Wilbur Smith - B4 The Leopard Hunts In Darkness

by B4 The Leopard Hunts In Darkness(Lit)

  "I drink to you, Monomatapa of Zimbabwe, may you reign a thousand years!" He set down his glass and turned to stare down the long open vlei to the distant waterhole. A herd of zebra had down to drink. They were nervous and skitti come st, for the lions lie in ambush at the water. At last they waded in, knee, deep and in a single rank, dipped their lips to touch the surface in unison. They formed an overlapping frieze of identical heads like an infinity of mirror images until the old stallion sentinel snorted in nervous alarm and the pattern exploded in foaming water and wildly galloping forms.

  "The treatment of which you speak is drastic." Colonel Bukharin watched the zebra herd tear away into the forest.

  "Some patients do not survive it. Those that do are-" he searched for the word" altered."

  "Their minds are destroyed." Peter said it for him.

  "In plain terms yes," the colonel nodded.

  "I need his body, not his brain. I need a puppet, not a human being."

  "We can arrange that. When will you send him to us?" The diamonds first," Prter rep lied.

  "Of course, the diamd Ids first. How long will that take?" Peter shrugged-_'.1,&t long."

  "When you are ready I will send a doctor to you, with the appropriate medications. We can bring this Tungata Zebiwe out on the same route as the ivory: Air Zimbabwe to Danes-Salaam and one of our freighters from there to Odessa." "Agreed."

  "You say that he is being held near here? I would like to see him."

  ri

  "Is it wise?"

  "Indulge me, pleaseP From Colonel Bukharin it was an order rather than a request.

  ungata Zebiwe stood in the flat white glare of the noonday sun. He stood facing a whitewashed wall that caught the sun's rays and flung them back likea huge mirror. He had stood there since before the rise of the sun, when the frost had crusted the sparse brown grass at the edge of the parade ground.

  Tungata was stark naked, as were the two men that flanked him. All three of them were so thin that every rib showed clearly, and the crests of their spines stood out like the beads of a rosary down the centre of their backs.

  Tungata had his eyes closed to slits to keep out the glare of sunlight off the wall, but he concentrated on a mark in the plaster to counter the effects of giddy vertigo which had already toppled the men on each side of him more than once. Only heavy lashing by the guards had forced them to their feet again. They were still swaying and reeling as they stood.

  "Courage, my brothers," Tungata whispered in Sinde, bele. "Do not let the Shana dogs see you beaten." He was determined not to collapse, and he stared at the dimple in the wall. It was the mark of a bullet strike, painted over with lime wash They lime washed the wall after every execution they were meticulous about it.

  "Anwnzi," husked the man on his right, "water! "Do not think of it," Tungata. ordered him. "Do not speak of it, or it will drive you mad." The heat came off the wall in waves that struck with physical weight.

  "I am blind," whispered the second man. "I cannot see."

  The white glare had seared his eyeballs like snow blindness.

  "There is nothing to see but the hideous faces of Shana Tungata told him. "Be thankful for your blindness, apes, friend." Suddenly from behind them brusque orders were shouted in Shana and then came the tramp of feet from across the parade ground.

  "They are coming," whispered the blinded Matabele, and Tungata. Zebiwe felt a vast regret arising within him.

  Yes, they were coming at last. This time for him.

  During every day of the long weeks of his imprisonment, he had heard the tramp of the firing-squad crossing the parade ground at noon.

  This time it was for him. He did not fear death, but he was saddened by it. He was sad that he had not been able to help his people in their terrible distress, he was saddened that he would never see again his woman, and that she would never bear him the son for whom he longed. He was sad that his life which had promised so much would end before it had delivered up its fruits, and he thought suddenly of a day long ago when he had stood at his grandfather's side and looked out over the maize fields that had been scythed by a brief and furious hail-storm.

  "All that work for nothing, what a waste!" his grandfather had murmured, id Tungata repeated his words softly to himself as ru* hands turned him and hustled him to the wooden stake-'set in the ground before the wall.

  They tied his wrists to the stake and he opened his eyes fully. His relief ftorn the glare of the wall was soured by the sight of the rank of armed men who faced him.

  They brought the two other naked Matabele from the wall. The blind one fell to his knees, weak with exposure and terror, and his bowels voided involuntarily. The guards laughed and exclaimed with disgust.

  "Stand up!" Tungata ordered him harshly. "Die on your feet likea true son of Mashobane! The man struggled back to his feet.

  "Walk to the stake," Tungata ordered. "It is a little to your left." The man went, groping blindly, and found the stake.

  They bound him to it.

  There were eight men in the firing-squad and the commander was a captain in the Third Brigade. He went slowly down the rank of executioners, taking each rifle and checking the load. He made little jokes in Shana that Tungata could not follow, and his men laughed. Their laughter had an unrestrained quality, like men who had taken alcohol or drugs. They had done this work before, and enjoyed it. Tungata had known many men like them during the war; violence and blood had become their addictions.

  The captain came back to the head of the rank, and from his breast-pocket took a sheet of typescript which was grubby and dog-eared from much handling. He read from it, stumbling over the words and mispronouncing them likea schoolboy, his English only barely intelligible.

