They arrived back in their own cave on Snake Mountain only on the morning of the third day after leaving Cape Town. The reason for the delay came from close to home. On the steep incline up their mountain, just past the De Villiers farm, the master stopped when he noticed a narrow path in the shrub. He suddenly realised that he had a craving for meat after all the fish and shellfish they had had on their journey to and from Cape Town and announced his plan to the long-suffering Hadah.
“See, the wind comes from that side,” he continued. “The animal will not smell us and the bush is so thick that it will come out right here on its way to the place where it burrows for roots, which is down in the valley.”
They had to wait until deep in the night before they heard the rustle of quills. The moment the large porcupine stuck its head into the clearing they went to work with their fighting sticks. A few blows on the head did the job. There were little ones behind it but in the dark they could not see them clearly enough, so they got away. With their prize between them they went to sleep, suitably far away and downwind from the hyena path. When morning broke, they continued with their journey, the porcupine dangling from a stick between them, the master in front and Hadah, being taller, in the rear.
“Now, do we learn from the leopard or is the leopard learning from us?” the master asked. “Because he hunts porcupine exactly the same way we do. He will wait all night if necessary where its path goes through thick shrub and break its neck with one swipe when it comes out in the clearing.” He was clearly trying to get Hadah’s spirits to rise, since they had been sinking deeper with every step that separated them from Cape Town.
“I don’t know,” said Hadah sullenly. “Maybe we are all clever.”
Once they had arrived at their hide-out the old man chose to dress the animal, while Hadah made several trips to the ravine to get water and firewood. At last he had it all together and they built a fire with the hardwood that was going to provide just the right heat for the job at hand. Without discussing it they knew that the thick wavy back portion needed to go on first. The master balanced it on rocks sticking out of the bed of coals and they sat back to take in the aroma. It was good to be back home. Even Hadah admitted it, albeit reluctantly. The prospect of a bellyful of porcupine helped quite a bit.
CHAPTER TEN
The thunderheads raced along over the eastern Atlantic Ocean, keeping formation as a line squall and continued to scare the more timid of the straggling line of sailors who were on their way to the Caribbean. They rumbled and rained, churned up the waves and whined in the rigging. The truth was, however, that they were weakening. At this time in early fall the Atlantic just did not have the surface temperatures anymore that could sustain a healthy thunderstorm. They were heat engines and without hot, humid surface air to fuel them, the latent energy that they carried in swirling motion since their desert origins slowly started to dissipate. The desert air itself was a problem. Around the thunderheads was dryer air, straight from the Sahara, air that did not make a side trip over the forests. The thunderheads could not help but suck in some of this dry air. Moist air coming from the sea’s surface tended to condensate prematurely on the tiny dust particles and all of this tacked power.
Another threat was the shears. Hot air and cold air tended to operate in layers, especially later in the season and these layers often moved in directions contrary to each other. Passing through wind shear like that could cut even the strongest thunderstorm in half and finish it off, the bottom of the vortex going one way and the top heading in another direction. The chances of survival, let alone growing, were small to non-existent.
That is what usually happened in November. Which is why, when somebody in the National Hurricane Centre in Florida marked the line of thunderheads as Tropical Wave number fifty four, that is, the fifty fourth such wave to exit the continent of Africa since the start of the year, nobody really took notice. At a meeting a supervisor said that they should keep an eye on it for when it reached the Gulf in ten to fifteen days’ time and that was it.
On approaching the Lesser Antilles, however, the thunderheads exhibited unexpected behaviour. They started dancing, not to the beat of drums but under the heady influence of Coriolis. They broke up their straight line and formed up in a circle, dancing in an anti-clockwise direction, faster and ever faster. In the Hurricane Centre this fascinating behaviour was duly observed, still with a healthy dose with of scepticism. As a matter of routine, a watcher fed a series of images coming from the Geostationary Operational Environmental Satellite (GOES) into a supercomputer. “Hey, can you believe this?” he called out. “The computer suggests sustained wind speeds of over sixty miles an hour.
“We’ve got ourselves a tropical storm,” said another. “But how long will it last?”
It lasted much longer than they expected. The reason for this was that there was a strip of warm water on approach to the Lesser Antilles, measuring twenty six and half degrees Celsius on average and in its centre even more. It was almost two hundred kilometres in diameter and fifty metres deep. It should not have been there. Later on, meteorologists and scientists argued about the reasons for its existence so late in the year. Of course, there were scientific explanations for it, as there always are. This body of warm water should have been driven into the Gulf of Mexico by then, had it not been for the fact that the westerly trade winds had been uncharacteristically weak and sporadic that year. What was the reason? The subtropical ridge of high pressure was badly developed. And what was the cause for that? El Nina. Others went further and said that it was proof that global warming was interfering with the climatic systems of the planet. Winters are not as cold anymore and summers hotter and sometimes longer. There was just so much more latent energy accumulating in the weather systems that there are bound to be overruns here and there.
