A Twist of Sand

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  I was oblivious of the pain from my shoulder until I reached camp, carrying Anne over my other shoulder. Of the next days, in fact, only salient points remain with me now, interspersed with some completely trivial, I remember how fresh her lipstick was and I was at infinite pains not to blur it. She would have liked it that way. By the remains of the camp fire I cut lengths of rope and tied her hands and feet for the long carry back to the caravel. I had no rational thought. My movements were automatic. There was no gap in the remorseless vacuum of grief which encased me. I rummaged among her things and found a scarf. I tied her jaw firmly and bound a handkerchief across the half-closed eyes. I wrapped the duffle-coat round her head. I feared the sand would tarnish the brightness of the lovely hair. It was not until later that I found I had made a careful selection of food and one nearly full canteen of water.

  I set off down the bed of the Kapupa river. I set course as automatically as were my other reactions. Perhaps something instinctive came to my rescue. I might have fumbled or hesitated had I been conscious of what I was about, but I wasn't. Instead of branching northwards towards the Nangolo Flats up which we had trudged from the Cunene, I struck left at the sentinel rock up the gigantic break in the rock towards the Kandao mountains, which are the southern outposts of the great crag which juts into the river to make the lions' tunnel. The sun struck into my face as it dropped in the afternoon. The sweat poured off me. I had nothing to protect my head. I could smell the sweet woman-smell of the body as my sweat soaked through her jersey. I followed blindly a track not dissimilar to the one on which she had found the fatal Onymacris. It ran too much to the south for my liking, but it had a lot of west in it. And I must get to the west. My one thought was not to return to Curva dos Dunas, but to get my burden to the caravel. My right shoulder where the bullet had pierced it — high and by no means dangerous — ached like hell. With my left cramped with the weight of the dead woman and the wound in my right, it felt as if someone had strapped a red-hot poker across the base of my neck.

  I stopped at evening when it was too dark to stumble on. The great valley of the Otjijange lay at my back. I camped where a slab of eroded rock lay spreadeagled on the edge of a mile-wide drift of sand. In front lay the highest peak of the Kandao range, almost directly opposite me, four tiny peaks on the right and one sloping summit attached to them — like four little warthogs running after their mother. I could see the track stretching round the left flank of the peak — but I was getting anxious about the way it continually bore south. I must get more north. I reckoned, roughly speaking, that on a line to the coast I would now be twenty miles south of Curva dos Dunas.

  I have little recollection of the next morning. Perhaps I was a little delirious for the wound hurt more than ever. I became fully aware of things when my sailor's instinct told me there had been a change in course. The track was now veering northwards, and I saw the Kandao peak was a dozen miles behind me. It was also downhill. I stumbled on. I scarcely noticed that the sun had burned the skin off my forehead and face. The smell of sweet sweat from Anne's clothes drove me on. Death and corruption were holding back. I knelt in the burning sand to drink from the canteen and blessed the Skeleton Coast for that mercy. I staggered on into the afternoon sun.

  Like the lift of fog off the Skeleton Coast, my consciousness cleared. I was heading due north, but something else had penetrated. I rubbed my sweat-soaked eyes against the rough hair of her duffle-coat. The pool! Away to the left against the cliff was the caravel. In half an hour it would have been in shadow. The thought that I might have stumbled past and missed it woke me to full realisation like an injection of adrenalin. I knew what I had to do. I skirted the pool, my mind numb with memories. I pushed the body through the open gunport, when I reached the ship. There was no rigor mortis. The Skeleton Coast was pouring its balm still. I swung myself up, and cried aloud at the pain in my shoulder. I carried her through the doorway. I didn't go into the lovers' cabin. There was a smaller one on the left.

  The bunk was bare and I laid her on it. I unwrapped the head and jaw.

  I leant down and kissed the rumpled eyelid.

  I stood back and tossed a lighted match into the red-gold hair.

