Red Feather Love

by Suzanna Lynne

  Gillian wondered at the number of shut doors, leading to left and right from the dark-papered passage.

  She followed Madelisa into a room, dwarfed by a magnificent Edwardian bedroom suite of mahogany, and the most beautiful antique brass fourposter she had ever set eyes on. The exquisite white, hand-crocheted counterpane hung with fringes touching the ground. She tested the bed for comfort, and her hand sank away into the mattress of goose down. 'Lola Gahle,' laughed Madelisa. 'You will sleep well.' With remarkable agility for her size, she dropped to her knees, and the red head disappeared under the bed. She extracted a fine porcelain flowered pot and deposited the suitcase in its place. 'Soon we will find you a Nkosan to sleep here with you,' she teased, the black eyes twinkling with mischief. 'You like Nkosan Graham, hey?'

  'Oh, don't be silly, Madelisa.' Gillian spoke good-naturedly. There was no point in being affronted by the friendly old soul's teasing familiarity. 'Come on, Madelisa! Show me the rest of my home.'

  The house was much larger than she had expected, but its rooms, far too numerous for her use, were small, dark and depressing. On the other hand, it was mercifully cool and a refuge from the sweltering heat outside.

  Every bit of furniture was a museum piece. The, bathroom, she noticed in dismay, had no water laid on and the sewerage was primitive. There was no sign of electricity.

  What was it Dirk had said? 'You need to be sharp and tough in this wild country I'm< taking you to.' She was not going to complain, and right now she was going to bed. She felt drained of strength and utterly exhausted. Old Madelisa seemed to sense this.

  'Now off you go to bed, Nkosazana. Nkosan Dirk said when you come from hospital I must keep you in bed.'

  It was as though an electric shock passed through her body at the mention of his name. Her pulse quickened. 'Nkosan Dirk? You mean Nkosan Graham, don't you?'

  'No,' Madelisa assured her with a slow nod of the head.' It was Nkosan Dirk.'

  'When did you see him?'

  'Yesterday.'

  Gillian's heart began to beat strongly. 'Where?'

  'Here, Nkosazana.'

  'But he's in Johannesburg. In South Africa.'

  'He was here,' Madelisa said doggedly.

  'What did he want?'

  'He brought things.'

  'What sort of things? Madelisa, speak!'

  The smile faded from the pleasant old face. 'Why is the Nkosazana cross with Madelisa?'

  'I'm not cross. Tell me!'

  'He brought meat and chicken, vegetables and fruit.'

  'From where?'

  'From his farm. It is next to ours.'

  Into Gillian's heart stole a strange feeling of desolation. Dirk had then not left Swaziland. That was a put-up story. He was here, close to her, her neighbour; but he had deserted her when she needed him most. He had never visited her in hospital. He was obviously trying to avoid her. If that were the case, why bother to bring her provisions? She already owed him her very life. To Madelisa she said: 'Surely, if anyone had to provide for you and me, it was my manager's place to do so?'

  Madelisa's voice was patient. 'The Nkosan Grem is very sick, Missy Gillian. Did you not see? He got out of bed only to fetch you. I think he has gone back to bed. Nkosan Dirk is his friend. He brought the things to help his friend.'

  'Oh well, if he did it for his friend, then that's all right.'

  She was puzzled to know why, if he felt such concern for his friend, he did not save him the exhausting trip to Mbabane. It could mean just one thing: yes, she was certain now, Dirk was deliberately avoiding her. But why? Why?

  Madelisa gazed with pity at the look on Gillian's face. 'Come now, Mn'tanami. Come, Madelisa's little one,' she soothed. 'You are tired and ill. I will put you to bed like in the old days.' The willing old hands turned down the snow-white counterpane and plumped fat pillows on the old-fashioned bolster. She ducked once more under the bed for the suitcase and quickly stowed the contents in their proper drawers and cupboards. 'Hau! Hau!' she exclaimed in admiration as she laid a fine lace shortie nightie and matching negligee on the bed. She poured water from a flowered porcelain ewer into a matching basin on the marble-topped washstand and left the room.

  Gillian undressed, washed and applied the doctor's ointment to the healing wounds on her abdomen.

  When Madelisa returned with an early supper tray, Gillian, sunk deep in the bed of down, was lying with closed eyes.

  'Here you are, Nkosazana,' coaxed the gentle voice, 'You must try and eat.'

