Blue Horizon

by Wilbur Smith

  He swung the first cut across Xhia’s shoulder-blades. The cane raised a welt upon it, studded with an irregular rash of thorn punctures, from each of which oozed a drop of blood. Xhia howled with pain and outrage.

  “Sing, you bastard mating of baboons,” Koots told him, with grim satisfaction. “You must learn that you cannot take Herminius Koots for a fool.” He swung again. The green branch began to disintegrate with the force of the blows, and the thorns broke off and embedded themselves in Xhia’s flesh.

  Xhia twisted and fought against his bonds until his wrists were rubbed bloody and raw by the leather loops. In a voice too loud for his little frame he screamed his fury and his vows of revenge in a language that the white man could not understand.

  “You will die for this, you white hyena! You eater of dung! You copulater with corpses! I shall kill you with the slowest of my poisons, you drinker of snake’s piss and monkey sperm.”

  Koots discarded the broken branch and selected another. He wiped the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his shirt and began again. He kept it up until both he and Xhia were exhausted. His shirt was sodden and his breathing hoarse. Xhia hung silently on the leather thongs and the blood ran in dark snakes down his back and buttocks to drip into the dust between his feet. Only then did Koots step back. “Leave him hanging there tonight,” he ordered. “He should be in a more willing mood by the morning. Nothing like a good thrashing to get these zwartes working properly.”

  Slowly Xhia turned his head and looked into Koots’s face. He spoke softly. “I will give you the death of twenty days. You will plead with me to kill you at the end.”

  Koots did not understand the words but when he saw the hatred in Xhia’s beady black eyes he understood the sense, and stepped back involuntarily. “Corporal Richter,” he said, “we will have to keep him tied up until he gets over his sore back and his murderous temper.” He picked up Xhia’s quiver of poisoned arrows and tossed it on to the fire. “Don’t let him have any weapon until he’s learned his lesson. I don’t want it between my shoulder-blades. They are treacherous bastards, these little apes.”

  In the morning Goffel used the point of his bayonet to dig the thorns out of the punctures that covered Xhia’s back, but some had been driven in too deeply. Over the following days they festered and suppurated, before they sloughed to the surface. With the fortitude of a wild thing Xhia recovered his strength and agility swiftly. His expression was inscrutable, and only when he looked at Koots did the hatred gleam out of those anthracite dark eyes.

  “Drink the wind, Xhia,” Koots cuffed him casually as he would a recalcitrant dog, “and don’t look at me like that, or I’ll waste another thorn tree on your stinking hide.” He pointed back along the trail that had led them to this place. “Now go back and find where Jim Courtney split his spoor.”

  They retraced their footsteps over the ground they had covered during the last ten days. They followed Xhia. Gradually his torn back clotted with festering scabs as his injuries started to heal. However, it seemed that the beating had indeed been beneficial for he worked hard. He seldom lifted his eyes from the ground, except to study the lie of the terrain ahead. They went swiftly for he had their own tracks to use as a marker. Sometimes he followed a spur for a short way until it proved false or illusory, then returned to the main trail.

  At last they reached the stratum of black igneous rock beside the waterfall. On the way out they had passed this spot with only a brief pause. Even though this seemed an ideal location for Bakkat to stage a deception, Xhia’s suspicions had been only mildly excited. Almost immediately he had picked up the strong clear spoor on the further side of the stratum, and followed it away.

  Now he shook his head as he returned to the spot. “I was a fool. Now I can smell Bakkat’s treachery in the air.” He sniffed like a dog getting a whiff of the chase. He reached the place where Bakkat had cast the masking spell, and he picked up a fragment of black ash. He examined it carefully and saw it was the ash of the tong tree, the wizard’s tree.

  “Here he burned the tong and cast his spell to cheat me. I walked past this place with my eyes blinded.” He was angry at having been so easily deluded by a man he considered his inferior in cunning and wizard-craft. He went down on his hands and knees and snuffled the earth. “This is where he would have pissed to cover his scent.” But the traces were months old and even his nose could distinguish no residual ammoniac odour of Bakkat’s urine.

  He stood up again and made a sign of separation to Koots, laying the palms of his hands together, then parting them with a swimming motion. “This is the place,” he said in execrable Dutch, pointing left and right. “Horses go that way. Man go that way.”

