by Wilbur Smith
The buffalo is one of the few wild animals which will turn and actively hunt its tormentor. Although the bull was dead on his feet, spurting blood with every lunging stride, he had swung wide into the wind to take Pungushe's scent and when he had it, he had steadied into that terrible crabbing, nose up, wide-homed, relentless charge that only death itself will stop.
Pungushe had stood to meet him as he came thundering down through the reeds, and he had picked the point at the base of the neck for his second stroke and put the steel in cleanly to the heart, but the bull had hit him also, before blundering on a dozen paces and falling to his knees with that characteristic death bellow.
Mark found where Pungushe had fallen, his body marks etched clearly in the soft clay.
Mark followed where he had dragged himself out of the edge of the reed beds and shakily regained his feet.
Slowly Pungushe had turned northwards, but his stride was cramped, he was heeling heavily, not up on his toes, not extended into his normal gait.
He stopped once where he had left his steel-jawed spring trap, and he hid it in an ant bear hole and kicked sand over it, obviously too sick and weak to carry it or to cache the valuable trap more securely. Mark retrieved the trap and, as he tied it on to Trojan's saddle, he wondered briefly to how many of his animals it had dealt hideous death.
A mile further on, Pungushe pausW to gather leaves from one of the little turpentine bushes, a medicinal shrub, and then he had gone on slowly, not using the rocky ridges, not covering or back-tracking as he usually did.
At the sandy crossing of one of the steep narrow dry water courses, Pungushe had dropped on one knee, and had used both hands to push himself upright.
Mark stared at the sign for there was blood now for the first time, black droplets that had formed little pellets of loose sand, and in his anger and jubilation, Mark felt a prick of real concern.
The man was hard hit, and he had once saved Mark's life. Mark could still remember the blessed taste of the bitter medicine in the black baked pot cutting through the terrible thirsts of malaria.
He had been leading Trojan up to this point, to keep down, to show a low silhouette, so as not to telegraph heavy hoof -beats ahead to his quarry.
Now he swung up into the saddle, and kicked the mule into a plunging sway-backed canter.
Pungushe was down. He had gone down heavily at last, dropping to the sandy earth. He had crawled off the game path, under a low bush out of the sun, and he had pulled the light kaross of monkey-skins over his head, the way a man settles down to sleep, or to die.
He lay so still that Mark thought he was indeed dead.
He slipped down off Trojan's back and went up cautiously to the prostrate body. The flies were buzzing and swarming gleefully over the bloody bundle of green turpentine leaves that were bound with strips of bark around the man's flank and across the small of his back.
Mark imagined clearly how he had received that wound, Pungushe standing to meet the charging buffalo, going for the neck with the short heavy-bladed assegai, putting the steel in cleanly and then jumping clear, but the bull pivoting hard on his stubby front legs and hooking with the massive bossed and wickedly curved horns, Pungushe had taken the hook low in the side, far back behind the hip-bone of the pelvis. The shock would have hurled him clear, giving him time to crawl away while the bull staggered on, fighting the deep steel in his chest, until at last he had gone down on his fore-legs with that last defiant death bellow, Mark shuddered in the harsh sunlight at the wound that bundle of leaves covered, and went down on one knee to brush the flies away.
Now for the first time, he became aware of the man's physique. The kaross covered his head and shoulders only, the great chest was exposed. A loin-cloth of softly tanned leather embroidered with blue beads was drawn up between his legs, leaving free the solid bulge of his buttocks, and the sinewy thews of his thighs and the flat hard plain of the belly.
Each separate muscle was clearly defined, and the ropey veins below the surface of the skin were like bunches of serpents, testimony to the man's tremendous physical development and fitness. The skin itself was lighter than that of the average Zulu. It had the smooth dark buttery colour and lustre of a woman's skin, but tight dark curls covered the chest.
I baited for a jackal, Mark thought wonderingly, and I caught myself a lion, a big old black-maned lion. And now he felt real concern that Pungushe was dead. For such a splendid animal, death was a shabby bargain.
Then he saw the gentle, almost imperceptible rise and fall of the deep muscled chest, and he reached out and touched the shoulder through the kaross.
