by Wilbur Smith
Since the tribes had fled from this land the elephant had not been molested, and they were unalarmed by the close proximity of humans.
They did not flee at the first approach but stood their ground while the horsemen passed close by. Occasionally a cantankerous female indulged in a threatening display, but none pushed home her attack. Fenn was delighted by the antics of the calves, and plied Taita with questions about the mighty beasts and their ways.
The elephants were not the only wild animals they encountered.
There were herds of antelope, and yellow baboons foraged in the open glades or swarmed nimbly to the tops of the tallest trees. One troop erupted into shrieking panic. The mothers snatched up their infants and slung them under their bellies as they bounded away in flight. The big males formed a belligerent rearguard, fluffing out their manes and uttering explosive barks of fury.
‘What ails them?’ Fenn demanded.
‘Likely a leopard or some other predator.’ As Taita spoke, a beautiful gold and black spotted cat stalked out of a patch of grass just ahead: The leopard’s markings blended perfectly with the background. ‘You were right again, Taita. You must know everything there is to know in this world,’ Fenn told him admiringly.
They angled up the slope of the next range of hills, but before they reached the crest a vast herd of zebra thundered over the skyline. Their hoofs tore up the dry earth and lifted a cloud of pale dust high into the brazen sky. They took little notice of the horses, seemingly accepting that they were of their own species, and passed them within a few paces.
‘Something must have alarmed them,’ Meren said.
‘Fire or men,’ Taita agreed. ‘Nothing else would have caused a stampede on this scale.’
‘I see no smoke of a bushfire,’ Meren said. ‘It must be men.’ They rode cautiously now, approaching the skyline at a walk.
Suddenly Fenn exclaimed again and pointed to the left. ‘A child! A little black child.’
It was a naked infant of no more than three or four years. He was toddling up the slope on bowed legs, his plump little buttocks wobbling with each pace.
‘I am going to pick him up,’ Fenn exclaimed. She pressed Whirlwind into a trot, but Taita grabbed her rein.
‘Fenn, this smells like ripe bait.’
‘We cannot let him go,’ Fenn protested, as the child went over the skyline and disappeared. ‘He is lost, and all alone.’
‘We will follow him,’ Taita agreed, ‘but with caution.’ He did not release his hold on Whirlwind’s rein as they rode on. He halted a hundred paces below the ridge.
‘Come, Meren!’ he ordered. They dismounted and passed their reins to Fenn.
‘Stay here and hold our horses, but be ready to ride hard,’ Taita told her. He and Meren went forward on foot. They used a small bush to break up the outline of their heads as they peered over the far slope of the hill. The child stood just below them, facing them with a cheerful grin on his round face. He was holding his tiny penis in both hands, piddling a yellow stream on to the sun-baked earth. It was such a homely scene that it lulled them for a moment. Meren started to grin in sympathy but Taita seized his arm. ‘Look beyond!’
They stared for an instant longer, then Meren reacted. ‘The Basmara impis!’ he cried. ‘That little devil was the bait.’
Not fifty paces beyond where the child stood, they squatted rank upon close-packed rank. They were armed with wooden clubs, long throwing spears and shorter, stabbing assegais, tipped with sharp flint. Their rawhide shields were slung upon their backs, and their features were daubed with coloured clay to form warlike masks. They wore headdresses of fur and feathers, ivory pins pierced their nostrils and earlobes, while bracelets and anklets of ostrich shell and ivory beads adorned their limbs.
As Taita and Meren looked at them a hum, as though from a disturbed beehive, went up from the close-packed masses. With a single concerted movement they unslung their war shields and drummed upon them with their spears. Then they burst into their battle hymn. The deep, melodious voices soared and swelled with the drumming. Then the din was pierced by a shrill blast on an antelope-horn whistle. This was the signal for the ranks to leap to their feet and, in a mass, they started up the slope.
‘Back to the horses,’ said Taita.
