There was no need for the old man to point out to her which cattle were ill - it was all too obvious. She knew the signs from the pamphlets she had studied. She spotted at least four oxen with drooping eyes, and long strings of saliva drooling from their mouths. Mogogula lifted the hoof of one to show Gillian the blisters between hoof and crown. 'Because of this,' he said, 'it will not walk around to graze.' He forced open the mouth of a huge black ox with quaint, intricate markings on its flanks, and revealed the ulcers on gums and tongue. 'The mouth is sore,' explained Mogogula. 'It will not eat. It will grow thin. It can even die.'
Gillian was about to examine the blisters at closer range.
'Do not touch, Nkosazana,' he warned, 'people can get the sickness too.'
She heard a jeep arrive and stop just beyond the bush, and the dark figure of Dirk, in metal-grey corduroys and black sweater, came striding through the tree stems.' The sun glinted from his dark hair and there was a thunder-cloud on his face. He took no notice of Gillian, but addressed the Swazi sharply: 'Bring the cattle to the corrals immediately, and get them ready in the crush pens for inoculation. The veterinary surgeon is on his way. Now hurry!' With that, he turned on his heel and strode away.
'Dirk!' Gillian tried to detain him, but he did not turn or stop. 'Dirk, please!' But he had already disappeared behind a screen of bushes. She heard the jeep rev up.
The Swazi lad blew his shrill, rhythmic tune on the horn and the cattle drew together, the sick ones walking mincingly because of the blisters. The old man picked up small stones and flung them at the variegated flanks of the beasts, and there was nothing for Gillian to do but follow his example.
That was how she arrived at' the pens, where Dirk stood watching the approach of the lowing herd. He could not help but smile at the small, white-mackintoshed figure, bending down and flinging stones which all missed their mark. She ran ahead of the herd to open the gate to the first corral, standing well behind it for protection, as the huge, bellowing, wide-horned animals rushed and jostled frighteningly past. Dirk vaulted the stockade to open the gate to a second adjoining corral into which the leading cattle streamed. When the last ox had passed her, Gillian closed the gate and, controlling her terror of the big-horned, vicious- looking beasts, walked in amongst them to Mogogula, who was guiding the first resisting animals into the long, narrow passage of the crush pen. 'Let me help you, Mogogula,' she begged plaintively.
His beady old eyes looked understandingly into hers. He placed a tubular object in her hands. 'If the ox won't go into the crush pen, Nkosazana, just touch him with this. The switch is on.'
Not understanding what it was all about, Gillian prodded the first recalcitrant ox forcefully with the gadget. The shocked animal jumped forward with such violent momentum that Gillian beat a startled and undignified retreat. Dirk's roars of abandoned laughter topped the guffaws of the amused Swazis.
Hiding her discomfiture, Gillian held out the gadget towards Dirk, where he stood at the far end of the crush pen. 'What is it?' she called above the din of the mooing herd.
'An electrical prod, you goof!' he yelled back. A second fit of laughter was cut short by the arrival of the vet - a colourless, efficient little man.
Gillian watched the process of inoculation intently, now using the electric prodder with circumspection. Dirk caught the look of pity for the animals in her eyes, each time that the vet thrust the needle into their hides. 'No need to feel sorry for them,' he said almost gently. 'It's a mere prick and hardly hurts.'
The vet informed them that on his way to Impala Ranch he had passed the great lorries delivering rolls of barbed wire and stays for the erection of the cordons along the road, to stop all movement.
'Don't tell me the cordon runs along the road!' she Cried, dismayed.
'It's obviously the easiest way to enforce quarantine quickly - don't you agree, Miss McBride? Imagine dragging the rolls through the thick Mopani bush.'
'But for me it's disastrous! It will cut my cattle off from their water supply.'
'Why not let them graze by the river?' he suggested. .
'There's just a minute strip of grazing between the river and the road,' she wailed. 'If only Graham were here!'
'I can see that you're in a spot, but I don't know what you can do. The cordon erectors stick to the road, and that's that.'
'I think I have a solution,' Dirk interposed. 'If you can carry on here without me, I'll set the ball rolling.'
