Acacia - Secrets of an African Painting

by Paul Bondsfield

CHAPTER ELEVEN – FREDERICK’S DIARY

  As I looked across at Tara, I could see the excitement shining in her eyes at what we were reading. We were about three quarters of the way through and it really was gripping stuff.

  ‘Do you realise that this is real history here?’ she said, almost whispering in her enthusiasm. ‘This is stuff we used to learn about at school, except there we were never interested because it was just so..so..’ She struggled to find the word, so I helpfully supplied a suitable one, ‘Boring?’

  ‘Well, yes, it was that, but it was..impersonal! It just wasn’t relevant to us. But this is real. Frederick is family and just look at what he was doing a hundred years ago. My god, it makes you feel so inadequate doesn’t it?’

  Personally, I felt adequate enough, but I had to agree with her. This was a riveting read and mostly because it was the story of a member of our family, one who had made history. Despite the fact that Frederick had been involved in a major historical event, every historian since, assuming it had ever been known in the first place, had simply forgotten it. I don’t suppose the Matabele wrote down their history and if Frederick had kept quiet on his return, then maybe no one ever knew what had happened.

  ‘Do you realise; we may be the first people in a hundred years to have read this? We should take this to wherever history is written down and rewrite the history books.’ I was really getting into this now.

  ‘Hold on there just a minute.’ I could sense a lecture coming from the tone of her voice. ‘You are making one or two assumptions there aren’t you?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was hurt already before she had even shot me down in flames.

  ‘What I mean history boy, is that I am sure that Nellie has read this before now. There is no way she held on to this for god alone knows how long, without once opening the cover for a peek, is there?’

  I wasn’t entirely sure she was expecting an answer to this question, so I stayed quiet, even ignoring yet another nickname.

  ‘Secondly, we have no way of telling if any of this is true and I am certainly not going to be made a fool of by some snotty history professor when he points out the obvious major holes in the story, about which we would know nothing until they were pointed out!’ She was good at this, so again I said nothing.

  ‘And thirdly, we really have to try and verify some of this, in Africa, before we tell a single living soul of its existence. Okay?’

  ‘Okay!’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘Great!’

  As this monosyllabic exchange came to an end, I realised that she probably meant we would have to verify this actually in Africa and that in order to do that, we would have to go there, in person, and that was something I very much liked the sound of, and so I hugged her and we sat down to finish reading the diary.

  “I write this sitting outside a small hut within the enclosure of GuBulawayo.

  The fifth day after Selous left us; we were making good progress in the direction previously indicated by him. As we rested, twenty natives appeared and seemed very cautious in their approach. The tallest of them seemed to want us to follow him, but we were in no mind to do so for now. He grew agitated, but we were determined to remain where we were. In response to this, he started drawing in the dust what looked to be a map. He indicated our present position and also what looked to be a town some distance away that we understood to be GuBulawayo, the seat of Lobengula. He pointed to the hills to the north of us that we believed him to call the Matoppo, and then spoke very quickly and urgently in his native tongue, which none of us knew. However, we garnered that we were to visit the town as soon as we could. Selous had said that we may have to visit Lobengula, the Matabele king, to present gifts and request permission for our safe passage. We assumed that this was the message these men had delivered to us.

  We travelled the following two days in the direction these natives had pointed out and were aware that at many times, they kept pace with us, although they maintained their distance. On the third day we climbed over the Matoppo Hills, where fabulous rock formations were situated, as if God had placed large stones atop smaller ones and caused them to balance there for no good reason we could see. When in the Matoppos we came across a place as beautiful and awesome as any I have seen. It was a flat shelf of rock, high up and overlooking a vast plain in all directions. There were strange standing stones here, we knew not whether built by the hand of God or man. Small colourful lizards skittered amongst the stones, bright as gemstones and of every colour of the rainbow. As we stopped here, I thought that we had a view of the whole world from here and it was as peaceful a resting place as I could imagine.

