Divinity Road

by Martin Pevsner

  Hours pass, the sun rises and the temperature soars. The throbbing in his temple and the stabbing in his abdomen form the beat to his marching rhythm. As he tramps through the inhospitable bush, he falls into a kind of numbed trance, his legs moving automatically, his mind retreating into a half-slumber. Every so often he jerks awake, stops to check his bearings with the compass, to make sure he’s not walking in some giant deadly loop that will bring him back round to the plane and the soldiers.

  From time to time he finds himself forced out of his stupor by the physical pain. He thinks again of Nuala, wonders if they’ve broken the news to her yet, pictures the phone calls, the TV footage. It’s too awful to contemplate. By sheer force of will he conjures up an image of their kitchen at home, a peaceful breakfast scene, the children with their cereal bowls, Nuala spooning tea leaves into the blue china teapot, the toast popping in the toaster. It is this picture that he forces to the front of his mind as a spur to drive him forward.

  By nine o’clock his clothes are soaked with sweat. Perspiration stings his eyes, runs down his nose, drips onto his shirt front. Despite the shade provided by this area of denser vegetation, the sun is ferocious. He sinks down into the shadow of a termite mound and eats a couple of stale rolls with a square of sweating cheese. When he gets up to relieve himself against a large rock, he notices that his urine is pinkish, laced with blood from some internal injury, the result, he assumes, of that blow to his abdomen.

  He’s about to hitch his rucksack back up on his shoulders when he hears the drone of a light aircraft. He glances up, tries to peer through the foliage of a tree and looks around for a clearing from which to signal his presence. Dropping his bag and rifle, he sets off at a trot, wincing at the abdominal pain and ignoring the weariness in his aching legs. He remembers the empty distress flare canister and curses his bad luck.

  Hey! I’m here! Here! he cries, his voice cracked and hoarse from heat and dehydration. He remembers the heliograph in his bag and considers running back to retrieve it from his bag. But he knows already that it would be a futile gesture, that he’s too late.

  The plane passes overhead while he’s still under tree cover. He catches a glimpse of a small, twin-propeller aircraft, but by the time he emerges from the wooded area onto the flat, dry savannah, it is receding rapidly into the distance. He stops, waves, shouts, his attempts at signalling turning first to obscenities, then to pleading. He ceases his yelling only when the plane is a dot on the horizon.

  Retracing his footsteps, he recovers the firearm and bag and heads back towards the savannah. Using the compass to take his bearings, he notes that he’s heading due north. The display on his ineffective phone tells him that it’s ten o’clock, and he decides to walk for as long as he can, take a break during the worst of the day’s heat and then hike some more towards the end of the afternoon. He sets himself a target of a two-hour march before he’ll find a shady place to rest.

  As he walks he tries to assess his situation. He realises that up until now, his every action has been reactive: the search for survivors, supplies and essential equipment to satisfy his basic needs for human contact and sustenance; his retreat up to the hill cave to escape the carnage; his flight up the mountain and beyond to get away from the soldiers. Now, he tells himself, he needs to become proactive, to set himself goals, come up with a plan.

  The armed men he’s met are clearly accustomed to acts of extreme violence, opening up the fearful possibility that he’s in some kind of war zone. Still, he thinks, that’s just an assumption. For the moment he just needs to press on, find a town, a telephone, make contact with the nearest British embassy.

  He closes his eyes and pictures the chain of events he desires, the hum of an engine in the distance, a pick-up truck slowing down, a lift in the back crouched down with sacks of grain and trussed up chickens, arrival at a police checkpoint on the outskirts of the city, handshakes for the sole survivor, a hotel with bath, cold drinks, hot food. Then a flight home, the airport reunion. He imagines Nuala’s fierce embrace, the children’s endless questions. He feels himself choking and chases the thoughts away. Far from providing him with comfort, they’ve served only to remind him how alone he is, how small and insignificant and isolated, how far he is from where he wants to be.

