Assegai

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Oh, Otto!’ she exclaimed. ‘That must have been the woman we saw coming out of the largest hut. What is her name, this prophetess?’

  ‘You are amused by all this magical mumbo-jumbo, silly one?’ Graf Otto asked indulgently.

  ‘You know I love to have my fortune told.’ She smiled prettily and the last of his anger evaporated. ‘Don’t you remember the Gypsy woman in Prague? She told me my heart truly belonged to a strong loving man, who would cherish me always. That was you, of course!’

  ‘Of course. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘Otto, what is her name, this diviner?’

  He turned from her and raised a ginger eyebrow at Leon. ‘Her name is Lusima, sir.’ Leon had learned how to play this game of elliptical questions and answers.

  ‘How well do you know her?’ Graf Otto demanded.

  Leon laughed lightly. ‘She has adopted me as her son so we are well enough acquainted.’

  ‘Ha, ha! If she has adopted you, it seems she is not a woman of good judgement. However...’ Graf Otto spread his hands in surrender as he gazed at Eva ‘... I see that I will have no peace until I agree to this whimsy of yours. Very well, I will take you to visit this old woman of the mountain to have your fortune told.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Otto.’ Eva stroked the back of his hand. Leon felt an acidic flood of jealousy burn the lining of his stomach. ‘Now you see that the Prague Gypsy was right. You are so kind to me. When will you take me there? After you have hunted these buffalo of yours, perhaps?’

  ‘We shall see,’ Graf Otto hedged, and changed the subject. ‘Courtney, I will be ready at daybreak. It is no more than a few kilometres to where we last saw that herd. I wish to arrive before the sun is up.’

  The hushed world was waiting for the sun and the chill of the night was still in the air when Graf Otto parked the hunting car at the edge of the thicket of thorn scrub beyond the airstrip. One of his men had driven it to the camp overnight. Manyoro and Loikot were squatting before a smoky little fire of dry twigs, warming their hands. They kicked earth over the flames and stood up as Leon jumped out and came to them. ‘What do you have to tell me?’

  ‘After the moon went down we heard them drink at the waterhole near the camp. When we found the spoor this morning, we tracked them from the waterhole to here. They are close by in the thorn. Only a short while ago we heard them moving about in there,’ Manyoro reported, and went on, ‘They are truly very old and very ugly. Is Kichwa Muzuru sure that he wishes to shoot one?’ They had named Graf Otto ‘Fire Head’ for the colour of his hair and also for his apparent lack of fear, which the Masai admired greatly.

  ‘Yes, he is certain. I could not make him change his mind,’ Leon told him.

  Manyoro shrugged with resignation. Then he asked, ‘What bunduki will you carry, M’bogo? Your big one we left at Tandala.’

  ‘I will not have a bunduki today. But no matter. Kichwa Muzuru shoots like a wizard.’

  Manyoro looked at him askance. ‘And if someone knocks over the beer pot, M’bogo, what then?’

  ‘Then, Manyoro, I will poke the buffalo in the eye with this.’ Leon hefted a heavy stick he had picked up from beside the track.

  ‘That is not a weapon. It is not even a good louse-scratcher. Here.’ Manyoro reversed one of his two stabbing spears, and handed it butt first to Leon. ‘A real weapon for you to carry.’

  It was a lovely blade, three foot long and sharpened along both edges. Leon tested it on his forearm. It shaved the hairs as cleanly and effortlessly as his straight razor would have done. ‘Thank you, my brother, but I hope I shall not need to use it. Take the spoor again, Manyoro, but be ready to run if Kichwa Muzuru kicks over the beer pot!’

  Leon left them and went back to the hunting car where Graf Otto was taking his rifle out of its leather slip case. Leon felt a little easier when he saw that it was a large-calibre double-barrelled weapon, probably a continental 10.75mm. It had more than enough knock-down power to deal effectively with a buffalo.

  ‘So, Courtney, are you ready for a little sport?’ Graf Otto asked, as Leon came up to him. He had an unlit cigar between his lips and a loden hunting hat pushed to the back of his head. He was loading steel-jacketed cartridges into the open magazine of the rifle.

  ‘I hope you’re not planning on having too much fun, sir, but, yes, I’m ready.’