  "You have been condemned as enemies of the state and the people," he read. "You have been declared incorrigible.

  Your death warrant has been approved by the vice president of the Republic of Zimbabwe-" Tungata Zebiwe lifted his chin and began to sing. His voice soared, deep and beautiful, drowning out the thin tones of the Shana captain: "The Moles are beneath the earth, "Are they dead?" asked the daughters of Mashobane." He sang the ancient fighting song of the Matabele, and at the end Of the first verse he snarled at the two condemned men who flanked him.

  sing! Let the Shana jackals hear the Matabele lion grow And they sang with him: "Like the black mamba from under a stone We milked death with a fang of silver steel-" Facing them, the captain gave an order, and as one man the squad advanced a right foot and lifted their rifles.

  Tungata sang on, staring into their eyes, defying them, and the men beside him fed on his courage and their voices firmed. A second order and the rifles were levelled. The eyes of the executioners peered over the sights, and the three naked Matabele sang on in the sunlight.

  Now, marvellously, there was the sound of other voices, distant voices, lifted in the war song. They came from the prison huts beyond the parade ground. Hundreds of imprisoned Matabele were singing with them, sharing the moment of their deaths, giving them strength and comfort.

  The Shana captain lifted his right hand, and in the last instants of his life Tijngata's sadness fell away to be replaced by a soaring pride. These are men, he thought, with or without me they will resist the tyrant.

  The captain brought his hand down sharply, as he bellowed the command. "Fire! The volley was simultaneous. The line of executioners swayed to the sharp recoil of rifles and the blast dinned in on Tungata's eardrums so that he flinched involuntarily.

  He heard the vicious slap of bullets into living flesh, and from the corners of his vision saw the men beside him jerk as though from the blows of invisible sledgehammers, and then fall forward against their bonds. The song was cut off abruptly on their lips. Yet the song still poured from Tungata's throat and he stood erect.

  The riflemen lowered their weapons, laughing and nudging each other as though at some grand joke. From the prison huts the war song had changed to the dismal ululation of mourning, and now
at last Tungata's voice dried and he faltered into silence.

  He turned his head and looked at the men beside him.

  They had shared the volley between them, and their torsos Were riddled with shot. Already the flies were swarming to the wounds.

  Now suddenly Tungata's knees began to buckle, and he felt his sphincter loosening. He fought his body, hating its weakness. Gradually, he brought it under control.

  The Shana captain came to stand in front of him and said in English, "Good joke, hey? Heavy, man, heavy!" and grinned delightedly.

  Then he turned and shouted, "Bring water, quickly!" A trooper brought an enamel dish, brimming with clear water, and the captain took it from him. Tungata could smell the water. It is said that the little Bushmen can smell water at a distance of many miles, but he had not truly believed it until now. The water smelled sweet as a freshly sliced honeydew melon, and his throat convulsed in a spasmodic swallowing reflex. He could not take his eyes off the dish.

  The captain lifted the dish with both hands to his own lips and took a mouthful, then he rinsed his mouth and gargled with it noisily. He spat the mouthful and grinned at Tungata, then held the dish up before his face. Slowly and deliberately he tipped the dish and the water spilled into the dust at Tungata's feet. It splashed his legs to the knees. Each drop felt cold as ice chips and every cell Of Tungata's body craved for it with a strength that was almost madness. The captain inverted the dish and let the last drops fall.

  "Heavy, man!" he repeated mindlessly, and turned to shout an order at his men. They doubled away across the parade ground, leaving Tungata alone with the dead and the flies.

  They came for him at sunset. When they cut his wrist bonds, he groaned involuntarily at the agonizing rush of fresh blood into his swollen hands, and fell to his knees.

  His legs could not support him. They had to half-carry him to his hut.

  The room was bare, except for an uncovered toilet bucket in the corner and two bowls in the centre of the baked-mud floor. One dish contained a pint of water, the other a handful of stiff white maize cake. The cake was heavily oversalted. On the morrow, he would pay for eating it in the heavy coin of thirst, but he had to have strength.

  He drank half the water and set the rest aside for the morning, and then he stretched out on the bare floor Residual heat beat down on him from the corrugated iron roof, but by morning he knew he would be shivering with cold. He ached in every joint of his body, and his head pounded with the effects of the sun and the glare until he thought his skull would pop likea ripe cream of tartar pod on a baobab tree.

  Outside in the darkness beyond the wire, the hyena packs disputed the feast that had been laid for them. Their cries and howls were a lunatic bedlam of greed, punctuated by the crunch of bone in great jaws.

  Despite it all, Tungata slept, and woke to the tramp of feet and shouted orders in the dawn. Swiftly he gulped down the remains of the' Water to fortify himself, and then squatted over the bucket. His body had so nearly played him false the day before. He would not let it happen today.

  The door was flung open.

  "Out, you Matabele dog! Out of your stinking kennelP They marched him back to the wall. There were three other naked Matabele facing it already. Irrelevantly he noticed that they had lime washed the wall. They were very conscientious about that. He stood with his face two feet from the pristine white surface and steeled himself for the day ahead.

