A Sparrow Falls c-9

by Wilbur Smith

  Sean shook his head. I don't know. And Storm made an angry hissing sound. They both looked at her.

  Sean felt that soft warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling of awe that this lovely child could be part of him.

  Storm looked so smooth and fragile, yet he knew she had the strength of braided whipcord. He knew also that though she had the innocence of a newly opened bloom, yet she could sting like a serpent; she had the brightness and beauty that dazzled, and yet below that were depths that mystified and awed him; and when her moods changed so swiftly, like this unaccountable spurt of anger, he was enchanted by her, under her fairy spell.

  He frowned heavily now to hide his feelings.

  Yes, Missy, what is it now? he grumped at her. He's going away, she said, and Sean blinked at her, swaying back in his chair.

  What are you talking about? he demanded. Mark. He's going away. How do you know that? Something deep inside of Sean cringed at the prospect of losing another son. I know, I just know, she said, and came to her feet with a flash of long sleek limbs, like a gazelle rising in alarm from its grassy bed. She stood over him. You didn't think he would be your lap dog for ever? she asked, a biting scorn in her tone that at another time would have brought from him a sharp retort. Now he stared at her speechless.

  Then suddenly she was gone, crossing the lawn in the sunlight that gilded her loose dark hair with stark white light and struck through the flimsy stuff of her dress, . revealing her long slim body in a stark dark silhouette, surrounding her with a shimmering halo of light, that made her seem like some lovely unearthly vision. Don't you see that it's better you cry a little now, than cry for the rest of your life? Mark asked gently, trying not to let her see how the tears had eroded his resolve. Won't you ever come back? Marion Littlejohn was not one of those women who cried well. Her little round face seemed to smear and lose its shape like unfired clay, and her eyes swelled and puffed pinkly. Marion, I don't even know where I am going. How can I know if I'm coming back? I don't understand, Mark, I truly don't understand. She twisted the damp linen handkerchief in her hands, and she sniffed wetly. We were so happy. I did everything I knew to make you happy, even thatIt's not you, Marion, Mark assured her hurriedly. He did not want to be reminded of that which Marion always referred to as that. it was as though she had loaned him a treasure which had to be returned with interest at usurious rates. Didn't I make you happy, Mark? I tried so hard. Marion, I keep trying to tell you. You are a fine, pretty girl, you're kind and good and the nicest person I know. Then why don't you want to marry me? Her voice rose into a wall, and Mark glanced with alarm down the length of the porch. He knew that sisters and brothers-in-law were probably straining their hearing for snatches of the conversation. It's that I don't want to marry anybody She made a low moaning sound and then blew her nose loudly on the inadequate scrap of sodden linen. Mark took his own handkerchief from his inside pocket, and she accepted it gratefully.

  I don't want to marry anybody, not yet, he repeated. Not yet, she seized the words. But some day? Some day, he agreed. When I have discovered what it is I want out of my life and how I am going to get it. I will wait for you. She tried to smile, a brave watery pink smile. I'll wait for you, Mark. No! Mark felt alarm flare through every nerve of his body. It had taken all his courage to tell her, and now it seemed that he had achieved nothing. God knows how long it will be, Marion. There will be dozens of other men - you're a kind sweet loving person, I'll wait for you, she repeated firmly, her features regaining their usual pleasant shape, and her shoulders losing their dejected droop.

  Please, Marion. It's not fair on you, Mark tried desperately to dissuade her, realizing that he had failed dismally.

  But she gave one last hearty sniff and swallowed what was left of her misery, as though it were a jagged piece of stone.

  Then she smiled at him, blinking the last tears from her

  eyes. Oh, it doesn't matter. I am a very patient person. You'll see, she told him comfortably. You don't understand, Mark shrugged with helpless frustration. Oh, I do understand, Mark, she smiled again, but now it was the indulgent smile of a mother for a naughty child. When you are ready, you come back here to me. She stood up and smoothed down the sensible skirts. Now come along, they are waiting lunch for us. Storm had taken great care choosing her position. She had wanted to catch the play of afternoon light and the run of the clouds across the escarpment, and yet to be able to see into the gorge, for the white plume of falling spray to be the focus of the painting.

