The Sands of Kalahari

by William Mulvihill

  A young baboon reaches out over a rock, picks up the insect and holds it wiggling in the air. Some mystery of instinct teaches it that the stinger contains virulent poison; the humanoid fingers hold the segmented body gingerly. The scorpion struggles, tries to reach the hairy hand with its flicking tail. If it does the sudden pain alone might drive the young baboon mad and cause it to leap blindly off the sheer cliff. But the stinger is never used. With his free hand the baboon reaches behind the insect and snaps off the last of the seven segments from which the barbed stinger writhes in torment. The scorpion is helpless now. The baboon throws the stinger aside, examines his prize, pulls off the annoying claws and eats it in one quick, lip-smacking gulp.

  Now the baboon turns and begins to wander back along the ridge to the great jagged base of the mountain. It has strayed from the troop but it has found food, a tasty tidbit; it has not been pushed aside by the stronger males, the violent females snatching everything for their babies. It moves along the top of the ridge on all fours, a loping, slow-motion run.

  In the next instant it is dead.

  O’Brien has stalked it for over an hour, a shadow, noiseless, crawling, inching from rock to rock even though a great distance separates him from his prey, hundreds of yards.

  Then the single moment when existence narrows down to the black sharp lines in the telescopic sight. The hairlines converge on the baboon’s back, the sweaty trigger finds release, the rifle convulses in his arms, there is the sharp smell of powder, the brassy ping of the ejected shell.

  The young baboon catches the heavy bullet in the spine. It leaps high into the air, arch-backed, broken and dead as it comes down on a slanting rock and slides off into space.

  The air is torn with the terror-filled barks of the baboon sentinels. The troop flees, shivering from the memory of the rifleshot. Death is among them; they do not understand it.

  It becomes quiet again. Nothing moves. The heat sends shimmering waves over the stone and shale.

  Grace Monckton sat in front of the cave warming herself in the morning sun. O’Brien had left while she was still asleep; when she had opened her eyes she’d been all alone in the cave, and it had frightened her. She quickly moved the fire outside, ate her meager breakfast.

  Somewhere in a gorge was O’Brien, a big silent shadow moving from rock to rock, seeking things to kill, things to eat… .

  She added a few gnarled sticks to the fire. She and O’Brien were alone now and they would never leave the black mountain. They would not be rescued. They would stay here and grow old and die.

  It had been obvious from the start. If they had been close to the outside world, close to water, there would be sheep in the canyon or a few head of cattle. The precious water and the grass would be used by someone; there would be signs of white men or black, old campsites, wagon tracks from the old days of the trekboers, something to show that they were within the pale of civilization. But there were no traces of man, nothing to show that anyone had ever been in the canyon except the Bushmen, and that had been a long, long time ago.

  They would not be saved. A plane might fly over and see them. A motorized expedition might cross the vast sand wastes and find them, but it might be in the next century.

  She went into the cave and drank what was left in one of the water bottles. She picked up one of the empty ostrich shells and walked out into the sunlight again, headed for the pool. She would bathe and refill the water containers.

  She made her way up the canyon to the pool, stood before it at last, started to undress.

  Something moved in the rocks to her left. A man. Fear stabbed her heart … a wild Bushman … she turned wildly and began to run, heard herself screaming for O’Brien.

  Mike Bain caught her and held her, cupped his hand over her mouth. She stopped struggling, terror fled from her eyes. He let go.

  She stood before him, sobbing. But the tears welled up from happiness now. Mike was back … he was not dead, he was not dead.

  “Where’s O’Brien?” Bain asked. His voice was tense and hard.

  She couldn’t talk, she was wiping tears from her eyes, trying to button her open blouse.

  “Where’s O’Brien?”

  “He’s hunting,” Grace said. “Where did you come from? O’Brien said you left him, tried to reach the outside. We thought you were dead.”

  Bain took her arm and led her into the shadow of a rock slab. They were out of sight here.

  “O’Brien abandoned me out there, Grace. He told me to keep walking, not to come back. He had his rifle on me, said he’d kill me if I returned. And he did the same thing to Smith. He admitted it.”

