Eagle in the Sky

and finely proportioned. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow, and

he had the same lithe and beautiful man's body.

However, the head that topped it was something from a nightmare.

Involuntarily he gasped out aloud and the gash of a mouth parted in

sympathy. It was a tight lipless mouth, like that of a cobra,

white-rimmed and harsh.

Drawn by the awful fascination of the horror, David drew closer to the

mirror. The thick mane of his dark hair had concealed the peculiar

elongation of his skull.

He had never realized that it jutted out behind like that, for now the

hair was gone and the bald curve was covered with meshed skin, thickened

and raised.

The skin and flesh of his face was a patchwork, joined by seams of scar

tissue drawn tightly over his cheekbones, giving him a vaguely Asiatic

appearance, but the eyes were round and startled, with clumsy lids and

puffed dead-looking flesh beneath.

His nose was a shapeless blob, out of balance with his other coarsened

features and his ears were gnarled excrescences, seemingly fastened

haphazardly to the sides of his head. The whole of it was bland and

bald and boiled-looking.

The gash of a mouth twisted briefly in a horrid rictus, and then

regained its frozen shape. I can't smile, said David.

No, agreed the surgeon. You will have no control of your expressions.

That was the truly horrifying aspect of it. It was not the twisted and

tortured flesh, with the scarring and stitch marks still so evident, it

was the expressionlessness of this mask. The frozen features seemed

long dead, incapable of human warmth or feeling.

Yeah! But you should have seen the other guy! David said softly, and

the surgeon chuckled without mirth.

We'll have those last few stitches behind your ears out tomorrow, I

shall remove what remains of the pedicel from your arm, and then you can

be discharged.

Come back to us when you are ready. David ran his hand gingerly over

the bald patterned skull.

I'm going to save a fortune in haircuts and razor blades, he said, and

the surgeon turned quickly away and walked down the passage, leaving

David to get to know his new head.

The clothes that they had found for him were cheap and ill-fitting,

slacks and open-neck shirt, a light jacket and sandals, and he asked for

some head covering, anything to conceal the weird new shape of his

scalp.

One of the nurses found him a cloth cap, and then told him that a

visitor was waiting for him in the hospital superintendent's department.

He was a major from the military provost marshal's office, a lean

grey-haired min with cold grey eyes and a tight hard mouth. He

introduced himself without offering to shake hands and then opened the

file on the desk in front of him.

I have been instructed by my office to ask for the formal resignation of

your commission in the Israeli Air Force, he started, and David stared

at him. In the long pain-filled, fever-hot nights, the thought of

flying once more had seemed like a prospect of paradise.

I don't understand, he mumbled, and reached for a cigarette, breaking

the first match and then puffing quickly as the second flared. You want

my resignation - and if I refuse? Then we shall have no alternative

other than to convene a court martial and to try you for dereliction of

duty, and refusing in the face of the enemy to obey the lawful orders of

your superior officer. I see, David nodded heavily, and drew on the

cigarette. The smoke stung his eyes. It doesn't seem I have any

choice. I have prepared the necessary documents. Please sign here, and

here, and I shall sign as witness. David bowed over the papers and

signed. The pen scratched loudly in the silent room.

Thank you. The major gathered his papers, and placed them in his

briefcase. He nodded at David and started for the door.

So now I am an outcast, said David softly, and the man stopped. They

stared at each other for a moment, and then the major's expression

altered slightly, and the cold grey eyes became ferocious.

You are responsible for the destruction of two warplanes that are

irreplaceable and whose loss has caused us incalculable harm. You are

responsible for the death of a brother officer, and for bringing your

country to the very brink of open war which would have cost many

thousands more of our young people's lives, and possibly our very

existence. You have embarrassed our international friends, and given

strength to our enemies. He paused and drew a deep breath. The

recommendation of my office was that you should go to trial and that the

prosecution be instructed to ask for the death penalty.

It was only the personal intervention of the Prime Minister and of

Major-General Mordecai that saved you from that. In my view, instead of

bemoaning your fate, you should consider yourself highly fortunate. He

turned away and his footsteps cracked on the stone floor as he strode

from the room.

In the bleak impersonal lobby of the hospital, David was suddenly struck

by a reluctance to walk on out into the spring sunshine through the

glass swing doors. He had heard that long-term prisoners felt this way

when the time came for their release.