  It was all over in an hour. The old ship crackled like a chord from Ravel while I stood and watched the blaze. Before the moon came up there was scarcely even a glow among the ashes.

  I decided to have some food and try to sleep.

  The food and the water canteen were missing. I had left them aboard in my agitation. I was alone in the Kaokoveld without food or water.

  The realisation took a long time to sink in. Panic really only assailed me next day when I tried to dig for water in the bed of the Cunene. The going was easy enough and I had traversed the Orumwe valley and was following the main course of the Cunene downhill towards the first easy cataract. My half-conscious strike along the zebra path over the formidable peaks of the Kandao range had made a wide detour of the lions' barrier. I panicked when I found that I couldn't get the hole for the water more than about eighteen inches deep. The sand poured back far quicker than I could scoop it out with my hands. It was like playing sea side sandcastles — but death stood by and laughed. It had seemed so easy with one of the small spades Stein had brought. I clawed frantically. The sand returned mercilessly. The tips of my fingers were wet. I sucked them frantically. Then a wave of panic swept over me and I threw myself at the flaccid hole like a rabid dog. The gritty stuff tore the skin off my fingers. I plunged my face into the damp sand and only got a caking like a custard pie across my face. I knew, then, how weak I was. I had tapped my strength across those high peaks. A muscle kicked spontaneously in my left arm above the elbow which had been crooked round Anne's body. The exertion brought a faint new trickle of blood from the wound in my shoulder.

  I sat back and weighed the chances. I must take it easy, I told myself. Imagine you're playing golf, I told myself. Swing easily, never force the swing, I kept repeating. If I could get at the water a couple of feet down, I could make it to the sandy delta where we had first encountered the Cunene on our way in. I'd drunk as much water as I could at the pool before leaving the site of the old ship. I was only thirsty now, not really in desperate need of water. Assuming I could get to the seaward turn-off, I would have another two days' march to Curva dos Dunas. It might be a bit longer in my present condition. I had no food. Nor was there the slightest chance of finding any. We had seen on our way in that the game hid itself pretty thoroughly during the day. Even a rifle wouldn't be a particularly big asset. I made up my mind. I'd dig for water farther down where the river bed looked firmer. I'd strike out for the turn-off. I'd drink as much water as I could and then try and make Curva dos Dunas…

  I got as far as the turn-off when the north-westerly gale started. Had I been in better shape my mind might have registered the fact that the wind, instead of being behind me from the east, had backed rapidly into the north-west. At sea a sudden backing into the north-west in winter time means only one thing. An enormous sea builds up and chops against the great Benguela current. For miles the sea bucks like a tormented thing. The winter north-west gales have twice the lash of the perpetual south-westerlies; the most remarkable thing about them is that the wind, blowing one moment high up in the Beaufort scale, will suddenly end, as if cut off by a knife. The sea remains anguished, while complete calm prevails. Then comes fog — the thickest fog I have ever encountered at sea.

  I might have tried for water sooner had it registered that the wind had changed. But I was pushing mindlessly for the turn-off. The full realisation struck me when I emerged from the sheltering funnel of the cliff-bound river into the open. A solid curtain of sand struck me. I couldn't see where I was. The sun was hidden in the murk of white, gale-lashed sand. The gale seemed to bring every particle of sand with it which lay between me and the mouth of the river, ten miles away. I retreated a quarter of a mile the way I had come, but it was too late. The gale was now funnelling up the narrow bed and,
if anything, the sand was even worse than in the open. Eyes smarting and streaming, my nose and mouth blocked with sand, I staggered back into the' open delta, keeping as far to my left as I could. I sank down and tried to make a small cup in the sand — anything to get water. It was hopeless. I couldn't even get a wet finger-tip. I remembered how we had had to go down almost four feet, Stein and I, for water here. My mouth was so full of sand that I retched weakly. It made things worse. Now I couldn't get rid of either the sand or the vomit in my mouth. Turning my back to the sand-driven whiteness, I scooped the muck out of my mouth with my fingers. This is where I had counted on one last long drink before my trek to Curva dos Dunas. If I stayed, I might wait for three or four days before the gale blew itself out. They seldom last less than that. I knew I'd be dead long before then. The only thing was to strike south — if I could find the elephant track along the edge of the sand delta, the wind screaming and plucking, bitter with sand. Now I knew why the feel of the sand had tormented Johann.