The man stirred, and then painfully lifted himself on one elbow, letting the kaross fall back, and he looked at Mark. the full noon of his strength and pride He was a man in and dignity, perhaps forty years of age, with just the first frosts of wisdom touching the short cap of dark wool at his temples.
The agony did not show in his face, the broad forehead was smooth as polished amber, the mouth was in repose, and the eyes were dark and fierce and proud. It was the handsome moon face of the high-bred Zulu. Sakubona, Pungushe, said Mark. I see you, 0 jackal. The man looked at him for a moment, thinking about the name and the style of greeting, the language and the accent in which it was spoken. The calm expression did not change, no smile nor snarl on the thick sculptured lips, only a new light in the dark eyes. Sakubona, Jamela. I see you, O Seeker. His voice was deep and low, yet it rang on the still air with the timbre of a bronze gong, and then he went on immediately, Sakubona, Ngaga. Mark blinked. It had never occurred to him that the jackal might think of him by a name every bit as derogatory. Ngaga is the pangolin, the scaly ant-eater, a small creature that resembles an armadillo, a nocturnal creature, which if caught out in daylight, scurries around like a bent and wizened old man pausing to peer shortsightedly at any small object in its path, then hurrying on again.
The two names Jamela and Ngaga used together described with embarrassing clarity somebody who ran in small circles, peering at everything and yet blindly seeing nothing.
Suddenly Mark saw himself through the eyes of a hidden observer, riding a seemingly pointless patrol through the valley, dismounting to peer at anything that caught his interest, then riding on again, just like an ngaga. It was not a flattering thought.
He felt with sudden discomfort that despite Pungushe's wounds, and Mark's position of superiority, so far he had had the worst of the exchange. It seems that ngaga has at last found what he seeks, he _pointed out grimly, and went to the mule for his blanket roll.
Under the bloody bunch of leaves there was a deep dark hole where the point of the buffalo horn had driven in. It might have gone in as far as the kidneys, in which case the man was as good as dead. Mark thrust the thought aside, and swabbed out the wound as gently as he could with a solution of acriflavine.
His spare shirt was snowy white and still crisp from Marion's meticulous laundering and ironing. He ripped off the sleeves, folded the body into a wad and placed it over the gaping hole, binding it up with the torn sleeves.
Pungushe said nothing as he worked, made no protest nor showed any distress as Mark lifted him into a sitting position to work more easily. But when Mark ripped the shirt he murmured regretfully, It is a good shirt. There was once a young and handsome ngaga who might have died from the fever, Mark reminded him, but a scavenging old jackal carried him to a safe place and gave him drink and food. Ah, Pungushe nodded. But he was not such a stupid jackal as to tear a good shirt. The ngaga is much concerned that the jackal is in good health, so that he will be able to labour mightily at the breaking of rocks and other manly tasks when he is an honoured guest at the kraal of King Georgey. Mark ended that subject, and repacked his blanket roll. Can you make water, O jackal? It is necessary to see how deep the buffalo has speared you. The urine was tinged pinky brown, but there were no strings of bright blood. It seemed that the kidneys may merely have been badly bruised, and that the thick pad of iron muscle across the Zulu's
back had absorbed much of the brutal driving thrust. Mark found himself praying silently that it was so, although he could not imagine why he was so concerned.
Working quickly, he cut two long straight saplings, and plaited a drag litter from strips of wet bark. Then he padded the litter with his own blankets and Pungushe's kaross, before hitching it up to Trojan.
He helped the big Zulu into the litter, surprised to find how tall he was, and how hard was the arm he placed around Mark's shoulder to support himself.
With Pungushe flat in the litter, he led the mule back along the game trail, and the ends of two saplings left a long snaking drag mark in the soft earth.