There was no debate as to what actually happened. Buoyed by the hot air rising from the surface of the sea and goaded by the Coriolis effect of the spinning planet the erstwhile thunderheads danced faster and ever faster. All that the disbelieving watchers could do was to send out the planes to go and observe.
***
The two sorcerers stayed in their mountain redoubt for two weeks. What pressed on the master’s mind was the development of his apprentice. Hadah’s thoughts had little chance to wander as the old man went on a relentless training regime, explaining the making of potions and what they could be used for. There were mixes of plant, animal and human elements that had to be just right. The right words had to be spoken for the dark powers of the spiritual world to be evoked into action. Hadah learned, repeated, lost it and learned again.
In between they talked about going to the other tribes, the Hessequa, the Attaqua and the Gouriqua, who had their territories beyond those of the Chainouqua. Surely they would find some babies there. They despaired of finding more amongst the Chainouqua. Once the people had realised that they took babies that were to all appearances perfectly healthy, the pregnant mothers mysteriously disappeared, hidden by husbands and distant relatives who had seemingly forgotten that such or such a woman had ever existed.
“My wife? Oh, that one. No she died last year of snake bite. I’m now looking for a new one. See that young woman there? The pretty one? Maybe next year she will carry my child.” Not even the master at his most intimidating could get the truth to surface.
“And yet we must try them again,” he said. “Their king committed. Have we visited all the kraals? I have a suspicion there are some far flung ones where we have not been.”
At last, Hadah, whose head was now hurting, followed his master down the spur of the mountain that divided the valleys to the north and the south. Unnoticed by anybody, they slipped onto the road that led from Stellenbosch to Eland’s Pass. That night they camped on their old spot by the dark stream that ran just behind the crests of the Great Mountains. Not having had any luck with either throwing stick or spear they dug up some bulbs and roasted them. They fell asleep with a hungry feeling, dream
ing of big clay pots filled with curdled milk.
It was mid-morning when the two men approached the first kraal of the Chainouqua. They were approaching hailing distance when the master gripped Hahah’s arm so hard that he almost parted a muscle. It was then that Hahad noticed that something was wrong. The livestock was still in the circular enclosure formed by connecting the huts with hedges. He had heard the bleating from far but thought it was from a herd grazing nearby. Now, as they cautiously approached, they saw no human presence at all. Only the animals were there. Some goats were indeed outside, but the majority were still with the sheep and a few heads of cattle. From the indented flanks it was clear that they must have been there for at least two days. Where were the people? Hadah at once ran through a list of the usual suspects. Maybe a raid by the Hessequa? Or the Dutch? But then, why were the animals still here?
Slowly he realised that there was another smell that penetrated the usual kraal smells of dung and urine. It was the smell of death, of decaying flesh. Hadah looked at the master and realised that he knew already.
“No,” said the master when Hadah stepped forward to investigate. “Wait!”
He walked over to the poles that closed off the gate of the kraal and lifted them up for the animals. The sheep and goats stormed out, bleating their relief, followed by the cows at a jog, no doubt heading for the fountain or stream where they usually drank.
“Wait here!” ordered the master once more and walked into the kraal. He peered into the huts without entering and then came back to Hadah.
“It’s the pox,” he said. “They are all dead, except for two or three women, but they are sick as well and so weak that they can hardly whisper. They will be gone soon. We must go.”
Hadah was astounded that the pox could come all the way from Cape Town and affect these people. He looked back at the kraal in horror as they proceeded on their way to the king’s homestead. They passed more livestock but listened in vain for the chatter and laughter of the herd boys. They also listened for the songs that the women sang when they gathered food but all that they could hear were the songs of birds. The first of the sugar bushes bloomed and there was quite a commotion as long-tailed sunbirds fluttered around, mixing it with their smaller cousins. The usually appreciative KhoiKhoi registered nothing of it as they approached the central settlements of the Chainouqua. All that they knew was the heavy fear in their chests.
They passed another kraal where all was silent. They sniffed the air and yes, there was death on it, their worst expectations fulfilled. In a few kraals after that they caught glimpses of solitary figures stumbling around, not looking right at all. They did not approach. The first human sound that they heard was at the king’s kraal. The sound of wailing pierced the air that was still, devoid of the usual thumping and grinding of the mill stones. From the sound of it, several women were crying.
“We go back now,” said the master.
“But the king will be expecting us,” said Hadah.
“Not anymore. And we still have a job to do.”
Silently, they threaded their way back through the scenes of devastation. When the hunger became too acute, they caught a cow that was lowing close to a silent kraal, having a full udder. They did it a favour by tethering it to a tree and milked it empty, each drinking his full. Fresh milk was not food for men but times were desperate.
Hadah began to wonder what happened to his family on the West Coast and he told the master of his fears.
“We cannot go there immediately,” said the master, not completely unsympathetically. “Maybe sometime later. Also, remember that you belong to the spirit now. That always comes first.”
“How could the spirit allow all of this?” asked Hadah.
“I don’t know,” said the master, “but the truth is that it does not have to do our bidding or protect our people. It only listens to us when we bring it babies.”