  She didn’t believe him. He was filthy and haggard and his voice cracked; he looked as if he might faint any moment. The sun had made him a little crazy.

  “Sit down, Mike,” she said. “We’ve got some food. You need rest, lots of rest …”

  “He’ll kill you next,” Bain was saying. “And Grimmelmann and me. If he finds I’m back he’ll shoot me. That’s why I waited for you here, to tell you.”

  “Grimmelmann’s dead,” she said.

  “Dead?”

  “He’s dead,” Grace said. “He cut himself on that flint spearhead he found; it still had poison on it.”

  “Who was with him? You?”

  “No. He went off with O’Brien to look for honey. In one of the other canyons.”

  “O’Brien’s a murderer, Grace. He killed Grimmelmann. He tried to kill me. He made Smith go off in the desert at the point of a gun. Two days out from here he did the same with me. Don’t you believe me?”

  Grace Monckton slumped down in the sand. “It can’t be true, Mike. You must be wrong. You’ve got to be.”

  “You believe me,” Bain said.

  She looked at him for a long time. “I don’t know. There’s a streak of ruthlessness in him. He might be capable of it.” But she loved him. She belonged to him.

  “Do you need water?” Bain asked. He nodded toward the bottle and the big shell.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get it then and get back to the cave,” Bain said. “We’ve got to be there when he comes back. I’ve got to get the rifle away from him. He’ll kill me if I don’t get him first.”

  “Kill him?” Grace asked.

  “If I have to,” Bain said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I should kill him, I suppose, but I’m not capable of executing a man, not even him.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Grace said.

  “There’s a good chance of O’Brien being the sole survivor,” Bain said. “Some guy will fly over. O’Brien will be waiting. Alone. He’ll tell them about the crash and how we all died one by one. Grimmelmann died of poison and I died of snakebite and you died of sunstroke. O’Brien will survive.”

  Grace shuddered. “Stop, Mike. It’s too horrible.” It was impossible… .

  They hurried away from the pool.

  She wondered if Grimmelmann’s death was accidental. She’d felt something when she’d seen O’Brien coming back alone but it had all been swept away by her need for him. She hadn’t cared.

  They waited in the cave for O’Brien.

  And he came. Grace stood in the entrance, hands on hips, and saw him in the distance. Her lover.

  “Here he is,” she said simply and in the darkness Bain grew suddenly frightened; his hand began to sweat on the wrench. If something went wrong he would be dead in a very short time and he did not want to die now that he had lived through so much: the crash, the first terrible week with the fever and the infection and the desire to die strong in him. He crouched in the darkness and began to pray that he’d beat O’Brien this time.

  O’Brien came. Barefooted, hatless, without a shirt, hard, long-haired, beautifully muscled and burned cordovan brown by the African sun—a man who thrived on privation and hardship.

  “Very soon now,” Grace said. She stood and waited and wondered if she could go through with it. O
’Brien was a hundred yards away now, fifty, twenty-five. He carried a lumpy bag in his left hand. Tsamma melons. He held them in the air.

  “I found some nice ones,” he said.

  “Wonderful,” Grace said.

  He came on, stood before her, the rifle in one hand, the bag in the other. He bent down suddenly and kissed her, her lips, her neck.

  He started into the cave.

  “O’Brien?”

  He turned, scowled.

  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  O’Brien waited. He wanted to go into the cave to drink and rest.

  “I’ve got a feeling about Grimmelmann,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I think you killed him.” She had to know, she had to decide before she’d let him go into the cave where Bain waited in the darkness.

  “I didn’t kill him,” O’Brien said.

  She believed him. She had a choice to make between truth and hallucination, between the men.

  He started into the cave again.

  “Stop,” she said. “Mike Bain’s in there. Don’t go in. He’s waiting for you with his wrench.”

  O’Brien swung his rifle up and backed away. Grace moved away from him. “He’s in there in the dark,” she said. “He said you abandoned him in the desert. He’s in a terrible state, imagining all sorts of things. We’ve got to help him… . He thinks you’re going to shoot him.”