  They shot the three other prisoners at noon. This time Tungata could not lead them in the singing. He tried, but his throat closed up on him. By the middle of the afternoon, his vision was breaking up into patches of darkness and stabbing white light. However, every time his legs collapsed and he fell forward against his bound wrists, the. pain in his shoulder sockets as his am-Ls twisted upwards revived him.

  The thirst was unspeakable.

  The patches of darkness in his head became deeper and lasted longer, the pain could no longer revive him completely. Out of one of the dark areas a voice spoke.

  "My dear fellow," said the voice. "This is all terribly distasteful to me." The voice of Peter Fungabera drove away the darkness and gave Tungata new strength. He struggled upright, lifted his head and forced his vision to clear.

  He looked at Peter Fungabera's face and his hatred came to arm him. He cherished his hatred as a life-giving force.

  Peter Fungabera was in fatigues and beret. He carried his swagger-stick in his right hand. At his side was a white man whom Tungata had never seen before. He was tall and slim and old. His head was freshly shaven, his skin ruined with cicatrices and his eyes were a strange pale shade of blue that Tungata found as repulsive and chilling as the stare of a cobra. He was watching Tungata with clinical interest, devoid of pity or other human sentiment.

  "I regret that you are not seeing Comrade Minister Zebiwe at his best," Peter told the white man. "He has lost a great deal of weight, but not here-, With the UP of the swagger stick Peter Fungabera lifted the heavy black bunch of Tungata's naked genitalia.

  "Have you ever seen anything like that?" he asked, using the swagger-stick with the same dexterity as a chopstick.

  Bound to the stake, Tungata could not pull away. it was the ultimate degradation, this arrogant mauling and examination of his private parts.

  "Enough for three ordinary men," Peter estimated with mock admiration, and Tungata glared at him wordlessly.

  The Russian made an impatient gesture and Peter nodded.

  "You are right. We are wasting time." He Rlanced at his wrist-watch and then turned to the captain who was close by, waiting with his squad.

  "Bring the prisoner up to the fort." They had to carry Tungata.

  eter Fungabera's quarters in the blockhouse on the central rock kopje were spartanly furnished, but the dirt floor had been freshly swept and sprinkled with water. He and the Russian sat on one side of the trestle, table that served as a desk. There was a wooden bench on the opposite side, facing them.

  The guards helped Tungata to the bench. He pushed their hands away and sat upright, glaring silently at the two men opposite him. Peter said something to the captain in Shana, and they brought a cheap grey blanket and draped it over Tungata's shoulders. Another order, and the captain carried in a trot' on which stood a bottle of vodka and another of whisky, two glasses, an ice-bucket and a pitcher of water.

  Tungata did not look at the water. It took all his selfcontrol, but he kept his eyes on Peter Fungabera's face.

  "Now, this is much more civilized," Peter said. "The Comrade Minister Zebiwe speaks no Shana, only the primitive Sindebele dialect, so we will use the language common to all of us English." He poured vodka and whisky and as the ice clinked into the glasses Tungata winced, but kept his gaze fixed on Peter Fungabera.

  "This is a briefing," Peter explained. "Our guest," he indicated the old white man, "is a student of African history. He has read, and remembered, everything ever written about this country. While you, my dear Tungata, are a sprig of the house of Kurnalo, the old robber chiefs of the Matabele, who for a hundred years raided and terrorized the legitimate owners of this land, the Mashona people.

  Therefore both of you might already know something of what I am about to relate. If that is so, I beg your indulgence." He sipped his whisky, and neither of the other two moved or spoke.

  "We must go back a hundred and fifty years," said Peter, to when a young field commander of the Zulu King Chaka, a man who was the king's favourite, failed to render up to Chaka the spoils of war. This man's name was Mzilikazi, son of Mashobane of the Kumalo sub tribe of Zulu, and he was to become the first Matabele. In passing, it is interesting to note that he set a precedent for the tribe which he was to found. Firstly, he was a master of rapine and plunder, a famous killer. Then he was a thief. He stole from his own sovereign. He failed to render to Chaka the king's share of the spoils. Then Mzilikazi was a coward, for when Chaka sent for him to face retribution, he fled." Peter smiled at Tungata. "Killer, thief and coward that was Mzilikazi, f
ather of the Matabele, and that description fits every member of the tribe from then until the present day.

  Killer! Thief! Coward!" He repeated the insults with relish, and Tungata watched his face with eyes that glowed.

  "So this paragon of manly virtues, taking with him his regiment of renegade Zulu warriors, fled northwards. He fell upon the weaker tribes in his path, and took their herds and their young women. This was the Umfecane, the great killing. It is said that one million defenceless souls perished under the Matabele assegais. Certainly Mzilikazi left behind him an empty land, a land of bleached skulls and burned-out villages.

  "He blazed this path of destruction across the continent until he met, coming from the south-west, a foe more bloodthirsty, more avaricious even than he, the white men, the Boers. They shot down Mzilikazi's vaunted killers like rabid dogs. So Mzilikazi, the coward, ran again. Northwards again." Peter gently agitated the ice cubes in his glass, a soft tinkling that made Tungata. blink, but he did not look down at the glass.