by Wilbur Smith
You know what I want from you, he said.
Yes, I think I do, Mark agreed.
Tell me what I want, Dirk laughed again. You want a report that recommends that the development of the Chaka's Gate proclaimed area as a National Park is not practical. You said it, not me. Dirk picked up his glass again and lifted it to Mark. But, none the less, I'll drink to it And the rewards? Mark went on. The satisfaction of knowing that you are doing your patriotic duty for the peoples of this nation, Dirk told him solemnly. I had all the satisfaction I need for a lifetime in France, Mark said softly. But I found out you can't eat or drink it, and Dirk laughed delightedly. That really is choice, I must remember it. Are you certain you won't have a drink? Mark smiled for the first time. Yes, I'll change my mind. Whisky? Please. Dirk stood up and went to the silver tray, and he realized that he felt a sneaking relief. If it had proved that this man had no price, as he had started to believe possible, it would have destroyed one of the headstones on which he had based his whole philosophy of life. But it was all right again now. The man had a price, and he felt a sudden contempt and scorn, it would be money, and a paltry sum at that.
There was nothing different about this fellow.
He turned back to Mark. Here is something you can drink. He gave him the crystal glass. Now let's discuss something you can eat.
He went back to the desk, slid open one of the drawers, and took out of it a brown manilla envelope, sealed with red wax.
He laid it on the desk-top, and picked up his own glass.
That contains an earnest of my good will, he said. How earnest? One thousand pounds, Dirk said. Enough to buy a mountain of bread. One of your companies bought a farm from my grandfather, Mark spoke carefully. He had promised that farm to me, and he died without leaving any of the money. Dirk's expression had closed suddenly and his eyes were wary and watchful. For a moment he played with the idea of feigning ignorance, but already he had admitted he had investigated Mark thoroughly. Yes, he nodded. I know about that. The old man wasted it all away. The price of that farm was three thousand pounds, Mark went on. I feel that I am still owed that money. Dirk dropped his hand into the drawer again, and brought out two identical sealed envelopes. He laid them carefully on top of the first envelope. By a strange coincidence, he said. I just happen to have that exact amount with me. A paltry sum indeed, he smiled his contempt. What had made him suspect that there was something unusual about this man, he wondered. In the desk drawer were seven other identical manilla envelopes, each containing one hundred ten pound notes. He had been prepared to go that high for the report -no, he corrected himself, I would have been prepared to go further, much further. Come, he smiled. Here it is. And he watched Mark Anders rise from the chair and cross the room, pick up the envelopes and slip them into his pocket.
Sean Courtney's beard bristled like the quills on the back of an angry porcupine, and his face turned slowly to the colour of a badly fired brick. Good God! he growled, as he stared at the three envelopes on his desk top. The seals had been carefully split and the contents arranged in three purple blue fans of crisp treasury bills. You took his money? Yes, sir, Mark agreed, standing in front of the desk like a wayward pupil before the head pedagogue. Then you have the brass to come to me with it? Sean made a gesture as though to sweep the piles of bills on to the floor. Take the filthy stuff away from me. Your first lesson, General. The money is always important, Mark said quietly. Yes, but what must I do with this? As patron of the Society for the Protection of African Wildlife, your duty would be to send the donor a letter of acceptance and thanks for his generous donation What on earth are you talking about? Sean stared at him. What society is this? I have just formed it, sir, and elected you patron. I am sure we will be able to draw up a suitable memorandum of objects and rules of membership, but what it boils down to is a campaign to make people aware of what we are going to do, to gather public support, Mark spoke rapidly, pouring it all out, and Sean listened with the brick colour of his face slowly returning to normal, and a slow but delighted grin pulling his beard out of shape. We'll use this money for advertisements in the press to make people aware of their heritage, Mark raced on, ideas tumbling out of him, and immediately spawning new ideas, while Sean listened, his grin becoming a spasmodic chuckle that shook his shoulders, and then finally a great peal of laughter, that went on for many minutes. Enough! at last he bellowed delightedly. Sit down, Mark, that's enough for now. And he groped for a handkerchief to mop his eyes and blow the great hooked beak of a nose like a trumpet, while he recovered his self-control. It's indecent, he chortled. Positively sacrilegious! You have no respect for money at all. It's un-natural. Oh, yes, I have, but money is only a means, not an end, sir, Mark laughed also, for the General's mirth was contagious. my God, Mark. You are a prize, you really are. Where ever did I find you? He gave one last chuckle, and then grew serious. He drew a clean sheet of paper from the sidedrawer and began to make notes. As though I haven't enough work already, he growled. Now let's draw up a list of objects for this bloody society of yours. They worked for nearly three hours, and Ruth Courtney had to come and call them to the dinner table. In a minute, dear, Sean told her, and placed a paperweight on the thick pile of notes he had made; he was about to rise when he frowned at Mark.