Before he reached the doors he turned aside and went down to the

hospital synagogue. In a corner of the quiet square hall he sat for a

long time. The stained-glass windows, set high in the nave, filled the

air with shafts of coloured lights when the sun came through, and a

little of the peace and beauty of that place stayed with him and gave

him courage when at last he walked out into the square and boarded a bus

for Jerusalem.

He found a seat at the rear, and beside a window. The bus pulled away

and ground slowly up the hill towards the city.

He became aware that he was being watched, and he lifted his head to

find that a woman with two young children had taken the seat in front of

him. She was a poorly dressed, harassed-looking woman, prematurely aged

and she held the grubby young infant on her lap and fed it from the

plastic bottle. However, the second child was an angelic little girl of

four or five years. She had huge dark eyes and a head of thick curls.

She stood on the seat facing backwards, with one thumb thrust deeply

into her mouth. She was watching David steadily over the back of the

seat, studying his face with that total absorption and candour of the

child. David felt a sudden warmth of emotion for the child, a longing

for the comfort of human contact, of which he had been deprived all

these months.

He leaned forward in his seat, trying to smile, reaching out a gentle

hand to touch the child's arm.

She removed her thumb from her-, mouth and shrank away from him, turning

to her mother and clinging to her arm, hiding her face in the woman's

blouse.

At the next stop David stepped down from the bus and left the road to

climb the stony hillside.

The day was warm and drowsy, with the bee murmur and the smell of the

blossoms from the peach orchards.

He climbed the terraces and rested at the crest, for he found he was

breathless and shaky. Months in hospital had left him unaccustomed to

walking far, but it was not that alone. The episode with the child had

distressed him terribly.

He looked longingly towards the sky. it was clear and brilliant blue,

with high silver cloud in the north. He wished he could ascend beyond

those clouds. He knew he would find peace up there.

A taxi dropped him off at the top of Malik Street. The front door was

unlocked, swinging open before he could fit his key in the lock.

Puzzled and alqrrned he stepped into the living-room.

It was as he had left it so many months before, but somebody had cleaned

and swept, and there were fresh flowers in a vase upon the olive-wood

table, a huge bouquet of gaily coloured dahlias, yellow and scarlet.

David smelled food, hot and spicy and tantalizing after the bland

hospital fare.

Hello, he called. Who is there? Welcome home! there was a familiar

bellow from behind the closed bathroom door. I didn't expect you so

soon, and you've caught me with my skirts up and pants down. There was

a scuffling sound and then the toilet flushed thunderously and the door

was flung open. Ella Kadesh appeared majestically through it. She wore

one of her huge kaftans, it was a blaze of primary colours.

Her hat was apple-green in colour, the brim pinned up at the side like

an Australian bush hat by an enormous jade brooch and a bunch of ostrich

feathers.

Her heavy arms were flung wide in a gesture of welcome, and the face was

split in a huge grin of anticipation. She came towards him, and the

grin persisted long after the horror had dawned in her bright little

eyes.

Her steps slowed. David? Her voice was uncertain. It is you, David?

Hello, Ella. Oh God. Oh, sweet holy name of God. What have they done

to you, my beautiful young Mars Listen, you old bag, he said sharply, if

you start blubbering I'm going to throw you down the steps. She made a

huge effort to control it, fighting back the tears that flooded into her

eyes, but her jowls wobbled and her voice was thick and nasal as she

enfolded him in her huge arms and hugged him to her bosom.

I've got a case of cold beers in the refrigerator, and I made a pot of

curry for us. You'll love my curry, it's the thing I do best David ate

with enormous appetite, washing down the fiery food with cold beer, and

listened to Ella talk.

She spouted words like a fountain, using their flow to cover her pity

and embarrassment.

They would not let me visit you, but I telephoned every week and kept in

touch that way. The sister and I got very friendly, she let me know you

were coming today. So I drove up to make sure you had a welcome -She

tried to avoid looking directly at his face, but when she did the

shadows appeared in her eyes, even though she made a convincing effort

at gaiety. When he finished eating at last, she asked, What will you do

now, David? I would have liked to go back and fly. It's the thing I

like to do best, but they have forced me to resign my commission. I

disobeyed orders, Joe and I followed them across the border, and they

don't want me any more.

