Assegai

They camped that night at the manyatta of Sonjo and lay awake listening to the drums beating a dirge for the morani killed in the lion hunt, the keening of the women and the singing of the men.

In the darkness before dawn, they rode out again. When the sunrise broke over the escarpment of the Rift Valley it swamped the eastern sky with a blazing grandeur of gold and crimson, dazzling their eyes and warming their bodies so that they shrugged off their overcoats and rode on in shirtsleeves. Somehow this sunrise was a fitting epilogue to the lion hunt. It excited their senses and lightened their mood so that they saw beauty in all around them and wondered at the small things that before might have gone unremarked: the azure jewel of a kingfisher’s breast as it darted across the track ahead, the grace of an eagle soaring high against the gold-drenched sky on outstretched pinions, a gazelle lamb kneeling on its front legs under its dam’s belly and greedily bumping her udders with its snout, her milk running down its chin. The ewe watching them pass, unafraid, huge soft eyes glistening.

The mood was upon Eva also. She pointed with her riding crop and called out gaily, ‘Oh, Otto! See that small creature snuffling around in the grass like an old man who has lost his reading glasses? What is it?’

Although she was addressing Graf Otto, Leon had the feeling that she was sharing the moment with him alone and answered, ‘It is a honey badger, Fräulein. Although he appears gentle, he is one of the most ferocious creatures in Africa. He is without fear. He is immensely powerful. His pelt is so tough that it resists bee stings and the claws and fangs of much larger animals. Even the lion gives him a wide berth. Interfere with him at your peril.’

Eva gave him a flash of her violet eyes, then turned to Graf Otto with a purr of sweet laughter. ‘In all of that he resembles you. In future I shall think of you as my honey badger.’

Which of them was she speaking to? Leon wondered. With this woman a man could never be sure of anything. There was always so much about her that was either enigmatic or ambiguous.

Before he could decide, she had spurred forward and, standing in the stirrups, pointed towards the southern horizon. ‘Look at that mountain over there!’ The distant shape of the flat-topped summit was dramatically highlighted by the rising sun. ‘Surely it must be the mountain we flew over, the mountain on which the Masai prophetess lives.’

‘Yes, Fräulein. That is Lonsonyo Mountain,’ Leon confirmed.

‘Oh, Otto, it is so close!’ she cried.

He chuckled. ‘For you it is close because that is where you want to go. For me it is a day’s hard ride away.’

‘You promised to take me there!’ Her voice was dulled by disappointment.

‘Indeed I did,’ he agreed. ‘But I did not promise when.’

‘Then promise me now. When?’ she demanded. ‘When, darling Otto?’

‘Not now. We must return to Nairobi at once. This delay was an indulgence. I have important business to see to. This African safari was not all for pleasure.’

‘Of course not.’ She grimaced. ‘With you it is always business.’

‘How else could I afford to have you as my friend?’ Graf Otto asked, with heavy humour, and Leon turned away so as not to reveal his quick anger at the unkind remark. But Eva seemed neither to hear nor care, and Graf Otto went on, ‘Perhaps I shall buy property here. It seems that there is room for investment in a new land with such resources to exploit.’

‘And when your business is done, will you take me to Lonsonyo Mountain?’ Eva persisted.

‘You do not give up easily.’ Graf Otto shook his head in mock-despair. ‘Very well. I will make a bargain with you. After I have killed my lion with the assegai I will take you to see this witch.’

Once again Eva’s mood altered subtly. Her eyes were masked, her expression closed and cool. Just when Leon had felt he might glimpse something beyond the veil, she had become once more remote and unfathomable.

They rested the horses at noon, off-saddling in a grove of stately pod mahogany trees beside a small reed-enclosed pool in an unnamed stream. After an hour they saddled up to ride on, but standing beside her mare Eva exclaimed irritably, ‘The safety clasp on my right stirrup is locked. If I were to fall I would be dragged.’

‘See to it, Courtney,’ Graf Otto ordered, ‘and make sure it does not happen again.’

Leon threw his reins to Loikot and went quickly to Eva’s side. She moved a little to allow him to reach the stirrup leather, but she was close beside him as Leon stooped to examine the steel. Both of them were hidden from Graf Otto’s view by the body of the horse. Leon found she was right: the safety clasp was locked. It had been open when they had left Sonjo manyatta that morning – he had checked it himself. Then Eva touched his hand, and his heart tripped. She must have opened the clasp herself as an excuse to have him alone for a moment. He glanced sideways at her. She was so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek. She wore no perfume, but she smelled as warm and sweet as a milk-fed kitten. For an instant he looked into the violet depths of her eyes and saw beyond the veil to the woman behind the lovely mask.

‘I must go to the mountain. There is something there for me.’ Her whisper was so soft he might have imagined it. ‘He will never take me. You must.’ There was the slightest check in her voice, and then she said, ‘Please, Badger.’ The heartfelt plea and the new pet name with which she had dubbed him made him catch his breath.

‘What is the matter, Courtney?’ Graf Otto called. Always alert, he had sensed something.

‘I am angry that the clasp was locked. It might have been dangerous for Fräulein von Wellberg.’ Leon drew out his knife and used the blade to prise open the clasp. ‘It will be all right now,’ he assured Eva. They were still screened by the mare, so he dared to stroke the back of the hand that lay on the saddle. She did not pull it away.

‘Mount up! We must ride on,’ Graf Otto ordered. ‘We have wasted enough time here. I wish to fly back to Nairobi today. We must reach the airstrip while there is still sufficient daylight for the flight.’ They rode hard, but the sun was lying red and bleeding on the horizon, like a dying morani on his shield, when at last they scrambled up the ladder into the cockpit of the Butterfly. Inexperienced as he was, even Leon knew that Graf Otto had cut the take-off beyond the limits of safety. At this season of the year twilight would be short-lived: it would be dark in less than an hour.

When they crossed the wall of the Rift Valley they were flying just high enough to catch the last rays of the sun, but the earth below was already shrouded in impenetrable purple shadow. Suddenly the sun was gone, snuffed out like a candle, and there was no afterglow.

They flew on in darkness, until Leon picked out the tiny cluster of lights far ahead that marked the town, insignificant as fireflies in the dark immensity of the land. It was completely dark when at last they were over the polo ground. Graf Otto repeatedly revved, then throttled back on the engines as he circled. Suddenly the headlights of the two Meerbach trucks lit up below them, at opposite ends of the landing field, shining down the grassy runway. Gustav Kilmer had heard the Butterfly’s engines and hurried to the rescue of his beloved master.

Guided by the lights Graf Otto put the Butterfly down on the turf as gently as a broody hen settling on a clutch of eggs.