  “By the blood of the crucifixion, this time you had better be right or I will have your balls. Do you understand?”

  “No understand.” Xhia shook his head.

  Koots reached down and seized a handful of Xhia’s genitalia, and with his other hand drew his dagger. He lifted Xhia on tiptoe by his scrotum, then made the gesture of drawing the blade across the stretched sac, almost touching the skin, but shaving past it by a hair’s breadth.

  “Cut your balls,” he repeated. “Verstaan?”

  Xhia nodded soundlessly and Koots pushed him away. “Get on with it, then.”

  They camped on the bank above the waterfall, and Xhia worked both banks of the river for three miles upstream and down. First he covered the water’s edge, but in the last ten days or so the river had come down in spate, then subsided again. At the high-water mark dry grass and debris were stranded in the branches of the trees that grew along the banks. Not even the heaviest trodden spoor could have survived the inundation.

  Next Xhia moved out from the river bank, climbing up the slopes to the highest point that the flood waters had reached. He worked the ground painstakingly, scrutinizing every inch. All his experience and magic yielded nothing. The trail was gone, washed away. He had no way of knowing whether Bakkat had gone upstream or down. He had come up against an impenetrable wall.

  Koots’s nerves were already raw, and when he realized that Xhia had failed again he flew into a fit of fury more vicious than the last. He had Xhia bound again, but this time they hung him by his heels over a smouldering fire which Koots stoked carefully with green leaves. Xhia’s peppercorn hair frizzled in the heat and he coughed, choked and retched in the smoke as he writhed and swung on the rope’s end.

  The rest of the band broke off their dice game to watch. They were all thoroughly bored and dispirited by this time, and the lure of the reward was waning as the trail grew colder each day. Richter and Le Riche had already started muttering threats of mutiny, of abandoning the pursuit, escaping from these harsh and merciless mountains and heading back to the colony.

  “Kill the little monkey,” said Le Riche in a tone of disinterest. “Have done with him, and let’s go home.”

  Instead Koots stood up and drew his knife, slashed the rope that held Xhia suspended, and the little man dropped headlong into the coals. He let out another shriek and rolled out of the fire, only slightly more singed than he had been already. Koots grabbed the end of the rope that was still round his ankles and dragged Xhia to the nearest tree. He tied him there, and left him while he went back to eat the midday meal.

  Xhia crouched against the trunk of the tree, muttering to himself and examining his injuries. When Koots had finished eating he flicked the coffee grounds out of his mug, and shouted for Goffel. The Hottentot went with him to the tree and they both looked down at Xhia. “I want you to tell this little bastard in his own language, that I am going to keep him tied up. He will receive no water or food and I will beat him every day until he does his job and finds the spoor again.”

  Goffel translated this threat. Xhia hissed angrily and covered his face, to show how the sight of Koots offended him.

  “Tell him I am in no hurry,” Koots instructed. “Tell him I can wait until he shrivels up and dries in the sun like the baboon turd that he is.
”

  In the morning Xhia was still tied to the tree, but while Koots and his troopers were eating a breakfast of grilled corncakes and smoked Dutch sausage Xhia called out to Goffel in the language of the San. The Hottentot went to squat in front of him and they spoke together quietly for a long time. Then Goffel came back to Koots. “Xhia says that he can find Somoya for you.”

  “Well, he hasn’t done a good job of it so far.” Koots spat a piece of sausage skin into the fire.

  “He says that the only way to find the spoor now is to work a solemn magic.”

  Le Riche and Richter guffawed scornfully, and Le Riche said, “If we have come to witchcraft then I’m spending no more time here. I am going back to the Cape, and Keyser can stick his reward up his arsehole.”

  “Shut your fat face,” Koots told him, and turned back to Goffel. “What kind of solemn magic is this?”

  “There is a sacred place in the mountains where the spirits of the San have their abode. There, their power is strongest. Xhia says that if we go to this place and sacrifice to the spirits Somoya’s tracks will be revealed.”

  Le Riche stood up. “I have heard enough of this mumbo-jumbo. I have listened to it for almost three months and we are still no nearer having the gold guilders in hand.” He picked up his saddle and began to walk towards where his horse was grazing.

