‘Henning’s yacht was towed to the naval base at Monkey Bay. I managed to get on board first.’
‘Diplomatic privilege and all that?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Are you being seriously sarcastic or do you simply feel morally obliged to challenge everything?’
‘Just kidding. Sorry.’
Tim grinned. ‘For your information I pulled rank because I was looking for the Brunton.’
‘Thank you,’ she said again. She looked down at the brass instrument in her hand, then turned it over and stared at her father’s initials. ‘John Didier Devereaux,’ she said softly. ‘ When I did that . . .’ She left it hanging.
Tim could see that while Lana’s sense of reason accepted what had become of her father, the sadness of it would always be with her.
‘Moffat and I had dinner together. His wife had a baby boy. They’re calling him Jonah John Kadamanja. He says to ask if you’ll be godmother.’
It broke her sombre mood.
He changed the subject and told her about the treasure. ‘It’s early days yet but it looks like it did belong to the Kingdom of Greater Zimbabwe. The ologists are pretty excited.’
‘What will happen to it?’
‘Robert Mugabe wants it back.’
‘That’s fair enough as long as it goes into a museum and not some minister’s private collection.’
Tim rose one eyebrow. ‘Cynicism in one so young and beautiful,’ he admonished. ‘Anyway, the Zimbabwe newspapers are full of it. National heritage and all that. It’s a hell of a find.’
‘What about the tusks?’
‘Parks and Wildlife have confiscated them. Malawi is likely to follow Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia and lift the ban on ivory trading. For how long remains to be seen but, in the short term, it should bring the government some much needed revenue.’
‘And the documents?’
‘You don’t know about them.’
‘Did you find them?’
‘No. I spent a long time looking for that one tusk but came up with nothing. Chief Mbeya has been providing your f – . . . Mpasa with ivory for years. I’d say he’s got a few tusks stashed somewhere but . . .’ Tim shrugged, ‘. . . he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell me where.’
‘So somebody could still find them?’
‘That’s a chance we’ll just have to take. I’m not even sure they really existed. Hamilton was pretty weird. He may have been making it up.’
‘I’m not going to ask you what was supposed to be in them.’
‘Good.’
She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Because one day, you’re going to tell me anyway.’
He turned her head gently and kissed her. ‘Am I?’
She rose and pulled him to his feet, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him back. ‘Yes.’
‘Why would I do that?’ They were moving towards the bedroom door.
‘Because if you don’t,’ she said softly, rising on tiptoe and kissing his neck, ‘I will go insane with curiosity.’
They fell on the bed together. He ran his hands down the full length of her then gathered her close. ‘I’ll tell you on our wedding night, will that do?’
‘Yes,’ she said happily. ‘That will do just fine.’ She pushed him away. ‘Why then?’
He pulled her back into his arms. ‘Because,’ he said, kissing her, ‘you’ll be my wife and won’t be able to testify against me.’
‘Would I do that?’
His eyes smiled into hers. ‘The beautiful thing about you, my darling, is that I never know what you’re likely to do.’
She ran her hands down his body and found him ready for her again. ‘I’m sure,’ she murmured, ‘that you can guess this time.’
TWENTY
Chief Mbeya made his way slowly along the beach, sedate and proud, his fine Wankonde features burnished copper in the sunshine, his shrewd old eyes watching a fish eagle swoop down and pluck a brightly coloured mbuna from the water before powering effortlessly back to the high tree which was his lookout. The Chief chuckled, wishing he too could fly.
It was a beautiful, sparkling August day, the promise of summer already strong in the air. He waited with uncharacteristic impatience for the hot weather. With it would come the planting season and the storms which damaged their houses so that repairs were constantly required. His people needed something new to think about, something to take away the tragic events of a winter which was unlike any he could remember. Around their cooking fires each night, it was all they talked about.
The witchdoctor had foretold of it many years earlier. Not the fool of a young man now, the one before him. The same one who had let the evil spirits out of Mpasa’s head. Chief Mbeya recalled the night clearly when, with more than his usual presumptuousness, the Nganga had summoned him to his hut.
‘I have had a vision,’ he announced. ‘You must hear of it.’
The Chief seated himself opposite the witchdoctor. ‘It troubles you?’
The Nganga nodded. ‘Our lives will never be the same.’
‘Are my people in danger?’
‘Danger comes in many forms. Some must die but all will be touched in more ways than one.’
‘Tell me, powerful one, what is your vision?’ Chief Mbeya asked in dread. The Nganga was never wrong.
And, rocking back and forth, the witchdoctor had told him:
‘When the riches of the past are revealed, the spirit of Lundu will claim the souls of those who would profit from the evil that men do. A son of Likoma must die to protect the secret of Great Mother,’ the witchdoctor had intoned, his features contorted with effort as he heard his inner voice. ‘One will come among us who is not of Nyasa and his seed will find great sorrow but also great joy. These happenings will bring many strangers to our land. Others will hear and our way of life will be gone forever.’
And now these events had come to pass. Likoma would never be the same.