  But O’Brien didn’t seem to hear her. He stopped, moved backwards. It grew very quiet. There was the hum of insects and the implacable heat beating down on the hot stone. A long minute passed. Two.

  Mike Bain walked out of the cave. He stopped and looked at Grace and then O’Brien. He seemed to weave, to totter, a dirty, bearded man in tattered rags that had once been a white linen suit, squinting in the harsh sunlight. His left hand was knotted into a fist, his right hand held the big wrench.

  “Tell her the truth,” he said. He started to walk to the big man.

  O’Brien backed away. “Don’t come any closer,” he said. “Stay away. I’m warning you.”

  But Bain didn’t stop. “Tell her the truth!” He came on, the wrench held higher, the left fist reaching out.

  O’Brien backed away. “Stay away from me, Bain, or I’ll have to hurt you. You’ve been in the sun; you’re sick. Put the wrench down.”

  Grace sobbed and ran toward Bain. She grabbed his arm and for a moment he was helpless. O’Brien was running toward him.

  He swore and flung Grace away with a sudden desperate fury. The girl fell heavily in the sand. Bain leaped away and crouched with the big wrench ready, waited for O’Brien.

  But the big man stopped. They were ten feet apart.

  “I’ll shoot you,” O’Brien said. “Put the wrench down or I’ll kill you.” He was afraid of what the wrench might do to his rifle. If Bain rushed him and struck the barrel, it would be useless.

  He stooped and placed the rifle on the sand. Then he rose.

  Grace Monckton sat up in the sand. The cliff above was weaving; there were two suns; the ground swayed under her. Her elbow hurt. She rubbed it and saw that the skin had been scraped raw, that it bled.

  She got up and walked toward O’Brien and Mike Bain, shouted at them. The ground spun and she lost her balance and slumped to the sand.

  She saw Bain and O’Brien circling each other like boxers in a ring. Bain’s wrench glinted in the sun. The big man was barehanded and feinting. Once he got his hands on Bain it would be over in an instant. He was big enough and strong enough to pick the smaller man up and hurl him ten feet.

  And then he charged Bain, reaching for the big wrench. For one terrible instant Bain hesitated; then his left fist opened and he flung the fine cave sand into O’Brien’s face. And in the same instant he swung on his left heel, the wrench held straight out from his body. He spun completely around, his back toward O’Brien who momentarily fought blindness and imbalance. The wrench hit the black-maned head. O’Brien took one step, then fell to the sand.

  Grace blinked. Bain had won. O’Brien had underestimated him. And maybe she had. Maybe he was telling the truth… . O’Brien had been afraid of him, strangely afraid.

  She got up and went to Bain.

  “He was afraid of you,” she said.

  “Believe me, Grace, believe me for ten minutes. If I can’t prove it, I’ll let him go.”

  She nodded. They dragged O’Brien out of the sun into the cave. Bain tied his hands behind him with a piece of the long rope.

  “Can I trust you to bring me the rifle?” he asked.

  Grace left. She came back and handed the rifle to him. It was loaded. He found more shells in O’Brien’s small bag.

  They examined O’Brien’s head, saw that the skull wasn’t fractured. Bain poured some water on his bearded face and the big man groaned and started to regain consciousness. Bain motioned Grace away. She left him, retreated into the darkness deeper in the cave.

  O’Brien opened his eyes, struggled up, cursed when he realized his hands were bound in back of him.

  “Untie me, Bain.”

  “Not a chance,” Mike said. He stood in the cave entrance with the rifle. O’Brien could be dangerous even with his hands tied. He was taking no chances.

  O’Brien looked around. “Where’s Grace?”

  “She went to the pool for more water,” Bain lied. “We poured a lot of it over you.”

  “Look,” the big man said, “I’m sorry about what I did to you out there. But I had to do it, don’t you understand? You and Smith would never have gone off by yourselves; you’re not the type. You needed me to push you. And you came back anyway, so what’s the kick?”

  “What did you do to Grimmelmann?”

