Storms Over Africa

by Beverley Harper

  There were rumours, of course. Africans love to gossip. News spread of terrible deeds at Pentland Park, of rape and pillage, murder and torture. As it spread, the rumour grew. By the time it reached the ears of anyone who knew what had really happened it had been distorted to such an extent that no-one believed it. It was just another wild tale. Richard and Penny, bonded together by all that had happened, were able to shrug off any curiosity. They were so good at it, the rumour died. In fact, it was buried so deep it only exploded to the surface on one occasion.

  Adam had heard the rumour too. He had asked Richard if any of it were true. Richard looked at the calm man who was so obviously in love with his daughter. ‘Yes,’ he said bluntly. ‘Some of it.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Explains a lot.’

  ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘I didn’t hear it at all.’

  That was the night Adam proposed. After she had screamed at him, told him of that terrible day sparing no details, cried on him, threatened him and said he would never lay a finger on her, she accepted his proposal. Adam always knew she would. He loved her so deeply he would have spent his days with her in platonic friendship. But two months after he placed his engagement ring on her finger she flew at him and accused him of not finding her attractive. Adam picked her up in his arms, took her to bed, and showed her just how attractive he found her.

  Once she began to get better Penny stopped leaning on her father. Richard had a relapse. He grieved for his son deeply. He regretted the lost opportunities to get close to him and be a better father. He tried to heap all his love and attention onto his daughter. Penny, who would once have revelled in being the sole focus of her father’s concern, complained, ‘You’re smothering me, Daddy, give me some space.’

  Feeling rejected, he became moody and introspective. He started visiting David’s grave every day. There, in the glen and the silence of the reserve, he felt more at peace than anywhere else. Bloomer Ears was often there and would retreat a short distance, wary, yet not frightened by this man who came to be with the still one, who sometimes wept, sometimes sat speaking quietly and sometimes stalked around yelling. Richard knew the elephant was there but never tried to approach him. The two of them developed a trusting but indifferent relationship, the elephant somehow understanding the man’s need to be in the glen and the man respecting the elephant’s adoption of the place.

  David had been dead nearly a year when Richard brought his increasing preoccupation with Steve to him. Since Penny stopped needing him his thoughts had turned more and more to Steve. ‘I miss her, son,’ he said quietly. In the distance, Bloomer Ears’s stomach rumbled conversationally. ‘What should I do?’

  The glen was a sheltered spot, allowing only a small amount of dappled sunlight through the trees to the ground below. Sometimes, when the sun was at just the right angle and the breeze blew the branches overhead and a passing animal had raised enough dust, thin shafts of light blazed briefly through the dust particles, like sunlight shining through a stained glass window in a dusty church. On this afternoon, the sun was an hour off setting, the breeze blew, the branches parted, Bloomer Ears’s dust was still hanging in the air and Richard saw a bright haze of yellow sunlight which ran through the branches overhead and slanted down so it touched David’s name on his headstone. ‘Should I try to get her back here, son?’ He watched the light. It glowed steadily on David’s name. Richard took it as a signal.

  Bloomer Ears watched the man leave. There was purpose in his walk and intent on his face. The still one had given his blessing.

  No-one ever saw Bloomer Ears again. He left for the far northern corner of the park and never returned. He ambled slowly, a great mountain of grey, wild as the land in which he lived, noble and beautiful and endangered, a majestic reminder of an age when man needed less and the animals had all they required. He would, if he was lucky, sire many fine sons who in turn would vie for space in their ever-decreasing allotment of land.

  Richard’s sons, if he had any more, might inherit Pentland and might, depending on their nature, maintain the extended haven for animals which had been created in the memory of David Dunn. Bloomer Ears’s sons would have to rely on the caring and sensitive nature of David being passed onto others.

  In the end, however, unless a miracle takes place, the animals would always lose.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Steve leaned towards the man across the table. ‘I’m not going, Craig.’

  ‘Yes you are, darling.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not going back to Zimbabwe.’

  ‘You must. Your pictures are exquisite. I want more.’

  ‘Send someone else.’

  ‘No-one else can do it.’ The man picked up her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Do it for me, poppet.’

  She laughed gently at him and retrieved her hand. ‘Drop the poppet, pal. I’m not going.’

  They were in a crowded restaurant. It was lunchtime. She had come into town especially to see this man, her friend, knowing he had another assignment for her, not expecting for one moment it would be back to Africa, back to Zimbabwe.

  She could not even think of the name of that country without thinking of Richard. It was more than a year but it still hurt. She had heard nothing from any of them, not that she expected to. Nor had she written to them. She held the memory of them all in her heart. It was all she had.

  Craig Jones looked at her winningly, confident she would go. ‘Why not, darling?’

  ‘Forget it, Craig. Something happened over there. I’m not going back.’ She frowned, looking over his shoulder. There he was again, that man, lurking outside the restaurant. He was following her. She had seen him outside her block of flats as she waited for the taxi to take her to meet Craig. A medium-height man wearing a broad-rimmed Akubra and a raincoat, collar turned up against the wind and freezing rain. He had been walking aimlessly up and down the street. No-one in their right mind would be out in that kind of weather. ‘Do you have a jealous lover, Craig?’