Fenn saw them coming and galloped to meet them, bringing Wind smoke and Meren’s steed. They mounted swiftly and had turned the horse’s heads as the first rank of Basmara warriors burst over the crest behind them. They galloped back to where Habari and the remainder of the patrol were waiting.
‘Already they have sent out men to try to head us off,’ Fenn called, rising in the stirrups and pointing into the forest. Now they could make out figures among the trees, racing to surround them.
‘Take my stirrup rope!’ Taita called to Nakonto, as he kicked his left foot free of the loop. Nakonto grabbed it.
‘Meren, pick up Imbali to cover your blind side.’ Meren swerved and Imbali snatched the right loop. She and Nakonto were carried along by the horses, their feet skimming the earth.
‘Ride hard!’ Taita shouted. ‘We must break through before they encircle us.’ The fastest runners among the Basmara were streaking ahead of their companions. ‘Fenn, stay between Meren and me. Don’t allow yourself to be separated from us.’
Four of the racing Basmara cut in directly ahead of them, closing the gap for which Taita had been aiming. They turned to face the oncoming riders, their tall shields on their backs so that their hands were free to use their weapons. Taita and Meren slipped their short recurved cavalry bows, designed to be shot from horseback, from their shoulders as they closed in. They dropped the reins on to the necks of their mounts and, guiding them with the pressure of their feet and knees, rode straight at the spearmen. A Basmara hurled his spear. He was aiming at Meren, but the range was long. Meren had time to react. With a touch of his toe he turned the bay and the spear flew past his left shoulder. He raised his bow and loosed two arrows in rapid succession. One flew high, almost an arm’s length over the man’s head and went on for fifty paces - at this close range the bow was massively powerful — but the second hit the Basmara in the centre of his chest and flew clean through him. It burst out between his shoulder-blades in a spray of blood. He was dead even before he hit the ground.
Out on the right the second spearman heaved back his throwing arm.
He, too, was concentrating on Meren, and he was in Meren’s blind zone.
Meren did not see him so made no effort to defend himself. Imbali swung out on the rope stirrup and threw her axe, which cartwheeled through the air. The Basmara’s weight was on his back foot - he was in the very moment of his throw, unable to dodge or duck. The axe struck him in the middle of the forehead and buried itself deep in his skull. Imbali leant down to retrieve it as they swept by. Taita shot an arrow into the body of the third spearman, who dropped the weapon he had been about to throw and tried to pull the arrow out of his belly but the barbs had bitten deep.
The fourth and last warrior stood his ground. He was poised to make his throw, the shaft of the spear resting on his right shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot with battle rage, and Taita saw that they were fastened on Fenn. She was sitting high on Whirlwind’s back, a perfect target. The Basmara grimaced with the effort of launching the heavy spear at her.
Taita nocked another arrow from his quiver. ‘Down, Fenn,’ he commanded, in the voice of power. ‘Lie flat!’ She dropped forward and pressed her face into Whirlwind’s mane. Taita threw up his bow, drew until the bowstring touched his nose and lips, then released the arrow.
The spearman was already swinging his body into the forward stroke, but Taita’s flint arrowhead hit the notch at the base of his throat and killed him instantly. However, the spear had already left his hand. Taita watched, helpless, as it flew straight at Fenn. She had her face down and did not see it coming, but Whirlwind did. As it flitted across his nose he shied violently to one side and threw up his head so that Taita lost sight of the
spear for a moment. He thought that it had missed her and he felt a leap of relief. But then he heard her cry out in pain and surprise, and saw her writhe on the colt’s back.
‘Are you hit?’ Taita shouted, but she did not reply. Then he saw the shaft of the spear dangling down Whirlwind’s flank, dragging along the ground behind him.
Taita turned Windsmoke behind the colt and saw at once that the head of the spear was lodged in Fenn’s bare thigh. She had dropped the reins and was clinging with both hands to the colt’s neck. She turned towards him, and Taita saw that she was ash pale, her green eyes seeming to fill half of her face as she stared at him. The shaft of the spear was bucking and kicking as it bounced along the ground, and he knew that the razor edges of the head were working brutally in her flesh, worrying and enlarging the wound. It had lodged close to the femoral artery. If it severed that great blood vessel she would be dead within minutes.