  ‘I see that you are.’ He grinned at the spear in Leon’s hand. ‘Are you hunting rabbits or buffalo with that?’

  ‘If you stick it into the right place it will do the job.’

  ‘I make you a little promise, Courtney. If you kill a buffalo with that I will teach you to fly an aeroplane.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed by your magnanimity, sir.’ Leon bowed slightly. ‘Will you please ask Fräulein von Wellberg to remain in the car until we return? These animals are unpredictable, and once the first shot is fired, anything might happen.’

  He removed the cigar from his mouth to address Eva. ‘Will you be a good girl today, meine Schatze, and do as our young friend asks?’

  ‘Aren’t I always a good girl, Otto?’ she asked, but something in her eyes negated the sugary response.

  He replaced the cigar in his mouth and handed her his silver Vesta case. She flipped open the lid and shook out a red-tipped match, struck it against the sole of her boot, and when it flared, she held it at arm’s length to burn off the sulphur smoke, then applied the flame to the tip of the cigar. Graf Otto was watching Leon’s eyes as he puffed at the Cohiba. Leon knew that this little demonstration of domination and subservience was probably for his benefit. The other man was not unobservant: he must be able to sense the emotional thunder in the air and was marking his thrall over Eva. Leon kept his expression neutral.

  Then Eva intervened again softly: ‘Please be careful, Otto. I would not know what to do without you.’

  Leon wondered if she was protecting him from the Graf’s jealous anger. If that was her motive, it worked well.

  Graf Otto chuckled. ‘Worry for the buffalo, not for me.’ He shouldered the rifle and, without another word, followed the Masai into the thorn thicket. Leon fell in behind him, and they went forward quietly.

  Once the three bulls were in heavy cover they had spread out to feed and their tracks meandered back and forth. It would have been only too easy while following one to run straight into another of the trio, so they moved slowly, checking the way ahead after every few paces. They had taken no more than a hundred when they heard the crackle of breaking twigs, followed by a soft snort nearby. Manyoro held up a hand, the signal to stand still and be quiet. There was silence for a full minute, which seemed much longer, then the rustle of vegetation. Something large was pushing its way through the thorn, coming directly towards them. Leon touched Graf Otto’s arm, and he slipped the rifle from his shoulder and held it at high port across his chest.

  Suddenly the wall of thorn bush parted directly ahead and the head and shoulders of a buffalo pushed through the opening. It was a scarred and battered old creature, one horn broken off to a jagged stump, the other almost worn away by constant sharpening against tree-trunks and termite mounds. The neck was scrawny and bald in patches. The nearest eye was white and glassy, completely blinded by fly-borne ophthalmia. At first it did not see them. For a while it stood and chewed at a clump of grass, loose straws and strings of saliva hanging from the corners of its mouth. It shook its head to drive away the little black flies that crawled around the lids of the blind eye, swarming to drink the yellow pus that dribbled down the buffalo’s cheek.

  Poor old blighter, Leon thought. A bullet in the head will be a real kindness. He touched Graf Otto’s shoulder. ‘Do it,’ he whispered, and braced himself for the shot. But nothing could have prepared him for what followed.

  Otto threw back his head and let out a wild shout: ‘Come, then! Show us how dangerous you can be.’ He fired a shot over the buffalo’s head. The bull recoiled violently and spun to face them. It stared at them through its one good eye
, then let out a loud snort of consternation and wheeled away. Bursting into a full gallop, it fled straight back into the thorn palisade. At the moment before it disappeared Graf Otto fired again.

  Leon saw dust fly from the top of the buffalo’s haunch, a hand’s breadth to the left of the knotty vertebrae of the spine that showed through the scarred grey hide. He stared after the fleeing bull with dismay. ‘You wounded him deliberately!’ he accused, in a tone of utter disbelief.

  ‘Jawohl! Of course. You said they needed to be wounded if we wanted some sport. Well, now it is wounded, and I am going to tickle up the other two as well!’ Before Leon could recover from the shock, Graf Otto let out another savage war-cry and took off in pursuit of the stricken animal. The two Masai were as stunned as Leon, and the three stood in a bewildered group, staring after the German.

  ‘He is mad!’ Loikot said, in awed tones.

