The Burning Shore c-8

by Wilbur Smith

  Her nearest handhold was the brass handle on the front of Lothar's travelling bureau which was lashed to the wagon bed. As she put her weight on it the handle gave slightly, and the drawer slid open an inch.

  He has forgotten to lock it, she thought, I must warn him. She pushed the drawer closed and crawled over the chest, reached the stowed carpet bag, pulled out Shasa's jacket, and was crawling back when her eye fell again on the drawer of the bureau, and she checked herself sharply and stared at it.

  Temptation was like the prickle of a burr. Lothar's journal was in that drawer.

  What an awful thing to do, she told herself primly, and yet her hand went out and touched the brass handle again.

  What has he written about me? She pulled the drawer open slowly and stared at the thick, leather-covered volume. Do I really want to know? She began to close the drawer again, and then capitulated to that overwhelming temptation.

  I'll only read about me, she promised herself.

  She crawled quickly to the wagon flap and peered out guiltily. Swart Hendrick was bringing up the draught oxen preparatory to inspanning. Has the master returned yet? s e called to him.

  No, missus, and we have heard no shots. He will be late tonight. Call me if you see him coming, she ordered, and crept back to the bureau.

  She squatted beside it with the heavy journal in her lap, and she was relieved to find it was written almost entirely in Afrikaans with only occasional passages in German. She riffled through the pages until she found the date on which he had rescued her. The entry was four pages long, the longest single entry in the entire journal.

  Lothar had given a full account of the lion attack and the rescue, of their return to the wagons while she was unconscious, and a description of Shasa. She smiled as she read: A sturdy lad, of the same age as Manfred when last I saw him, and I find myself much affected.

  Still smiling, she scanned the page for a description of herself, and her eyes stopped at the paragraph: I have no doubt that this is indeed the woman, though she is changed from the photograph and from my brief memory of her. Her hair is thick and fuzzy as that of a Nama girl, her face thin and brown as a monkey- Centaine gasped with affront -yet when she opened her eyes for a moment, I thought my heart might crack, they were so big and soft.

  She was slightly mollified and skimmed forward, turning the pages quickly, listening like a thief for the sound of Lothar's horse. A word caught her eye in the neat blocks of teutonic script; Boesmanne. Her attention flicked to it. Bushmen', and her heart tripped, her interest entirely captivated.

  Bushmen harassing the camp during the night. Hendrick discovered their spoor near the horse lines and the cattle. We followed at first light. A difficult huntThe word jag stopped Centaine's eye. Hunt? she puzzled. This was a word only applied to the chase, to the killing of animals, and she raced on.

  We came up with the two Bushmen, but they almost gave us the slip by climbing the cliff with the agility of baboons.

  We could not follow and would have lost them, but their curiosity was too strong, again, just like baboons. One of them paused at the top of the cliff and looked down at us. it was a difficult shot, at extreme upward deflection and long range The blood drained from Centaine's face. She could not believe what she was reading, each word reverberated in her skull as though it were an empty place, cavernous and echoing.

  However, I held true and brought the Bushman down. Then I witnessed a remarkable incident. I had no need of a second shot, for the remaining Bushman fell from the cliff top. From below it seemed almost as though he threw himself over the edge. However, I do not believe that this was the case, an animal is not capable of suicide. It is more likely that in terror and panic, he lost his footing. Both bodies fell in difficult positions. However, I was determined to examine them. The climb was awkward and dangerous, but I was in fact, well rewarded for my endeavours. The first body, that of a very old man, the one that had slipped from the cliff, was unremarkable except that he carried a clasp knife made by "Joseph Rodgers"

  of Sheffield on a lanyard about his waist.

  Centaine began to shake her head from side to side. No! she whispered. No!

  This, I believe, must have been stolen from some other traveller. The old rogue probably entered our camp in the hope of similar booty.

  Centaine saw again little O'wa squatting naked in the sunlight with the knife in his hands and the tears of pleasure running down his withered cheeks.

  Oh, in the name of mercy, no! she whimpered, but her eye was drawn remorselessly on by the orderly ranks of brutal words.

