by Wilbur Smith
On this weathering ground lay the stockpile of the H'ani Mine, thousands of tons of ore spread out on an area the size of four polo fields. When the blue ground was blasted out of the pipe it was hard as concrete; only gelignite and the ten-pound sledge hammers would break it. But after it had been lying in the sun on the weathering ground for six months it began to break down and crumble until it was chalky and friable and could be reloaded in the cocopans and taken to the mill and the washing gear.
Shasa was placed in charge of a gang of forty labourers, and soon struck up a friendship with the Ovambo boss-boy.
Like all the black tribesmen he had two names, his tribal name which he did not divulge to his white employers, and his work name. The Ovambo's work name was Moses. He was fifteen years or so younger than the other boss-boys, and had been selected for his intelligence and initiative. He spoke both English and Afrikaans well and the respect that the black labourers usually reserved for the grey hair of age he earned from them with his billy club and boot and acid wit.
If I was a white man, he told Shasa, one day I would have Doctela's job. Doctela was the Ovambo name for TWentyman-Jones, and Moses went on, I might still have it, one day, or if not me, then my son. Shasa was shocked and then intrigued by such an outrageous notion. He had never before met a black who did not know his place in society. There was a disturbing presence about the tall Ovambo, who looked like one of the drawings of an Egyptian pharaoh from the forbidden section of the Weltevreden library, but that hint of danger made him more intriguing to Shasa.
They usually spent the lunch-hour break together, Shasa helping Moses to perfect his reading and writing in the grubby ruled notebook which was his most prized possession. In return the Ovambo taught Shasa the rudiments of his language, especially the oaths and insults, and the meaning of some of the work chants, most of which were ribald.
Is baby-making work or pleasure? was the rhetorical opening question of Shasa's favourite chant, and he joined in the response to the delight of the gang he was supervising: It cannot be work or the white man would make us do it for him! Shasa was just over fourteen years old. Some of the men he supervised were three times his age, and none of them thought it strange. Instead they responded to his teasing and his sunny smile and his sorry attempts to speak their language. His men were soon spreading five loads to four of the other teams, and they ended the second week as top gang on the grounds.
Shasa was too involved with the work and his new friend to notice the dark looks of the white supervisor, and even when he made a pointed remark about kaffer-boeties, or nigger-lovers', Shasa did not take the reference personally.
On the third Saturday, after the men had been paid at noon, he rode down to the boss-boys cottage at Moses invitation and spent an hour sitting in the sun on the front doorstep of the cottage drinking sour milk from the calabash that Moses shy and pretty young wife offered, and helping him read aloud from the copy of Macaulay's History of England he had smuggled out of the bungalow and brought down in his saddlebag.
The book was one of his set works at school so Shasa considered himself something of an authority on it, and he was enjoying the unusual role of teacher and instructor until at last Moses closed the book.
This is very heavy work, Good Water, he had translated Shasa's name directly into the Ovambo, worse than spreading ore in the summer.
I will work on it later, and he went into the single-roomed cottage, placed the book in his locker and came back with a roll of newspaper.
Let us try this. He offered the paper to Shasa, who spread it on his lap. It was poor quality yellow newsprint and the ink smudged onto his fingers. The name on the top of the page was Umlomo Wa Bantu, and Shasa translated it without difficulty: The Mouth of the Black Nations', and he glanced down the columns of print. The articles were mostly in English, though there were a few in the vernacular.
Moses pointed out the editorial, and they started working through it.
What is the African National Congress? Shasa was puzzled. And who is Jabavu? Eagerly the Ovambo began to explain, and Shasa's interest turned to unease as he listened.
Jabavu is the father of the Bantu, of all the tribes, of all the black people. The African National Congress is the herder who guards our cattle. I don't understand. Shasa shook his head. He did not like the direction that the discussion was taking, and he began to squirm as Moses quoted: Your cattle are gone, my people Go rescue them!
Go rescue them!
Leave your breechloader And turn instead to the pen.
Take paper and ink, For that will be your shield.
Your rights are going So take up your pen Load it with ink And do battle with the pen.
