So here she was now, at eighteen, heading for the home of her infancy, with this hateful, disturbing man as her pilot. Once there, she hoped she need never see him again.
She stole another glance at his rugged face. She sensed a new tenseness in his body. He was watching the clouds, peering now left, now right, above and below. The passage was no longer smooth. The bumps in the air pockets were making her queasy.
'Is anything wrong?' she ventured.
'What could be wrong?' he brushed her off. 'You just relax.'
With an indifferent shrug, she turned her back to him, drew up her knees on to the seat and cradled her •head on an arm across its back. Resolutely she steered her thoughts towards Graham. At the time that they left Swaziland, he must have been about eighteen. He was orphaned and Daddy's ward. Strange how similar their situations were. She too was eighteen, so to speak orphaned, and like Graham, settling on the ranch. Graham would be about thirty now. She wondered what Dirk von Breda's age was. Probably about thirty too. That put them both outside her line of fire. She gave a deep yawn, and dropped off to sleep.
A loud clap of thunder shook her awake. All hell seemed unleashed. She sat up, startled. Visibility had vanished. Hail began to drum a tattoo upon the roof of the storm-tossed craft, and spattered in at the small open side window. She hastily slid it along till it closed, while flash upon flash of lightning rent the mist and thunder crashed. Paralysed with fear, she cast an anguished look at her companion. Bent double, he stared ahead, a figure of stone. One side of his shirt was drenched from his slightly open window and only, now did she realize that his jacket covered her knees. She did not cry out nor speak to him, but clenched her fists and prayed. Rain was pouring against the windscreen. She dug in her handbag for her waterproof scarf, and piling her hair high, tied it firmly round her head in order to be ready for their touchdown. She reckoned they must be flying over Swaziland now. How could they ever find the Matsapa airport? All at once the rain and hail ceased. For an instant the mists parted. Gillian cried out in terror as a mountain peak loomed treacherously ahead. With a jolt she was flung against her companion as he veered the plane round. She felt the clasp of a' strong arm. She saw the mountain slope below, knew he was attempting the impossible, forced landing, and heard the cry: 'Hold on!'
Then a shattering crash and merciful oblivion.
Slowly, Gillian opened her eyes and gazed uncomprehendingly at the moving shadows on the wall. Where was she?
She tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan of pain. She lay tense and tortured, and gradually memory returned - memory of the storm-tossed Beechcraft and the crash. Questions surged through her brain. How long had she been lying here? She listened for the sound of wind and rain, but could hear nothing. A thick silence surrounded her. How had she got here? Where was Dirk von Breda? She stifled a moan. The pain seemed located in the vicinity of her abdomen.
She turned her eyes painfully to discover the source of the slow shadow dance. A few yards from her elbow a wood fire was dying. She could make out nothing else. She seemed to be in a cave of sorts. As her eyes grew accustomed to the semi-dark, she realized that the grey-brown dome under which she was lying was a Swazi hut. Bemused, she traced the beehive skeleton of the bent slats, closely covered with dried reeds which were held together by thin, interlacing ropes of plaited grass. She could just make out a dark, arched entrance. Who had brought her here? Who had lit the fire?
Panic gripped her, as she recalled her father's horrendous stories of witchcraft and ritual murder, which, despite legislation, were still practised in Swaziland. Her imagination ran riot. This terrible pain in her body - had the witch-doctor begun on his gruesome removal of live human flesh for his medicine, umuti? A coarse blanket was wrapped around her like a sarong, leaving arms and shoulders bare; her flesh chilled as she realized that underneath it she was naked. Her exploring hand slid along the hairy animal hide on which she lay on the ground. She strained her ears and distinctly heard movements outside. She shrieked in fear, as a tall black figure, naked but for the sporranlike umuchi of animal tails, crouched through the entrance. She watched, paralysed, as the man straightened up in the dim interior and flung a bundle of sticks on the sparking fire. Regardless of pain, she straggled up, clutching the blanket to her. The dusky figure stood quite still. Gillian could see the whites of his eyes in the light of the sudden, crackling flames, and stifled a cry of terror as he stepped slowly towards her. Then a voice, sonorous, and gentle as a dove's, reached her ears: 'Nkosazana, my name is Twala. Musaku saba - don't be afraid. Twala will help you.'
