by Oakland Ross
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sam …” said my father. “You’re not giving me a chance to explain.”
I didn’t care. I marched upstairs to my room. Once there, I planted myself on the windowsill and stared out at what would soon be the gloom of dusk. Just now, though, it was still a beautiful evening. The lilacs and apple trees caught the amber sunlight, and the grass glistened. After a while, I dropped down from the sill and changed into a pair of blue jeans. I already had on my Maple Leafs T-shirt. I pulled on my sneakers and clumped downstairs.
My mother peered up from her cards. “Where are you going?”
“Away.” I meant to take Della for a ride. Who knew where? Maybe down to the quarry.
“It’s late.”
I didn’t care. I strode out to the barn, saddled Della, and set off. Already, it was starting to get dark, and I had a feeling that maybe this was not the best idea I’d ever conceived. Still, I kept Della moving ahead at an extended trot. In the end, it took us nearly an hour to reach the Quinton Vasco lands, and we kept right on going. I was aiming for the quarry ponds. I didn’t know what was drawing me there — or, yes, I did. Of course, I did. Hilary. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in a week.
Della picked her way down the face of the escarpment, and we turned to bear right along the slender lane toward the quarry. Before long I halted. I dropped to the ground and ran up the stirrups on both sides of the saddle, tucking the leathers through the irons. I eased the reins over Della’s head and guided her toward the main pond. I stumbled a couple of times against tree roots or jutting rocks, all practically invisible in the dwindling light.
Where the earth turned to limestone, I stopped to loop the reins around a maple branch. I left Della behind me and climbed up onto the rocky outcropping, the same one Hilary and Club Soda had leapt off only a week or so earlier, with Hilary wearing nothing at all. Now the sky was fading to a dull purple, and there seemed to be nothing beyond the limestone surface but a large and empty pit, a hollow space. I’m not sure what I was thinking — that Hilary might be there? That she might have fallen into the pond and drowned? It was nothing as melodramatic as that. What I felt was a general sensation of dread. It heaved deep in my belly, like a stubborn cramp. I noticed a ringing in my ears and then recognized its source — a barrage of crickets, screeching on all sides.
Even in that din, I could hear Della snuffling behind me, the snaffle rings clattering as she grazed, her nostrils muttering against the hard ground, her hooves clinking against rock. Every sound seemed magnified in the darkness. I really didn’t want to be there at all. It was that exchange I’d just had with my father, his working for Quinton Vasco. I felt as if my head were on fire.
About then, I heard a car engine snarl, quite far away at first, then much closer. I heard a loud, grinding crunch — the chassis of a vehicle bottoming against stones and earth. The car was approaching along this narrow trail, approaching from the south, from the Base Line, the opposite way that I had come. Soon, the disruption seemed to be only a matter of yards away, a throbbing motor, a spray of headlights. Next, the motor cut out, its drone replaced by the slow pelting of cooling metal. I could hear everything, but I couldn’t see much, blinded by the headlights’ glare, knifing through the thickening dark. After a time, I heard a car door open and slam shut, then another, and, soon after that, a third door. I heard voices, male voices. They seemed to be advancing toward me. I heard something smash, a bottle dashing against a rock, then another bottle, then a jarring burst of laughter.
“Fuckin’ Christ. Let me at ’er. Let me at ’er now.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck who?”
“You, stupid.”
“Not me. Her. Do her.”
“I’m gonna. But she’s … ah, she’s out of it. I … ah, Christ.”
“Hurry. Come on, hurry …”
I loosed Della’s reins and eased them back over her head. I slid the near-side stirrup iron back down the leather. It was no easy matter, on account of the way my hands were shaking. Quietly as I could, I swung myself up into the saddle. I really wanted to get away from this place.
“Ah, hell — lookit! She’s throwin’ up. Ah, jeez.”
“Never mind. Here, put her over here. On top o’ this. Turn her over. C’mon. There. That’s better. That’s all right. Jesus. Gimme the flashlight, will ya? Ah … lookit that. Fuckin’ A.”