  ‘Wish I did darling, why?’

  ‘Someone’s following me.’

  Craig’s face lit up. ‘How exciting, darling. Where?’

  ‘He’s outside in the street, just standing against the window . . . damn it, Craig, don’t make it so obvious. Craig! Come back.’

  She should have known better. He was outrageous. He would probably proposition whoever it was himself. She flung some notes onto the table and hurried after him.

  Craig was flat on his back on the pavement. ‘Bastard,’ the man in the coat growled.

  She looked at Craig. His nose was bleeding. He was dabbing at it with his handkerchief. ‘Looks like I picked a wrongun.’ That was typical Craig. No malice.

  She knelt beside him. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Nothing a plastic surgeon won’t be able to fix. Help me up, darling, there’s a good girl.’

  She helped him to his feet and swung around to face the stranger. He had disappeared. ‘Bloody coward,’ she called to the space he had occupied.

  He was back outside her block of flats when the taxi dropped her home. ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this.’ Asking the taxi driver to wait a moment, she stalked up to him. ‘What’s your game, mate?’

  The collar was slowly folded down. The hat was removed. ‘Richard!’

  ‘Sorry about your friend.’ He did not look sorry.

  ‘Why did you hit him?’

  ‘I thought he was your boyfriend.’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘I figured that out when he came on to me.’

  ‘So you just hit him, just like that?’

  Her heart was hammering at the sight of him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Seeing him here, in a Sydney street, he looked so out of place.

  ‘I needed to punch someone.’

  ‘Run out of black men have you?’

  He laughed. God she looked wonderful.

  ‘What’s with the disguise?’

  ‘I couldn’t make up my mind.’
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  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thought you might have forgotten me.’

  She laughed.

  It started to rain again.

  They stared at each other.

  The taxi driver blew his horn, impatient to leave.

  She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, it was the same as she remembered, it smelled of Africa, of a wild land, of Richard.

  He could smell her hair, like the sea, just like the sea. It reminded him of Kariba, of Meikles, of Tuli.

  Suddenly she was in his arms and he was kissing her.

  The taxi driver put his car into gear and drove off muttering, ‘That’s the luckiest bloody stranger I’ve ever seen.’

  He demanded she marry him immediately. Strangely, she did not argue. She cried with him over David, laughed with him about Penny, congratulated him for his private game reserve and, when he demanded they get married, said, ‘No worries.’ He took it to mean yes.

  At their wedding, Craig Jones was, to use his own expression, ‘Best it’ for Richard. As Richard said, ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  Steve’s father gave her away. Reluctantly. Her daughter was marrying a man the same age as himself. Her mother found Richard attractive. ‘Naughty,’ she thought. ‘Thank God she’s going to live in Africa.’

  Steve looked a dream in ivory silk and lace. When Richard later asked why she had worn no shoes she had explained, ‘I couldn’t find any that went with the dress. You didn’t give me enough time.’

  He thought that was fair enough.

  On their wedding night he asked if she would come back to Zimbabwe.

  ‘Bit late to think of that isn’t it?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘What if I said no?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  She laughed at him lovingly. Later, much later, he asked if she wanted children. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. ‘We seem to have left an important chunk out of getting to know each other. Sure I want children. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think we just made the first one.’ He sounded smug.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A man knows these things.’ Smug.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Mmmmmmm.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  EPILOGUE

  It was just before the rains came and the land was dry and parched. Small dust puffs sprang up as the two boys walked, barefoot, along the road from school to their village.

  ‘No, Tabela, she does not understand our ways.’

  ‘But, Zeni, what she says is true.’

  ‘How can this be true?’ Zeni wrinkled his eight-year-old brow, perplexed. ‘Why, I have seen hundreds of zebra alone on this land that used to have cattle.’

  ‘That is because they cannot live anywhere else.’

  ‘One or two will make no difference. Think of the money we will earn.’

  Tabela strived to put his argument well. Their teacher had made it sound so simple. ‘You are right, Zeni, if you kill two zebra they will hardly be noticed. But think. If you kill two and I kill two, and then if all the boys in our village killed two, how many would that leave?’

  Zeni looked doubtful. ‘How can all the boys in our village kill two? Some of them are babies.’

  They heard a vehicle behind them and, without stopping their argument, they moved to the side of the road. But the Land Rover slowed down. ‘You boys happy a lift?’ It was the new wife of the master of Pentland Park, who spoke Shona badly but at least she spoke it. She was their temporary teacher while the regular one was on maternity leave.

  Tabela smiled and shook his head. ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes you, Tabela.’

  He corrected her automatically, as she had told him he should.

  ‘Sorry, yes, Tabela.’

  ‘These animals, Miss. If Zeni kills two, it will make no difference, will it?’

  She turned off the ignition and got out. ‘Come here.’ She squatted down on the dusty road. ‘We will speak in English, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ She only spoke to them in English if she had something long to say.

  She made ten marks on the road with a stick. ‘Each one of these marks are 100 zebra.’

  The boys nodded. ‘That will make 1,000 zebra.’ Zeni was good at arithmetic.