There was nearly open war, David. It was a crazy thing that you and Joe

did.

David nodded. I was mad. I wasn't thinking straight after Debra Ellen

interrupted quickly. Yes, I know. Share another beer?

David nodded distractedly. How is she, Ella? It was the question he

had wanted to ask all along.

She is just fine, Davey. She has begun the new book, and if anything

it's better than the first. I think she will become a very important

writer Her eyes? Is there any improvement?

Ella shook her head. She has come to terms with that now. It doesn't

seem to bother her any longer, just as you will come to accept what has

happened David was not listening. Ella, in all that time, when I was in

hospital, every day I hoped, I knew it was useless, but I hoped to hear

from her. A card, a word. She didn't know, Davey. Didn't know? David

demanded and leaned across the table to grip Ella's wrist. What do you

mean? After Joe, was killed, Debra's father was very angry.

He believed that you were responsible David nodded, the blank mask of

his face concealing his guilt.

Well, he told Debra that you had left Israel, and gone back to your

home. We were all sworn to silence, and that's what Debra believes now.

David released Ella's wrist, picked up his beer glass and sipped at the

head of froth.

You still haven't answered my question, David. What are you going to do

now? I don't know, Ella. I guess I'll have to think about that.

A harsh warm wind came off the hills and ruffled the surface of the

lake, darkening it to black and flecking it with white crests. The

fishing boats along the curve of the shore tugged restlessly at their

mooring ropes, and the fishing nets upon their drying racks billowed

like bridal veils.

The wind caught Debra's hair and shook it out in a loose cloud. It

pressed the silk dress she wore against her body, emphasizing the heavy

roundness of her breasts and the length of her legs.

She stood on the battlements of the crusader castle, leaning both hands

lightly on the head of her cane and she stared out across the water,

almost as though she could see beyond it.

Ella sat near her, on a fallen block of masonry out of the wind, but she

pinned her hat down with one hand as she spoke, watching Debra's face

intently to judge her reactions.

At the time it seemed the kindest thing to do. I agreed to keep the

truth from you, because I did not want you to torture yourself Debra

spoke sharply Don't ever do that again. Ella made a moue of resignation

and went on. I had no way of knowing how bad he was, they would not let

me see him, and so I suppose I was a coward and let it drift. I .

Debra shook her head angrily, but she remained silent.

Ella wondered again that sightless eyes could contain so much

expression, for Debra's emotions blazed clearly in the honey-coloured

sparks as she turned her head towards Ella.

It was not the time to distract you. Don't you see, my dear? You were

adjusting so nicely, working so well on your book. I did not see that

we could gain anything by telling you. I decided to cooperate with your

father, and see how things turned out later.

Then why are you telling me all this now? Debra demanded. What has

happened to change your mind what has happened to David?

Yesterday at noon David was discharged from Hadassah Hospital.

Hospital? Debra was puzzled. You don't mean he has been in hospital

all this time, Ella. Nine months it's impossible!

It's the truth He must have been terribly hurt, Debra's anger had

changed to concern. How is he, Ella? What happened?

Is he healed now? Ella was silent a moment, and Debra took a pace

towards her. Well? she asked.

David's plane flamed out and he was very badly burned about the head. He

has recovered completely now. His burns have healed, but Ella hesitated

again, and Debra groped for her hand and found it. Go on, Ella! But

David is no longer the most beautiful man I have ever seen. 'I don't

understand? He is no longer swift and vital and, any woman who sees him

now will find it difficult to be near him, let alone love him. Debra

was listening intently, her expression rapt and her eyes soft-focused.

He is very conscious of the way he looks now. He is searching for some

place to hide, I think. He talks of wanting to fly as though it is some

form of escape. He knows he is alone now, cut off from the world by the

mask he wears Debra's eyes had misted, and Ella made her gravelly voice

gentler and she went on.

But there is something who will never see that mask. Ella drew the girl

closer to her. Somebody who remembers only the way he was before.

Debra's grip tightened on Ella's hand, and she began to smile, it was an

expression that seemed to radiate from deep within her.

He needs you now, Debra, Ella said softly. That is all there is left

for him. Will you change your decision now? Fetch him to me, Ella,

Debra's voice shook. Fetch him to me as soon as you can.