  She wanted also to be able to see down along the Ladyburg road, and yet not be overlooked by a casual observer.

  She placed her easel on the lip of a small saucer of folded ground near the eastern boundary peg of Lion Kop, positioning both easel and herself with an artist's eye for aesthetic detail. But when she posed on the lip of the saucer, with the palette cradled in the crook of her left arm and the brush in the other, she lifted her chin and looked up at the powerful sweep of land and forest and sky, at the way the light was working and at the golden-tinged turquoise of the sky, and immediately she was intrigued.

  The pose was no longer theatrical, and she began to work, tilting her head to appraise a colour mix, moving about the canvas in a slow ritual, like a temple maid making the sacrifice, so completely absorbed that when she heard the faint putter of Mark's motorcycle, it did not penetrate into the silken cocoon of concentration she had woven about herself.

  Although her original intention in coming to this place had been to way-lay him, now he was almost past before she was aware of him, and she paused with the brush held high in one hand, caught in the soft golden light of late afternoon, a much more striking picture than she could have composed with studied care.

  The dusty strip of road snaked five hundred feet below here she stood, making its first big loop on to the slope of the escarpment, and, as he came into the bend, Mark's eyes were drawn naturally to the small delicate figure on the slope.

  There were clouds along the summit of the escarpment, and the late sun burned through the gaps, cutting long shimmering beams across the valley, and one of these fell full on Storm.

  She stood completely still, staring down the slope at him, making no gesture of recognition or welcome.

  He pulled the big machine into the side of the road, and sat astraddle, pushing the goggles on to his forehead.

  Still she did not move, and they stared at each other.

  Mark made a move at last as though to restart the machine, and Storm felt a shock of deprivation, although it did not show either on her face nor in the stillness of her body.

  She exerted all her will, trying consciously to reach him with mind, and he paused and looked up at her again. Come! she willed him, and with an impatient, almost defiant gesture, he pulled the goggles off his head and stripped the gloves off his hands. - serenely, she turned back to the painting, a small secret smile playing like light across her softly parted lips and she did not watch him climbing up through the yellow knee-high grass.

  She heard his breathing behind her, and she smelled him. He had a special smell that she had learned to know, a floury smell a little like a suckling puppy or freshly polished leather. It made her skin feel hot and sensitized, and put a painful little catch in her breathing. That's beautiful, he said, and his voice felt like the touch of fingers along the nape of her neck. She felt the fine soft hair there rise, and the Hush of blood spread warmly down her chest and turn her nipples into hard little pebbles. They ached with something which was not pain, something more obsessive. She wanted him to touch her there, and at the thought she felt her legs tremble under her and the muscles cramped deeply in the wedge of her thighs. It's truly beautiful, he said again, and he was so close she could feel his breath stir the fine hair of her neck, and another thrill ran down her spine, this time it was like a claw cutting through her flesh and she clenched her buttocks to ride the shock of it as though she was astride a mettlesome horse.

  She stared at the painting, and
she saw that he was right.

  It was beautiful, even though it was half-finished. She could see the rest of it in her mind, and it was beautiful and right, but she wanted the touch of his hands now.

  it was as though the painting had heightened her emotional response, opened some last forbidden door and now she wanted his touch with a terribly deep physical ache.

  She turned to him, and he was so close and tall that she felt her breathing catch again, and she looked up into his face. Touch me, she willed him. Touch me, she commanded silently, but his hands hung at his side and she could not fathom his eyes.

  She could not stand still a moment longer, and she stirred her hips in a slow voluptuous gesture, something was melting and burning deep in her lower body.

  Touch me, she tried to force him silently to her will. Touch me there where it hurts so fiercely. But he did not heed her, would not respond to all her silent pleas, and suddenly she was angry.