  “Where are you going?” Koots asked.

  “Are you deaf or just stupid?” Le Riche asked belligerently, and placed his right hand on the hilt of his sabre. “I told you once, but I will tell you again. I am going back to the Cape.”

  “It is called desertion and dereliction of duty, but I can understand why you want to go,” Koots said, in such a mild tone that Le Riche looked surprised. Koots went on, “If anyone else wants to go with Le Riche, I will not stop them.”

  Richter stood up slowly. “I think I will,” he said.

  “Good!” said Koots. “But leave any VOC property when you go.”

  “What do you mean, Koots?” Le Riche demanded.

  “The saddle and bridle,” Koots said, “the musket and your sabre are all Company issue. The horse and, of course, your boots and uniform, not to mention your water bottle and blanket.” Koots smiled. “Just leave all that over there, and you can say goodbye.”

  Richter had not yet committed himself, so he sat down again hurriedly. Le Riche stood uncertainly, looking from Koots to his grazing horse. Then, with a visible effort, he steeled himself. “Koots,” he said, “the first thing I will do when I get back to the Cape, even if it costs me five guilders, is fuck your wife.” Koots had recently married a beautiful young Hottentot girl. Her name was Nella, and she had been one of the most famous filles de joie in the colony. Koots had married her in an attempt to gain exclusive rights to her bountiful charms. That ruse had not been entirely successful, and he had already killed one man who had not understood the niceties of holy wedlock.

  Koots glanced at Sergeant Oudeman, his old comrade in arms. Oudeman was bald as an ostrich egg, but he had a fine dark moustache. He understood Koots’s unspoken orders, and he let one eyelid droop in acknowledgement. Koots stood up, and stretched like a leopard. He was tall and lean, and his pale eyes were dangerous beneath the colourless lashes. “One other item I forgot to mention,” he said ominously. “You can leave your testicles here also. I am coming to get them from you.” With a metallic scraping he drew his own sabre, and walked towards Le Riche. Le Riche dropped his saddle and spun to face him, his blade leaping from the scabbard in a flash of sunlight.

  “A long time I have waited for a chance at you, Koots.”

  “Now you have it,” Koots said, and lifted his point. He drifted in closer and Le Riche raised his own blade. Steel tapped lightly on steel as they measured each other. They knew one another well: they had trained and practised together over the years. They drew apart and circled.

  “You are guilty of desertion,” said Koots. “It is my duty to arrest you, or to kill you.” He smiled. “I prefer the second option.”

  Le Riche scowled and ducked his head aggressively. He was not as tall as Koots, but he had long simian arms and powerful shoulders. He attacked with a series of lunges, driving in hard and fast. Koots had been expecting this. Le Riche lacked finesse. Koots faded away before him, and when he reached the limit of his extension, Koots riposted with the strike of a puff adder. Le Riche jumped back only just in time but his sleeve was split and a few drops of blood dripped from the scratch on his forearm.

  They engaged again, steel scraping and thrilling on steel, but they were neatly matched. They broke and circled, Koots trying to move him towards where Oudeman lounged against the trunk of a thorn tree. Over the years Koots and Oudeman had developed an understanding. Twice Koots almost had Le Riche in position for Oudeman to deal with him, but each time he moved out of the trap.

  Oudeman left the thorn tree and moved out towards the cooking fire, as if to refill his coffee mug, but he kept his right hand behind his back. He usually went for the kidneys. A blade in the small of the back would paralyse the victim, and Koots would finish off Le Riche with a thrust through the throat.

  Koots changed the direction and angle of his attack, squeezing Le Riche back towards where Oudeman waited. Le Riche jumped back and whirled suddenly, nimble as a ballerina. In the same instant, he slashed his blade across the knuckles of Oudeman’s hand, which held the dagger. The knife flew out of his nerveless fingers, and Le Riche spun back to face Koots. He was still smiling. “Why don’t you teach your dog a new trick, Koots? I have seen that one too many times before, and it’s becoming boring.”