  The second body, however, yielded the greater trophy. It was that of a woman. If anything she was more aged than the man, but around her neck she wore a most unusual decorationThe book slid from Centaine's lap and she covered her face with both hands.

  H'ani! she cried out in the San tongue. My old grandmother, my old and revered grandmother, you came to us. And he shot you down! She was rocking from side to side, humming in her throat, the San attitude of grief.

  Suddenly she hurled herself at the bureau. She pulled the drawer from its runners, scattering loose pages of writing-paper and pens and sticks of wax on the floor of the wagon.

  The necklace, she sobbed. The necklace. I have to be certain! She seized the handle of one of the small lower compartments and tugged at it. It was locked. She snatched the handle of the wagon jack from its slot in the frame, and with the steel point shattered the lock and jerked the compartment open. It contained a silver framed photograph of a plump blonde woman with a child in her lap and a wad of letters tied up with a silk ribbon.

  She spilled them on to the floor and smashed open the next compartment. There was a Luger pistol in a wooden holster, and a packet of am-munition. She threw them on top of the letters, and at the bottom of the compartment she found a cigar box.

  She lifted the lid. It contained a bundle wrapped in a patterned bandanna and as she picked it out with shaking hands, H'ani's necklace tumbled from the roll of cloth.

  She stared at it as though it was a deadly mamba, holding her hands behind her back and blubbering softly, H'ani - oh, my old grandmother. She brought her hands to her mouth, and pressed her lips to stop them quivering. Then she reached out slowly for the necklace and held it up, but at the full stretch of her arms.

  He murdered you, she whispered, and then gagged as she saw the black stains of blood still upon the gaudy stones. He shot you down like an animal. She hugged the necklace to her breast, and began to hum and rock herself again, her eyes tightly closed to dam back her tears. She was still sitting like that when she heard the drum of hooves and the shouts of the servants welcoming Lothar back to the wagons.

  She stood up and swayed on her feet as an attack of giddiness seized her. Her grief was like an affliction, but then when she heard his voice, Here, Hendrick, take my horse! Where is the missus? her grief changed shape, and though her hands still shook, her chin lifted and her eyes burned not with tears but with a consuming rage.

  She snatched up the Luger pistol and drew it from its curved wooden holster. She snapped back the slide and watched a shiny brass cartridge feed up into the chamber.

  Then she dropped it into the pocket of her skirt and turned to the wagon flap.

  As she jumped down, Lothar was coming towards her, and his face brightened with pleasure at the sight of her.

  Centaine- he paused as he saw her expression. Centaine, something is wrong! She held out the necklace towards him, and it glittered and twinkled between her shaking fingers. She could not speak.

  His face darkened and his eyes were hard and furious. You have opened my bureau! You killed her!

  Who? He was truly puzzled, and then, Oh, the Bushwoman 'H'ani! I don't understand. My little grandmother. He was alarmed now. Something is very wrong, let me - He stepped towards her, but she backed away and screamed, Keep away, don't touch me! Don't ever touch me again! She reached for the pistol in her skirt.

  Centaine, calm yourself. And t
hen he stopped as he saw the Luger in her hands.

  Are you mad? He gazed at her in amazement. Here, give that to me. Again he stepped forward.

  You murderer, you cold-blooded monster, you killed her. And she held the pistol double-handed, the necklace entangled with the weapon, the barrel waving in erratic circles. You killed my little H'ani. I hate you for it! Centaine! He put out his hand to take the pistol from her.

  There was a flash of gunsmoke and the Luger kicked upwards, flinging Centaine's hands above her head. The shot cracked like a trek whip, numbing her eardrums.

  Lothar's body jerked backwards and he spun on his heels. His long golden locks flickered like ripe wheat in a high wind as he collapsed on to his knees, and then toppled on to his face.

  Centaine dropped the Lugger and fell back against the side of the wagon, as Hendrick rushed forward and snatched the Luger out of her hand.

  I hate you, she panted at Lothar. Die, damn you. Die and go to hell!

  Centaine rode with a slack rein, letting her mount choose its own pace and path. She had Shasa on her hip with a sling under him to support his weight. She held his head in the crook of her arm, and he slept quietly against her.

