When the Lion Feeds

by Wilbur Smith

  on one of the poles that supported the tarpaulin roof he started a calendar, cutting a notch for each day. it became a daily ceremony. He cut each notch with the concentration of a sculptor carving marble and when he had finished he would stand back and count them aloud as if by doing so he could force them to add up to thirty, the number that would allow him to shed his chain.

  There were eighteen notches on the pole when the dog went mad. It was in the afternoon. They were playing Klabejas. Sean had just dealt the cards when the dog started screaming from among the wagons. Sean knocked over his chair as he jumped up. He snatched his rifle from where it leaned against the wall and ran down to the laager.

  He disappeared behind the wagon to which the dog was tied and almost immediately Duff heard the shot. In the abrupt and complete stillness that followed, Duff slowly lowered his face into his hands.

  it was nearly an hour before Sean came back. He picked up his chair, set it to the table and sat down. It’s you to call, are you going to take on? he asked as he picked up his cards. They played with grim intensity, fixing their attention on the cards, but both of them knew that there was a third person at the table now. Promise you’ll never do that to me, Duff blurted out at last.

  Sean looked up at him. That I’ll never do what to you? What you did to that dog. The dog! The bloody dog. He should never have taken a chance with it, he should have destroyed it that first night, Just because the dog got it doesn’t mean that you Swear to me, Duff interrupted fiercely, swear you won’t bring the rifle to me. Duff, you don’t know what you’re asking. Once you’ve got it, Sean stopped; anything he said would make it worse.

  Promise me, Duff repeated. All right, I swear it then. It was worse now than it had been in the beginning.

  Duff abandoned his calendar and with it the hope that had been slowly growing stronger. If the days were bad then the nights were hell, for Duff had a dream. It came to him every night, sometimes two or three times. He tried to keep awake after Sean had left, reading by the light of a lantern; or he lay and listened to the night noises, the splash and snort of buffalo drinking down at the waterhole, the liquid half-warble of night birds or the deep drumming of a lion. But in the end he would have to sleep and then he dreamed.

  He was on horseback riding across a flat brown plain: no hills, no trees, nothing but lawnlike grass stretching away on all sides to the horizon. His horse threw no shadow, he always looked for a shadow and it worried him that there never was one. Then he would find the pool, clear water, blue and strangely shiny. The pool frightened him but he could not stop himself going to it.

  He would kneel beside it and look into the water; the reflection of his own face looked up at him, animal-snouted, shaggy-brown with wolf teeth, white and long.

  He would wake then and the horror of that face would last until morning.

  Nearly desperate with his own utter helplessness, Sean tried to help him. Because of the accord they had established over the years and because they were so close to each other, Sean had to suffer with him.

  He tried to shut himself off from it; sometimes he succeeded for an hour or even half a morning but then it came back with a stomach-swooping shock. Duff was going to die, Duff was going to die an unspeakable death. Was it a mistake to let someone get too deep inside you, so that you must share his agony in every excruciating detail? Didn’t a men have enough of his own that he must share the full measure of another’s suffering? By then the October winds had started, the heralds of the rain: hot winds fall of dust, winds that dried the sweat on a man,’s. body before it had time to cool him, thirsty winds that during daylight brought the game to the waterhole in full view of the camp.

  Sean had half a case of wine hoarded under his cot. That last evening he cooled four bottles, wrapping them in wet sacking. He took them up to Duff’s shelter just before supper and set them on the table. Duff watched him. The scars on his face were almost completely healed now, glassy red marks on his pale skin.

  Chateau Olivier, said Sean and Duff nodded. It’s a good wine, most probably travel-sick. Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it away again, said Sean. I’m sorry, laddie, Duff spoke quickly. I didn’t mean to he ungrateful. This wine suits my mood tonight. Did you know that wine is a sad drink? Nonsense! Sean disagreed as he twisted the corkscrew into the first cork Wine is gay. He poured a little into Duff’s glass and Duff picked it up and held it towards the fire so the light shone through it. You see only the surface, Sean. A good wine has the elements of tragedy within it. The better the wine the more sad it is.