  She smiled. ‘Good.’ She made ten more marks, circles this time, surrounding the one thousand zebra. ‘These are villages. In each village there are ten boys the same age as you.’

  Again, the boys nodded.

  ‘Now, if one boy, like Zeni here, wants to kill two zebra, how many zebra will be left?’

  Tabela scratched his head and shook it. Zeni laughed at him. ‘It is easy. One thousand zebra, take away two, equals 998.’

  ‘Correct. Now just suppose that all the boys your age in Zeni’s village want to kill two zebra. How many will be left?’

  Zeni had to resort to scratching on the ground but eventually he got the answer. ‘Nine hundred and eighty.’

  ‘Excellent. Come on, Tabela, your turn next. You can make marks on the ground to help you.’ She pointed at all the circles. ‘How many boys your age live in all these villages?’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Count them.’ She put her stick on the first one and said, ‘Ten.’

  Tabela put a stick on the next one. ‘Twenty.’ He looked up and she was smiling encouragement. ‘Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred.’ He was flushed with his own success.

  ‘Very good, Tabela. One hundred boys want to kill two zebra . . .’

  ‘Two hundred.’ Tabela anticipated her next question.

  ‘Eight hundred.’ Zeni anticipated the one after that.

  ‘That’s right, only 800 zebra left.’ She scratched out two of the marks representing zebra. ‘But also in these villages are twenty other boys and ten men who wish to kill two zebra. How many people does that make?’

  ‘Three hundred,’ Zeni said promptly.

  ‘That would only leave 500 zebra,’ Tabela said.

  ‘No, Tabela, each of these people want two zebra.’

  Zeni looked at her. ‘Two hundred. That’s only 200 left.’

  ‘And how long will it take 200 zebra to produce 800 more zebra, Zeni?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss.’

  ‘Well I do. Let’s say that of the 200 zebra, only half of them are female and only three-quarters of those females survive to have their own babies. Let’s say they have one baby each every year. Let’s say that only half of those babies are girl babies and these girl babies have to wait two years before they can have babies themselves. Do you know how long will it take them to get back to 1,000 zebra?’

  ‘I do not know, Miss. Perhaps ten years?’

  ‘Very good, Zeni. If there are no droughts, no lions, no disease and no-one else in these villages wish to kill two zebra, it will take them six years. But there will always be more people in the villages. There are always lions and disease. It could even take longer than ten years. That is why we protect them in game reserves. That is why it is illegal to hunt them. Do you understand?’

  Zeni looked at her solemnly. ‘But, Miss, how do I tell this thing to my father?’

  ‘Zeni,’ she said. ‘I do not expect you to tell your father what to do. That would be very disrespectful. But I would like to think that you will tell your own children what to do.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes, Tabela?’

  ‘Will these zebra be able to wait?’

  Steve stood up, dusting her hands. ‘I hope so, Tabela,’ she said softly. ‘For it would be a very sad thing indeed if they couldn’t.’

  The boys watched her dust as she drove away. Then they started walking again.

  ‘She is not one of us.’ Zeni kicked at the soft red dirt. ‘I only want two zebra.’

  ‘She is very nice.’ Tabela took Zeni’s hand.

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nbsp; ‘Yes,’ Zeni conceded. ‘But she doesn’t know everything.’

  MORE BESTSELLING FICTION AVAILABLE FROM BEVERLEY HARPER

  Edge of the Rain

  Hunger ached in her belly . . . the lioness slid forward as close as she dared. The little boy seconds away from death was two, maybe three years old. He was lost in the heat-soaked sand that was the Kalahari desert.

  Toddler Alex Theron is miraculously rescued by a passing clan of Kalahari Bushmen. Over the ensuing years the desert draws him back, for it hides a beautiful secret . . . diamonds.

  But nothing comes easily from within this turbulent continent and before Alex can even hope to realise his dreams he will lose his mind to love and fight a bitter enemy who will stop at nothing to destroy him . . .

  ‘Destined to be a worthy successor to Harper’s Storms Over Africa . . . superbly told story which will appeal to almost every audience’

  Alan Gold, Australian Bookseller &Publisher

  TURN THE PAGE FOR CHAPTER ONE OF EDGE OF THE RAIN . . .

  EDGE OF THE RAIN

  Beverley Harper

  CHAPTER ONE

  The blood scent was fresh. Pungent and rich, the acrid smell of it stung her taste buds, bringing saliva. She stopped, turning her head until she caught it again. In the distance, a clump of trees. Years of fending for herself had her instincts honed to perfection. A light breeze floated the scent to her and she savoured it. It came from the trees. But she was wary. Along with the scent of blood, something else, something alien.

  Hunger ached in her belly. Cautious, for she could not identify the other smell, she made her way towards the trees, stopping every few seconds to sniff at the breeze. Her eyes flicked over the surrounding land. Nothing there. The blood scent was stronger. Like a wraith she slipped into the shade, moving with exquisite precision, all her senses alert. When she found the source of the scent she slid forward as close as she dared and settled down to watch. She would remain hidden until she was sure—such was her nature.