I saw a pulse of light, several pulses. Flashlights, I thought. The beams seemed to scatter and shift in every direction, deflected by tree branches, catching against rocks.
“Wait,” said another voice. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Davey Odegaard. “Her glasses. She’s missing her glasses.”
“So …?” This voice sounded like Bruce Gruber. “She doesn’t need any glasses now, for Chrissake.”
“Yes. She does. She’s blind without them. They must have fallen off somewhere. They must be around here. Wait —”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I touched my heels to Della’s sides and headed her back the way we had come. The path ran through the woods, dark as a tunnel.
“What was that?” said one of the voices. “What the hell was that?”
I kept Della moving forward. The thing was, I really did think that I recognized a couple of the voices. One of them was Bruce Gruber’s, I was pretty sure. Another was Davey Odegaard’s. Maybe there’d been a third voice, too. Edwin’s? Edwin Duval’s? I should turn around, ride back, find out what was going on. I should do something. But what? I was all alone, and there were three of them. At least three.
“Ah, it wasn’t nothin’. Just a bear or something.”
“A bear …!”
“I’m jokin’, moron. Give me the flashlight. Jesus, would ya look at that.”
Before long, Della broke into a canter, and I had to keep my head down, to stay clear of overhanging branches. The woods swept past, a blur of shadows and tattered starlight. I tried not to think about what was happening back there by the quarry pond, but I couldn’t help it. There was a woman there, or a girl, and she was drunk or passed out, and I had a terrible idea it might be Hilary. Then I thought, no, it couldn’t be Hilary. She didn’t wear glasses, for one thing. I was getting confused, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it stuttering in my chest. Maybe I had misheard the part about glasses. Maybe it was Hilary, after all. Part of me wanted to stop and go back and do something — I had no idea what — but the rest of me wanted to keep riding the other way. I knew what I was. I was a coward.
When we reached Number Four Sideroad, I reined Della to the left, to begin the steep ascent of the escarpment, and just then I remembered something Hilary had said. I slowed Della to a halt and let her stand there, in the centre of the road, surrounded by darkness. The roar of the crickets redoubled, or so it seemed, and I debated what to do. Hilary had been speaking about my being cautious — a cautious person — and her being bold. But I could change, she’d said, not a lot maybe, but some. Maybe it would be enough. Right now, if she were in my place, I knew that she would do something brave and heroic — something bold. I was sure of it. She certainly would not do what I was doing, slinking away like this. The realization hit me like a punch in the gut, and I decided that I wasn’t going to run away. Not this time. I was going to go back, even though I had no idea what I would do when I got there. I would think of something. Somehow, I would. I reined Della around and aimed her back through the darkness toward the quarry pond. Pretty soon we veered off the gravel road and were clomping along the narrow trail. Okay. Maybe I was a careful person, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t take risks. Sometimes I could. If I had to, I could.
Before long, I heard the same voices as before. I couldn’t really make out much of what they were saying, but it seemed they were still arguing. Another bottle crashed against a rock. Flashlight beams criss-crossed the branches overhead. Whoever they were, I was almost on top of them now. I sensed the dark outline of a car, Bruce’s proba
bly. In the glare of the darting flashlights, I could make out the glint of human faces. At first I had no idea what I meant to do, and then, the next moment, I did, as if some instinct had suddenly taken hold. I began to ride around and around in tight circles, and I started to sing. At the top of my voice, I belted out the first song that came into my head, one of the South African songs Hilary had taught me. “Yini Madoda,” it was called. Its title meant “Why Men” in Xhosa, but I didn’t understand any of the lyrics. I had simply memorized their sounds — some of them, anyway. I only pretended to do the clicks. Still, I roared the song out, loud as I could.
I didn’t stop singing until I ran out of words. Then I started belting out another Miriam Makeba song, “Ndamcenga,” which means “I Begged.” I had to invent a lot of the sounds, but I knew the melody pretty well. All the time, I steered Della around in tight circles. I would have terrified anyone.