  We came eventually to the top of a plateau, which was high. As we reached the flat, we saw the air was somewhat clearer. The kraal of GuBulawayo was a revelation for us because of the size that was near to a mile in circumference. The outer palisade is made of wood and seems to be constructed well. As we reached the entrance to the kraal, there was a terrible stench as piled there were two large heaps of horns and other remains of bullocks, killed, we presumed, at different times and then left to rot. Around this entrance, there were many men who seemed to be waiting on the king.

  Inside the outer palisade are round huts with high-pitched, grass roofs on them for the inhabitants of the town. There is also another palisade that was equally well built, but smaller and lower, inside which cattle are kept.

  In the centre of the kraal is a large empty space that we assume is for parades and ceremonies, such as they must display from time to time. Here is also a larger hut. We found out it belonged to Lobengula himself. Next to this is a smaller enclosure, again for the sacred goats. We have been told that any man who enters this enclosure without the permission of the king would be immediately sentenced to death. The remainder of the town is made by a number of huts for the royal wives, of which there were several. The place is in all as busy as any town of the size and the people seem content to go about their business without paying much attention to us, although many of the children stared at us and followed us wherever we went.

  A tall gentleman of stately bearing and peppercorn grey hair came to us as we arrived and led us to a hut to one side where he bade us to make ourselves comfortable. He spoke passable English that we were able to understand well enough. He told us that it may be some time before the king could see us, but that we should remain in or near the town, for the call would be of short notice and we should be ready.

  My companions were all for ignoring the protocol of “these savages” and after one night, said we should leave for our journey to continue. I argued that this place is comfortable enough and there is food enough to eat, so perhaps we should stay for a while and enjoy its comforts as we know not when we will be able to enjoy the same again. They were not happy, but have agreed to stay for a while at least.

  As I write this latest note to my diary, we have been at GuBulawayo for five days waiting on the pleasure of the king. My companions are weary of waiting longer and I fear they may leave me here alone. I wish to be respectful of these people who have shown us kindness and hospitality thus far, so it will be a bad time if we must part.

  This is written on the sixth day here at GuBulawayo. Last night was a strange one as we learned of riches and treasures hidden somewhere in this land to which we are keen to make progress. It came about as my companions drank a large quantity of the native beer, which is not to my taste, being milky and sour. They fell asleep behind one of the huts on the far side of the kraal. Upon waking in the night, they heard voices in the hut, of men seemingly oblivious to their presence. The voices spoke, in English, of diamonds hidden some days travel from here and these men seemed to be here for the purpose of working uncut stones for the king. I presumed that the beer had gotten the better of them, but this morning, there are two white men present in the kraal who have not been present before now. When I tried to make conversation with them today, they volunteered neither names nor greetings and slunk away without even a token
of friendliness. They did seem surprised to see us there, which set us thinking on what their purpose was.

  Day seven at GuBulawayo and we have at last been granted an audience with Lobengula and were told not to keep him waiting. We duly arrived outside his hut early this morning and then sat and waited. We waited some four hours before he deigned to see us, by which time, there had gathered quite a crowd of people all hoping for the “King’s favour”.

  Lobengula is a big man, standing some six feet high and broad with it. His bearing is regal, almost haughty, as if he knows the power he holds and cares to show it. His facial features are coarse and large and it is easy to see a cruelty and cunning etched in those features. Although when he smiles, he becomes another person, one of some charm and intellect.

  We have been told that he has an excellent memory, being able to recall facts and conversations from years before with astonishing accuracy. He uses this memory and his intuition about decision making to rule his country well.

  The audience was brief, Lobengula was behaving in a dismissive way toward us as if he had more important things to worry about. We, putting our case in simple terms, explained that we were here to explore and learn. No, we didn’t seek land or cattle and would certainly return to our homes on the Cape. Whether or not he wholly believed us, he obviously thought of us as a rag-tag group not worthy of further consideration and waved us away, which we were told meant permission had been granted to pass GuBulawayo and go further into Matabeleland.