  Oudeman was swearing and clutching his injured hand, and Koots was clearly disconcerted by Le Riche’s unexpected ploy. He glanced at his accomplice, and as his eyes left Le Riche’s face, Le Riche attacked en flèche, the attack of the arrow: he went straight for Koots’s throat. Koots stumbled back, and lost his footing. He went down on one knee, and Le Riche pressed home to end it. At the last moment he saw the flare of triumph in Koots’s pale eyes and tried to turn aside, but his right foot was leading and Koots went in low, cutting under his guard. The razor steel sliced through the back of Le Riche’s boot, and there was an audible pop as it severed his Achilles tendon. Koots was on his feet again in the same instant, and sprang back outside even Le Riche’s long reach.

  “There is a new trick for you, Corporal, and how do you like it?” he asked. “Now, pray tell me, who has fucked whom?”

  Blood was spurting from the gash in the back of Le Riche’s boot, and he hopped back on his good leg, dragging his crippled foot behind him. His expression was desperate as Koots came in again fast, cutting and thrusting at his face. On one leg Le Riche could not hope to hold him off and he toppled over backwards. As he sprawled, Koots made the next cut with the precision of a surgeon. He slashed through the back of Le Riche’s left boot and his other tendon parted cleanly. Koots ran his sabre back into its scabbard and walked away from him contemptuously. Le Riche sat up and, with shaking hands and pale sweating face, drew off his boots one at a time. He stared silently at the terrible crippling injuries. Then he tore the hem off his shirt and tried to bind up the wounds, but the blood soaked swiftly through the grubby cloth.

  “Break camp, Sergeant,” Koots called to Oudeman. “Everyone mounted and ready to leave in five minutes. The Bushman is taking us to this sacred place of his.”

  The troop rode out of the camp in single file following Xhia. Oudeman was leading Le Riche’s horse, and his musket, water bottle and all his other equipment were tied to the empty saddle.

  Le Riche crawled after them. “Wait! You can’t leave me here.” He tried to stand, but he had no control of his feet, and he toppled over again. “Please, Captain Koots, have mercy. In the name of Jesus, at least leave me my musket and water bottle.”

  Koots turned his horse back and looked down at Le Riche from the saddle. “Why should I waste valuable equipment? Soon you will have no further use for it.”

  Le Riche
crawled towards him on his hands and knees, his crippled feet flopping and dragging behind him like stranded fish. Koots backed his horse away, keeping just out of his reach.

  “I can’t walk, and you have taken my horse,” he pleaded.

  “It’s not your horse, Corporal. It belongs to the VOC,” Koots pointed out. “But I have left you your boots and your testicles. That is enough generosity for one day.” He turned his horse’s head and rode after the rest of his troop.

  “Please!” Le Riche screamed after him. “If you leave me here I will die.”

  “Yes,” Koots agreed over his shoulder, “but probably not until the vultures and the hyenas find you.” He rode away. The sound of the horses’ hoofs faded, and the silence of the mountains pressed down upon Le Riche with such weight that he felt the last shreds of his courage and resolve crushed beneath it.

  It did not take long before the first vulture planed overhead on widespread wings. It twisted its head on the long naked red neck and peered down at Le Riche. Then, satisfied that he was crippled and moribund, and unable to protect himself, it circled in for a landing on the rocky pinnacle above him. It flared its massive wings and stretched out its talons to find purchase on the rock. Then it settled, humpbacked, folded away the long wings, and watched him impassively. It was an enormous bird, black and lappet-faced.

  Le Riche crawled to the nearest tree, and leaned against the trunk. He gathered every stone within reach, but they made a pathetically small pile. He hurled one at the crouching vulture, but the range was long, and from a sitting position his throw lacked power. The great bird blinked its eyes but made no other movement. A dead branch had fallen from the tree and lay just within Le Riche’s reach. It was too heavy and too awkwardly shaped to wield effectively, nevertheless he placed it across his lap. It was his weapon of last resort, but when he studied the great bird, he knew just how puny it was.

  They watched each other for the rest of that day. Once the vulture ruffled out its feathers, then preened them carefully and settled into immobility again. By nightfall Le Riche was thirsty, and the pain in his feet was almost unbearable. The brooding silhouette of the bird was satanic black against the background of stars. Le Riche thought about creeping up upon it as it slept and strangling it with his bare hands, but when he tried to move, the pain in his feet held him as effectively as leg irons.