'Why, certainly,' the vet agreed, and added, 'I'm interested to know what you intend doing.'
'I'm going to cut a track from the existing road to the river, and a couple of hundred yards further on, from the river back to the road.'
'Swerve the road and for a short distance the river will form the cordon?' asked the vet.
'That's the idea.'
'The river is impassable?'
'It's deep. There's no reason for an ox to swim across. Besides, the herd boys are there to stop it.'
'For that matter,' Gillian heard herself saying, 'we can continue the wire cordon across the river, then along the opposite bank, and back again.'
'Exactly.' Dirk's intense eyes shone with approval.
'And if an ox chooses to swim across, they're welcome to shoot it!' she added, pursing her lips and nodding her head to add force to her words.
'Hear, hear!' He was laughing at her again.
'But, my dear man, do you have the necessary machinery to cut a road at such short notice?' the vet queried.
'I have two brand-new tractors and a bulldozer. The trouble is, the men who drive them are still at the Incwala.'
The vet bit a nail. 'That's a problem,', he said.
'My major-domo drives my car,' Dirk planned aloud, 'so I'll put him on the one tractor with a scraper while I handle the bulldozer. The area is level, with only an odd thorn tree to be removed. Then I'd need to cut two strips through the bush to the river bank. Do I have the owner's permission?' He made a mocking little bow towards Gillian.
'Of course, Sir Galahad,' she said sweetly.
'This little lady seems game enough,' the vet interposed. 'Why not let her drive the other tractor?'
'It's no job for a woman,' Dirk replied gruffly. 'It's all right for her to wield a little electric prodder - but drive a tractor? Decidedly no!'
'Dirk, please!' she begged. 'This is an emergency!'
'You heard me!' His voice was harsh. With long strides he reached the jeep, and a short while later they heard the bulldozer chugging along towards the river bank. Soon afterwards, above the din of the lowing cattle, came the drone of a tractor.
The work of inoculation continued relentlessly. At sunset the vet dropped an exhausted Gillian at her home on his way back to Mbabane.
She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the progress Dirk had made. From the house one could clearly see the glint of water through the two gaps in the bush. To one side stood the powerful bulldozer beside the stack of trees and undergrowth that had fallen prey to its vicious maw. Dirk was driving the second tractor. It was now a matter of scraping the wet earth from the surface, to mark the tracks to and from the road clearly.
Gillian yearned to go out to speak to him, but stuck determinedly to her resolution to stay out of his way - out of the way of temptation. She sent Madelisa down with coffee and rusks for him and his old major-domo, who kept chugging along heroically in his white house uniform, forcing the tractor through the mud. Later she sent down a can of delicious, thick broth, and meat sandwiches.
Darkness did not deter Dirk. The droning continued until past ten, then faded in the direction of Dirk's mansion.
An irresistible desire to communicate with him took hold of Gillian. She tried to suppress it, undressed, and got into bed with a book. When she had read the first paragraph over three times without grasping its meaning, she flung down the book and it was as though a compelling force drew her to the telephone.
'Yes?' she heard his deep voice say at the other end. He sounded t
ired.
Her heart beat in her throat. 'Dirk, it's me, Gillian.'
'Gillian!' She sensed the anxiety in his voice. 'Gillian, are you all right?'
'Yes, yes! Quite all right.'
'Sure?'
'Sure.'
'Would you like me to come and sleep in your house tonight?'
'Oh, no, no!'
He chuckled at the agitation in her voice. 'Well then, what is it?'
'I want to say thank you — thank you very, very much for helping me with the vet and the road and ...'
'Is that all?'
'Yes. Should there be anything else?'
'Maybe not yet.'
'What do you mean, Dirk?'
For reply the receiver clicked.
Next morning the skies had cleared. It was a beautiful day. The world was washed clean and sparkled with freshness. Through her bedroom window Gillian saw a truck with rolls of barbed wire and staves arrive, and there was Dirk, next to the driver, gesticulating, arguing and pointing. At last there seemed to be agreement, for Dirk got out, and several Swazis jumped off and began hauling off the rolls of wire and staves, Dirk throwing in his weight to help. The truck proceeded along the newly made track towards the river, and stopped at intervals, when the procedure was repeated.