  It is now the eighth day here and last night we were treated to a ceremony for the warriors of the various impi stationed at the town. There was food and beer aplenty. We supplied the natives who had helped us most with judicious sips of aqua vitae, lest they get too drunk. When the warriors came to dance in the centre of the town, they were indeed a fearsome and awesome sight in their war costumes. Elaborate in nature, this costume consists of a headdress of black ostrich-feather plumes with further similar feathers draped over their shoulders in a cape designed we believed to broaden their aspect somewhat. They wear kilts of skins around their loins with white cattle tails hanging from them, which they also wore around their arms. To complete the dress, they wear rings of metal around their ankles. Weaponry is displayed as well and consisting as it does of a long throwing spear. Also included was a short assegai, or stabbing spear, which we had heard much about from those who had fought these natives or others in the past. Their shields are tall and oval in shape, made of ox hide and patterned in black, white, red, or speckled, depending on the impi, or regiment, to which they belong.

  The celebrations continued long into the night, with the warriors whipping themselves into frenzy, which to us was frightening to say the least. This morning, we have witnessed many of these warriors setting off from the town on a raiding expedition. We have been told it was against the hated Mashona people whom the Matabele regarded little better than dogs.

  When we awoke this morning, we were as one tired and ready to sleep the day away, but now it was my turn to exhort my companions to rouse themselves and make headway. Now that we had been given the chance, I am anxious to get on and will not take no for an answer.

  Our plan is to head west from here, towards the ruins of Great Zimbabwe. Selous had told us the ruins were rumoured to be the remains of a different civilisation, which could have been lured here by the riches available in the ground. We deduced that this was as good a starting place as any for a search for our own private fortune and we would take stock of our situation once we reached it.

  It is now day three of our trek from GuBulawayo. Last night, we were seated around the fire, contentedly eating and enjoying the warmth from the flames. All of a sudden, a furious noise came at us from the darkness. We all jumped to our feet, grabbing our guns as we did so, fearing an attack by the warriors we had witnessed before. The sound stopped as we stared into the blackness and then another sound started, like an animal in pain pulling itself along the ground. We advanced towards the sound and soon came across a bloodied bundle of rags crawling through the dust. Upon investigation, we found this bundle to be a man, one that had undergone serious injury in some way or other. We carried him to the fire and fed him some water using more to wipe the blood from his face. It was then that we recognised him as one of the two men from the kraal who had shown us neither friendship nor courtesy. My companions, upon learning this, were content to let him lie there and fend for himself as best he could, but I was keen to hear his story as to how he came by these grievous injuries.

  At this point, Tara, being Tara, snapped the book shut and asked me if I fancied something to eat or drink.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe you,’ I said, doing a fair impersonation of Victor Meldrew. ‘Just when it gets really interesting, you want to eat? Are you mad, woman?’

  Irritatingly, she just grinned and headed for the kitchen. I was tempted to re-open the book and carry on reading myself, but I knew the consequence of that little act of rebellion was bound to involve retribution from a far stronger opponent. So I headed after her, feeling a bit peckish by now anyway.

  ‘So, what do you think about his story so far?’ she accosted me as I entered the room.

  ‘Well, it’s great, isn’t it? A real bit of history and all that.’ I wasn’t sure, but I think she was getting at something.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed something about it though? Something a bit odd?’ she asked with her hand on her hip and head to one side, in that pose that says “I can’t believe you don’t know the answer to this one!”

  I thought about it for a moment, but could come up with nothing at all. ‘Nope!’ I said.

  ‘How about the fact that that he hasn’t once mentioned the names of his companions, as he calls them? Don’t you think that a bit strange?’

  Now that she mentioned it, it did seem a bit weird. ‘Now you come to mention it, it is a bit weird.’ I said.