  After about three hours I found the track. I stumbled southwards.

  By sunset I knew I was finished.

  Blind with sand and heat, my knees sagged and I fell full length off the right hand side of the track. The bright white sand of the Cunene had given way to grey, gritty filth. My ears, eyes, nostrils, mouth and throat were encased in one remorseless band of sand. The wind was an invisible thug choking me with a thong of sand. I fell clear of the path. I regained consciousness perhaps half an hour later as darkness fell. I felt strangely detached. My hair was half sunk in sand now. I was a dead man for all intents and purposes. I watched a small beetle suddenly shoot out from the sand not a foot in front of my eyes. Then another, and another. They catapulted up as suddenly as a submarine with her tanks blowing.

  Then my detachment, the detachment of approaching death, vanished. I struck out hysterically, blindly, madly, at the half dozen or so tiny grey beetles.

  Onymacris! I was so weak that I only succeeded in crushing them into the sand without doing them any real harm. They swarmed out of reach of my feebly striking hand.

  Onymacris! The name was a curse. Why, I raved, had we not found them here, here within reach of Curva dos Dunas? My sense of grief and of helpless rage jerked me into a sitting position.

  The big hyena, as tattered and sandblasted as myself, sat ten feet away looking at me. We gazed at one another. So the scavenger had arrived even before his victim was dead. I threw a handful of sand at him in impotent rage, but he simply paid no attention. Unable to rise to my feet, I dragged myself twenty yards farther away, off the path. The foul animal followed. I thought I could detect the stink of him — then a shock of realisation ran like a drink of life-giving water through me.

  The wind had stopped.

  I dragged myself farther from my tormentor. It was almost dark. The hyena advanced, and then stopped the same distance away. I saw two other smaller forms behind him. Jackals! I prayed that I would be dead before they started in on me.

  The moon rose. I kept on dragging myself, away, but the animals followed. I saw to my horror that there were now about half a dozen of them, all in single file behind the hyena. He kept the same distance between himself and me. I let my head drop weakly. It didn't crunch on sand. It was packed hard. It was some sort of minor game track I had been dragging myself along.

  I got semi-consciously on to all fours and struggled onwards — away from that dreadful queue of scavengers. They kept station on me with the precision of a destroyer line. I half got to my feet, but my knees would not hold me and I rolled down the slope. My tormentors followed at a slow trot. My head struck against a rock. I was beyond caring. I rolled over to avoid it.

  The small conical tower, about four feet high, was silhouetted against the moon.

  It was made of tiny flints, each one worked with infinite care, morticed together. I dragged myself into a sitting position. The little tower was firmly fixed in a concave rock structure. It was against the side of this that I had struck my head. The flints all amalgamated into one larger pattern, a long fluted spiral which twisted round like a fire escape to the top of the structure. The concave rock in which it rested must have been about six feet across.

  The animals, still in Indian file, kept station behind me. I cursed them for not putting an end to it all.

  Then everything went blank.

  I thought I had passed out again, but it was fog. Thick, enveloping fog, so tightly woven of land heat and sea-cool that I couldn't even see the strange conical tower a hand's-breadth away.

  I heard the tinkle of water. I knew then that I was dying. Yours was a much easier death, Anne, I said aloud. A bullet is neat and swift. Johann has had his revenge. I am dying more slowly than he could ever have wished.

  The hyena came right up to my feet. I stared fascinated into the reddish eyes. He stank worse than anything I have ever smelt, before or since. I wondered if my breath was as bad. I debated how he would begin, and what the first bite would feel like. But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past my head at the conical tower. The other animals crowded closer, but still didn't move out of position.