David climbed the long line of stairs towards Ella's studio. It was a

day of bright sunlight and he wore open sandals and light silk slacks of

a bronze colour and a short-sleeved shirt with a wide V-neck. His arms

were pale from lack of sun, the dark hair of his chest contrasting

strongly against the soft cream, and upon his head he wore a

wide-brimmed white straw hat to guard the cicatrice from the sun and to

soften his face with shadow.

He paused, and he could feel the break of sweat under the shirt and the

pumping of his lungs. He despised the weakness of his body and the

quivering of his legs as he came out on the terrace. It was deserted,

and he crossed to the shuttered doors and went into the gloom.

Ella Kadesh sitting on a Samarkand carpet in the centre of the paved

floor was an astonishing sight. For she was dressed in a brief bikini

costume adored with pink roses that almost disappeared under the rolls

of ponderous flesh that hung over it from belly and breast.

She was in the yoga position of Padmasana, the sitting lotus, and her

massive legs were twisted and entwined like mating pythons. Her hands

were held before her palm to palm and her eyes were closed in

meditation; upon her head her ginger wig was set four square like that

of a judge.

David leaned in the doorway and before he could recover his breath he

began to laugh. It began as a wheezy little chuckle, and then suddenly

he was really laughing, from deep down, great gusts of it that shook his

helpless body, and flogged his lungs. It was not mirth but a catharsis

of the last dregs of suffering, it was the moment of accepting life

again, a taking up once more of the challenge of living.

Ella must have recognized it as such, for she did not move, squatting

like some cheerful buddha on the brilliant carpet, and she opened one

little eye. The effect was even more startlingly comic, and David

reeled away from the door, and fell into one of the chairs.

Your soul is a desert, David Morgan, said Ella. You have no recognition

of beauty, all loveliness would wither on the dung heap which, But the

rest of it was lost as she also began to giggle and the yoga pose broke

down, melting like a jelly on a hot day, and she traded him hoot for

hoot and bellow for bellow of laughter.

I'm stuck, she gasped at last. Help me, Davey, you oaf - And he

staggered to her, knelt and struggled to help her unlock her interwoven

legs. They came apart with little creaking and popping sounds and Ella

collapsed face down on the carpet groaning and giggling at the same

time.

Get out of here, she moaned. Leave me to die in peace. Go and find

your woman, she is down on the jetty. She watched him go quickly, and

then she dragged herself up and went to the door. The laughter dried up

and she whispered aloud, My two poor little crippled kittens, I wonder

if I have done the right thing. The shadows of doubt crossed her face,

and then faded. Well, it's too damn late for worry now, Kadesh, you

interfering old bag, you should have thought about that before.

A gaudily coloured towel and beach jacket were spread upon the jetty and

a transistor radio, with its volume turned high, blared out a heavy rock

tune. Far out in the bay Debra was swimming alone, a steady powerful

overarm crawl. Her brown arms flashed wetly in the sun at each stroke

and the water churned to froth at the beat of her legs.

She stopped to tread water. Her bathing cap was plain white, and he

could see that she was listening for the sound of the radio for she

began to swim again, heading directly in towards the jetty.

She came out of the water, pulling off the cap and shaking out her hair.

Her body was dark, sun-browned and bejewelled with drops, the muscles

looked firm and hard and her tread was confident and sure as he came up

the stone steps and picked up her towel.

As she dried herself David stood near and watched her avidly, seeming to

devour her with his eyes, trying to make up in that first minute for all

those many months.

he'd pictured her so clearly, and yet there was much he had forgotten.

Her hair was softer, cloudier than he remembered. He had forgotten the

plasticity and lustre of her skin, it was darker also than it had been

before almost the colour of her eyes, she must have spent many hours

each day in the sun. Suddenly and unaffectedly she threw her towel down

and adjusted the top of her brief costume, pulling open the thin fabric

and cupping one fat breast in her hand to settle it more comfort ably,

David felt his need for her so strongly that it seemed he could not

contain it all within the physical bounds of his chest. He moved

slightly and the gravel crunched softly under his shoes.

Instantly the lovely head turned towards him and froze in the attitude

of listening. The eyes were wide open, intelligent and expressive, they

seemed to look slightly to one side of him, and David had a powerful

impulse to turn and glance behind him, following their steady gaze.