***
When Grant had finished typing instructions for his stock broker he scanned over the details once more. Then he pressed the send button. Before bunking down he went on deck for a minute to see how Madeleine was coping. He saw nothing alarming. Somehow, however, he could not rid himself of the feeling that something was on the point of breaking somewhere.
He gave himself four hours and woke up from the alarm. He lay back and listened. There was no sense of anything wrong with the movement of the boat, which seemed gentler, but they were still beating against the wind. Dang. He got up quickly to escape the sleep which continued to clutch at his heavy eyelids. He believed that four hour watches were the best but his body was missing the sleep-in mornings that he got used to on St Martin.
First on the agenda was a shower and then a weather update. When he emerged in the cockpit fifteen minutes later he was in good spirits.
“I have good news,” he said.
“That’s nice,” said Madeleine, who dropped her headphones when she saw him emerge from the companionway.
“Yes, I’d say so,” said Grant, “If it works out, that is. I’ve been checking Passageweather.com, heard from Charlie of Caribbean Weather and for good measure spent some time on the blower with the guys from Commander Weather. They all confirm that there is a storm brewing in the mid-Atlantic.”
“Oops.”
“Not at all,” said Grant. “They say it is a tropical storm heading for the Lower Antilles. It will miss us to the south. All the guys, however, say that there is a good chance that it will influence our weather. It means this trade wind might back and eventually even blow from the south-west if we are lucky. Do you understand what I am saying? It means that sometime later today we will stop bashing our way to nowhere. In fact, we will arrive in St George with a fresh wind in the port or the starboard quarter and a following sea to boot! How does that strike you?”
“It sounds good.”
“More than good. It kills me to sail like this.”
“It is kind of hard going. I think we are averaging three knots over the ground, if I read correctly.”
“That’s right. We are faster through the water but the westward drift is robbing us of one and a half knots over the ground, which is pretty pathetic. If it wasn’t that this weather is on its way I’d rather we motor from here on.”
“Why haven’t we so far?”
“Why use up fuel if you can have it all for free? We don’t pay for the wind. And we are not in a hurry, are we?”
“Not particularly.”
“So, anything to tell?”
“No, just nice, warm weather. Clouds in the sky but nothing that brings rain. You can see the difference. These clouds don’t have flat bottoms. Hot when the sun shines. Steady wind from the northeast simply keeps on blowing, but a lot weaker now. Waves I guess about five feet, not splashing over the boat anymore.”
“Excellent report,” said Grant. “It’s perfect sailing weather for everybody going the other way.”
***
The master took the road back to Snake Mountain and Hadah followed in a daze. He could not stop thinking about his mother and siblings and wondered whether they were still alive. He realized now that the master’s strange behaviour over the last few weeks was not intended to make life difficult for him but that he really tried to protect his apprentice. There were bigger objectives here. The line of succession from sorcerer to sorcerer had to be kept intact at any price. Which is why he followed the old KhoiKhoi off the road into the rocks whenever they became aware of fellow travellers on their journey. The old man understood things about the illness that were only vaguely clear to Hadah.
They reached the bottom of Eland’s Pass and the master looked up at it for a long time. Hadah had the strange feeling that there was a kind of farewell in that look.
Once more they did not follow the shortest route to their cave, but again took the road to Stellenbosch. Again it was to avoid contact with people. Several kilometres before the turnoff to the De Villiers farm they turned off to the right into the shrub and headed toward the
ir mountain, linking up with the hyena path. They passed the place where they waylaid the porcupine without comment. On another day they would have cracked a few jokes about their exploit but not today. Neither of them felt like hunting either. For the next few days the bulbs of the mountain would suffice.
On their way the master gathered some plants. There were roots from this one, leaves from another. Hadah could recognised these items by now. The master was planning a potion. Wordlessly and without needing instruction he helped where he could, looking out for what he thought the master needed.
They spent the night in their cave, pensive and quiet. As they sat around the fire, roasting the bulbs that Hadah had dug up earlier, they involuntarily observed each other for the dreaded symptoms. Not in an obtrusive way, just through the occasional glance. When the master returned from a pee and stumbled on a loose stone in the dark, Hadah started and jumped up.
“Why do you do like that?” the master asked. “You must learn that the spirit protects us.”
Hadah was nevertheless glad that when he later laid his head down to sleep, he was still feeling healthy and strong. As a bourgeoning professional in the field of human illness he wondered how the pox could affect so many people at once. Was it in the air? Was it in the water? Was it a kind of curse? If it was a curse, who would do such a thing? He was still busy eliminating possibilities when sleep overcame him.
The next morning they got busy once more in their place of operations. The dissected remains of their recent six sacrifices were already wind dry. The master carefully selected what he needed, took some items from their stock of lion, hyena and baboon as well and made up his potions, mixing them with the plant material, some from their stocks and some from what they had picked the day before. Most of it was poisonous and almost all of it, including the large proportion of dagga, was hallucinogenic.
The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure Page 14