  She wanted to lash out at him, to strike him across that solemn handsome face, she had a mental image of ripping his shirt away and sinking her nails deep into the smoothly muscled chest. She stared now at the vee of his open shirt, at the coils of dark hair, and his skin had an oiled gloss gilded by the sun to warm golden brown.

  Her anger flared and focused. He had aroused these surging emotions which she could neither understand nor control, these heady terrifying waves of physical arousal, and she wanted to punish him for it, to make him suffer, to have him mauled by his desires as she was; at the same instant in time, she wanted to take that splendid proud head of his and hold it to her bosom like a mother holds her child, she wanted to cherish, and gentle and love him, and claw and ravage and hurt him, and she was confused and giddy and angry and puzzled, but most of all she was racing high on a wave of physical excitement that turned her birdlike and quick and vital. I suppose you've been bouncing about on that fat little trollop of yours, she almost snarled it at him. Immediately the hurt and shock showed in his eyes, and she was pleased and savagely triumphant, but also aching with contrition, wanting to fall at his feet and plead for forgiveness, or to lash out with her nails and raise deep bleeding lines across that smooth brown dearly beloved face. Wouldn't it have been wonderful if the providence that gave you your beauty and your talent had thought to make you a nice person at the same time, he said quietly, almost sadly. Instead of a vicious spoiled little brat She gasped with the delicious profane shock of it, the insult gave her cause to discard the last vestige of control.

  Now she could loose the rein and use lash and spur without restraint. Oh you swine! she flew at him, going for his eyes, knowing he was too quick and strong for her, but forcing violent physical contact on him, forcing him to seize her, and when he held her powerless by both arms, she flung her body against his, driving him back a pace, and she saw the surprise on his face. He had not expected such strength.

  She turned against him, her body fined and tuned and hardened by physical exercise on the courts and in the saddle, forcing him off balance, and, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, she hooked one ankle with hers and threw her weight in the opposite direction.

  They fell together, tumbling backwards into the grassy saucer of ground, and he released her wrists, using both hands to break their fall and cushion her shock as she landed on her back.

  instantly she was at him with both hands, and her nails stung his neck. He grunted and she saw the first flare of real anger in his eyes. It delighted her, and when he seized her wrist, she twisted and bit him in the hard sinewy muscle of his forearm. Hard enough to break the skin, and leave a double crescent of small neat teeth-marks.

  He gasped and his anger mounted as he rolled over her, pinning her lower body with one leg as he fought to hold her flying flailing hands She bucked under him, her skirts had pulled up to her waist, one slim smooth thigh thrusting up, natural, untutored, cunning, into his groin, not hard enough to injure him, but enough to make him suddenly conscious of his own arousal.

  As he realized what was happening, his grip of her arms slackened and he tried desperately to disengage, but one of her arms slid around his neck and the silken warmth of her cheek was pressed to his.

  His hands acted without command, running down the deep groove in the centre of her arched back, following the small hard knuckles of her spine to the rounded divide of her buttocks, felt through the glossy slipperiness of silken underwear.

  Her breathing rasped hoarsely as sandpaper, and she shifted her head and her mouth joined his, arching her back and lifting her lower body to let her silk underwear come away freely in his hands.

  The waxen fork of her body rose out of the bright disordered petals of her skirts like the stamen of some wondrously exotic orchid; its flowing perfection interrupted only by the deep finely sculptured pit in the centre of the perfect plain of her belly, and below that the shockingly abrupt explosion of dark smoky curls, a fat deep wedge that changed shape as she relaxed in a slow voluptuous movement. Oh Mark, she breathed. Oh Mark, I can't stand it Her anger had all evaporated, she was soft and breathless, slowly entwining, warm and gentle and loving, but the sound of her voice woke him suddenly to reality. He realized the betrayal of the trust placed in him by Sean Courtney, the abuse of a privileged position, and he pulled away from her, appalled at his own treachery. I must be mad, he gasped with horror, and tried to roll away from her. Her response was instantaneous, the instinctive reaction of a deprived lioness, that uncanny ability to go from soft purring repose to dangerous blazing anger in the smallest part of a second.