  It’s almost exactly noon and he’s already been scanning his surroundings for a suitable resting place for some time when he notices a cloud of greasy grey smoke, more haze than a solid plume, way off beyond a ridge of rock a mile or so ahead.

  For a moment he’s rooted to the spot, torn between hope and alarm, but he dreads his current vulnerability more than any unspecified danger. Twice he’s been bent double from the onset of shooting abdominal pains, twice he’s been hit by waves of giddiness that he’s sure are linked to the blow to his head. He’s still peeing blood, feels himself weakened by the physical trauma he’s experienced, knows he needs medical intervention. He’s running on adrenalin and fear but knows his tank’s nearly empty.

  He stumbles on towards the lip of the ridge. As he crests it, he pauses to examine the terrain ahead through the binoculars he’s hung around his neck. He can see the rocky ground sweeping down gently for a couple of hundred metres, then flatten out for a kilometre or so before giving way to small, barren hills. Half way along the flatland he can make out the source of the smoke clearly. What was once a small village, six or seven huts, a thorn tree and cattle kraal, is now empty, just smouldering ruins. He scans the site slowly, checking for signs of human life, but it is deserted.

  It takes him twenty minutes to reach the village, a further five to inspect the huts, check for sure that they are uninhabited and find a suitable place to rest. The roofs of the huts have all been burnt away, the ochre walls scorched black by flame. One of them, the cooking hut he presumes, is littered with shattered clay pots. A fire has been lit outside it, perhaps to destroy what could not be carried off, and it is this, smouldering gently, that had first caught Greg’s attention. He glances briefly at the wide circle of embers, distinguishing between the charcoal remnants twisted sculptures of unidentifiable melted plastic, fragments of scorched cloth and something which could once have been bone.

  Several of the huts are still smouldering but of the others he chooses the cleanest. He leaves his bag there, then carries his blanket, rifle, crackers and a bottle of water over to the tree. He settles down, sips at the water, chews the crackers. He returns to the hut, retrieves his phone, tries again to make a call, then digs out his sketch book. He holds it for some minutes in his hands without opening it, seeking within it some distraction from his present predicament, then limps back with it to the tree.

  He lies still in the shade gathering his strength, too weary to do more than hug the book to his chest. When he eventually opens it, he forces himself to skip the recent photos of Nuala and Beth and Sammy that he’s slipped in the front cover for protection – he’s not strong enough for those yet – and stops at the first of his sketches.

  What he’s looking at is a pencil drawing, a scene of dunes infinitely stretching, perpetually shifting, the swirling undulating patterns in the sand created by wind and time. It’s based on a postcard, a photograph of the Grand Erg Oriental, the Tunisian Sahara. And it’s this postcard, sent by Nuala on holiday in North Africa over ten years before, that has played such a crucial role in his life.

  Ten years ago. He’d still been an art teacher at that time, too timid and insecure to imagine himself as a full-time artist even though he’d harboured such ambitions since childhood. But the postcard had struck a chord, set off his imagination, and from it he’d produced first one painting, then a series, a collection of desert scenes that had formed the basis for his first solo exhibition, Sand Seas, the first stepping stone that would lead to his professional career as a painter.

  Gazing at the sketch, he conjures up a mental picture of the postcard and this sparks a series of associations, memories of a signifi
cant time in his life, a crossroads in his relationship with Nuala, a reminder of a moment when their bond moved from live-for-the-moment pleasure to long-term commitment. For it was after this Tunisian holiday that Nuala had agreed to marry him.

  And so in the years that followed, in deference to that postcard, he’s made a habit of starting each new sketchbook with a desert scene, a ritual like a cat marking his territory.

  As his mind turns to Nuala, he experiences a stab of pain, and so flicks through the sketches that follow in an attempt to distract himself. The drawings are the fruits of his South African stay. He’s been harbouring a vague idea to turn them into a collection, perhaps contrasting these African images with corresponding ones from Oxford. But now, surrounded by the brutal devastation, the idea seems absurd and he wonders whether there will ever be another exhibition.