‘Hold hard, my darling,’ he called, and glanced over his shoulder. He saw a pack of Basmara in full pursuit after them, baying as they raced through the forest. ‘We dare not stop. If we do, they will be upon us in an instant. I am coming to get you.’
Taita drew his sword and came up beside the colt. He measured his stroke carefully. The sight of the girl in such anguish seemed to restore the strength he had thought lost so many years ago. He focused his mind on the jerking spear. As he swung the heavy bronze blade he shouted a word of power: ‘Kydash!’
In his grip the weapon seemed to take on a life of its own. There is a spot on the cutting edge of a well-balanced blade where all the weight and energy of the blow is concentrated. It caught the hardwood shaft precisely a finger’s length above the leather bindings that secured the shank of the head and sliced through it as though it were a green twig.
The shaft dropped away, and he saw the instant relief that lit Fenn’s features.
‘I am coming to get you,’ he told her, as he slipped the blade back into its scabbard. ‘Be ready.’ He pushed Windsmoke in beside her colt and Fenn opened her arms to him trustingly. He slipped his own arm round her waist and lifted her across the gap. She wrapped her arms round his neck as he sat her sideways across Windsmoke’s withers.
‘I was so afraid, Taita,’ she whispered, ‘until you came. Now I know it will be all right.’
‘Hold tight,’ he ordered, ‘or it will be all wrong.’ With his teeth he tore a strip of linen from the hem of her tunic, then pressed the stub of the severed shaft flat against her upper thigh and secured it with the linen. ‘Not very neat or pretty,’ he told her, ‘but you are bravest girl I know, and that will hold it firmly until we get back to Tamafupa.’
The pursuing Basmara dropped back, and soon disappeared from sight among the trees. They were able to rein down to a trot, but still reached the gates of Tamafupa before the sun had made its noon.
‘Stand the garrison to arms,’ Taita ordered Meren. ‘Those devils will be upon us before another hour has passed.’ He lifted Fenn down from Windsmoke’s back, carried her to the hut they shared and laid her gently on her sleeping mat.’
Taita spoke reassuringly to Fenn as he washed away the clotted black blood from around the shank of the spearhead. Then he began a thorough examination of her leg. Until he was ready to operate, he would not remove the linen strip with which he had secured it.
‘You were always a favourite of the gods,’ he told her at last. ‘The spear has missed the big artery by the breadth of your little fingernail. If we hadn’t stopped the sharp edges sawing away inside you they would have ruptured it. Now, lie quietly while I mix you something to drink.’
He measured a strong dose of the red sheppen powder into a ceramic bowl and topped it up with hot water from the pan that stood on the coals of the central fireplace. ‘Drink this. It will make you sleepy and dull the pain.’
While the drug took effect he searched in his leather medical bag.
There was a separate compartment in which he kept his silver spoons.
To his knowledge only one other surgeon had ever owned a set, and he was dead. When he was ready he called Meren, who was hovering at the door of the hut. ‘You know what to do,’ he said.
‘Of course. You know how many times I have done this before,’ Meren replied.
‘You have washed your hands, of course?’ Taita asked.
Meren’s expression changed. ‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully.
‘When?’
‘This morning, before we rode out on patrol.’
‘Wash them again.’
‘I see no reason for it,’ Meren muttered, as he always did, but he went to the pan on the fire and filled a bowl.
‘We will need another pair of hands,’ Taita decided, as he held the silver cups in the flames. ‘Call Imbali.’
‘Imbali? She is a savage. What about one of our own men?’
‘She is strong and clever,’ Taita contradicted him. What was more to the point, she was female. Taita did not want another man handling Fenn’s naked body. It was bad enough that he must use Meren, but not another rough soldier - and the Shilluk women were flighty creatures.
‘Call Imbali,’ he repeated, ‘and make sure she washes her hands also.’