  Sean snorted. Explain yourself, he invited.

  Duff put his glass down on the table again and stared at it. How long do you suppose this wine has taken to reach its present perfection? Ten or fifteen years, I suppose, Sean answered.

  Duff nodded. “And now all that remains is to drink it the work of years destroyed in an instant. Don’t you think that is sad? Duff asked softly. My God, Duff, don’t be so damned morbid But Duff wasn’t listening to him. Wine and mankind have this in common. They can find perfection only in age, in a lifetime of seeking. Yet in the finding they find also their own destruction. So you think that if a man lives long enough he will reach perfection? Sean challenged him, and Duff answered him still staring at the glass. Some grapes grew in the wrong soil, some were diseased before they went to the press and some were spoiled by a careless vintner, not all grapes make good wine Duff picked up his glass and tasted from it, then he went on. A man takes longer and he must find it not within the quiet confines of the cask but in the cauldron of life; therefore his is the greater tragedy. Yes, but no one can live for ever, Sean protested.

  so you think that makes it less sad? Duff shook his head. You’re wrong of course. It does not detract from it, it enhances it. If only there were some escape, some way of ensuring that what is good could endure instead of this complete hopelessness. Duff lay back in his chair, his face pale and gaunt-looking. Even that I could accept, if only they had given me more time. I’ve had enough of this talk. Let’s discuss something else. I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You’re not fit to drink yet, you’ve got another twenty or thirty years to go, Sean said gruffly and Duff looked up at him for the first time. Have 1, Sean? Sean couldn’t meet his eyes. He knew Duff was going to die. Duff grinned his lopsided grin and looked down again at his glass. Slowly the grin disappeared and he spoke again.

  if only I had more time, I could have done it. I could have found the weak places and fortified them. I could have seen the answers. His voice rose higher. I could have! I know I could have! Oh God, I’m not ready yet. I need more time. His voice was shrill and his eyes wild and haunted. It’s too soon, it’s too soon! Sean couldn’t stand it, he jumped up and caught Duff’s shoulders and shook him.

  Shut up, God damn you, shut up, he shouted at him.

  Duff was panting, his lips were parted and quivering. He touched them with the tips of his fingers as though to stop them. I’m sorry, laddie, I didn’t mean to let go like that. Sean dropped his hands from Duffs shoulders, Both of us are too damned edgy, he said. It’s going to be A right, you wait and see. Yes, it will be all right. Duff ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his eyes. Open another bottle, laddie. That night after Sean had gone to bed, Duff had his dream again. The wine he had drunk slowed him down and prevented him from waking. He was trapped in his fancy, struggling to escape into wakefulness but only reaching the surface before he sank back to dream that dream again.

  Sean went up to Duffs shelter the next morning early.

  Although the night’s coolness still lingered under the spreading branches of the wild figs the rising day promised to blow dry and burn hot. The animals could sense it. The trek oxen were clustered among the trees and a small herd of eland was moving from the waterhole, The bull, with his short thick horns and the dark tuft on his forehead, was leading his cows away to find shAde. Sean stood in the doorway of the hut and waited while his eyes adjusted themsel
ves to its gloom. Duff was awake. Get out of bed or you’ll have bed sores to add to your happiness.

  Duff swung his feet off the litter and groaned.

  What did you put in that wine last night? He massaged his temples gently. I’ve got a hundred hobgoblins doing a Cossack dance around the roof of my skull Sean felt the first twinge of alarm. He put his hand on Duff’s shoulder feeling for the heat of fever, but Duff was quite cool. He relaxed. Breakfast’s ready, said Sean. Duff played with his porridge and barely tasted the grilled eland liver. He kept screwing his eyes up against the glare of the sun and when they had finished their coffee he pushed back his chair. I’m going to take my tender head to bedAR right.

  Sean stood up as well. We’re a bit short of meat. I’ll go and see if I can get a buck. No, stay and talk to me, Duff said quickly. We can have a few hands of cards. They hadn’t played in days and Sean agreed readily. He sat on the end of Duff’s bed and within half an hour he had won thirty-two pounds from him. You must let me teach you this game sometime, he gloated.