  The wind had scourged the desert for five days now without cease, and the driven sands hissed and slithered across the earth's surface like sea spume across a beach, and the round seed pods of tumbleweed trundled across the plain like footballs. The small herds of springbok turned their backs to its chilling blast and tucked their tails up between their legs.

  Centaine had wound a scarf around her head like a turban, and thrown a blanket over her shoulders to cover Shasa and herself. She hunched down in the saddle and the cold wind tugged at the corners of the blanket and tang led her horse's long mane. She slitted her eyes against the gritty wind, and saw the Finger of God.

  It was still far ahead, indistinct through the dun dustladen air, but it spiked the low sky, even in this haze visible from five miles off. This was the reason that Lothar De La Rey had chosen it. it was unique, there could be no confusion with any other natural feature.

  Centaine pulled up the pony's head and urged him into a trot. Shasa whimpered a protest in his sleep at the change of gait, but Centaine straightened in the saddle, trying to throw off the sorrow and rage that lay upon her with a weight that threatened to crush her soul.

  Slowly the silhouette of the Finger of God hardened against the dusty yellow sky, a slim pillar of rock, thrusting towards the heavens and then thickening into a flaring cobra's head, two hundred feet above the plain. Staring at it, Centaine was aware of the same superstitious awe that must have gripped the old Hottentots who named itMukurob.

  Then from the base of the great stone monument a dart of light, reflected off metal, pricked her eyes and she shaded them with the blanket and peered intently.

  Shasa, she whispered. They are there! They are waiting for us. She urged the weary pony into a canter, and rose in the stirrups.

  in the shadow of the stone pillar was parked a motor vehicle, and beside it a small green cottage tent had been d. erected There was a camp fire burning in front of the tent, and a plume of smoke, blue as a heron's feather, smeared by the wind across the plain.

  Centaine whipped the turban from her head and waved it like a banner. Here! she screamed. Hullo! Here I am! The two indistinct human figures rose from beside the fire, staring towards her.

  She waved and hulloed, still at full gallop, and one of the figures broke into a run. It was a woman, a big woman in long skirts. She held them up over her knees, ploughing with desperate haste through the soft footing. Her face was bright scarlet with effort and emotion. Anna! Centaine screamed.

  Oh, Anna! There were tears streaming down that broad red face, and Anna dropped her skirts and stood with her arms spread wide.

  My baby! she cried, and Centaine flung herself from the saddle and clutching Shasa to her breast, ran into her embrace.

  They were both weeping, holding hard to each other, trying to talk at once, but incoherently, laughing between the sobs, when Shasa, crushed between them, let out a protesting howl.

  Anna snatched him from her and hugged him. A boy, he's a boy. Michel.

  Centaine sobbed happily. I named him Michel Shasa. And Shasa let out a hoot and grabbed with of hands at t at marvelous face, so big and red as a fruit ripe for eating.

  Michel! Anna wept as she kissed him. Shasa, who knew all about kissing, opened his mouth wide and smeared warm saliva down her chin.

  Still carrying Shasa, Anna dragged Centaine by one arm towards the tent and the camp fire.

  A tall, round-shouldered figure came towards them diffidently. His thinning sandy-grey hair was swept back from a high scholarly forehead, and his mild, vaguely myopic eyes were a muddier shade of the Courtney blue than Michael's had been; his nose, while every bit as large as General Sean Courtney's, seemed somehow to be ashamed of the fact.

  I am Michael's father, he said shyly, and it was like looking at a faded and smudged photograph of her Michael. Centaine felt a rush of guilt, for she had been false to her vows and to Michael's memory. It was as though Michael confronted her now. For an instant she remembered his twisted body in the cockpit of the burning aircraft, and in grief and guilt she ran to Garry and threw her arms around his neck.

  Papa! she said, and at that word Garry's reserve collapsed and he choked and clung to her.

  I had given up hope- Garry could not go on, and the sight of his tears set Anna off again, which was too much for Shasa. He let out a doleful wall, and all four of them stood together beneath the Finger of God and wept.