That is politics, Shasa interrupted him. Blacks don't take part in politics. That's white men's business. This was the cornerstone of the South African way of life.
The glow went out of Moses expression and he lifted the newspaper off Shasa's lap and stood up.
I will return your book to you when I have read it. He avoided Shasa's eyes and went back into the cottage.
on the Monday Twenty-man-Jones stopped Shasa at the main gate of the weathering grounds. I think you have learned all there is to know about weathering, Master Shasa. It's about time we moved you along to the mill house and washing gear!
And as they followed the railway tracks up to the main plant, walking beside one of the cocopans which was full of the crumbling weathered ore, Twenty-man-Jones remarked: It is just as well not to become too familiar with the black labourers, Master Shasa, you will find they tend to take advantage if you do. Shasa was puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. Oh, you mean Moses. He isn't a Labourer, he is a boss-boy, and he is jolly bright, sir. A bit too bright for his own good, Twenty-man-Jones agreed bitterly. The bright ones are always the malcontents and trouble-stirrers. Give me an honest dumb nigger every time. Your friend Moses is trying to organize a black mineworkers union. Shasa knew from his grandfather and his mother that Bolsheviks and trade unionists were the most dreaded monsters, intent on tearing down the framework of civilized society.
He was appalled to learn that Moses was one of these, but Twenty-man-Jones was going on: We also suspect that he is at the centre of a nice little IDB operation. IDB was the other monster of civilized existence, illicit Diamond Buying, the trade in stolen diamonds, and Shasa was revolted by the idea that his friend could be both a trade unionist and an illicit dealer.
Yet Twenty-man-jones next words depressed him. I am afraid Mister Moses will head the list of those we will be laying off at the end of the month. He is a dangerous man.
We will simply have to get shot of him. They are getting rid of him simply because the two of us are friends. Shasa saw through it. 'It's because of me. He was swamped with a sense of guilt, and guilt was followed almost immediately by anger. Quick words leapt to his tongue. He wanted to cry, It's not fair! But before he spoke he looked at Twenty-man-Jones and knew intuitively that any defence he attempted of Moses would only seal the bossboy's fate.
He shrugged. You know what is best, sir, he agreed, and he saw the slight relaxation in the set of the old man's shoulders.
Mater, he thought, I will talk to Mater, and then, with intense frustration, If only I could do it myself, if only I could say what must be done. And then it dawned upon him that this was what his mother had meant when she spoke of power. The ability to charge and direct the orders of existence that surrounded him.
Power, he whispered to himself. One day I will have power. Enormous power. The work in the mill house was more exacting and interesting. The friable weathered ore was loaded into the bins and mg.
then fed through the hoppers into the rollers which crushed it to the correct consistency for the washing gear. The machinery was massive and powerful, the din almost deafening as the ore tumbled out of the hoppers into the feed chute and was sucked into the spinning steel rollers with a continuous roar. One hundred and fifty tons an hour; it went in one end as chalky lumps the size of r
ipe watermelons and poured out the far end as gravel and dust.
Annalisa's brother, Stoffel, who had on Shasa's last visit to the H'ani adjusted the timing on his old Ford and who was also the skilled mimic of bird calls, was now an apprentice in the mill house. He was delegated to show Shasa around, and undertook the assignment with gusto and relish.
You have to be goddamned careful with the mucking settings on the rollers or you crush the bloody diamonds to powder. Stoffel emphasized his newly acquired manliness and authority with oaths and obscenity.
Come on, Shasa, I'll show you the grease points. All points have to be grease-gunned at the beginning of every shift. He crawled under the bank of thundering rollers, shouting into Shasa's ear to make himself heard. Last month one of the other apprentices got his fucking arm in the bearing. It pulled it off like a chicken's wing, man. You should have seen the blood. Ghoulishly he pointed out the dried stains on the concrete floor and galvanized walls. Man, I tell you, he squirted blood like a garden hose. Stoffel climbed the steel catwalk like a monkey and they looked down on the roller mill tables. 'One of the Ovambo kaffirs fell off here, right smack into the ore bin, there wasn't even a scrap of bone bigger than your finger left of him when he came out the other end of the rollers. Ja, man, it's a bloody dangerous job, he told Shasa proudly. You've got to keep on your mucking toes all the time. When the mine hooter blew the lunch hour he led Shasa around to the shady side of the mill house and they perched comfortably on the ventilator housing. Under the sanction of the. work place they could associate quite openly, and Shasa felt grown-up and important in his blue workman's overalls as he opened the lunch box that the chef at the bungalow had sent down for him.