David? she asked softly. is that you David? He tried to answer her,

but his voice failed him and his reply was a small choking sound. She

ran to him, swiftly and long-legged as a roused foal, with her arms

reaching out and her face lighting with joy.

He caught her up, and she clung to him fiercely, almost angrily, as

though she had been too long denied.

I've missed you, David. Her voice was fierce also. Oh, God, you'll

never know how I have missed you, and she pressed her mouth to the stark

gash in his mask of flesh.

This was the first human being who had treated him without reserve,

without pity or revulsion, in all those months, and David felt his heart

swell harder and his embrace was as fierce as hers.

She broke at last, leaning back to press her hips unashamedly against

his, exulting in the hard thrustingness of his arousal, proud to have

evoked it, and quickly, questioningly she ran her hands over his face,

feeling the new contours and the unexpected planes and angles.

She felt him begin to pull away, but she stopped him and continued her

examination.

My fingers tell me that you are still, beautiful You have lying fingers,

he whispered, but she ignored his words, and pushed forward teasingly

with her hips.

, And I'm getting another very powerful message from further south. She

gave a breathless little laugh. Come with me, please, sir. Holding his

hand, she ran lightly up the steps, dragging him after her. He was

amazed at the agility and confidence with which she negotiated the

climb. She drew him into the cottage and as he looked about him,

quickly taking it all in, she closed and bolted the door.

Immediately the room was cool and dim and intimate.

On the bed her body was still damp and cold from the lake, but her lips

were hot as she strained against him urgently. The two beautiful young

bodies meshed hungrily, almost as if they were attempting to find

sanctuary within each other, desperately flesh sought haven within

flesh, within each other's encircling arms and legs they searched for

and found surcease from the loneliness and the darkness.

The physical act of love, no matter how often repeated, was insufficient

for their needs; even in the intervals between they clung desperately to

each other; sleeping pressed together, they groped drowsily but

anxiously for each other if the movements of sleep separated them for

even an instant. They talked holding hands, she reaching up to touch

his face at intervals, he staring into her golden eyes. Even when she

prepared their simple meals, he stood close beside or behind her so that

she could sway against him and feel him there. It was as though they

lived in momentary dread of being once more separated.

It was two days before they left the sanctuary of the cottage and walked

together along the lake shore or swam from the jetty and lay in the warm

sun. But even when Ella looked down at them from the terrace and waved,

David asked, Shall we go up to her? No, Debra answered quickly.

Not yet. I'm not ready to share you with anybody else yet. Just a

little while more, please, David. And it was another three days before

they climbed the path to the studio. Ella had laid on one of her

gargantuan lunches, but she had invited no other guests and they were

grateful to her for that.

I thought I'd have to send down a party of stretcherbearers to carry you

up, Davey, Ella greeted him, with a lecherous chuckle.

Don't be crude, Ella, Debra told her primly, flushing to a dark rose

brown, and Ella let fly with one of her explosive bursts of mirth that

was so contagious they must follow it.

They sat beneath the palm trees and drank wine from the earthenware

jugs, and ate hugely, laughing and talking without restraint, David and

Debra so involved with each other that they were not aware of Ella's

shrewdly veiled appraisal.

The change in Debra was dramatic, all the coolness and reserve were gone

now, the armour in which she had clad her emotions was stripped away.

She was vital and eager and blooming with love.

She sat close beside David, laughing with delight at his sallies, and

leaning to touch and caress him, as though to reassure herself of his

presence.

Ella glanced again at David, trying to smile naturally at him, but

guiltily aware of the sneaking sensation of repulsion she still felt

repulsion and aching pity when she looked at that monstrous head. She

knew that if she saw it every day for twenty years, it would still

disturb her.

Debra laughed again at something David had said and turned her face to

him, offering her mouth with a touching innocence.

What a terrible thing to say, she laughed. I think a gesture of

contrition is called for, and responded eagerly as the great ravaged

head bent to her and the thin slit of a mouth touched hers.

it was disquieting to see the lovely dark face against that mask of

ruined flesh, and yet it was also strangely moving.

it was the right thing. For once I did the right thing, Ella decided,

watching them, and feeling a vague envy.

These two were bound together completely, made strong by their separate

afflictions. Before it had been a mutual itching of the flesh, a chance

spark struck from two minds meeting, but now it was something that

transcended that.