  ‘Yes,’ said Leon, grimly. ‘He is. Listen to him.’

  There was uproar in the scrub just ahead: the drumming of many hoofs and the breaking of branches, snorts of anger and alarm, the detonation of rifle shots and the whump!, whump! of heavy bullets striking flesh and bone. Leon realized that Graf Otto was shooting at all three bulls, not to kill but to wound. He swung around to the Masai. ‘There is nothing more you can do here. Kichwa Muzuru has smashed the beer pot into a hundred pieces. Go back to the car,’ he ordered. ‘Take care of the memsahib.’

  ‘M’bogo, that is a great stupidity. We go forward together or not at all.’

  There was another shot, and this one was followed by the death bellow of one bull. At least one was down, Leon thought, but there were two more to go. There was neither time nor latitude for argument. ‘Come on, then,’ Leon snapped. They ran forward, and came upon Graf Otto standing at the edge of a small opening in the thorn. At his feet lay the carcass of a dead bull. Its back legs were still kicking convulsively in its death throes. The beast must have charged at him as he stepped into the clearing. He had dropped it with a bullet through the brain.

  ‘You were wrong, Courtney. They are not so dangerous,’ he remarked coolly, as he slid another round of ammunition into the breech of the rifle.

  ‘How many others have you wounded?’ Leon barked.

  ‘Both of them, of course. Don’t worry. You may still have a chance to learn to fly an aeroplane.’

  ‘You have proved your courage beyond any doubt, sir. Now, give me your rifle and let me finish the job.’

  ‘I never send a boy to do a man’s work, Courtney. Besides, you have your good spear. For what reason do you need a rifle?’

  ‘You are going to get somebody killed.’

  ‘Ja, perhaps. But I don’t think it’ll be me.’ He strode forward towards the wall of thorn bush on the far side of the clearing. ‘One of them went in there. I am going to pull him out by his tail.’

  It was futile to try to stop him. Leon held his breath as Graf Otto reached the far end of the clearing.

  The wounded buffalo was waiting for him behind the first fringe of vegetation. It let him come in close, then charged at him from a mere five yards. The thorn exploded before its rush. Graf Otto had the rifle to his shoulder in an instant, and the muzzles were almost touching the bull’s wet black nostrils when he fired. It was another perfect brain shot. The buffalo’s front legs collapsed under it. However, the momentum of its charge carried it forward and it slid into its tormentor’s legs like a black avalanche. He was sent spinning backwards, the rifle thrown from his hands, and hit the ground flat on his back. Leon heard the breath forced in a rush from his lungs. He sat up painfully, wheezing, as Leon ran forward to help him.

  Leon was in the centre of the clearing when Manyoro shouted an urgent warning behind him. ‘On your left side, M’bogo. The other one is coming!’

  He swerved to the left and saw the third wounded buffalo almost upon him, so close that it was already lowering its head to hook at him with its horns. He saw the bull’s suppurating blind eye - this was the first animal Graf Otto had fired at. Leon wheeled to face it and gathered himself, standing on the balls of his feet, his body in perfect balance, judging his moment. As the bull closed with him he swayed into the beast’s blind side, and it lost sight of him, hooking wildly at where he had been the second before. If the horn had not been broken and foreshortened it would probably have ripped Leon’s belly open, and even though he pirouetted clear, the ragged tip snagged his shirt, but then it tore free. Leon arched his back and the bull’s massive body brushed against him, splashing the legs of his trousers with blood as it thundered past.

  ‘Hey, Toro!’ Graf Otto shouted encouragement. He was struggling to his feet, his voice hoarse with laughter despite the agony of his empty lungs. ‘Hey, Torero!’ He was still laughing wheezily as he stooped to pick up his rifle.

  ‘Shoot it!’ Leon yelled, as the bull skidded to a halt, its front legs braced.

  ‘Nein!’ Graf Otto shouted back. ‘I want to watch you use your little spear.’ He was holding the rifle with the muzzles pointed at the ground. ‘You want to learn to fly? Then you must use the spear.’