Although the red sheppen had sedated Fenn, she groaned and stirred when he disturbed the spearhead. Taita nodded at Meren. Between them they lifted Fenn into a sitting position, then Meren squatted behind her, folded her arms across her chest and pinioned them.
‘Ready,’ he said.
Taita glanced at Imbali, who was kneeling at Fenn’s feet. ‘Hold her legs straight. Make sure she does not move.’ Imbali leant forward and gripped Fenn’s ankles. Taita took a deep breath, and focused his mind.
While he flexed his long, bony fingers, he reviewed every move he must make. Speed and decisiveness were the keys to success. The longer the patient suffered, the more damage was inflicted on body and spirit, and the lower the chances of recovery. Quickly he cut the linen strip that held the spearhead, and gently lifted it into the vertical. Fenn groaned again. Meren had the leather gag ready and slipped it between her teeth to prevent her biting through her tongue.
‘Make sure she does not spit it out,’ Taita told him. He leant closer and studied the wound. The movements of the flint had already enlarged it considerably, but not enough to allow him to introduce the silver spoons into the gash. He palpated the swollen flesh and traced the regular pulsing of the great artery. He slipped his first and second finger into the wound to stretch it open, then ran them down into the warm raw flesh until he touched the sharp points of the barbs buried there.
Fenn screamed and struggled. Meren and Imbali tightened their grip.
Taita stretched the wound channel a little wider. Although his movements were so quick, they were controlled and precise: within seconds he had located the points of the barbs. Fenn’s flesh and muscle fibres were clinging to them. With his free hand he took up the spoons, placed them over the shank and ran them into the wound, one on each side of the spearhead. He guided them over the sharp flint to mask it so that he could draw out the spearhead without it snagging.
‘You are killing me!’ Fenn screamed. Meren and Imbali were using all their strength, but they could hardly hold her as she wriggled and squirmed. Twice Taita managed to guide the spoons over the barbs, but each time she twisted them loose. At the next attempt, he felt them slide into place. He closed the polished metal over the barbs, and in the same movement drew them upwards. There was a clinging suction as the bloody lips of the wound resisted the movement. With his fingertips deep in Fenn’s flesh he could feel the artery thudding steadily. It seemed to reverberate through his soul. He concentrated on guiding the spoons past it. If even a sliver of the flint was protruding from the enclosing metal it might catch the artery and slice it open. Smoothly he applied more pressure. He felt the mouth of the wound begin to yield, and then, abruptly, the blood-smeared silver spoons and the flint spearhead came free. Quickly he withdrew his fingers from the wound, and pressed the g
aping lips of raw flesh together. With his free hand he snatched the thick linen pad Meren handed to him and pressed it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Fenn’s head fell back. Her screams became soft moans, the tension went out of her limbs, and the rigid arch of her spine relaxed.
‘Your skill never fails to astonish me,’ Meren whispered. ‘Each time I see you work like that I am in awe. You are the greatest surgeon who ever lived.’
‘We can discuss that later,’ Taita replied. ‘Now you can help me to stitch her up.’
Taita was laying the final horsehair stitch when they heard a shout from the northern watch-tower. He did not look up at Meren as he tied the knot that closed the wound. ‘I believe that the Basmara have arrived. You must go to your duties now. You may take Imbali with you. Thank you for your help, good Meren. If the wound does not mortify, the child will have much to thank you for too.’
After he had bandaged Fenn’s leg, Taita went to the door of the hut and called for Lala, the most reliable and sensible of the Shilluk wives.
She came with her naked baby on her hip. She and Fenn were close friends. They spent much time together, talking and playing with the infant. Lala burst into loud lamentations when she saw Fenn pale and blood-smeared. Taita took some time to calm her and rehearse her in her duties. Then he left her to watch over Fenn while she slept off the effects of the red sheppen.
Taita scrambled up the makeshift ladder to join Meren at the north wall of the stockade. Meren greeted him gravely and, without another word, pointed down the valley. The Basmara were advancing in three separate formations. They came at a steady trot.