  Her open hand cracked across his face, in an explosion of brilliant Catherine wheels of colour that starred his vision, and she screamed at him. What kind of a man are you? She tried to strike him again, but he was ready for her and they rolled together chest to chest in the grass. You're a nothing, and you'll stay like that because you haven't the guts and the strength to be anything else, she hissed at him, and the words hurt a thousand times worse than the blow. His own anger flared to match hers and he came up over her. Damn you! How dare you say that!

  She shouted back at him. At least I dare, you wouldn't dare, But she broke off then as she felt it happen, then she cried out again but in a different voice. Oh Go! Her whole body racked as she locked him to her, enfolding and holding him while she purred and murmured with a voice gone low and husky arid victorious. Oh Mark, oh darling, darling Mark. Sean Courtney sat his horse with the slumping comfortable seat of the African horseman. Long stirrups and legs thrust forward, sitting well back on his mount, sjambok trailing from his left hand and reins held low on the pommel of the saddle.

  In the shade of the leadwood tree, his stallion stood with the patience of a trained gun horse, its weight braced on three legs and the fourth cocked at rest, neck stretched against the reins as it reached to crop the fine sweet grass that covered the upper slopes of the escarpment, its teeth making a harsh tearing sound with each mouthful.

  Sean looked out across the spreading forests and grassland below him, and realized how much it had all changed since he had ran across it barefooted with his hunting dogs and throwing sticks s asmall boisterous child.

  Four or five miles away, nestled against the protective wall of the escarpment, was the homestead of Tbeunis Kraal, where he had been born in the old brass bedstead in the front room, both he and Garrick, his twin brother, in the course of a single sweltering summer morning, a double birthing that had killed the mother he had never known. Garrick lived there still, and at last he had found peace and pride among his books and his papers. Sean smiled with affection and sympathy, tinged with ancient guilt, what might his brother have been if one leg had not been shattered by the careless shotgun that Sean had fired?

  He thrust the thought aside, and instead turned in the saddle to survey his own domain.

  The thousands upon thousands of acres that he had planted to timber and which had given him the foundation of his fortune. From where he sat he could see the sawmills and timber yards adjoinin
g the railway yards down in the town, and once again he felt the warm contentment of a life not thrown to waste, the glow of achievement and endeavour rewarded. He smiled and lit one of the long dark cheroots, striking the match off his boot, adjusting easily to the shifting balance of the horse under him.

  A moment longer he indulged this rare moment of selfgratification, almost as though to avoid thinking of the most pressing of his problems.

  Then he let his eyes drift away across the spreading rooftops of Ladyburg to that new ungainly structure of steel and galvanized sheet iron that rose tall enough to dwarf any other structure in the valley, even the massive fourstorey block of the new Ladyburg Farmers Bank.

  The sugar refinery was like some heathen idol, ugly and voracious, crouching at the edge of the neat blocks of planted sugar which stretched away beyond the limit of the eye, carpeting the low rolling hills with waving, moving green that rolled in the wind like the waves of the ocean, planted to feed that eternally hungry structure.

  The frown puckered the skin between Sean's eyes at the bridge of his big beaky nose. Where he counted his land in thousands of acres, the man who had once been his son counted his in tens of thousands.

  The horse sensed his change of mood and gathered itself, nodding its head extravagantly and skittering a little in the shade, ready to run. Easy, boy, Sean growled at him, and gentled him with a hand on his shoulder.

  He waited now for that man, having come early to the rendezvous as was always his way. He liked to be there first and let the other man come to him. It was an old trick, to let the other seem the interloper in established territory, while the waiting man had time to consider and arrange his thoughts, and to study the other as he approached.