She was amazed at the speed at which they worked. By twelve the project was completed. Impala Ranch was cordoned off and in quarantine, and water for her herd was assured. Gillian went out, thanked them all prettily and invited them to the house for refreshments.
'Sorry, miss, time's our enemy. Some other day, perhaps.'
With a 'thanks again', and without glancing at Dirk, she returned to the house.
When Eve's car arrived Gillian, in a well-cut dress of cool green linen and a plaited strand of her own hair wound over the top of her head to keep the newly-washed tresses in place, was ready. She locked the kitchen door as Madelisa had left for the funeral, and dashed out, dangling a dainty green frilled sunshade from her wrist, Ntombi barking hopefully at her heels. With a feeling of shock she saw Dirk behind the wheel of Eve's golden Jaguar. An amused smile played round the corners of his mouth. Eve held the door open from the inside of the car. 'Jump in here in front,' she said, moving close up to Dirk. 'I've asked this man to accompany us.' She glanced up at him seductively. 'One feels safer with a male escort.'
Gillian noted from the corner of her eye that Eve's fingers, with their bright orange lacquered nails that toned with her dress, were resting possessively on Dirk's knee.
Ntombi tried to scramble in after Gillian, but at a sharp word from Dirk, retired to sit back on her haunches and stare disconsolately after them as they drove off.
The journey to the scene of the Incwala was cool and pleasant. After the rain, there was no dust on the road an^ the windows could safely be left open. The rain-washed leaves of the trees, grass and flowering shrubs shone in all their brilliant hues and varying shades of green. Miles and miles of Mopani bush flashed past. The travellers caught frequent glimpses of vermilion-clad aloes thrusting their bright, flowery spears through the sparse undergrowth. Here and there an umbrella-like euphorbia added a sinister note to the landscape. They passed villages with beehive huts, some surrounded by bright hibiscus plants, others with a row of banana trees, or a hedge of tightly packed aloes in flower. Stalls with tropical fruit for sale were dotted along the road. Speckled guinea fowl scuttled off the dirt track, and a hornbill with a bright yellow, sickle-like beak glided swiftly across the bush on almost square-cut wings.
The sight of a gang of prisoners picking cotton in a field saddened Gillian momentarily.
Once, Dirk slowed down suddenly and pointed out to Gillian, specifically, a beautiful red-feathered bird, that flitted shyly from branch to branch of a wide- spreading mkiwa or wild fig tree.
'What is it?' she asked with bated breath.
'The "Gwala-Gwala bird" the Swazis call it,' Dirk explained. 'To us it is known as the lori - its red feathers are those used as a symbol of royalty. Descendants of Swazi kings wear them in their hair, like Zwane.' He leaned forward and looked at her meaningly. 'Does a red feather happen to symbolize anything for you, Gillian?'
'Not particularly,' Gillian replied coldly.
Eve looked at them strangely.
As they drove along, Gillian's companions gave her the background of the ceremony she was about to behold.
'The ceremony actually began a month ago, with the so-called little Incwala,' Eve enlightened her. 'That is when certain medicine men return from the coast with foam that they catch in sacred vessels as the waves roll in. Other medicine men bring samples of water from the different rivers, and plants they collect from the mountain forests. All this is mixed into a powerful medicine with which they rejuvenate the King. The day the priests arrive back, they are welcomed by the Swazi regiment, in ceremonial dress; also by the wives of the King, the Queen Mother, and the royal children. There's much dancing and singing and a black ox is slaughtered. The medicine men then doctor the King with the concocted medicines and parts of the body of the ox.'
'Oh, look at those funny birds!' Gillian interrupted.
Three black birds with incredulously long tail-feathers were flapping clumsily above the mopani bush.
'Those are the black widow-birds,' Dirk informed her. 'Their tail-feathers figure largely in the ceremonial headdress of the King and his warriors, as you'll see today at the big Incwala'
'I believe the big Incwala lasts for several days?'
'That's right,' Dirk assented, glancing with kindly amusement at her rapt expression.