  His first bullet had broken the bull’s back leg at the hip, so it was slow to recover from its abortive charge. But then it swung around awkwardly and again focused its single eye on Leon. It plunged forward, coming at him in a full gallop. Leon had learned from the bull’s first pass: he held the spear in the classic Masai grip, the long blade aligned with his forearm like a fencing foil, and let the bull come in close, waiting until the very last instant before he swung his body out of the line of the charge and into the buffalo’s blind spot again. As the great black body brushed against his legs he leaned in over the shoulder and placed the point of the spear in the hollow between the shoulder-blades. He did not try to stab with it. Instead he let the impetus of the bull’s own charge carry it on to the blade. He was astonished at how easily the razor-sharp steel slid in. He hardly felt the jolt as the entire three feet vanished into the heaving black body. He released his grip on the haft and let the bull carry away the spear, plunging and swinging its head from side to side, fighting the biting agony of the blade. Leon saw that these violent movements were working the steel around in its chest, slashing the heart and lung tissue.

  Once again the bull bucked to a halt on the far side of the clearing. It was still swinging its head, trying to find him. He stood motionless. At last the bull spotted him and turned towards him, but its movements were slow and uncertain. It staggered, but kept coming. Before it reached him it opened its mouth and let out a long, low bellow. A thick gout of blood from its lacerated lungs burst through its jaws and it fell on to its knees. Then it rolled slowly on to its side.

  ‘Olé!’ Graf Otto shouted, but this time his tone was without mockery, and when Leon looked at him, he saw new respect in the man’s eyes.

  Manyoro went slowly to where the buffalo lay. He stooped and, with both hands, took hold of the assegai haft that protruded from between its shoulder-blades. He straightened up, leaned back and drew the bloody steel out of the wound. Then he saluted Leon with the spear. ‘I praise you. I am proud to be your brother.’

  When they returned to camp Graf Otto turned breakfast into a celebration of his own prowess. He sat at the head of the table wolfing ham and eggs, and swigging the coffee he had laced generously with cognac while he regaled Eva with a highly coloured description of the hunt. He gave a passing mention to Leon at the end of the long account. ‘When there was only one old blind animal still on its feet, I let Courtney have it. Of course, I had wounded it so badly that it was not a real challenge, but I will say this for him, he managed to kill it in quite workmanlike fashion.’

  At that moment his attention was taken by sudden activity outside the tent. Hennie du Rand was with the skinners, who were getting into the back of a truck. They were armed with axes and butcher’s knives. ‘What are those people doing, Courtney?’

  ‘They are going to bring in your dead buffaloes.’

  ‘What for? Th
e heads are worthless, as you have already told me, and surely the meat will be so old and tough that it will be inedible.’

  ‘When it is smoked and dried the porters and other labourers will eat it with relish. In this country any meat is much prized.’

  Graf Otto wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood up. ‘I will go with them to watch.’

  This was another of his typically idiosyncratic decisions, but still it took Leon by surprise. ‘Of course I will come with you.’

  ‘No need for that, Courtney. You can stay here and see to the refuelling of the Butterfly for the flight back to Nairobi. I will take Fräulein von Wellberg with me. She will be bored sitting in camp.’

  I would do my best to entertain her if you gave me half a chance, Leon thought, but kept the sentiment to himself. ‘As you wish, Graf,’ he acquiesced.

  Hennie was overawed to have such illustrious company travelling with him in the truck, even for the short ride to where the carcasses lay. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Graf Otto put him more at ease by offering him a cigar. After the first few puffs Hennie had relaxed to the point at which he was able to answer the man’s questions coherently, rather than in an embarrassed mumble.

  ‘So, du Rand, they tell me you are South African, ja?’

  ‘No, sir. I am a Boer.’

  ‘Is that different?’

  ‘Ja, it is very different. South Africans have British blood. My blood is pure. I am one of a chosen Volk.’

  ‘To me it sounds as though you do not like the British very much.’

  ‘I like some of them. I like my boss, Leon Courtney. He is a good Sout Piel.’

  ‘Sout Piel? What is that?’

  Hennie glanced unhappily at Eva. ‘It is man’s talk, sir. Not fit for the ears of young ladies.’

  ‘Do not worry. Fräulein von Wellberg speaks no English. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘It means “salty penis”, sir.’

  Graf Otto began to grin, anticipating a good joke. ‘Salty prick? Explain this to me.’