  He glances at the first sketch, a market scene, an attempt to represent the turmoil and chaos as the township shoppers mingled with the hawkers and traders, the page a scribbled maelstrom of activity. It was Farai’s wife, Rose, who’d taken him to the marketplace to buy mealie meal and vegetables. After all, she’d said, the living need to eat. Looking up from the sketch, he pictures her grieving face and feels a biting loneliness. He turns the page quickly.

  The second sketch depicts a patch of Rose’s back garden cleared for vegetables, a few straggly maize plants. The third a full-length study of one of Farai’s neighbours, an elderly woman, sitting shelling nuts on her stoep. He recalls the smooth crack crack crack as she removed the nuts from their husks, her delicately-lined face, her questioning eyes, seeing with annoyance that all these features he has failed to capture to his satisfaction. He turns the page in frustration.

  The next three sketches are of a teapot and cups he’d drawn in Rose’s kitchen, then a beerhall scene inspired by a farewell drink he’d had with Farai and his cousin, and another draft he’d made of a couple he’d observed at the club they’d gone to afterwards. The feeling of bonhomie they inspire seems so recent yet so far away.

  The last sketch is a head-and-shoulders portrait of Farai and two of his offspring, Edward and Albertina. The image of family togetherness in the midst of their bereavement is poignant, and his train of thought takes him from Farai’s family to his own, to Nuala and Beth and Sammy. In trying to find a few moments of relief from his current trauma, he realises he’s returning to memories of what he has at least temporarily lost. It’s a bitter-sweet sensation. He closes his eyes and the pages turn and he feels something close to comfort, something close to an ache.

  Pull yourself together. He snaps the sketch pad shut and returns it carefully to the depths of his backpack.

  He dozes, wakes, then falls into a deeper sleep. He wakes again at sunset, retreats to the protection of the hut.

  He’s just debating whether to hike on for a few hours or spend the night where he is when he hears a child’s voice followed by the sound of an adult’s rebuke. He picks up the rifle and peers through the door of the hut, careful to keep the bulk of his body concealed.

  The woman’s in her thirties, he guesses. She’s wearing a colourful but ragged dress, a pattern of orange and lime green swirls, a matching wrap around her waist, a headscarf falling to her shoulders. The children, both primary school age, one boy, one girl, walk by her side. He’s naked save for a pair of filthy shorts, she’s wearing a torn pink frock. They are all bare-footed and empty-handed.

  The mother pulls up by the fire and looks around hopelessly. She’s muttering, her voice soft yet poignant. He reads the anguish in her gestures, sensing that it must be her home that she’s fled. He tries to picture this environment as peaceful, harmonious, domestic, and wonders where the rest of her family is, who has survived, who will not return. The children’s faces are stony, etched with exhaustion. He feels his presence at this scene of mourning as an intrusion. When he can bear it no longer, he clears his throat loudly and steps out of the hut.

  The woman’s reaction is instantaneous. She snaps out a command, turns and begins to run. It’s only after she’s taken several paces that she realises the children have not moved, are frozen in place. She stops, confused, turns, repeats her previous instruction, but the children, whether through fear or curiosity, remain stationary. The woman’s maternal instincts win out over her terror. She takes a step back towards the young ones.

  Greg is suddenly aware that he’s holding a rifle. He lays it on the ground, lifts up his hands, palms open, makes no move to approach.

  It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you, he says. Don’t run.

  His gesture and the tone of his voice have the desired effect. No one moves. Taking this as a good sign, Greg lowers his hands. Don’t move, he says. I’m coming right back.

  He backs off through the hut door and emerges a moment later with a bottle of water, uncaps it, then steps unhurriedly towards the three figures, the bottle held out in offering. At first no one moves. Then, in a lightning movement, the boy reaches out, snatches the bottles and begins gulping down the tepid liquid. The woman, grim and stern, barks a few sharp words and the boy stops, hands the bottle to his sister who takes two gulps then offers it to the woman. She gestures for her to return it to Greg. He shakes his head.

  No, go on, you have it, he says.