  ‘I mean, he has travelled with them for all this time, from Cape Town to the wilds of Africa and not one mention or clue to their identities. I wonder why not?’ She gazed off into space as she thought about, it causing me to do the same. Neither of us could come up with any plausible explanation though, so we made a sandwich and a cup of tea before returning to the book, hoping to find the answer in its pages.

  The man was in much pain, so we comforted him as best we could, but his words were indistinct, causing us to wonder if we had heard him right by the time he had finished. He told us that he had been attacked and tortured by some warriors to the north. His companion had been killed in the most horrendous manner, having first been beaten and then stabbed repeatedly with assegais. After that, his genitals had been cut from him and forced into his mouth. After an interminably long period, he bled to death where he lay. His body had then been cut to pieces and thrown to the dogs and torn to shreds into the night. The same fate had awaited this man, the fact of watching his friend’s death making it the more horrific to bear. As he was being beaten and stabbed, he had made a run for it, surprising his captors to the extent that they did not chase after him at first. He had run for as long as he had been able before hiding in a tree for two days, too fearful to move for anything. Earlier this night, he had at last made another run for it and seeing the light of our fire, headed toward it like a moth would do, not knowing if friend or foe was there, nor caring. Then he told us of the treasure hidden in the bush, that he and his companion had been hired by the king’s senior induna, called Lotshe, to teach the Matabele how to process gold and diamond bearing rock. They had done so with a promise of a large share of the treasures they had seen, which amounted to millions of pounds worth. He estimated the diamonds alone would amount to some 67,000 carats, about a quarter of the total annual production of all the mines south of the Limpopo. However, he and his companions had been greedy and had tried to secretly stash some of the diamonds away for themselves. The warriors had found them out though and this was the reason they had been attacked.

  We interrogated hi
m urgently as to the whereabouts of this treasure, but all he could say before he died was to head to the north and west for a four day ride and there it will be found. We found some proof of his story about his person as we searched for an identity, finding nothing to tell us his name. However, they did find a small grey stone, looking nothing more than a rock as can be found on the ground anywhere, but which my companion attested, was in fact a diamond, uncut and unclean; the largest he had seen for many years.

  My companions have now contracted a disease that I believe will eventually kill us all. I may have it too, but it is easy to persuade myself that I’m not affected and that my actions are somewhat different to those of the others. Perhaps this is a worse state for mankind – the ability to deny oneself. What they (we?) have is a fever of the kind men have contracted since time began and will continue to do so until time ends. They are drunk with the thoughts of the riches to be had and they danced and jigged around the corpse of this unknown traveller last night as if he were in fact a log of wood and had never had in him the spark of life and humanity that sets men apart from the beasts. It was at that moment that my heart broke for being away from Em and my children, who I have always known were my true treasure. I looked on as these men hugged and shouted and I felt numb.

  ‘My god!' I exclaimed, 'He’s talking about the Braughton treasure. It really does exist.’ I could hardly contain my excitement as we sat back in disbelief at what we had read.

  ‘Now let’s not jump to conclusions here James.’ Tara said. ‘Firstly, this book doesn’t prove anything at all. It could be all made up for all we know. Secondly, even it were true, whatever existed then could easily not exist anymore. After all, it has been a century since this happened and a lot can happen in that amount of time.’

  ‘Yes I know all that, but this must be where the legend comes from, mustn’t it?’ I was eager to retain my sense of excitement and did not want to let Tara bring me down just yet. ‘I mean, we might have the chance to prove once and for all if the legend is true or not.’

  She smiled at me knowing that I didn’t really want to prove the legend was just that, but that I really wanted to find this treasure and reap the rewards that might follow. ‘Putting it like that, you’re right. We could once and for all scupper the Braughton curse and stop these silly rumours.’ She paused and then continued. ‘Of course, you do realise that a lot of dreams would be shattered if we prove it is false don’t you? Secretly, there are a lot of people who would dearly like to believe in this stuff.’