Chicken and tongue sandwiches and jam roly-poly, he checked the contents. Do you want some, Stoffel? No, man. Here comes my sister with my lunch. And Shasa lost all interest in his own lunch box.
Annalisa was pedalling down the avenue on a black-framed Rudge with the nest of canteens dangling from the handlebars. It was the first time that he had seen her since the meeting at the pumphouse, though he had looked for her each day since then. She had tucked her skirts into her bloomers to keep them clear of the chain. She stood up on the pedals and her legs pumped rhythmically as she came through the gates of the mill house and the wind flattened the thin stuff of her dress against the front of her body.
Her breasts were disproportionately large for her slim brown limbs.
Shasa watched her with total fascination. She became aware of him, sitting beside her brother, and her entire bearing changed. She dropped back onto the saddle and squared her shoulders, lifting one hand from the handlebars to try and smooth the windblown tangle of her hair. She braked the Rudge, stepped down off the pedals and propped the machine against the bottom of the ventilator housing.
What's for lunch, Lisa? Stoffel Botha demanded.
Sausage and mash. She handed the canteens up to him.
Same as always. The sleeves of her dress were cut back and when she lifted her arms Shasa saw the bush of coarse blond hair in her armpits tangled and wet with perspiration and he crossed his legs quickly.
Sis, man! Stoffel registered his disgust. It's always sausage and mash! Next time I'll ask Ma to cook fillet steak and mushrooms. She lowered her arms and Shasa realized he was staring but could not stop himself. She pulled the opening at the neck of her blouse closed and he saw a faint flush under the suntanned skin at her throat, but she had not yet looked directly at him.
Thanks for nothing, Stoffel dismissed her, but she lingered.
You can have some of mine, Shasa offered.
I'll swop you, Stoffel offered generously, and Shasa glanced into the canteen and saw the lumpy potato mash swimming in thin greasy gravy.
I'm not hungry. He spoke to the girl for the first time.
Would you like a sandwich, Annalisar She smoothed the skirt over her hips and looked directly at him at last. Her eyes slanted like a wild cat's, and she grinned slyly.
When I want something from you, Shasa Courtney, I will whistle for it, like this. She pouted her lips into a rosy cupid's bow and whistled like a snake charmer, at the same time slowly raising her forefinger in an unmistakably obscene gesture.
Stoffel let out a delighted guffaw and punched Shasa's arm, Man, she's got the hots for you! While Shasa blushed scarlet, and sat speechless with shock, Annalisa turned away deliberately and picked up the bicycle. She went out through the gates standing on the pedals and swinging the Rudge from side to side under her so that her tight round buttocks oscillated with each stroke.
That evening as he turned Prester John onto the pipe track Shasa's pulse started to gallop with anticipation, and as he approached the pumphouse he slowed the pony to a walk, afraid of disappointment, reluctant to turn the corner of the building.
Yet he was still not prepared for the shock when he saw her. She was draped languidly against one of the stanchions of the pipeline, and Shasa was speechless as she came slowly upright and sauntered to the head of his pony without looking up at the rider.
She held the cheek strap of his halter and crooned to the pony. 'What a pretty boy- The pony blew through his nostrils, and shifted his weight. What a lovely soft nose. She stroked his muzzle with a lingering touch.
would you like a little kiss then, my pretty boy. She pursed her lips, pink and soft and moist, and glanced up at Shasa before she leaned forward and deliberately kissed the pony's muzzle, slipping her arms around his neck. She held the kiss for long seconds and then laid her cheek against the pony's cheek. Beginning to sway, humming softly in her throat and rocking her hips gently, she at last looked up at Shasa with those sly slanting eyes.