  Gillian felt as if her eyelids were weighted down with lead. It took sheer force of will to lift them.

  Madelisa placed the tray on a side-table and helped Gillian to sit up, propping her with pillows. She placed the tray on her lap and went out quietly, closing the door softly behind her.

  It was heaven to be back in bed - a blessed, blessed sanctuary. Gillian wished she need never again leave its peaceful security. When in hospital, how she had yearned to leave her bed! But now, how glad she was to return to bed! The world beyond the limits of the four- poster seemed too much for her to handle. With a mere superficial viewing of house and garden, she already realized the work to be done before she could hope to be happy here. What worried her was that she had neither the strength nor inclination to move a finger towards accomplishing anything. Graham, her manager, and the staff upon which she had hoped to lean, was a mere willowy wand at present. The threat of that other presence on the next door farm disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

  Gillian gave a deep sigh, then turned her attention to the tray of food. She was by no means hungry, but the glass felt cool against her slender fingers and she began to sip the milk. It was delicious, fresh, and creamy, and before she knew, she had drunk the last drop. She lifted the cover, from a silver dish and, to her surprise, found a tempting fish salad embedded in crisp green lettuce leaves. She enjoyed two helpings, replaced the tray on the side table, slipped under the sheet and slept the clock around.

  Next morning, Madelisa's mournful singing of 'Rock of Ages' in Siswati, the Swazi language, aroused her. She lay listening to the deep contralto voice and mused upon the beautiful quality of all Swazi voices she had heard thus far and upon their correct grammatical speech and vocabulary. She remembered how she had sung the solo part of the selfsame hymn in the convent choir and was filled with nostalgia.

  The singing stopped, and a moment later, Madelisa, her kindly face wreathed in smiles, entered with the breakfast tray. 'Hau!' she exclaimed. 'The Nkosazana sleeps just like a baby. How feels my little one this morning?'

  'Much better, thanks, Madelisa. Yesterday I felt like a washed-out rag, but today I'm full of energy.' She sat up with a yawn and lazy cat-stretch, then reached hungrily for the tray. 'What day is it?'

  'It is Sunday,' Madelisa informed her. 'I took Nkosan Grem some breakfast too. He was very glad. His house-boy is a no-good cook.'

  'That was kind of you, Madelisa; I'm sure you looked after him while he was ill.'

  'Aikona!' denied the old woman emphatically. 'I didn't! I live in the mountains. I too have just returned here. It was Nkosan Dirk who was his nurse and cook until he got hurt - so his house-boy says.'

  'Until who got hurt?' Gillian's body was tense.

  'Nkosan Dirk.'

  'Why has no one told me? How was he hurt? Where?'

  Madelisa clapped a large hand over her thick lips and stared at Gillian with frightened eyes. Then she mumbled something into the fat palm. Gillian could just catch the words: 'I promised not to tell.'

  'The cat's out of the bag,' Gillian spoke sternly, 'so you'd better tell all. Come on!'

  Madelisa dropped her hand and her head. 'I cannot tell,' she said sullenly.

  'Please, Madelisa, please!'

  'The big master will be angry. I am very afraid of him.'

  'Nonsense; he can't hurt you. Besides, he'll never know, for I shan't tell him. Come now, how did he get hurt?'

  'I will not tell.' Madelisa shut her great lips obstinately.


  Gillian relented. 'You're quite right. Keep your secret. I won't make you talk.'

  The old eyes gleamed gratefully. 'Eat your eggs and kidney, little one. It is not nice when it is cold. The coffee too is better hot.'

  'Thanks, Madelisa, you're very kind to me.'

  Gillian ate her food with enjoyment and Madelisa smiled in gratification. 'You see the bell on your tray?' she asked.

  Gillian nodded with a full mouth.

  'Ring it when you are finished. I am going to get your bath ready.'

  'Bath?' Gillian looked doubtful. 'There's no water in the bathroom.'

  'I will carry in the water. Outside on the big fire the old kaffir pot is boiling.'

  'A hot bath? Why, Madelisa, you wonderful woman! It will be heaven!'

  'After that, you must get back into bed.'

  'Oh no!' remonstrated the girl. 'I shall do no such thing. I want to see the farm, Madelisa. I can't wait to see my farm.'

  Madelisa left the room chuckling at her little Nkosazana's childish enthusiasm. That was how she remembered the little one - always self-willed and eager - always she must see everything.