  ‘I guess that’s just the risk we’re going to have to take, isn’t it?’ I felt invigorated now at the thought of action, but in the meantime, I needed to finish reading Frederick’s words, so we once again bent to the task.

  An argument ensued as my companions wanted to strike camp immediately and set off into the night to find the treasure. My thoughts were of the fate of the two men who already got too close to whatever was going on and I have tried to warn them of this to no avail. They are determined to go and I believe that despite my own warnings, I am glad they have talked me into going with them. However, I worry I might come to rue that decision.

  We gave the unknown traveller a decent enough burial early this morning before the sun had properly risen above the distant hills and will shortly set off to the northwest as he had told us.

  It is yet one more day into our journey now and signs that we are being warned away from this course came soon yesterday when first one and then another of our mounts fell ill to horse sickness. Both died quickly and we were left with just two horses for the four of us, whereby we had to leave much of our provisions to lie in the dust. Last evening, another of our horses was lost to the sickness and this morning, the last succumbed and lay down, not to get up again.

  We have once again shed much of our provision, each man carrying as much as he can for his own use and no more. We have two problems now; the first being that we might run short of food or water, although there are frequent rivers to refresh our supplies. The second, however, is that in case of attack by man or beast, we have no easy way to escape or fight, weighed down as we are with provisions. This fact weighs heavily on my mind as we trudge onward, now not knowing how far we should travel before we will reach our destination, and not even knowing what that destination will consist of.

  I am unsure of what day this is, as each runs into the next as we walk with our heads down through the bush, wade through rivers, and sleep uneasily each night as well hidden as we can accomplish. We light our fire several yards from the places we sleep, for fear that the light may attract beasts or men to it and wherever we sleep we construct a barrier of thorns around us to give us at least some time in case of attack.

  Despite the hardship and the tiredness we feel in our limbs, we marvel at the beauty of this country, at the verdant greens, and the raw beauty of the yellow plains. We have come across many animals during this time, of all description and type. I think of the tales I could tell to the people from my hometown in England, a place that seems like a distant dream now. I am sure that the Scot who spurred me to come to this continent in the first place would scoff at descriptions of giraffe, warthog, zebra, and hippo as the flights of fancy of a “crazy Sassenach”.

  We came across a large wet vlei at one point, upon which were geese and ducks. As a change to our diet of dried meat, we managed to shoot a few of these birds and were able to feast on the roasted meat.

  We spend much time at the sides of rivers, searching for drifts to cross with some ease. Without the long legs of our horses, we struggle though and are frequently swept off our feet and downstream until we manage to catch hold of a branch and drag ourselves to shore. One such episode split our group, as two of my companions disappeared around the bend of the river. On the far side, the remainder of us waited for several hours before the two unfortunates once again joined us looking bedraggled and the worse for wear.

  Here the diary changed. Whereas before, the writing had been in the present tense or at least very near past tense, now Frederick was recalling events from a far later date and was obviously struggling to remember much of what had happened. What he said was no less enthralling and puzzling however.

  Cape Town – home.

  My current state is such that I am unsure of the date, or even of the month in which I now exist. I just know it is much later and that I am home. However, my mind is as fogged now as it has been for many months or perhaps years. I’m as unsure of the passage of time as I am of the existence of any God.