It was almost dark when they passed the scene of the buffalo hunt. Looking across the reed banks, Mark Could make out the obscene black shapes of the vultures in the trees, waiting their turn at the carcass. Why did you kill my buffalo? he asked, not certain that Pungushe was still conscious. All men know the new laws. I have travelled to every village, I have spoken with every induna, every chief, all men have heard. All men know the penalty for hunting in this valley. If he was your buffalo, why did he not carry the mark of your iron? Surely it is the custom of the Abelungu, the white men, to burn their mark upon their cattle? Pungushe asked from the litter, without a smile nor with any trace of mockery, yet mockery Mark knew it was. He felt his anger stir. This place was declared sacred, even by the old king, Chaka. No, said Pungushe. It was declared a royal hunt, and, his voice took a sterner ring, I am Zulu, of the royal blood.
I hunt here by my birthright, it is a man's thing to do. No man has the right to hunt here. Then what of the white men who have come here with their isibamu, their rifles, these past hundred seasons?
asked Pungushe. They are evil-doers, even as you are. Then why were they not taken to be guests at the kraal of King Georgey, as I am so honoured? They will be in future, Mark assured him. Ho! said Pungushe, and this time his voice was thick with contempt and mockery. When I catch them, they will go also, Mark repeated doggedly, but the Zulu made a weary gesture of dismissal with one expressive pink-palmed hand, a hand that said clearly that there were many laws, some for rich, some for poor, some for white and some for black. They were silent again until after dark when Mark had camped for the night, and put Trojan to graze on a head-rope.
As he squatted over the fire, cooking the evening meal for both of them, Pungushe spoke again from his litter in the darkness beyond the firelight. For whom do you keep the silwane, the wild animals of the valley? Will King George come here to hunt? Nobody will ever hunt here again, no king nor common man. Then why do you keep the silwane? Because if we do not, then the day will dawn when there will be no more left in this land. No buffalo, no lion, no kudu, nothing. A great emptiness. Pungushe was silent for the time it took Mark to spoon a slop of maize porridge and bully beef into the lid of the pannikin and take it to the Zulu. Eat, he commanded, and sat crosslegged opposite him with his own plate in his lap.
What you say is true, Pungushe spoke thoughtfully. When I was a child, of your age, Mark noted the barb but let it pass, there were elephant in this valley, great bulls with teeth as long as a throwing-spear, and there were many lions, herds of buffalo like the great king's cattle, he broke off. They have gone, soon what is left will go also. Is that a good thing? Mark asked. It is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Pungushe shrugged and began to eat. It is merely the way of the world, and there is little profit in pondering it. They finished eating in silence and Mark cleared the plates and brought coffee, which Pungushe waved away. Drink it, snapped Mark. You must have it to cleanse the blood from your water. He gave Pungushe one of his cigarettes, and the Zulu carefully broke off the brown cork tip before putting it between his lips. He wrinkled his broad flat nose at the insipid taste, for he was accustomed to the ropey black native tobacco, but he would not belittle a man's hospitality by making comment.
When it is all gone, when the great emptiness comes here to this valley, what will become of you, O jackal?
Mark asked. I do not understand your question. You are a man of the silwane. You are a great hunter.
Your life is yoked to the silwane, as the herdsman is yoked to his cattle. What will become of you, O mighty hunter, when all your cattle are gone? Mark realized that he had reached the Zulu. He saw his nostrils flare, and something burn up brightly within him, but he waited while Pungushe considered the proposition at great length and in every detail. I will go to Igoldi, said Pungushe at last. I will go to the gold mines, and become rich. They will put you to work deep in the earth, where you cannot see the sun nor feel the wind, and you will break rocks, just as you go now to do at the kraal of King Georgey.
Mark saw the repugnance flit across the Zulu's face. I will go to Tekweni, Pungushe changed his mind. I will go to Durban and become a man of much consequence. In Tekweni you will breathe the smoke of the cane mills into your lungs, and when the fat babu overseer speaks to you, you will reply, yehbo, Nkosi, yes, master! This time the repugnance on the Zulu's face was deeper still and he smoked his cigarette down to a tiny sliver of paper and ash which he pinched out between thumb and forefinger.
Jarnela, he said sternly. You speak words that trouble a man. Mark knew well that the big Zulu's injury was- more serious than his stoic acceptance of it would indicate. It was womanly to show pain.