It was true. The island had briefly found centre stage as the world’s experts gathered to unearth the ancient buildings of Lundu. The tented camps of archaeologists and the rest of them were likely to be a part of the island’s life for years to come. Now there were plans to build a tourist complex. The Chief had been shown preliminary drawings. ‘We’re going to re-create the city of King Lundu,’ the enthusiastic young architect from South Africa told the openly astonished Chief. ‘Except of course, there’ll be swimming pools, tennis courts, a casino, all the trimmings. It’ll be an absolute showpiece.’
‘Showpiece,’ the Chief thought contemptuously, staring at the drawings. ‘It looks more like the home of termites.’
The airstrip was already being upgraded and roads constructed. The roar of diesel engines a common sound. Chief Mbeya’s lip curled as he remembered the misguided individual who, a few years ago, had decided that the island should have an ambulance. It arrived, gleaming and new, to sit unused at the hospital, unable to go anywhere since the island had no roads. At least now it might get some use. He supposed that was a good thing.
‘Nothing stays the same,’ Chief Mbeya was thinking as he clambered over some rocks at the end of the cove. Although the village where he lived, on the north end of the island, had remained relatively unscathed, the Chief knew it was only a matter of time before the madness engulfed that too.
Change was inevitable. It could not be stopped. True, the influx of scientists, engineers and the rest brought much needed money to the island. But the innocence of Likoma would be gone. ‘And with it,’ he reflected sadly, ‘the last link to our past.’
Hidden by the rocks, the old man dug with his hands in the soft sand. He looked regretfully at the one remaining tusk. Not large, and strangely twisted, it was all that was left of the hoard he’d saved for Mpasa. Mud had somehow become caked into the nerve end. Hefting it on his shoulder, he made his way back towards the village.
Chief Mbeya knew he was breaking the law – that the Department of Parks and Wildlife, had they known about
his secret stash of tusks, would have confiscated the lot. He didn’t care. Mpasa loved working with the silky cream of ivory. He preferred it to wood. ‘It’s not as if he profits from it,’ the Chief justified his actions. ‘He gives it all away.’
A compassionate and intelligent man, the Chief knew that Mpasa’s abilities were limited, that the repetition of carving penny whistles and other artifacts was about the extent of his capabilities. He loved Mpasa like his own son. The man was gentle and kind and completely harmless. Bringing him the tusks, when they so obviously gave him so much pleasure, was a small thing to do. Especially now.
Chief Mbeya shifted the tusk to his other shoulder. Kardiya, the blind man, was sitting on the beach and greeted him respectfully. How was the man able to differentiate between people’s footsteps and identify each individual? The Chief suspected that God, in His wisdom, having removed Kardiya’s sight more than twenty years ago, had compensated by giving him extra hearing powers, an insatiable curiosity and the courage of five men. He stopped to speak with the man who could not see. ‘This is the last one.’ Chief Mbeya did not bother to elaborate. Kardiya would know he was carrying a tusk.
‘I can get no more.’ Kardiya shrugged. ‘The way is still blocked by those who crawl over the cliff like ants.’
‘You could not get more anyway. The teeth have been taken away.’
The blind man cackled suddenly. ‘Lundu carried many spears in his hand.’
The Chief looked at him sharply. ‘What are you saying?’
Milky white cataracts covering both eyes glistened in the sun. ‘Those who seek Lundu’s secrets will find but one small part. Hear me well.’
‘You’ve found more?’ The man was incredible. How he’d discovered the cave in the first place was a mystery to the Chief.
‘Perhaps Mpasa would like to work the soft yellow metal?’
The Chief wondered aloud how he knew the colour of gold.
Kardiya held up his hands and wriggled his fingers. ‘These are my eyes.’
Mpasa ran his hands lovingly over the ivory tusk, appreciating its fine smoothness. He was saddened to think that this was to be his last but the Chief had promised him something better. He picked up a knife and started to dig out the mud caked solid in the hollow end where the nerve had once run. His mind was happy, clear of anything but what he was doing. Somewhere, in the back, was something else, but he hadn’t been bothered by it for several months. He accepted this as indifferently as he accepted the food the women brought to him. The only thing Mpasa thought about was the only thing he could do – carve.
Oblivious of his surroundings, Mpasa hardly noticed when, at the Chief’s bidding, a stockade was erected around his hut. He never left the immediate vicinity of his dwelling anyway. The explanation, ‘Many strangers have come to our island. We do not wish them to disturb you,’ had been accepted without question. Mpasa did not care.
The last of the mud broke free and he ran his thumb around the thin rim, clearing it of residue. He touched something inside and, looking, saw three sheets of paper rolled and stuffed into the cavity. They came out easily. Smoothing them open, he took time to admire the fine quality of paper and the red seal at the bottom of each. His eye assessed the documents for their value as material with which he could work. The words were a meaningless jumble.
Losing interest, Mpasa tossed them into his cooking fire. As they flared up, and the wax melted, he was briefly reminded of something else. It was gone in an instant. Frowning with concentration, he picked up his latest carving and went back to work. It was the head of a woman. Her fine features and short black hair were European, not African. Mpasa had no idea where the inspiration came from – nor did he care. All he knew was that this was one carving he would not give away.
Echo of an Angry God Page 40