  The daughter holds it out to her mother, says something soft, soothing. The woman, her face still a mask of fierce defiance, takes the water and helps herself to a small sip. She hands it back to her daughter and gives another command, this time in a gentler tone. The daughter hands the half-empty bottle back to Greg.

  Late afternoon is giving way to evening. Greg gazes past the figures at the horizon, the darkening skies streaked with the dying sunset orange. Meanwhile, the woman, now more composed, has spoken to her children again and they’ve disappeared.

  This is your home, isn’t it? he says. I’m sorry.

  She looks at him, gauging his intentions from the softness in his voice, the pity in his eyes. She’s still too traumatised by the events of the past day to wonder much about this white stranger. She still feels wary, but she knows her options are limited and besides, her exhaustion is overwhelming.

  They’ve gone to fetch firewood, the children. This is my home. You can stay here tonight if you want. We have no food, I’m sorry.

  Greg listens to her voice, tries to read meaning into the unfamiliar words.

  I won’t hurt you. It’s late. I need to stay here tonight. I hope that’s OK with you. We can stay together. He has a thought. Perhaps we should get some firewood. He gestures towards the smouldering fire.

  The woman looks around her. The initial shock of her encounter is passing and she becomes aware of the full extent of her misfortune. She remembers the events of the attack, the life she had prior to it, what she has lost. She begins to weep.

  They came at dawn, she sobs.

  Are you hungry? I’ve got some food in my bag.

  I’d woken early. Rasheed, the boy, he’d been complaining during the night about a stomach ache, so I got up before dawn to make a medicine.

  I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. My name’s Greg. Greg.

  I woke Munia, told her to go out and look for the plant we use for stomach problems. I’d seen some growing up by that hill over there. She gestures vaguely. Her weeping has stopped as she relives the events of the morning, but her voice is raw with emotion.

  I’ve got a bit of cheese left, some crackers...

  I heard the horses coming. I knew what it was at once. We live in fear of them, expect the attacks, but when it happened...

  I think there might be another roll somewhere, though it’ll be pretty stale by now. Still, it’s better than a kick in the teeth, eh! He gives a half-hearted chuckle, an attempt at levity.

  I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. She begins to cry again.

  I’ll go and fetch it, shall I?


  I grabbed them, told them to follow me. We ran and ran.

  I was in an aircrash. You know, an airplane. He sticks both arms out at right angles, mimes a plane, a crash, looks up expectantly.

  I left my husband, my sister-wives, their children.

  I survived. Christ knows how. Amazing, eh?

  Everything gone. The goats, our grain stock, all our things.

  I’m just trying to get home now. I’m heading for the nearest town, anywhere that’s got a telephone. He mimes holding a receiver.

  And Omar, my little Omar! I’ve lost my little Omar! She looks around distractedly, as if expecting him to suddenly appear.

  I’ve got a family at home. In Oxford. That’s in England.

  Omar! My Omar! I’d left him on my mat. He’d been grizzly all night. Teething he was, giving me hell. I just put him down while I sorted out the fire, put a pan of water on to heat up. I left him, me his mother. How could I do that?

  My wife’s called Nuala. I’ve got two kids. Just like you.

  I left him. I killed him.

  The boy’s called Sammy. The girl’s Bethany. I’ve got some photos in my bag. Would you like to see them?

  I killed him. My own son.

  She sinks down onto the ground, buries her head in her hands. He looks at her helplessly, tries to think of something useful to do, decides to fetch the food.

  When he returns he finds her in the same position. His conversation has dried up. The mention of his family has rendered him silent with homesick melancholy. Her hopeless lethargy is infectious.

  It’s nightfall by the time the children return. Munia appears first, a pile of sticks stacked on her head. She’s followed by Rasheed who is dragging a section of dead trunk. Greg produces his waterproof matches and they soon have a fire going where the earlier one had smouldered. They sit around it, passing around water, pieces of dried fruit, crackers. The woman and her children are initially dubious about the crackers, the cheese, but they are hungry and soon the food is gone. They sit in silence for a while. Greg is suddenly aware that the fire, though a warming comfort, is also a signal to outsiders.