It would be a long time before he was ready to make the journey by side-car over the rough tracks and rutted dusty roads to the police station and magistrate's court at Ladyburg.
mark put him into the small lean-to tool-shed that he had built on the far wall of the mule stables. it was dry and cool, and had a sturdy door with a Yale padlock. He used blankets from Marion's chest and the mattress she had been saving for the children's room, despite her protests. But he's a native, dear! Every evening, he took the prisoner's meal down to him in the pannikin, inspected the wound and dressed it afresh.
Then while he waited for Pungushe to eat, he sat on the top step in the doorway to the shed and they smoked a cigarette while they talked. If the valley belongs now to King Georgey, how is it that you build your house here, plant your gardens and graze your mules? I am the king's man, Mark explained. You are an induna? Pungushe paused with a spoon of food halfway to his mouth, and stared at Mark incredulously. You are one of the king's counsellors? I am the keeper of the royal hunt. Mark used the old Zulu title, and Purigushe shook his head sadly. My father's father was once the keeper of the royal hunt but he was a man of great consequence, with two dozen wives, a man who had fought in a dozen wars and killed so many enemies that his shield was as thick with oxtails as there is grass on the hills in springtime. The oxtail was the decoration which the king grants a warrior to adorn his shield when he has distinguished himself in battle.
Pungushe finished his meal and added simply, 'King Chaka knew better than to send a child to do man's work. The next evening Mark saw that the wound was healing cleanly and swiftly. The man's tremendous fitness and strength were responsible for that. He was able to sit crosslegged now, and there was a new jauntiness in the way he held his head. It would be sooner than Mark had thought that Pungushe would be fit enough to make the journey to Ladyburg, and Mark felt an odd sinking feeling of regret. King Georgey is doubtlessly a great, wise and all-seeing king, Pungushe opened the evening's debate. Why then does he wait until sundown to begin work that should have been started at dawn? If he wanted to avoid the great emptiness in this valley, his father should have begun the work. The king's affairs are many, in far countries. He must rely on indunas to advise him who are not as wise or allseeing, Mark explained. The Abelungu, the white men, are like greedy children, grabbing up handfuls of food they cannot eat.
Instead they smear it over their faces. There are greedy and ignorant black men also, Mark pointed out. Some who even kill leopards with steel traps for their fur. To sell to the greedy white men, to dress their ignorant women, Pungushe agreed, and that makes the score deuce, Mark thought as he gathered up the empty pannikin
s.
The next evening Pungushe seemed sad, as at the time of leave-taking.
You have given. me much on which I must think heavI ily, he said. You will have much time to do so, Mark agreed. In between the breaking of rocks. And Pungushe ignored the reference. There is weight in your words, for one who is still young enough to be herding the cattle, he qualified the compliment. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, Mark translated into Zulu and Pungushe nodded solemnly, and in the morning he was gone.
He had opened the thatch at the back of the roof, and wriggled through the small hole. He had taken his kaross and left Marion's blankets neatly folded on the mattress.
He had tried for the steel spring-trap, but Mark had locked it in the kitchen, so he had left it and gone northwards in the night.
Mark was furious for so misjudging his prisoner's recovery, and he muttered darkly as he plunged along after him on Trojan. This time I'm going to shoot the bastard on sight, he promised, and realized at that moment that Pungushe had backtracked on him. He had to dismount and laboriously unravel the confused trail.
Half an hour later, Pungushe led him into the river, and it was well after noon when he at last found where the Zulu had left the water, stepping lightly on a fallen log.
He finally lost the cold spoor in the rocky ground on the far rim of the valley, and it was almost midnight when he rode weaffly back to the thatched cottage. Marion had his dinner ready and ten gallons of hot bath water bubbling on the fire.
Six weeks later, Pungushe returned to the valley. Mark sat astounded on the stoep of the cottage, and watched him come.
He walked with the long gliding stride that showed he was fully recovered from his wound. He wore the beaded loin-cloth and the jackal-skin cloak over his shoulders. He carried two of the short-shafted stabbing assegai, with the broad steel blades, and his wives followed at a respectable distance behind him.