  It is after the incident at the river that events became less clear to me and I struggle still to recall the order in which things happened and the personalities involved. The horrors I witnessed in the following time have stayed with me every day and night since, but to put some detail to these pictures inside my head is beyond my abilities now. Thank God for the good will and love of Em and my family, for they alone have kept me from a madness which should surely otherwise assail my every waking moment. I write this to try and make some sense of things, to understand what happened and for what reasons. Em says that this will help me in my recovery and I trust her with every fibre of my being to do the right thing by me. It is hard for me to comprehend the magnitude of her patience with me, for I know that I have returned to her a different man than when I left. It was what she most worried about and the thing that I convinced her would not happen. She lost me as well as if I had perished on that journey and her grief is evident to me every day. I still love her more than ever, if such a thing were possible, but my love is as a different man, someone within himself, not able to fully demonstrate the feelings inside for fear of letting out things that are best kept in the dark. Something deep inside me is now forever hidden and will never see the day’s light again. I, on the other hand have lost nothing of her. She is the same now as the day I left. She is strong, intelligent, patient, and loving, but I can see the grief in her eyes, hear it in her voice, and sense it in her touch.

  I
find now that I have another child, born after I left and whose existence was unknown to me until my return. A second son, named Michael by Em in my absence and a joy to me as much as my first-born son was. His existence only serves to show me further the gap I have created in my family, a distance that at the present time I have no way of closing.

  The events after the incident at the river are unclear, but I will set them down as best as I can remember in the hope that more memories will return to close the distance between my family and my new self.

  We eventually came to a higher land where rivers crossed and re-crossed as we moved, but I remember little else of the landscape except for the images I carried back with me sketched by my hand, I suppose. One of these sketches has felt singular to me, although its nature and design is no greater in an artistic sense than any other. I have since painted it trying to find its meaning, but without success. For some reason, I feel as if it is special in some way; that perhaps there is a meaning to it that I cannot quite comprehend. Whether it is the subject of the sketch which means something or the location it depicts is unclear too. The picture is of a village scene; in the foreground, a flat-topped acacia dominates with a village of huts in the background. There are two main figures, an old man and a young girl, but I feel that they are not part of the real story of what makes the picture special to me, but to that I can also not be sure.

  I grabbed Tara’s arm as we read this bit, as the painting was obviously the same one that Nellie had left me.

  ‘It was Frederick that painted it!’ I exclaimed, surprised and excited by this discovery.

  Tara’s eyes shone too at this and she said, ‘Yeah, how about that; after all this time, we have found the artist. I wonder what he means about the painting being special though. It doesn’t look particularly special to me.’

  ‘No, there’s nothing special that an art critic would pick up I don’t think, but I have always thought there was something about it that was deeper than just style or the skill of the painter’s brushstrokes,’ I said. ‘I know it sounds daft, a bit new age, but it always summed Africa up to me, or at least my romantic notions of Africa. That’s why I always loved it and that is probably why Nellie left it to me.’ I was a little embarrassed by my little speech, but Tara simply smiled at me as she popped her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘You’re quite an old softy at heart aren’t you?’ she said affectionately. ‘But isn’t it strange that Nellie never mentioned that she knew who the artist was. I assume she must have known, after all, she had this book too and she must have read it at some point surely.’

  ‘I’m not so sure you know,’ I replied. ‘I am beginning to wonder about Nellie’s part in all this. Something makes me feel that she has just acted as a messenger, simply passing these things onto us without ever having done anything about them herself.’

  Tara peered at me quizzically. ‘You are getting very deep and serious all of a sudden. What exactly is it that has provided you with this insight? I can’t say that I have felt it yet.’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing probably, I just feel it, that’s all.’

  I really didn’t know any more than I had said either, but there was something there, even if I couldn’t identify it or define it in any way. I drifted off, trying to make sense of this until Tara suggested we carry on reading.

  My fellow travellers were in a constant state of excitement, urging us on at a faster and faster pace. I remember the tiredness in my limbs being a constant companion during those days. I do not remember hunger or thirst in any large manner, so we must have established a reasonable source of nourishment at that time.

  The days were long and hot and increasingly we encountered small groups of natives, none of them Matabele; all friendly and willing to trade with us. We, of course with nothing to trade, passed these groups by after spending some time talking with them about all manner of things. I do not remember all the topics of those conversations, but strangely remember the feel of them, if that does not sound too strange.