  Petulantly, Duff threw his hand in. I don’t feel like playing any more.

  He pressed his fingers to his closed eyelids. I can’t concentrate with this headache. Do you want to sleep? Sean gathered up the cards and put them in their box. No. Why don’t you read to me? Duff picked up a leather-bound copy of Bleak House from the table beside the bed and tossed it into Sean’s lap.

  Where shall I start! Sean asked. It doesn’t matter, I know it almost by heart. Duff lay back and closed his eyes. Start anywhere. Sean read aloud. He stumbled on for half an hour with his tongue never quite catching the rhythm of the words.

  Once or twice he glanced up at Duff, but Duff lay still with a faint sheen of sweat on his face and the scars very noticeable. He was breathing easily. Dickens is a powerful sleeping-draught for a hot morning and Sean’s eyelids sagged down and his voice slowed and finally stopped.

  The book slid off his lap.

  The small tinkle of Duff’s chain disturbed him; he awoke and looked at the bed. Duff crouched apelike. The madness was a fire in his eyes and his cheeks twitched.

  A yellowish froth coated his teeth and formed a thin line of scum along his lips. Duff, Sean said, and Duff lunged at him with fingers hooked and a noise in his throat that was not human nor yet animal. It was a sound that jellied Sean’s stomach and took the strength from his legs.

  Don’t! screamed Sean, and the chain caught on one of the posts of the bed, jerking Duff back sprawling onto the bed before he could sink his teeth into Sean’s paralysed body.

  Sean ran. He ran out of the hut and into the bush. He ran with terror trembling in his legs and choking his breath. He ran with his heart taking its beat from his racing feet and his lungs pumping in disordered panic. A branch ripped across his cheek and the sting of it served to steady him. His feet slowed, he stopped and stood gasping, staring back towards the camp. He waited while his body settled and he forced his terror down until it was only a sickening sensation in his stomach. Then he circled through the Thorn bush and approached the laager from the side farthest away from Duff’s shelter. The camp was empty, the servants had fled in the same terror that had driven Sean. He remembered that his rifle was still in the hut beside Duff’s bed. He slipped into his wagon and quickly opened the case of unused rifles. His hands were unsteady again as he fumbled with the locks, for the chain might have parted and at every second he expected to hear that inhuman sound behind him. He found his bandolier hanging on the end of his cot and he took cartridges from it.

  He loaded the rifle and cocked it. The weight of steel and wood in his hands gave him comfort.

  It made him a man again.

  He jumped down out of the wagon and with the rifle held ready he went cautiously out of the circle of wagons.

  The chain had held. Duff stood in the shade of the wild fig plucking at it. He was making a sound like a new-born puppy. His back was turned to Sean and he was naked, his torn clothing scattered about him. Sean walked slowly towards him. He stopped outside the reach of the chain.

  Duffi Sean called uncertainly. Duff spun and crouched, the froth was thick in his golden beard; he looked at Sean and his teeth bared. Then he charged screaming until the chain caught him and threw him onto his back once more. He scrambled to his feet and fought the chain, his eyes fastened hungrily on Sean. Sean backed away. He brought up the rifle and aimed between Duff’s eyes.

  Swear to me. Swear to me you won’t bring the rifle to me.

  Sean’s aim wavered. He kept moving backwards. Duff was bleeding now.

  The steel links had smeared the skin off his hips, but still he pulled against them fighting to get at Sean, and Sean was shackled just as effectively by his promise. He could not end it. He lowered the rifle and watched in impotent pity.

  Mbejane came to him at last.

  Come away, Nkosi. If you will not end it, come away.

  He no longer has need of you. The sight of you inflames him.

  Duff still struggled and screamed against his chain.

  From his torn waist the blood trickled down and clung in the hair of his legs with the stickiness of molten chocolate. With each jerk of his head the froth sprayed from his mouth and splattered his chest and arms.