I kept on singing, bellowing out the melodies so loudly that I couldn’t properly hear anything else. I did sense voices, though — male voices shouting and swearing. I think they were a lot more afraid of me than I was of them — afraid and bewildered. Pretty soon they were hurrying away. I could tell. I saw their shadows in flight. I heard car doors slamming. I wasn’t sure, but I thought they’d taken the girl with them, or the woman — I didn’t know which. A car engine roared, and I watched the vehicle totter away in reverse, its headlights careening wildly, glancing through the branches of trees.
I knew who it was back there. It was definitely Bruce’s voice that I’d heard, his and Davey’s. The other voice? I was fairly sure it was Edwin’s. I stayed where I was, watching and listening, until there was nothing more to see or to hear. Whatever it was that I had stumbled upon, it was over now. Still, I checked to make sure they hadn’t left the girl behind, whoever she was, and it seemed they hadn’t. It seemed they’d taken her away. Maybe they were alarmed enough by now that they wouldn’t do her any more harm.
I reined Della to the right and dug my heels into her sides. She sprang into a canter, and we headed off, back in the same direction we had come. When I reached Number Four Sideroad, I slowed Della to a trot and turned to the left, to scale the escarpment’s wall. I knew what I would do next: I would ride straight over to Colonel Barker’s, never mind the hour, and see if Hilary was there. If she wasn’t, then that would mean I had to do something, try to find her. I didn’t really have a plan beyond that. Maybe it had been Hilary back there, or maybe not. Maybe I wasn’t thinking too clearly.
It took me half an hour to reach the old stone house. I cantered up the drive, only to find the place completely dark. Everyone must have gone to bed. I looked around to see if both the Barkers’ cars were parked by the house, and so they were — the rental and the Cadillac. The pickup truck was probably over by the barn. That meant everyone was home. I thought it did.
I halted, yanked my feet from the stirrups, threw a leg over the cantle of the saddle, and dropped down to the grass. I was wearing only a pair of canvas sneakers on my feet, no socks. I eased the reins over Della’s head and led her toward the house, my shoes squelching in the dew-slick grass.
When I got close to the front door, I peered up at the second storey. I was trying to figure out which window was Hilary’s. That was stupid. Even if I located it, what would I do then? Toss pebbles at the pane, as if this were some old movie? Worse, my looking up at the second floor meant I didn’t see the wrought-iron patio table until I had walked right into it, sending it toppling onto the flagstone terrace, upsetting a couple of wrought-iron chairs. Della shied and yanked back on the reins. She damned near dislocated my shoulder.
“Hey! Hey!” I shouted.
Almost at once, a light burst on upstairs, followed by a commotion of footsteps. Now a man’s voice — Colonel Barker’s — called down from a window.
“Who’s there!”
“It’s me.”
“It’s who …? Is that the Mitchell boy? Sam, is that you?”
“Yessir.”
“What are you doing here? What time is it? Is that a horse? What are you doing?”
“It’s about Hilary. She …”
“Hilary. Yes. What about her?”
“I think she’s hurt … or something.”
“No, no. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Is she here?”
“No. Out. Is that a horse?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord, man. Go home. It’s late. Hilary isn’t here. Good night.”
I turned and led Della away from the house, across the lawn, and out onto the drive. I shoved my left foot into the stirrup and heaved myself up and into the saddle. I was collecting the reins and straightening my shoulders, about to head off, when I heard the front door swing open behind me. I looked back, and there was Colonel Barker in a bathrobe and a pair of rubber boots. He was striding my way, across the sopping grass.
FORTY
Jack
South Africa, Winter 1962
EFFING PIECE OF BLOODY English crap.
Jack pounded his fist against the wheel of his old Land Rover. Something had gone haywire with the steering mechanism. Damned thing had about thirty degrees of play to her, which made every turn a gamble. Just keeping the effing contraption on the road was challenge enough. Each vehicle lumbering up from the opposite direction was a bloody death sentence in the making. Plus three-quarters of the lot were piloted by kaffirs, none of which could drive worth a piss, as studies had shown.