  “Nothing,” O’Brien said. “You think I killed him. You’re wrong. He was a stubborn old fool. I wanted him to take a crack at crossing the desert but he refused to go. I had the whole thing set up: water points, a map, a pack of shells, everything. But he wouldn’t go. Then he came at me with that spear point. He fell and cut himself and died from the old poison on it.”

  “Then you did kill him,” Bain said.

  “I told you the truth,” O’Brien said. “I didn’t kill you, did I? I could have shot you… .”

  “Why didn’t you try to make it across the desert?” Bain asked. “Why old Grimmelmann?”

  “His luck was as good as mine,” the big man said. “He was old and his life was almost over anyway. If he’d failed he still would have helped us.”

  “One less mouth to feed?” Bain asked.

  “Sure,” O’Brien said. “What else?”

  Grace Monckton came out of the blackness, walked into the sunlight and stood next to Mike Bain.

  “You lied to me,” she said to O’Brien. “If you’d told me the truth I might have gone along with you even if it was so terrible, so wrong. Now I can’t trust you. I can’t believe you. Ever.”

  “And I’m afraid of you,” Bain said. “If I turn you loose, give the rifle back, I think you’d shoot the two of us. Then you’d have all the food.”

  O’Brien threw back his head and laughed long and loud. He looked at Grace. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “What you did to Smith is close to murder. It is murder.”

  “I thought he could find help for us,” O’Brien said. “Why didn’t you try it?” Bain asked.

  “I told you. I’m more valuable here. I can hunt. I got meat for you, didn’t I? 1 knocked off a lot of baboons. What did Smith ever do for us? The old German was okay because he was smart and knew about the desert. And I came next in importance because I’m a hunter. I had no real right to make Smith go, or to make you go, but you have no right to tie me up either. You’re wrong now. There are three of us left. We’ve got to stick together.”

  “We’re going for a walk,” Bain said. “Get up.”

  “Where?”

  “Get up!” Bain turned to Grace. “Bring the coil of rope and the canteen filled with water. He’s going
in the pit.”

  “Don’t be silly,” O’Brien said. “Let me loose.” He turned to Grace. “Don’t let him do this to me, Grace. Can’t you see what he’s got in mind? He wants to kill me. He wants you. The sun drove him crazy out there… .”

  But Grace was gone. He got up slowly and shook the sand from his head. They moved out of the cave.

  “I have no choice,” Bain said. “It’s me or you.”

  O’Brien stood and looked at Bain for a long while, studying his face. Then he walked off up the canyon toward the pool. Grace came out of the cave with the coil of rope and the canteen. She walked in back of Bain.

  They came to the pool and went on and began climbing the cliff. Bain kept well behind O’Brien, certain that the big man would try something. Then they reached the top and stood high above the desert on the inky rock and felt the slight breeze. The sun beat down on them, glinted on O’Brien’s sweaty muscles.

  Bain motioned with the rifle and they went on and five minutes later they came to the strange round hole that they had discovered so long ago. It was fifteen feet deep and almost as wide, an unusual pit in the living rock with sides as smooth as glass, scoured by the wind-blown sands of thousands of years.

  “Lie down,” he told O’Brien.

  “Help me, Grace,” the big man said. “Don’t let him put me down there. I can’t help you from there. You’ll be all alone with a crazy man.”

  “Lie down,” Bain said. “Don’t make me knock you out again. It might be fatal next time.”

  O’Brien got down to his knees and then rolled sideways until he was prostrate. Bain moved away and circled the pit, found a suitable place to tie the rope. He made it fast around an elevated slab and threw the other end into the hole. He went back to O’Brien and stood close to him, the rifle pointed at his head.

  “Untie him, Grace,” he said. “Loosen the knot and then back away.” The girl bent down and began working on the tangle of rope around the big man’s wrists. In a few minutes they were loose and she backed away behind Bain, out of O’Brien’s reach.

  “Don’t get up now,” Bain said. “Do just as I tell you. If you get to your feet I’ll shoot.”

  “I believe you,” O’Brien said.