She struggled to hide her fear and forced her voice to speak calmly: 'The white man - where is he?'
'Nkosan von Breda? He has gone to the city, to Mbabane, to bring u dokotela. You are hurt. U dokotela will make you well.'
She pointed to the blanket. 'My clothes? Where are they?'
He spread his hands in a gesture of commiseration.
'Burnt. All burnt. Nkosan von Breda say you must sleep. I do not talk.' With that, bending double through the entrance, he disappeared into the night.
Burning brands seemed to sear her body as Gillian tried to lie down on the hide. For a while, she sobbed in an agony of body and spirit - overwhelmed by embarrassment at the possibility that the hated pilot had seen her naked flesh. Then, mercifully, she drifted once more into a state of unconsciousness.
When Dirk von Breda brought the District Surgeon and the stretcher-bearers, she was still unconscious and did not feel the prick of the syringe.
Gillian regained consciousness at the Mbabane Hospital.
The sun was streaming in upon the white counterpane on her bed, firing her hair of spun gold.
Conscious of pain, she gazed drowsily at a hazy blot above her head. As her eyes began to focus, the blot changed to a face - the face of Dirk von Breda - but before painful recognition and blazing embarrassment could sweep through her now conscious mind, he disappeared, and she doubted whether the momentary vision had been real or a chimera — a figment of her ever-ripe imagination.
A pretty young Swazi nurse entered with a trolley, her black skin in sharp contrast with the snow-white uniform. A pert white cap was perched on her black, frizzy hair. Briskly the nurse plumped Gillian's pillows, took her pulse beat and temperature, and administered the doctor's prescribed medicine.
By that time full awareness had returned to the patient - greater awareness too of the excruciating pain in her body.
The nurse smoothed the coverlet. 'That's better!' she remarked brightly. 'Next time that handsome boyfriend of yours calls, let's see some colour in your cheeks.'
Gillian whispered weakly: 'There was a man ... I thought I saw a man ... it was. . .'
'That's right; it was Nkosan von Breda. He refused to leave you till the last minute. There was quite a scene with Matron; but she came round and let him stay by your bedside.'
'He's not my boy-friend,' Gillian murmured.
The nurse rambled on while she busily reorganized her trolley. 'The strong silent type, ,he is. Won't stop at anything. They take what they want, that type do.'
'Well, he's not my type.' Gillian's feeble voice gained in strength. 'Don't let him come into my room again.'
'False hope - he's leaving Swaziland right now.' She gave her patient a teasing glance. 'He's real smitten with you.'
'What happened?' Gillian asked; but the nurse was already wheeling the trolley out at the door.
Gillian felt strangely deserted. She hated the man, yet wanted him near. His magnetic personality drew her against her will. He was the only person she knew •in the whole of the continent of Africa. There was Graham Barry, of course, but Graham was stricken with malaria. Perplexity flooded her mind. How could Dirk leave her without talking to her - telling her what had happened to the Beechcraft, her luggage, her clothes and books? How had she got to the hut? Who had stripped her? What was the nature of her injury? It was cruel of him to leave her in the dark.
The docto
r's medicine contained a potent sedative. Gradually the pain subsided and she drifted into a profound sleep. Twilight stole into the ward, then darkness, and still she slept.
The sudden switching on of the glaring electric light against the roof woke her. She flung a protective arm across her sensitive eyes, warding off the painful glare, but not before she had caught sight of the approaching figure of a large Swazi woman in white uniform. The voice she heard was musical and cultured. 'Good evening, Miss McBride, and how's the patient this evening?'
Gillian's lips scarcely moved as she whispered: 'All right, thank you.'
'I'm Matron, and I'm glad to see you looking better.'
From under the shielding arm the lips smiled wanly.
'I'm sure there are many questions you would like answered, yes? Do you feel strong enough to talk?'