  Soaking luxuriously in the foaming, scented water, hair and scalp recklessly submerged and her wounds feeling soothed in the warmth, Gillian realized that this was the first real bath she had had since leaving England. This was a moment to be savoured fully. She kicked her feet joyously, churning up more foam and, for a moment, her old zest for living returned. She called to Madelisa to come and pour a pitcher of rinsing rain-water over her head and gasped, laughing, as the cascade of cold tank water all but drowned her. Then she jumped up, towelled body and hair, and soon appeared in the kitchen, dressed in snow-white slacks and a red crew-neck pullover. It was knitted in fine silk and was a tight fit. Her long, cleanly washed hair was still slightly damp. She had brushed it behind her ears, and the excellent bone structure of her face, innocent of make-up, was shown to advantage.

  Madelisa was in the pantry, busily storing groceries which she took from a large carton on the kitchen table.

  'Where did these come from?' Gillian wanted to know.

  'Nkosan Dirk brought them early this morning. He took a box full to Nkosan Grem too.'

  There was an inexplicable angry thumping in her heart. It was illogical, but she did not like to owe gratitude to Dirk von Breda. The joie de vivre which she had experienced a moment before fled from her spirit like a startled buck.

  'I wish Nkosan Graham would hurry up and get well,' she cried petulantly.

  ' We all wish that,' sighed Madelisa.

  'Has he seen a doctor, I wonder?'

  'It is not necessary,' replied the old woman, storing the emptied cartons on a high shelf. 'Malaria comes when it comes, and goes when it goes. The chemist knows the right medicine. It is just patience one needs. We are in God's hands.'

  Gillian looked with respect at the wise old woman. 'Tell me, Madelisa, is it not my duty to go and visit my sick manager?'

  'There is no harm, Nkosazana, if you so wish, but I will go first and prepare him.' She winked a wicked old eye. 'Comb his hair nicely before his girl-friend can see him.' Her fat abdomen shook up and down with silent laughter.

  'Madelisa! I will not allow you to say that! I'm not his girl-friend, and you must stop talking such nonsense, understand?' Her voice was stern.

  Unperturbed, the incorrigible Madelisa asked: 'There is sometime another lover?'

  'No!' The blood rushed to Gillian's face.

  'Not Nkosan Dirk?' teased Madelisa.

  'He least of all!'

  The girl's flaming cheeks did not escape the sharp old eyes. 'The Nkosazana must not give her heart to Nkosan Dirk,' she cautioned, now serious. 'He is like his great Brahmin bull. Many women look at him with cow's eyes, but the gossips say he will marry the madam from the shop - Nkosazana Eve. It is best to tell you, though it's a pity - he will make a good lover husband.'

  Gillian tossed her head defiantly. 'Well, I don't care what the gossips say; I'm just not interested. Now will you go and warn Nkosan Graham that I'm coming to visit him?'

  'I have much work,' declared Madelisa, shaking coarse meal from a bag into a basin. 'I mast put my bread to rise now. This afternoon we will go.'

  'This afternoon, then,' agreed Gillian.

  'The missionary says we must not bake on Sunday, but what can we do when the meal comes on Sunday and there is no bread in the tin?' Madelisa justified.

  'Can I help you with anything now?' Gillian enquired.

  'No, little one, not yet. Later, yes - when you are strong.'

  'I feel strong today.'

  'There is no work for you.'

  'Then I will go for a walk.' Gillian strolled out at the back door.

  'Keep your eyes open for snakes!' called Madelisa after her.

  Already the sun was beating down on the scorched earth. Gillian felt the heat on her bare head. She did not possess a hat, but after the hospitalization, she thought she could do with a tan, and she was pleased to think that in no time her hair would be dry. Already threads of spun-gold were lifting away from the rest.

  The footpath led through scrub and thorn towards a thick line of bush and trees, twisting away to the horizon. She guessed that this indicated the course of the Usutu river. Excitement grew as trees and bush became thicker and taller. This was adventure and Gillian thrilled to it. Unexpectedly, she came to the water's edge. She stood enthralled by the beauty and grandeur of a wide-spreading giant wild fig tree. Its branches stretched halfway across the gleaming water. The silence was supreme.

  Gradually the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched stole over her. A monkey, maybe? She scanned the overhanging branches, but could see nothing. In the absolute silence surrounding her, her gaze dropped to the trunks of the trees.