Ella recalled regretfully a long line of lovers stretching back to the

shadowy edges of her memory, receding images which seemed unreal now. if

only there had been something to bind her to one of those, if only she

had been left with something more valuable than half remembered words

and faded memories of brief mountings and furtive couplings. She

sighed, and they looked at her questioning A sad sound, Ella, darling,

Debra said. We are selfish, please forgive us. Not sad, my children,

Ella denied hotly, scattering the old phantoms of her memory. I am

happy for you.

You have something very wonderful, strong and bright and wonderful.

Protect it as you would your life. She took up her wine glass. I give

you a toast. I give you David and Debra, and a love made invincible by

suffering. And they were serious for a moment while they drank the

toast together in golden yellow wine, sitting in golden yellow sunlight,

then the mood resumed and they were gay once more.

Once the first desperate demands of their bodies had been met, once they

had drawn as close together as physical limits would allow, then they

began a coupling of the spirit. They had never really spoken before,

even when they had shared the house on Malik Street, they had used only

the superficial word symbols.

Now they began learning really to talk. Some nights they did not sleep

but spent the fleeting hours of darkness in exploring each other's minds

and bodies, and they delighted to realize that this exploration would

never be completed, for the areas of their minds were boundless.

During the day the blind girl taught David to see. He found that he had

never truly used his eyes before, and now that he must see for both of

them he had to learn to make the fullest use of his sight. He must

learn to describe colour and shape and movement accurately and

incisively, for Debra's demands were insatiable.

In turn, David, whose own confidence had been shattered by his

disfigurement, taught confidence to the girl.

She learned to trust him implicitly as he grew to anticipate her needs.

She learned to step out boldly beside him, knowing that he would guide

or caution her with a light touch or a word. Her world had shrunk to

the small area about the cottage the jetty within which she could find

her way surely. Now with David beside her, her frontiers fell back and

she was free to move wherever she chose.

Yet they ventured ut together only cautiously at first, wandering along

the lakeside together or climbing the hills towards Nazareth, and each

day they swam in the green lake waters and each night they made love in

the curtained alcove.

David grew hard and lean and suntanned again, and it seemed they were

complete for when Ella asked, Debra, when are you going to make a start

on the new book?

she laughed and answered lightly. Sometime within the next hundred

years. A week later she asked of David this time. Have you decided

what you are going to do yet, Davey? just what I'm doing now, he said,

and Debra backed him up quickly. For ever! she said. Just like this

for ever. Then without thinking about it, without really steeling

themselves to it, they went to where they would meet other people in the

mass.

David borrowed the speedboat, picked up a shopping list from Ella, and

they planed down along the take shore to Tiberias, with the white wake

churning out behind them and the wind and drops of spray in their faces.

They moored in the tiny harbour of the marina at Lido Beach and walked

up into the town. David was so engrossed with Debra that the crowds

around him were unreal, and although he noticed a few curious glances

they meant very little to him.

Although it was early in the season, the town was filled with visitors,

and the buses were parked in the square at the foot of the hill and

along the lake front, for this was full on the tourist route.

David carried a plastic bag that grew steadily heavier until it was

ready to overflow.

Bread, and that's the lot, Debra mentally ticked off the list.

They went down the hill under the eucalyptus trees and found a table on

the harbour wall, beneath the gaily coloured umbrella.

They sat touching each other and drank cold beer and ate pistachio nuts,

oblivious of everything and everybody about them even though the other

tables were crowded with tourists. The lake sparkled and the softly

rounded hills seemed very close in the bright light. Once a flight of

Phantoms went booming down the valley, flying low on some mysterious

errand, and David watched them dwindle southward without regrets.

When the sun was low they went to where the speedboat was moored, and

David handed Debra down into it. On the wall above them sat a party of

tourists, probably on some package pilgrimage, and they were talking

animatedly, their accents were Limehouse, Golders Green and Merseyside,

although the subtleties of prommciation were lost of David.

He started the motor and pushed off from the wall, steering for the

harbour mouth with Debra sitting close beside him and the motor burbling

softly.

A big red-face tourist looked down from the wall and supposing that the

motor covered his voice, nudged his wife.

Get a look at those two, Mavis. Beauty and the beast, isn't it? 'Cork

it, Bert. They might understand.

