Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  The doorman and the driver exchanged words. And they set off at a casual pace.

  At first they travelled along the same streets as the ones by which they had arrived then the cab took a turn into an area with more shops. There were markets in the open down every side street. The crowds that filled the streets were white. The ones she glimpsed in the side streets were black and Indian.

  It had been bad enough being in a school filled with prejudice. She tried to make sense of her thoughts, after all everyone in India had a caste marked, more often than not, by their skin colour. Her own caste, the Brahmin, were almost as white as the British.

  So why did she find the prejudice here so abominable? She thought about the way the original doorman had spoken. There had been hate in his tone. She had experienced that in school. There were some girls that hated her for being different. Not all, it was true, and that would no doubt be true here. But even so, to hate someone based on such a thing. She sighed.

  She paid the driver with British coinage and he gave her change in the local currency. She had no idea whether she had been cheated. She must check the exchange rates or simply find a bank where she could exchange some money.

  They were in a wide square bordered on three sides by a variety of shops. The people here were more mixed—whites, Indians and even a few blacks. It was only a moment before they were surrounded by beggar children. As tourists they were bound to be a soft touch, though Amita was intimidating. She was taller than Maliha and could loom menacingly when she chose.

  Since the day Amita had been kissed by Valentine and he had divined her true nature, Maliha noticed Amita was more careful about keeping her face smooth. But she could do little about her somewhat manly features and composition, which served well when she wanted to be intimidating.

  Maliha looked at the children surrounding her. She was not especially moved by their plight. Beggars were just as common in India; they worked hard and made the money to live. This was as it should be. However on this occasion she needed information.

  “Who speaks English?”

  vi

  The boy’s name was Izak and he was mixed race; his skin tone favoured the white side of his parentage while his bone structure was native African. He accepted their coin and they got some food for him from a street vendor selling something like a potato with a meat filling mixed in. Maliha decided to have one as well; she was hungry and she thought it might help in putting Izak at his ease. Amita found them a seat under a tree and produced a little case of eating utensils for travellers from her bag.

  Maliha let him eat his way through half of the potato—he used his fingers—before she began her interrogation.

  “Have you always lived here?”

  “Suppose.”

  “Around Johannesburg.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m looking for a girl.” He glanced up at her and then back at his food. She knew what had gone through his mind.

  “You know the street kids?”

  “I’m their leader.”

  As they were talking the kids who had not been invited moved in, trying to hear what was being said.

  “Really? How does that work?”

  “I’m biggest and the strongest. They do what I say.” Some of the crowd nodded. Others laughed, though quietly.

  “Good. So do you know Riette?”

  “No. There’s no Riette here.”

  “The Riette I’m looking for isn’t here.”

  “If you know she’s not here why you asking?”

  “She’s dead.”

  He stopped eating and looked worried. He glanced around. The crowd moved back.

  “Don’t be foolish, Izak. We did not kill her.”

  Amita interrupted. “This is Maliha Anderson; she is the avatar of Durga Maa. She brings justice and revenge to murderers.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  Some of the street kids were Indian in origin and at least one of them picked up the words Durga Maa and whispered it to the others.

  “Hush, Amita,” said Maliha. “I found the people who killed Riette and they have suffered for their crimes.”

  “So what you here for?”

  “Do you know about the slavers?”

  He shrugged and squashed the last of the potato into his mouth.

  “Kids come and go,” he said.

  “Some get stolen away,” said one of the bolder children. “They steal the young ones.”

  Maliha did not contradict. Considering what happened to Riette she could imagine that slavers would be interested in children of any age. However it was getting off the point.

  She pulled out another coin and held it up. Izak’s eyes followed it.

  “Riette?”

  “There was a Riette lived under the church,” shouted the bold child, it was a girl of about eight. Izak frowned at her. “Am I talking to the wrong person, Izak?”

  “No, I knew Riette.” He snatched the coin.

  “So tell me.”

  “What’s to say?” He shrugged again. “She lived under the church. She was a good pickpocket and she never sold herself.”

  “She had a man!”

  “Shut up, Lilith.”

  Maliha smiled inside, so much for being the leader, but she did not react and kept her eyes on Izak.

  “A farmer. He came in to the city to buy supplies. She met him and helped him get good prices. Then she was gone. Never saw her again.”

  Maliha dug out another coin. She held it up.

  “Can you speak Afrikaans, Izak?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. I need a guide and I might need a translator. Do you want the job?”

  “I’ll do it,” shouted Lilith.

  Izak stood up and frowned at Lilith. “I will do it.”

  Maliha smiled at him. “Very good.”

  She stood up. “We’ll begin immediately. I need to buy a baby’s rattle, where can I get one?”

  * * *

  They went to a tea room and while Izak waited, she and Amita went inside to have a more satisfactory lunch. Once they were refreshed, about an hour later, they returned to the street.

  They found Izak a little further along the road. He was eating a vegetable she did not recognise, as was Lilith next to him. She appeared to be pure African, a little like a young Riette. She wore a plain wrap-around cloth that was very tattered and almost worn through.