  There was a calm about those days when we were with these people whose existence was dominated by the threat of Matabele raids. I do remember hearing about the way in which the Matabele would decimate a village by taking the women and young men for slaves or to train as warriors. Anyone who tried to stop these activities would be brutally killed, so the tribes just kept moving, fearful of the next band of young warriors to come their way. I remember that they were friendly towards us, taking time to speak with us and sometimes spending time around the fire, sharing what they had as if we were brothers.

  I still recall the smell of wood smoke from those fires and associate the smell with good memories. Each time now that I sense the aroma of wood burning, that fragrant, sweet smell calms and relaxes me, whilst at the same moment increasing a yearning for memories that do not come readily.

  A long time after we had left the river where the two men were swept away, I recall mountains or hills perhaps, in the distance. There was something about them of significance, but I don’t know what it was. There were many stands of mopane trees here and the flat veld was dotted with kopjes some with pools of fresh water at their base.

  Somehow we came across a secret place, on one of the kopjes I think, but we were not found out. I remember a long period of lying on the ground or crawling, so perhaps this was when we advanced on this place, although how we knew it was there, I do not recall. I do recall though that this was a place of some industry. There were the sounds of hammers on rock, of men’s voices, and the light and smoke of fires. It was strange because this place was as remote as this part of Africa goes, not a place where men would normally reside. A line of men carrying sacks comes to mind too, from where, I do not know, but the sacks were heavy as the men near collapsed as they dropped their loads.

  There was argument amongst those in our little group and I believe the outcome of those arguments left us in dire circumstances and lead to the outcome of which I will write anything I can remember.

  It had been dark for seven or eight hours when we advanced to the place, a cave I think, and as we left, we were laden with sacks and there was an atmosphere of elation, although we were all silent.

  We ran in the direction of the great southern cross for I don’t know how long before my mind truly turns inward and the memories become faint. I remember digging in the earth though and then we were free of our loads. A native face came at me, one I recognised from someplace, and there was hate there, but also relief? I am not sure of this, as after this there was noise and action that was horrendous in intensity. There was blood too. Lots of blood mixed with the dust of the ground and all over me. Also, men’s screams and pleas for mercy that I can hear still as clear as if they were outside this room; I feel I will never stop hearing those noises.

  We were taken somewhere, maybe back to the kopje and there were shouts, faces close to mine, spitting words I did not understand, but knew formed questions, the answers to which I no longer know. Then words in English were spoken, “Where is it? Where is it?” repeated over and over. The face I recognised was there again, lit like a devil from firelight. There was pain; I was tortured by fire and by steel. I remember blood again, running across my skin, dripping to the floor.

  My companions screamed and I, too, although I could not make out one voice from another, theirs from my own. Then another face came to me, but this time a white man’s face, the face of one of my companions, but without shoulders or body to hold it up.

  Then came silence. It was dark, maybe in a cave, but there was light, faint, but enough to see the sights of hell before me. I was the only man standing, tied to a post in the ground. The others were mere lumps of meat that had been butchered, skilfully so as to maintain life for as long as possible. To inflict the greatest amount of pain that a man could endure before his mind snapped with the sheer horror of it. I knew next they would come for me. There was an eye looking at me from the middle of one of these pieces of meat. It blinked. How on this
earth could it have blinked? It was just an eye contained in a raw mass of blood and bone. The pain in that eye was masked by fear and horror and by a pleading for what I can only guess was an end to its existence. It stared at me, and stared and stared.

  It still stares.

  There was silence in the room as we both sat back and tried to fight back the tears. I felt as if this was someone I knew. A friend, family member, and he had seen all this, experienced all this, and written it down. It must have torn him apart to remember the things that his mind had tried to delete from his memory. I looked across at Tara who had now let the tears flow down her cheeks. I leant over and then we held each other; there were no words. There was no need.

  THE PAST