But never mind. He knew he would manage somehow. Just now the Land Rover was stumbling north toward Ladysmith. From there he would head west and make his way toward Maseru, enter Basutoland from the north. He was well aware that Hil and that terro of hers would scale the Drakensberg from the southern side, but he had plenty of time. Even in this derelict old bus of his, he was sure he’d have no trouble finding his way to Qacha’s Nek. Maybe he’d wait for them there. That was one plan. Another had him leaving Basutoland on foot and proceeding back into Zuid-Afrika, climbing down the mountains from the north. Either tactic would work.
His main source of worry was the prospect of losing his life along the way, a distinct possibility given the way these kamikaze imbeciles zigged and effing zagged along the road. He’d just have to keep his wits about him. That was the key to it. He reached over to his left and wrenched the cubbyhole open. He took a good peek at the Smith & Wesson revolver ensconced inside in all its glory, alongside a cardboard box of cartridges and a pair of field glasses he had lately acquired. Just checking. He pushed the cover back into place and resumed an erect position, both hands gripping the wheel.
Something out the windscreen caught his eye — a red bakkie careening his way. He managed to yank the steering wheel to the side, just far enough to avoid a collision. Instinctively, he glanced up at the rear-view mirror and watched the self-same bakkie groan away in a cloud of filthy brown smoke and with a load of firewood tottering high in the bed. It was as if nothing whatsoever had happened. Sweet Jesus, you’d think these people lacked nervous systems. Live out the day in comfort and safety or else perish in a crush of metal and firewood — it was all the same to them.
Ah, well. He’d just have to keep a careful lookout. Safety first. As he drove north to Ladysmith, he whistled a tune that had got into his head. “Pata Pata” it was called — one of these kaffir tunes. They had a way with music; you couldn’t deny it.
At Ladysmith he pulled into a petrol station to refuel and pick up some grub, plus a Castle or two to steady his nerves, keep him company on his way. He asked the mechanic to have a look at the steering in the Land Rover, and he headed into the little café beside the garage to make his purchases.
When he emerged, laden with bundles, the mechanic ambled over to confront him. A lanky kaffir lad, he was. The boy said the problem with the steering was some serious stuff. There’d be parts and labour, and he couldn’t say how long the work would take, as some of the spares would need to be ordered up from Pietermaritzburg.
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br /> In other circumstances he would have jumped to the obvious conclusion: this was some kind of a swindle. He’d seen it before. This time, however, he was inclined to credit what he heard. He’d been driving the damned crate, after all, and so he had a fair idea of the condition it was in. That was on the one hand. On the other hand, he didn’t have time to wait for the parts to be trucked up from effing Pietermaritzburg. Hell, he could have drove to Pietermaritzburg himself if only he’d had fair warning. But had he? No.
“Can you fix her up temporary?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. He had a sparse curly beard, or not a beard really, just some coiled whiskers. Fat lips. Flat nose. Eyes that looked drugged. In other words, the usual thing.
“I could rig something up,” the boy said. “It wouldn’t last long. How far are you going, baas?”
“Far enough,” he said. “Over to Basutoland.” Bad idea, to mention that.
“What — Maseru?”
“Could be. So — they pay you to ask questions?”
“Sorry, baas.”
“Are you saying I could make it or not?”
“I can’t promise anything, baas. Might be you could make it that far.”
“And might be I won’t?”
The boy shrugged again.
“You have a boss, I take it?” The bags he was holding were growing heavy.
“Yes, baas.”
“Well, maybe I should be having a palaver with him rather than wasting my time out here with you.”
“He’s just inside, taking a load off. I’ll ask him. Just wait here, if you don’t mind, baas.”
“Fine. Fine and dandy.”
Jack loaded his purchases into the back of the Land Rover and liberated a Castle, popped her open with the widget on his chain of keys. He had halfway drunk the brew when a portly gent sauntered out from the low brick structure by the petrol pumps, a white man with a proper beard, albeit grey with age and yellow from nicotine. Fat as all get out. Said his name was Jeremiah. Said the boy’s name was Melvyn. Best mechanic in Ladysmith. “He’ll have a look at your steering. See what we can do. Might not be much.”