  The wagons seemed to swim towards them through the streaming dust, rolling and pitching over the uneven ground, and as they waited for them to come up, Anna murmured, We must be eternally grateful to this man-She sat in the back seat of the Fiat tourer with Shasa on her lap and Centaine beside her.

  He will be well paid. Garry stood with one booted foot on the running-board of the Fiat. In his hand he held a rolled document, secured with a red ribbon. He tapped the roll against his artificial leg.

  Whatever you pay him will not be enough, Anna affirmed, and hugged Shasa.

  He is an outlaw and a renegade, Garry scowled. It goes very much against the grain- Please give him what we owe him, Papa, Centaine said softly, then let him go. I don't want ever to see him again. The small, half-naked Nama boy leading the ox-team whistled them to a halt, and Lothar De La Rey climbed down slowly from the wagon seat, wincing at the effort.

  When he reached the ground, he paused for a moment, steadying himself with his free hand against the wagon body. His other arm was in a sling across his chest. His face was a yellowish putty colour beneath the smoothly tanned skin. His eyes were darkly underscored, the lines of suffering at the corners of his mouth accentuated, and a dense stubble of pale beard covered his jaws and sparkled even in the poor light.

  He has been hurt, Anna murmured. What happened to him? And beside her Centaine silently turned her head away.

  Lothar braced himself and went to meet Garry. Halfway between the Fiat and the wagon they shook hands briefly, Lothar awkwardly offering his uninjured left hand.

  They spoke in low tones that did not reach to where Centaine sat. Garry offered him the roll of parchment, and Lothar loosened theribbon with his teeth and spread the sheet against his thigh, holding it with his one good hand as he stooped to read it.

  After a minute he straightened and let the parchment spring back into a roll. He nodded at Garry and said something. His face was expressionless, and Garry shuffled selfconsciously and made an uncertain gesture, halfoffering another handshake and then thinking better of it, for Lothar was not looking at him.

  He was staring at Centaine, and now he pushed past Garry and started slowly towards her. Immediately Centaine snatched Shasa off Anna's lap and crouched in the furthest corner of the seat, glaring at him, holding Shasa away from him protectively. Lothar stopped, lifted his good hand towards her in a small gesture of
appeal, but let it drop to his side when her expression did not change.

  Puzzled, Garry glanced from one to the other of them.

  Can we go, Papa? Centaine spoke in a clear sharp voice.

  Of course, my dear. Garry hurried to the front of the Fiat and stooped to the crank handle. As the engine fired, he ran round to the driver's seat and adjusted the ignition lever.

  Is there nothing you wish to say to the man? he asked, and when she shook her head, he clambered up behind the wheel and the Fiat jerked forward.

  Centaine looked back only once, after they had bumped over a mile of the sandy track. Lothar De La Rey still stood below the towering monument of rock, a tiny lonely figure in the desert, and he stared after them.

  The green hills of Zululand were so utterly different from the desolation of the Kalahari or the monstrous dunes of the Namib, that Centaine had difficulty believing that she was on the same continent. But then, she remembered, they were on the opposite side of Africa, a thousand miles and more from the Finger of God.

  Garry Courtney stopped the Fiat on the crest of the steep escarpment high above the Baboonstroom river and switched off the engine and helped both women down.

  He took Shasa from Centaine and led them to the edge.

  There, he pointed. That's Theuniskraal where both Sean and I, and then Michael, were all born. It stood at the foot of the slope, surrounded by rambling gardens. Even from this distance Centaine could see that the gardens were unkempt and overgrown as tropical jungle. Tall palms and flowering spathodea trees were hung with untrammelled mantles of purple bougainvillaea creepers, and the ornamental fish ponds were poisonous green with algae growth.

  of course the house was rebuilt after the fire, Garry hesitated, and a shadow passed behind his muddy blue eyes, for in that fire Michael's mother had died, then he hurried on. I've added to it over the years. Centaine smiled, for the house reminded her of a haphazard old woman who had thrown on garments of a dozen different fashions, none of which suited her. Grecian columns and Georgian red brick glared sullenly at the white painted curlicue gables in the Cape Dutch style.