'Yes, please.' Then in a small voice she said: 'The lights are hurting my eyes.'
'I'll switch them off and put on the night light.'
Matron suited the action to the words and in the dim glow Gillian slowly uncovered her face. She looked up into the kindliest eyes she had ever encountered. In spite of the fat face and ungainly body, there was an indisputable air of command and leadership - the stamp of authority.
Matron pulled a small bench from under the bed and carefully lowered her weight on to it. Her dark podgy hands lay folded serenely on the white coverlet. 'Nkosan von Breda asked me to talk to you. Unfortunately, it was necessary for him to leave for the Republic. I am to answer all your questions and relate what happened.'
'Please tell me.'
'You remember the storm while you were in the sky, my dear?'
Gillian shuddered. 'Yes, yes, I do. There was a crash and then nothing.'
'The Nkosan tells me he couldn't locate the Matsapa airport, because of the mist and rain, and was circling high, hoping that the storm would pass and visibility improve. The gale blew the plane off route and you almost flew into the Mdimba mountain peak.'
'I remember. The mist cleared, and I saw the peak.'
'That's right. The Nkosan made a forced landing, and tried to taxi down the slope to the valley below, but the machine dipped sideways he tells me and the wing struck a rock. With the crash the petrol tank broke open and the plane burst into flames.'
'I only remember the crash,' Gillian's pale lips whispered.
'You must have lost consciousness just then; but the brave man pulled you out before you were burnt to death. Unfortunately, a flying spark set the front of your dress alight.'
With a pale slender finger, Gillian anxiously felt along her eyelids. Matron could not hide her amusement. 'How like a woman!' she laughed. 'We're all alike - always concerned about our beauty. It's the men's fault. A beautiful face and figure will catch the male eye before beauty of character has time to be revealed.'
Gillian wished that Matron would go on with the story of how Dirk rescued her.
'No; my child, set your mind at rest. Your lovely silken eyelashes were not singed — neither was your hair.'
'I remember tying up my hair against the hail and rain.'
'That may have helped, but it was your protector's quick reaction that saved your beauty. I asked him about the miracle. He says he flung his coat over your head as the plane crashed. But he couldn't save you altogether. With the strong wind fanning your burning clothes, the only way to save you was to rip them from you. This he did, and so you escaped a horrible death.'
Gillian's cheeks were flaming red flags. To hide her shame, she covered her face with both arms.
'Is the light still bothering you, child?'
'No ...'
Matron caught the note of humiliation in the high, small voice. 'I understand your distress, my dear. You are modest and innocent, and therefore dismayed at what happened, but this you must remember - there are times when the sight of the flesh is of no importance - as at childbirth, for example.'
'That's easy for a trained nurse to accept, Matron.' The patient's voice was a mere whisper.
'I realize it must be harder for you, child, but you must try to be realistic.'
For a moment silence reigned in the hospital room.
'Come,' Matron coaxed, gently removing Gillian's arms from her blushing face and placing them under the coverlet. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of; you've committed no impropriety. What happened was destined by fate. Forget it now. Your life was saved and for that we must be thankful.'
Gillian gazed at her with the eyes of a little frightened animal. The blood had now drained from her cheeks and left her face exceedingly white.
Matron thought it advisable for her to rest, and rose from her seat. 'I'll instruct the Sister on duty to give you a sleeping pill. Tomorrow I'll visit you again and answer all your questions, but now you must sleep. It's imperative if you wish to recover.'
With that she left the patient.
Gillian moaned inwardly. 'How shall I ever be able to look into his eyes again, when I know he's seen me? Oh, I hope he's left Swaziland for good; that he stays in Johannesburg and never, never returns.' Yet even as these thoughts passed through her mind, she knew them to be hypocritical. She felt, deep in her heart, a yearning for his presence. She suddenly remembered the strength, the security of his protecting arm just before they crashed. If only she could feel that arm around her now, she would be able to bear the pain; yet she dreaded meeting him again. Her mind was in a turmoil. The longing and the dread warred with each other and spread confusion through her whole being. She was thankful when the Sister entered.. She swallowed the sleeping pill with fevered eagerness, and soon pain of body and agony of mind were forgotten as she drifted into a long, dreamless sleep.