'You have chosen a dangerous enemy for yourself, young man, he warned him.
Yes, I know, Mark nodded soberly.
You say that with feeling. He stared at Mark questioningly. Mark hesitated a moment and then he began. You know my grandfather, John Anders, you spoke of him once before. Sean nodded, and sank back into the padded leather chair. He had land, eight thousand acres, he called it Andersland Sean nodded again, and Mark went on carefully, telling it all without embellishment, stating the facts, and when he had to guess or make conjecture, stating that it was so.
Again Ruth came to call them to dinner, just when Mark was describing the night on the escarpment when the gunmen had come to his camp. She was about to insist they come before the meal spoiled, but then she saw their faces and came silently to stand behind Sean's chair and listen, her face becoming paler and more set.
He told them about Chaka's Gate how he had searched for his grandfather's grave and the men who had come to hunt him, and when he had finished the story they were all silent, until at last Sean roused himself, sighed, a gusty, sorrowful sound, before he spoke. Why didn't you report this? Report what? Who would have believed me? You could have gone to the police. I have not a shred of evidence that points to Dirk Courtney, except my own absolute certainty. And he dropped his eyes. It's such a wild, unlikely story that I was afraid to tell even you, until this moment. Yes, Sean nodded. I can see that. Even now I don't want to believe it is true. I'm sorry, said Mark simply. I know it's true, but I don't want to believe it. Sean shook his head, and lowered his chin on to his chest. Ruth, standing behind him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Oh God, how much more must I suffer for him?
he whispered, then lifted his head again. You will be in even greater danger now, Mark. I don't think so, General. I am under your protection, and he knows itGod grant that is enough, Sean muttered, but what can we do against him? How can we stop this, Sean paused, seeking the word, and then hissed it savagely, this monster. There is no evidence, Mark said. Nothing to use against him. He has been too clever for that by far There is evidence, said Sean with complete certainty. If all this is true, then there is evidence, somewhere. Trojan the mule's broad back felt like a barrel under Mark, and the sun beat through his shirt so that his sweat rose in dark damp patches between his shoulder blades and at his armpits, as he jogged down the bank of the Bubezi with Spartan, the second heavily burdened mule, following him on a lead rein.
In the river bed on one of the sugary white sandbanks, he let the mules wade in knee-deep and begin to drink, sucking up the clear water noisily so that he could feel the animal's belly swelling between his knees.
He pushed his hat on to the back of his head and wiped away the d
rops from his brow with one thumb as he looked up at the portals of Chaka's Gate. They seemed to fall out of the sky like cascades of stone, sheer and eternal, so vast and solid that they dwarfed the land and the river at their feet.
The double pannier on the back of the lead mule was the less onerous of the burdens that he had brought with him from the teeming reaches of civilization. He had brought also a load of guilt and remorse, the sorrow of a lost love, and the galling of duty left unperformed. But now, beneath the cliffs of Chaka's Gate, he felt his burden lightening, and his shoulders gathering strength.
Something indefinable seemed to reach out to him from across the Bubezi River, a feeling of destiny running its appointed course, or more a sense of home -coming. Yes, he thought, with sudden joy, I am coming home at last.