He was struggling to find something to say, confused by the rush of his emotions, and she moved slowly to the pony's shoulder and stroked his flank.
So strong. Her hand brushed Shasa's thigh lightly, almost unintentionally, and then came back more deliberately and she was no longer looking at his face. He could not cover himself, could not hide his violent reaction to her touch, and suddenly she let out a shocking screech of laughter and stood back with both hands on her hips.
Are you going to camp out, Shasa Courtney? she demanded, and he was puzzled and embarrassed. He shook his head dumbly.
Then what are you putting up a tent for? She hooted, gazing shamelessly at the front of his breeches and he doubled up awkwardly in the saddle. With a disconcerting change of mood, she seemed to take pity on him and she went back to the pony's head and led him along the track, giving Shasa a chance to recover his composure.
What did my brother tell you about me? she asked, without looking round.
Nothing, he assured her.
Don't believe what he says. She was unconvinced. He always tries to make out bad things about me. Did he tell you about Fourie, the driver? Everybody at the mine knew how Gerhard Fourie's wife had caught the two of them in the cab of his truck after the Christmas party. Fourie's wife was older than Annalisa's mother, but she had blackened both the girl's eyes and torn her only good dress to tatters.
He didn't tell me anything, Shasa reiterated stoutly, and then with interest, What happened? Nothing, she said quickly. It was all lies. And then, with another change of direction, Would you like me to show you something? Yes, please. Shasa answered with alacrity.
He had an inkling of what it might be.
Give me an arm. She came to his stirrup and he leaned down and they hooked elbows. He swung her up and she was light and strong. She sat behind him astride the pony's rump and slid both arms around Shasa's waist.
Take the path to the left. She directed him and they rode in silence for ten minutes.
How old are you." she asked at last.
Almost fifteen. She stretched the truth a little and she said, 'I'll be sixteen in two months. if there had been any doubts as to who was in charge, this declaration effectively settled it. Shasa deferred to her and she felt it in his carriage.
She pressed her breasts to his back as
though to emphasize her control and they were big and rubbery hard and burned him through his thin cotton shirt.
Where are we going, he asked after another long silence.
They had by-passed the bungalow.
Hush up! I'll show you when we get there. The track had narrowed and become rougher. Shasa doubted anybody had passed this way in months, other than the small wild beasts that still lived this close to the mine.
Finally it petered out altogether against the base of the cliff, and Annaliss slid down from the pony's back.
Leave Your horse here. He tethered the pony and looked around him with interest.
He had never been so far along the base of the cliffs. They must be three miles from the bungalow at least.
Below them the scree slope plunged downwards at a steep angle, and the ground was Tiven with gorges and ravines, all of them choked with rank thorny undergrowth.
Come on, Annalisa ordered. We haven't got Much time.
A it will be dark soon. She ducked under a branch and started down the slope.
Hey" Shasa cautioned her. You can't go down there.
You'll hurt Yourself.
"You're scared, she mocked.
I am not. The taunt goaded him onto the rock-strewn slope and they climbed downwards. Once Annalisa paused to pluck a spray of yellow flowers from a thorn bush, then they went on, helping each other over the bad places, crouching under the thorn branches, teetering on the boulders and hopping across the gaps like a pair of rock rabbits until they
reached the bottom of the ravine and paused to catch their breath.
Shasa bent backwards from the waist and stared up at the cliff that towered above them, sheer as a fortress wall, but Annalisa tugged his arm to gain his attention.
It's a secret. You have to swear an oath not to tell anybody, especially not my brother. All right, I swear. You have to do it properly. Lift your right hand and put the other on your heart. Solemnly she led him through the oath, and then took his hand and drew him to a lichenvered pile of boulders. Kneel down! He obeyed, and she carefully pulled aside a leafy branch that screened a niche amongst the boulders. Shasa gasped and pulled back, coming half to his feet. The niche was shaped like a shrine. There was a collection of empty glass jars arranged on the floor but the wild flowers in them had withered and turned brown. Beyond the floral offering a pile of white bones had been carefully arranged in a small pyrafind and Surmounting this was a human skull, with gaping eye sockets and yellow teeth.