Next day, Matron found the patient physically stronger, but mentally depressed. She guessed that the reason could be certain unanswered questions preying on the girl's mind. 'Well, well, well!' she said cheerily. 'I made a promise yesterday. Remember what it was?'
'Yes!' Gillian smiled at her feebly.
'Tell me. What was it?'
'You said I could ask you things.'
'That's right. Shoot.'
'I'd like to know ...' Gillian hesitated.
'What happened after your burning clothes were ripped away?'
'Yes.'
'Nkosan von Breda naturally saw that your body had sustained burns _and bandaged you with strips torn from his shirt.'
'How did I get to the hut?'
'He carried you there.'
'Was it far?'
'A fair distance. The shepherd to whom it belonged wasn't awakened by the crash - he was still asleep when Nkosan entered with you in his arms.'
Gillian blushed to the roots of her hair.
'He woke up only after the Nkosan had pulled the blanket from him and wrapped it round you.'
'My luggage? My bag and money?'
'I'm afraid everything was burnt out.'
Tears quivered on Gillian's dark lashes. 'I don't know what to do! I'm destitute. The expenses here ...'
'Nkosan von Breda has advanced more than enough,' Matron comforted her. 'He has also left a cash cheque for you for emergencies.'
Gillian did not tell Matron that she'd rather die than accept charity from her benefactor. 'My ranch manager, Mr. Barry - does he know about me?'
'Yes, he's been informed of your plight by Nkosan von Breda.'
'Is he still sick? My manager, I mean.'
'I think that's what was said. Don't worry, the Mbabane people were kind. They know of your accident, and many of them have offered help.'
'Please thank them.'
'Any more questions?'
'Just this: my burns - are they very bad?'
'No, thank heaven - first degree burns only. Painful at the moment, but they'll soon heal. If you follow the doctor's instructions for after-hospital care, the scars may fade away completely. Would you like a cup of cocoa now? Yes?'
'That would be lovely!' Gillian's eyes lost their dull look and Matron knew that the state of depression h
ad lifted from her patient's mind. She looked at the beautiful, slight girl with the flawless skin of the English, and silently hoped that Swaziland and its people would treat her well.
Gillian remained in hospital for two weeks. The days passed slowly with routine visits from the kindly European doctor and the gentle administrations of the nurses. Several strange white women visited her, bringing gifts of books and magazines and baskets of luscious paw-paws, avocados, sugar-sweet pineapples and the largest bananas she had ever seen. She was a voracious reader and keen to absorb any available book, pamphlet or Government brochure about Swaziland, and her new friends were only too ready to procure for her the reading matter she desired. One morning she sat comfortably propped against pillows, reading about Swaziland, and she yearned to view the scenic beauty described in the article. She lifted her gaze to the verdant forested slopes visible through the window. Indeed a magnificent country, she thought.
There was a knock at the door and the nurse entered, ushering in a tall, blond man with a yellow-pallored skin, gentle blue eyes and a sensitive mouth. He wore a neat, light-grey suit and white shirt and his broad, blue silken tie matched his eyes. He stepped lightly up to the bed and put out a welcoming hand. 'Hullo, Gillian,' he said gently. 'I'm Graham, come to life at last.'
Gillian beamed a welcome. 'Oh, I am glad to see you!' she cried, shaking his hand with childish enthusiasm. 'So very glad. Do sit down. There's a seat under the bed.'
He followed her suggestion and pulled out the bench. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then both said simultaneously: 'I'm sorry,' stopped, and broke into spontaneous laughter.
'You first,' Gillian urged.
'Well, I was going to say, I'm sorry about your accident.'
'And I,' she followed suit, 'am sorry about your malaria. How do you feel now?'
He placed a long finger on his yellowed cheek and gave her a crooked smile. 'Off colour, as you see, but as they say in South Africa, Onkruid vergaan nie - weeds never perish.'
Red Feather Love Page 2