  Water was dripping down the conical stonework, gathering momentum as it accumulated more from the lower flints, and was dripping into the stone basin. There must have been a cupful even as I watched. I didn't wait. I thrust my head under the stone funnel and felt cold, pure water pour into my parched throat. As it dripped across my face and mouth I saw that the fog was condensing against the stones and precipitating into the stone basin. What dead race — for this was human construction — had made this ingenious drinking fountain? The principle was simple: adiabatic warming. The flints had been heated in the same way as a bicycle pump heats up when used; by a change in air pressure, The air pressure in this case changed steeply between mountain slope and sea level, heating itself. The stone flints absorbed it, retained it, and when the cold sea fog struck the little tower, pure moisture condensed. The simplicity of genius!

  For how many centuries had this ingenious source of life in a country of death been working? The heavy sea fog was miraculously converted to channelled, life-giving water. The water was running in a steady stream and I let it wash away the sand from my head and face.

  The animals stood and watched, crowding, but none came forward to drink. I realised with amazement what was happening. They were waiting for me to finish! I had been ú first in the queue. The life-giving liquid was so precious that it had impressed a code of behaviour even on these savage animals. They were waiting in line while the one in front drank from the fountain! I took another long drink and pulled myself to one side. The hyena came forward eagerly and drank. He paid no attention to me or the other animals. Water had declared eternal truce among the wild creatures. He drank long and eagerly, waiting for the water to accumulate in the stone basin. He must have taken a quarter of an hour over it.

  Then he withdrew and one of the jackals came forward. The ritual was repeated as each reached the basin. Tin n was no hurrying, no jostling, no fighting for place. The priceless fluid dripped from the tooled flints. I waited until I had drunk, and then I drank again, as much as I could take.

  If I kept going all night, I would be on the beach in the morning.

  As I left the ancient drinking-fountain another stinking animal passed me. He took no notice, but his tongue was almost black with thirst and he was panting heavily. A strandwolf! A savage, nomadic animal called a wolf which wanders the surf-line of the beaches preying on carrion swept up by the sea. He took no notice of me and brushed past as I regained the main track.

  I found the surf-boat at sunrise. The sea was shrouded in fog. Etosha would be out there all right. The tide was receding from the causeway. I could imagine John's surprise when a scarecrow emerged, literally from the sea! It was perfectly calm.

  I went across to the boat to see if there was anything left of the Kroo boy.- There wasn't. A narrow pathway of sand stretched out in the grey light, pointing out to sea. I sta
rted to walk out along the causeway. The sea was a curious metallic grey. A wave slopped over my feet and I stopped to straighten the torn boot. My hand came away oily and sticky.

  Oil!

  With the clarity of mind which follows complete fatigue, I saw it all in a flash.

  The charts — they all said "discoloured water."

  Discoloured — with oil!

  Onymacris — the oil beetle of the North Borneo and Gobi oilfields!

  NP I — she didn't have to refuel, she was atomic driven! I had set the sea on fire round her. And the sea had burned because it was — oil! Natural oil!

  The Onymacris beetle — that is why Stein was prepared to do murder, anything, to find it. He knew the connection.

  Everywhere where Onymacris is found, there is oil. It's a surer pointer than any wildcat. And they'd struck oil in Angola, only a couple of hundred miles north of the South African border.

  Oil! The whole of Curva dos Dunas anchorage was oil! So much oil that it filled the sea as it burst up from its untapped billions of gallons beneath. And Curva dos Dunas was mine! Except in the Sahara, they'd never struck oil richly in Africa. And here it was, the same kind of pitiless desert, bursting with oil! Stein went for the mountains first — he must have had a strong hunch — but if only Anne had seen the Onymacris as I had done within five miles of the sea! The whole sand had seemed to crawl with them as I lay there.

  I limped slowly out towards where Etosha lay with my seaboots coated in oil.

  THE END

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