  “What we do now, goddess?” said Lilith.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Madhuri said Durga Maa is a goddess and you look like Madhuri. And she—” she glanced at Amita “—said you were that.”

  Maliha frowned at Amita. “I’m not. Call me Miss Maliha.”

  To forestall any further discussion Maliha opened her reticule and pulled out the single thing that Riette had owned; a wraparound like Lilith’s. Only dyed in many colours.

  “Is that your kanga? It’s lovely,” said Lilith.

  “Kanga? Is that what it’s called?”

  Lilith nodded and finished off her food. For all his sternness it seemed Izak did care. About Lilith anyway. Perhaps they were related.

  “Is this expensive?” Maliha asked.

  Izak turned his nose up. “Just cotton, not expensive.”

  “We can’t afford it,” said Lilith looking down at her rag.

  “Is there any way of knowing where it came from?”

  “Shop,” said Izak. Maliha sighed; perhaps Izak had not been such a good choice of guide.

  “Mama Kosi will know,” said Lilith. On the other hand his assistant was very useful.

  “Can we find Mama Kosi?”

  Izak looked at Lilith and then at Maliha. “It will cost.”

  “It always does.”

  The two children led the way through the afternoon streets. They left the crowds in the centre of the city behind, heading north with the sun in their eyes. Maliha was disoriented. They were south of the equator now and the sun was tilted slightly to the
north in the middle of the day. It made her feel as if east and west had become swapped.

  “Don’t mention being a goddess, Amita.”

  “I am sorry, sahiba. I thought it would impress them.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  The houses went from good quality brick and stone to ones constructed from corrugated iron, both walls and ceiling. It was like the shanty town beyond the walls of the Fortress, though not as crowded.

  If there was an impression she got here, even though they had been in the country less than a day, it was that there was infinite space.

  They finally reached a house made of wood coated with mud though it too had a corrugated iron roof. There was a white painted fence surrounding it. Chickens pecked at the ground and there were several goats tearing up what little grass remained.

  They stopped at the gate. There was a battered cowbell nailed to the gate post and a piece of string dangling from it. Maliha leaned over the gate; there was a length of rusty metal lying on the ground on the inside. It had the remains of the twine looped and tied through one end. She surmised the goats had got at it.

  The lack of a corset meant she was able to lean over the gate and pick up the metal stick. She passed it to Lilith who made a racket on the cow bell. Maliha placed her hand over Lilith’s hand to stop her.

  A young woman wearing only a kanga emerged from the opening that served as a front door and looked at them impassively for a few moments then gestured for them to enter.

  “You go,” said Izak. “You only.”

  vii

  Valentine found a cab and headed back to the hotel. He had made no arrangements to meet up with Maliha but he was not concerned for her safety. This was not a murder investigation; she was just trying to find the child’s grandparents.

  He changed into rougher clothes, filled an overnight bag and then dropped in to see Barbara. She was sitting in an armchair by the window, an open book in her lap. She did not get up.

  “Baby’s asleep,” she said. She saw the bag and gave him an appraising look. “Should I ask what you’re planning to do?”

  “Just trying to finish the job I started.”

  “Hmm,” she said, not sounding very convinced. “Does Maliha know?”

  “We discussed it.”

  “She would be upset if you got yourself hurt.”

  “It’s difficult to tell sometimes.”

  Barbara looked at him askance. “When was the last time she kissed you, Mr Crier?”

  He could feel the embarrassment climbing his cheeks. “This morning.”

  “Indeed. I don’t think you have anything to worry about in regard to Maliha. I observed it was quite – how shall I put it? – enthusiastic?”

  “You saw?” He was mortified. Maliha kept her distance most of the time but every now and then she would leap on him, as she had this morning, and her kisses were extremely passionate.

  Barbara nodded in the direction of the mirror on the wall hanging from the picture rail by its chain.

  “Oh.”

  “You should be more careful,” she said then added with a stern look. “I never asked her how she came by her injuries in Pondicherry.”

  The change of tack caught him by surprise. He knew what she was talking about but feigned ignorance. “Injuries?”

  “Her back.”

  Valentine froze with the guilt that washed through him. Every time they embraced he felt the ridged scars on her back. The scars he had put there. He still wasn’t sure why she had demanded he do it. “Experience” was her only explanation. He had stopped having bad dreams.

  “She hasn’t told you?” It was a pointless question since the answer was obvious. “I am not sure she would want me to say.”

  “But you know?”

  “I ... yes, I do know.”

  Barbara pursed her lips. She was annoyed at being thwarted. “Very well, I shall ask her.”

  Valentine cringed inside. If she asked Maliha was sure to tell her the truth and then what would Barbara think of him? He remembered the promise she had forced from him about never hurting Maliha. He would not be entirely surprised if Barbara blew his brains out with her shotgun.

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

  He went to the crib to see the baby, then took his leave picking up his bag on the way out.