  Mbejane led Sean back into the laager. The other servants were there and Sean roused himself to give orders. I want everyone away from here.

  Take blankets and food, go camp on the far side of the water. I will send for you when it is over. He waited until they had gathered their belongings and as they were leaving he called Mbejane back. What must I do? he asked. If a horse breaks a leg? Mbejane answered him with a question. I gave him my word, Sean shook his head desperately, still facing towards the sound of Duff’s raving. Only a rogue and a brave man can break an oath, Mbejane answered simply. We will wait for you. He turned and followed the others. When they were gone Sean hid in one of the wagons and through a tear in the canvas he watched Duff. He saw the idiotic shaking of his head, the curious shambling gait as he moved around the circle of the chain. He watched when the pain made him roll on the ground and claw at his head, tearing out tufts of hair and leaving long scratches down his face. He listened to the sounds of insanity: the bewildered bellows of pain, the senseless giggling and that growl, that terrible growl.

  A dozen times he sighted along the rifle barrel, holding his aim until the sweat ran into his eyes and blurred them and he had to take the butt from his shoulder and turn away.

  Out there on the end of the chain, its exposed flesh reddening in the sun a piece of Sean was dying. Some of his youth, some of his laughter, some of his carefree love of life, so he had to creep back to the hole in the canvas and watch.

  The sun reached its peak and started down again and the thing on the chain grew weaker. It fell and was a long time crawling on its hands and knees before it regained its feet again.

  An hour before sunset Duff had his first convulsion. He was standing facing Sean’s wagon, swinging his head from side to side, his mouth working silently. The convulsion took him and he stiffened; his lips pulled up grinning, showing his teeth, his eyes rolled back and disappeared leaving only the whites, and his body started to bend backwards. That beautiful body, still slim as a boy’s with the long moulded legs, bending tighter and tighter until with a brittle crack the spine snapped and he fell. He lay wriggling, moaning softly and his trunk was twisted at an impossible angle from the broken spine.

  Sean jumped from the wagon and ran to him: standing over him he shot Duff in the head and turned away. He flung his rifle from him and heard it clatter on the hard earth. He walked back to his wagon and took a blanket off Duff’s cot. He came back and wrapped Duff in it, averting his eyes from the mutilated head. He carried him to the shelter and laid him on the bed. The blood soaked through the blanket, spreading on the cloth, like ink spilled on blotting-paper. Sean sank down on the chair beside the bed.

  Outside the darkness gathered and became complete.

  On
ce in the night a hyena came and snuffled at the blood outside on the earth, then it moved away. There was a pride of lions hunting in the bush beyond the waterhole; they killed two hours before dawn and Sean sat in the darkness and listened to their jubilant roaring.

  in the morning, Sean stood up stiffly from his chair and went down to the wagons. Mbejane was waiting beside the fire in the laager.

  Where are the others? Sean asked.

  Mbejane stood up. They wait where you sent them. I came alone, knowing you would need me. Yes, said Sean. Get two axes from the wagon. They gathered wood, a mountain of dry wood, and packed it around Duff’s bed, then Sean put fire to it.

  Mbejane saddled a horse for Sean and he mounted up and looked down at the Zulu. Bring the wagons on to the next waterhole. I will meet you there. Sean rode out of the laager. He looked back only once and saw that the breeze had spread the smoke from the pyre in a mile long smudge across the tops of the thorn trees.

  Like a bag of pus at the root of an infected tooth the guilt and grief rotted in Sean’s mind. His guilt was doubleedged. He had betrayed Duff’s trust, and he had lacked the courage to make the betrayal worthwhile. He had waited too long. He should have done it at the beginning, cleanly and quickly, or he should not have done it at all.

  He longed with every fibre of his body to be given the chance to do it again, but this time the right way. He would gladly have lived once more through all that horror to clear his conscience and clean the stain from the memory of their friendship.

  His grief was a thing of emptiness, an aching void, so that he was lost in it. Where before there had been Duff’s laughter, his twisted grin and his infectious zest there was now only a grey nothingness. No glimmer of sun penetrated it and there were no solid shapes in it.