Abruptly Mark was in a hurry. He pulled up Trojan's reluctant head, with water still pouring from his loose rubbery lips, and kicked him forward into the swirling green eddy of the river, slipping from the saddle to swim beside him when he lost his footing.
As the big soup-plate hooves touched bottom, he threw his leg back across the saddle and rode up the far bank, his breeches clinging to his thighs and his sodden shirt streaming water.
Suddenly, for the first time in a week, and for no good reason, he laughed, a light unstrained burst of laughter that hung about Men like a shimmering halo long afterwards.
The sound was so low, and the hooves of Trojan the grey mule were plugging into the soft earth along the river with a rhythmic chuffing sound, so that Mark was not sure of what he had heard.
He reined Trojan to a stop and listened. The silence was so complete that it seemed to hiss like static, and when a wood dove gave its melodious and melancholy whistle a mile along the river, it seemed close enough to touch.
Mark shook his head, and flicked the reins. At the first hoof fall, the sound came again, and this time there was no mistaking it. The hair down the nape of Mark's neck prickled, and he straightened quickly out of his comfortable saddle slouch. He had heard that sound only once before, but in circumstances that made certain he would never forget it.
It was close, very close, coming from the patch of thick green riverine bush between him and the river, a tangled thicket of wild loquat and hanging lianas, typical cover for the animal that had called.
It was a weird unearthly sound, a fluid sound, almost like liquor poured from the neck of a stone jug, and only one who had heard it before would recognize the distress and warning call of a fully grown leopard.
Mark swung the mule away, and set him lumbering up the rising ground until he reached the spreading shade of a leadwood, where he tethered him and loosened his girth.
Then he slipped the Marmlicher out of its scabbard, and quickly checked the loaded magazine, the fat brass cartridges with their copper-jacketed noses were still bright and slick with wax, and he snapped the bolt closed.
He carried the rifle casually in his left hand, for he had no intention at all of using it. Instead he was aware of a pleasurable glow of excitement and anticipation. In the two months of hard riding and walking since his return to Chaka's Gate, this was the first chance he had been given of sighting a leopard.
There were many leopard along the Bubezi, he had seen their sign almost daily, and heard them sawing and coughing in the night. Always the leopard and the kudu are the last to give way before man and his civilization. Their superior cunning and natural stealth protect them long after the other species have succumbed, Now he had a chance at a sighting. The patch of riverine bush though dense, was small, and he longed for a sighting, even if just a flash of yellow in deep shade, something concrete, a firm entry in his logbook, another species to add to the growing list of his head count, He circled out cautiously, his eyes flickering from the thick green wall of bush to soft ground at his feet, checking for spoor as well as for actual sight of the yellow cat.
just above the steep river bank he stopped abruptly, and stared down before going on to one knee to touch the earth.
They weren't leopard tracks, but others he had grown to know and recognize. There was no special distinguishing characteristic, no missing toes, no scarring or deformity, but Mark's trained eye recognized the shape and size, the slight spraying toe-in way the man walked, the length of his stride and a toe-heavy impression, that of a quick alert tread. The distress call of the animal in the thicket made sense now. Pungushe, said Mark quietly. The jackal at work again. The tracks were doubled, entering the thicket and returning. The inward tracks seemed deeper, less extended, as though the man carried a burden, but the outward tracks were lighter, the man walked freely.
Slowly, Mark edged in towards the thicket, following the man's prints. Pausing for long minutes to examine the undergrowth carefully every few paces, or squatting down to give himself better vision along the ground under the hanging hanas and branches.
Now that he knew what he was going to find, the pleasurable glow of excitement had given way to the chill of anger
and the cold knowledge of mortal danger.
Something white caught his eye in the gloomy depths of the thicket. He stared at it moments before he saw the white, bleeding pith of a tree trunk, where it had been ripped by the claws of an anguished beast, long raking marks deep through the dark woody bark. His anger slid in his belly like an uncoiling serpent.
He moved sideways and slowly forward, the rifle held ready now, low across his hips, three paces before he stopped again.