'This is all terribly, terribly interesting. Tell me more.'
'Well,' Dirk said, 'on the first day of the big Incwala, the regiments, led by the King, perform a dance to speed a few chosen warriors on their way to the mountains.'
'To dig more plants?'
'No - this time it's to fetch branches of the sacred tree.'
'A rare type of acacia,' Eve interposed.
'If I were a Swazi,' Dirk laughed sarcastically, 'I wouldn't be amongst the chosen young men.'
'Why not?' Gillian asked innocently. 'Only pure young men are chosen.'
Eve joined in the laughter. 'Is this a confession, darling?'
'How could the King know that the young men are pure?' Gillian wondered aloud.
Eve enlightened her,: 'They maintain that they're pure, and if they've lied, the leaves of the sacred tree will wilt in their hands'
'How strange,' Gillian mused. 'And what happens on the second day?'
'The young men, escorted by the King's warriors, arrive at the capital. The next day,' Dirk went on, 'a fierce black bull is attacked by the King's young warriors.'
'They wear nothing but skin umuchis and use only their fists,' Eve enlarged.
'Pretty brave, I should say,' Gillian remarked, 'but I can't help feeling sorry for the poor beast.'
'Eventually they throw the brute,' Dirk continued, 'and drag it to the medicine men in the sacred kraal who proceed to kill it ritually. The King mounts a black ox....'
'He doesn't wear a stitch,' Eve contributed.
'The regiments stamp round him and Chant while the medicine men doctor him to make him more virile.'
'What exactly do they do to him?' Gillian queried.
'They wash him with the waters the medicine men have prepared and the medicinal concoction, umuti,' Eve said. 'Today is the fourth day. Wouldn't you say this is the highest peak of the proceedings, Dirk?'
'I would, certainly,' Dirk agreed. 'As I see it, of the three purposes of the Incwala ceremony: to rejuvenate the King, and therefore the nation; to increase the fertility of the land; to give the green light to the starved Swazi people to eat of the first fruits of their gardens and lands, the last is the most important - else why call it the first fruits ceremony? And that's what's happening today.'
'What have we missed this morning?' Gillian wanted to know.
'This morning,' Eve expounded, 'the King ate of the first fruits
of the season's crops, but not so his hungry subjects.'
The Aston-Martin was speeding through the Enzulweni valley and Gillian exclaimed at the beauty of the surrounding mountains and the clarity of the blue sky.
Unexpectedly, Dirk swerved left on to a rough dirt track. Above the purr of the engine and the swish of the tyres on the road, the sound of singing reached their ears.
'The Queen's kraal lies beyond those bluegum trees,' Dirk said. Then suddenly Lobamba, the Queen Mother's capital, seat of the Swazi ritual, swept into view.
Gillian thrilled to the scene that met her eyes. She leaned forward entranced. Dirk viewed her childish excitement with amusement. To Gillian, it seemed like the full-scale pageantry from a grand spectacle film with thousands of costumed actors taking part. The whole nation was gathered at the royal cattle kraal. Hundreds of beautiful beaded women swathed in bright mahayas and adorned with beads and massed plumed warriors gave colour and witchery to the scene.
Dirk drew up next to numerous parked cars belonging to European tourists and local sightseers. He reached for his binoculars on the back seat and passed them across Eve's lap to Gillian. They clambered out and Eve strolled across to chat to some acquaintances.
Gillian raised the binoculars to her eyes and saw only a blur.
'Let me hold them while you focus,' said Dirk, passing his aim round her neck to steady the binoculars. 'Turn this little wheel till the picture clears,' he advised. He guided her delicate fingers with his.
At the touch of the strong yet sensitive fingers, Gillian felt the colour rush to her cheeks and her betraying heart began knocking against her ribs. She freed her golden head from the encircling arm and quietly pushed away his hand. 'I can manage, thank you,' she said, not urgently.
'Do you see the old woman in the cloak of leopard skins?' Dirk asked.
'Is that the Queen Mother?'
'That's right. The bare-topped women singing and dancing are the wives of the King.'
'What! All of them?'
Red Feather Love Page 13