  Then she saw him.

  In the Sun filtered shade of a mimosa tree stood a Swazi lad, tall, proud and straight-limbed. His beautiful body was bare but for the umuchi of wild cats' tails strung around his loins. A straight red feather was stuck in his fuzzy hair. Suspended from a thong around his wrist hung the dry horn of a small buck. Silent and alert, like a wild animal, he watched the girl. For a moment she imagined that the great god Pan was revealing himself to her in a new form. She smiled gently at the lad. He gave her a shy half-smile in return. Quietly she stepped up to him and touched the buck's horn slung from his wrist. 'Medicine?' she queried. 'Umuti?'

  He shook his head, and gazed at her with dark fawn's eyes.

  'You witch-doctor?' she joked, smiling.

  He laughed outright, flashing strong white teeth, and again shook his head.

  'What is it?' she asked, fingering the horn.

  'Pipe,' he said.

  'You smoke Mp-mp-mp?' her lips mimed the smoking of a pipe.

  'No Mp-mp-mp,' he explained, shaking his head slowly. Then he nodded, his eyes clearly affirmative while he said 'Pfiu! Pfiu! Pfiu!' and she understood that one blew on the buck's horn.

  ' 'Show me,' she pleaded.

  'No!' he said, adamant.

  'Please,' she coaxed.

  'The Mkomo go home.'

  'Oh. I see. You herd-boy?'

  He nodded and pointed up the river. 'Come!' he commanded.

  She followed him till they came upon a group of magnificent Nguni cattle, a breed typical of Swaziland. Fat and straight-backed they stood with strange and beautiful markings on head and body. They were chewing the cud, their eyes content. Beside them was a drift where the mud, mixed with their droppings, had been churned up by their hooves while they were drinking. The cattle were spread out under the great trees. Some were lying down, the exemplification of peace. Some had wandered off and a huge ox was taking a last few draughts from the river.

  'Mkomo drink water. Mkomo finish,' the herd-boy assured her. 'Mkomo go back now.' He touched Gillian's arm with a black forefinger, to make sure of her attention, then pointed first to the pipe, then to the herd. 'Buka!' he whispered. 'Watch!'

 
; He put the horn to his mouth and produced a series of high, piercing notes in a set rhythm. Instantly, as one, the drowsy, stationary cattle sprang to life and began moving in towards one another Then, in a tightly packed herd, they took their slow course up the river. With never a look towards her, nor a sign of farewell, but completely concentrating on Ms herd, he stepped gracefully after them, blowing shrilly on his buck's horn.

  It was an unforgettable experience. Gillian could hardly believe that what she had seen was real. Did the cattle belong to her? she wondered.

  She hurried away to continue her exploration downstream, but a barbed-wire fence obstructed her. Without difficulty she climbed through the wires and followed a footpath leading away from the river.

  The trees thinned out. Ahead was another fence with a ribbon of road beyond. She seemed to be in a camp of sorts.

  There was a sudden snort behind her.

  She whirled round to stare into the inflamed eyes of a vicious Brahmin bull, not two hundred yards away. Icy fear gripped her - the thought shot through her: Dirk's bull! Dirk's territory!

  The vicious animal glared at her balefully, then it began to paw the ground with a front hoof and snorted into the dust. Terrified, Gillian backed away. The ferocious beast changed from pawing to a slow deliberate trot in her direction. She stood paralysed with fear.

  'Run, Gillian! Run to me!' shouted a man's voice.

  She whipped round. There, behind the fence, beckoning madly, stood Dirk von Breda.

  'Run!' he yelled again.

  His cry seemed to release a spring in her mind. Like an arrow from a bow she shot, screaming, towards him. Close behind her the beast's ominous trot was gaining in momentum. With golden hair streaming behind her Gillian's white-clad legs sped on. With a deafening bellow the bull charged. Gillian began stumbling. Goring seemed inevitable. Swift as lightning, Dirk vaulted over the fence, reached Gillian in a few flying strides, flung her across his shoulder and sprinted for the fence. In the nick of time he gripped an iron stay and, still carrying Gillian, he vaulted clean over the fence, just as the bull stormed it.

  They landed rolling in the dust and dry grass on the other side. Instantly she was in his arms, her breath coming from her throat in dry sobs. He held her close, soothing her. 'There now, my girl, it's all over. Look at old Basan. He's forgotten about us already.'