On the edge of the thicket there was an area of flattened grass and scrub; the soft black leaf-mould earth had been churned and disturbed, something heavy had been dragged back and forth, and there was a fleck of wet red lit by a single beam of falling sunlight that might have been the petal of a wild flower, or a drop of blood.
He heard another sound then, the clink of metal on metal, link on link, steel chain moved stealthily in the dark depths of the thicket and it sighted him. He knew where the animal was lying now, and he moved out sideways, crabbing step after step, slipping the safety-catch of the rifle, and holding it at high port across his chest.
White again, unnatural white, a round blob of it against dark foliage and he froze staring at it. Long seconds passed before he realized that it was the raw wood of a cut log, a short fork-shaped log as thick as a young girl's waist, so freshly cut that the gum was still bleeding from it in sticky wine-coloured drops. He saw also the twist of stolen fencing wire that held the chain to the log. The log was the anchor, a sliding drag weight which would hold the trapped animal without giving it a solid pull against which to pit itself and tear itself free.
The chain clinked again.
The leopard was within twenty paces of him. He knew exactly where it was but he could not see it, and as he stared, his mind was racing, remembering everything he had heard about the animal, the old man's stories. You won't see him until he comes, and even then he will only be a yellow flash of light, like a sunbeam. He won't warn you with a grunt, not like a lion. He comes absolutely silently, and he won't chew your arm or grab you in the shoulder. He'll go for your head. He knows all about two-legged animals, he feeds mostly on baboon, so he knows where your head is. He'll take the top off your skull quicker than you open your breakfast egg, and for good measure his back legs will be busy on your belly.
You've seen a cat lie on his back and hook with his back legs when you scratch his belly. He'll cat you the same way, but he'll strip your guts out of you just like a chicken, and he'll do it so quickly that if there are four of you in the hunting-party he'll kill three of them before the fourth man gets his gun to his shoulder. Mark stood absolutely still and waited. He could not see the animal, but he could feel it, could feel its eyes, they stung his skin like the feet of poisonous crawling insects, and he remembered the shiny marble white scar tissue that Sean Courtney had shown him once in one of those mellow moments after the fourth whisky, pulling up his shirt and flexing muscle, so the cicatrice bulged with the gloss of satin. Leopard" he had said. De
vil cat, the worst bastard in all the bush. He felt his feet pulling back slowly, and the dead leaves rustled. He could walk away and leave it, come back when the vultures told im the anima was dead or too weak to be a danger. Then he imagined the terror and anguish of the animal, and suddenly it was not the animal, but his animal, his charge, his sacred charge, and he stepped forward.
The chain clinked again and the leopard came. It came with a terrible silent rush, and in the blurring streaming charge, only the eyes blazed, they blazed yellow with hatred and fear and agony. The chain flailed out behind it, spinning and snapping, and as Mark brought the rifle up the last six inches to his shoulder he saw the trap hanging on its fore-leg like a sinister grey metallic crab. The heavy steel trap slowed the charge just that fraction.
Time seemed to pass with a dreamlike slowness, each microsecond falling heavily as drops of thick oil, so that he saw that the leopard's foreleg above the grip of the steel jaws was eaten through. He felt his stomach turn over as he realized that the frenzied animal had gnawed through its own bone and flesh and sinew in its desperate try for freedom. The leg was held by only a thread of bloody ragged skin, and that last thread snapped at the heavy jerk of the steeltrap.
The leopard was free, mad with pain and fear, as it launched itself at Mark's head.
The muzzle of the Marmlicher almost touched the broad flat forehead; he was so close that he could see the long white whiskers bristling from the puckered snarling lips like grass stalks stiff with the morning frost, and the yellow fangs behind wet black lips, the furry pink tongue arched across the open throat, and the eyes. The terrible hating yellow eyes.
Mark fired and the bullet clubbed the skull open, the yellow eyes blinked tightly at the jarring shock, and the head was wrenched backwards, twisted on the snakelike neck, while the lithe body lost its grace and lightness and turned heavy and shapeless in mid-air.