  He took a taxi most of the way back to the air-dock but got out a quarter of a mile from it. Unlike Pondicherry, Johannesburg was a major port because of both its mineral and agricultural wealth so ships were coming in and out all of the time. As he approached the perimeter fence the RMS Macedonia lifted from the ground with a roar of its six huge rotors. Smoke poured from its twin stacks and steam leaked around the turbines.

  It went straight up but after it reached a couple of hundred feet the front rotors swivelled a few degrees and it moved forward. It thundered overhead gathering speed. Despite its altitude he felt the wind of its passing.

  There was no pause as a Zeppelin, probably from the German-controlled states in West Africa, floated in and cut power in selected parts of its Faraday grid, bringing it down steadily.

  Valentine wished briefly that he had the Alice back. She had been difficult to fly but he loved it—and so did Maliha. However his fixed-wing diesel air-plane belonged to the person he had been in Ceylon, before he resigned. Perhaps if he earned enough he could buy another one. Maliha would like that.

  He wiped the smile from his face as he approached the fence. The inside was patrolled by guards. He did not go to the main entrance. Instead he made his way around the fence to a much smaller crew gate.

  He presented his air-sailor passport, licence and log book. They were genuine and declared him to be a licensed and trained crewman by the name of Jonathan Dyer. No special skills, just a deckhand experienced with a variety of vessels and their manifests.

  After his name had been logged he went to the crew hotel that bordered the fence. It was a four-storey building within easy distance of the various company hangars. He signed in and paid a week in advance for a room then went up and deposited his gear. He spent some time giving the small room a lived-in look, and dumped some dirty clothes in a corner.

  Back in the lobby he checked the employment board. It showed the expected incoming ships and those that would be heading out. It was arranged by day and each vessel had a card pinned in the appropriate slot.

  One of Timmons’ fleet had made port yesterday and was due out in two days. He had been over the manifests of all forty-three ships at one time or another, but he had not been aboard. These ships were of standard design—though a mix of sizes and types—none of them matched the one he had seen in India.

  He made his way up to the roof. This was a common gathering place for crew, watching the ships go in and out because it gave an excellent view of the whole landing field.

  There were half a dozen men there: two talking together, a group of three playing cards and Keighley sitting in his usual armchair, brought up for his use only, facing across the field.

  Walking casually so as not to give the impression he specifically wanted to talk to Keighley, Valentine strolled across and stood a short distance from the old man. As far as Valentine knew Keighley had been flying almost from the start. He had even been into the Void and told tales of the blue sprites and red mushrooms—great electrical storms in the upper atmosphere.

  “People travel too fast now, they don’t see the marvels.”

  Valentine looked across at the old man. Had he thought those words or had the old man said them out loud? Valentine wasn’t sure. Keighley didn’t look round so Valentine guessed he must have just thought it.

  Keighley was missing his right leg from the knee down and three fingers of his right hand. He would tell you the story of how he came to lose them to pirates in the Asteroid Belt for a drink and a smoke. He was lying, of course; there might be pirates between Mars, Earth and Venus but since there were no ships further out, what would they prey on? And more impor
tantly, how would they find them in the vastness of the Void?

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Dyer,” said Keighley.

  “Hired aboard the Macedonia,” replied Valentine.

  “I heard there was trouble.”

  Valentine affected an air of embarrassment. “Yeah, not my fault.” The Macedonia’s captain and senior staff were only too willing to assist in spreading the rumour of a deckhand who had tried to sell off cargo.

  “Word’s got about.”

  Valentine went to the rail and looked out across the sun-drenched air-dock. A big cargo Zeppelin was readying for take-off.

  “Got a new position?” asked Keighley.

  “Not yet.”

  “Going to be hard finding any regular line that’ll take you.”

  “There’ll be something,” said Valentine unconvincingly.

  “Want me to ask around?”

  “If you like.”

  viii

  Maliha went through the gate and up the path. She kept an eye out for animal dung but the path was clean. As she approached the girl glanced into the shack and held her hand up for Maliha to stop. She came to a halt.

  Moments later another black woman came out. She was crying and fled past them both and out through the gate. Maliha turned to watch her go.

  “Come inside,” ordered the girl and Maliha entered.

  It was difficult to tell how old Mama Kosi was. The kanga she wore left her arms and shoulders bare and the skin of her face and neck was very wrinkled. Her skin was black as night which accentuated the whites of her eyes. Her hair was threaded with beads, as was that of the young girl who seemed to be her maid, or perhaps apprentice.

  “Sit,” said the girl. Maliha placed herself in the cushions opposite the old woman, facing her across a woven mat.

  Mama Kosi looked at her, reached out and touched her face, ran her hand down her neck and felt her shoulder then down along her arm and took hold of her hand. Maliha was not upset or put off; there was plenty of magic in India, at least many who claimed it.

  The old woman said something and the girl translated. “Do you know what I am?”

  “Sangoma,” said Maliha. The old woman grinned, she lacked teeth.

  “And you are the goddess of India.”

  Maliha closed her eyes. One joke and now this.