Go on, luv! They only talk Yiddish or whatever. Debra felt David's arm

go rigid under her hand, felt him begin to pull away, sensing his

outrage and anger but she gripped his forearm tightly and restrained

him. Let's go, Davey, darling. Leave them, please. Even when they

were alone in the safety of the cottage, David was silent and she could

feel the tension in his body and the air was charged with it.

They ate the evening meal of bread and cheese and fish and figs in the

same strained silence. Debra could think of nothing to say to distract

him for the careless words had wounded her as deeply. Afterwards she

lay unsleeping beside him. He lay on his back, not touching her, with

his arms at his sides and his fists clenched.

When at last she could bear it no longer, she turned to him and stroked

his face, still not knowing what to say.

it was David who broke the silence at last.

I want to go away from people. We don't need people do we? 'No, she

whispered. We don't need them. There is a place called Jabulani. It

is deep in the African bushveld, far from the nearest town. My father

bought it as a hunting lodge thirty years ago, and now it belongs to me.

Tell me about it, Debra laid her head-on his chest, and he began

stroking her hair, relaxing as he talked.

There is a wide plain on which grow open forests of mopani and

mohobahoba, with some fat old baobabs and a few ivory palms. In the

open glades the grass is yellow gold and the fronds of the ilala palms

look like beggars fingers. At the end of the plain is a line of hills,

they turn blue at a distance and the peaks are shaped like the turrets

of a fairy castle with tumbled blocks of granite. Between the hills

rises a spring of water, a strong spring that has never dried and the

water is very clear and sweet," "What does Jabulani mean? Debra asked

when he had described it to her.

It means the "place of rejoicing", David told her. I want to go there

with you, she said.

What about Israel? he asked. Will you not miss it?

No, she shook her head. You see, I will take it with me, in my heart.

Ella went up to Jerusalem with them, filling the back seat of the

Mercedes. She would help Debra select the furniture they would take

with them from the house and have it crated and shipped. The rest of it

she would sell for them. Aaron Cohen would negotiate the sale of the

house, and both David and Debra felt a chill of sadness at the thought

of other people living in their home.

David left the women to it and he drove out to Em Karem and parked the

Mercedes beside the iron gate in the garden wall.

The Brig was waiting for him in that bleak and forbidding room above the

courtyard. When David greeted him from the doorway he looked up coldly,

and there was no relaxation of the iron features, no warmth or pity in

the fierce warrior eyes.

You come to me with the blood of my son on your hands, he said, and

David froze at the words and held his gaze. After a few moments the

Brig indicated the tall-backed chair against the far wall, and David

crossed stiffly to it and sat down.

If you had suffered less, I would have made you answer for more, said

the Brig. But vengeance and hatred are barren things, as you have

discovered. David dropped his eyes to the floor.

I will not pursue them further, despite the dictates of my heart, for

that is what I am condemning in you.

You are a violent young man, and violence is the pleasure of fools and

only the last resort of wise men.

The only excuse for it is to protect what is rightfully yours, any other

display of violence is abuse. You abused the power I gave you, and in

doing it you killed my son, and brought my country to the verge of war.

The Brig stood up from his desk, and he crossed to the window and looked

down into the garden. They were both silent while he stroked his

mustache and remembered his son.

At last the Brig sighed heavily and turned back into the room. Why do

you come to me? he asked.

I wish to marry your daughter, sir.

You are asking me, or telling me? the Brig demanded, and then without

waiting for an answer returned to his desk and sat down. If you abuse

this also, if you bring her pain or unhappiness, I will seek you out.

Depend upon it. David stood up and settled the cloth cap over his gross

head, pulling the brim well down.

We would like you to be at the wedding. Debra asked that particularly,

for you and her mother. The Brig nodded. You may tell her that we will

be there.

The synagogue at Jerusalem University is a gleaming white structure,

shaped like the tent of a desert wanderer, with the same billowing

lines.

The red-bud trees were in full bloom and the wedding party was larger

than they had planned, for apart from the immediate family there were

Debra's colleagues from the university, Robert and some of the other

boys from the squadron, Ella Kadesh, Doctor Edelman the baby-faced eye

surgeon who had worked on Debra, Aaron Cohen and a dozen others.

After the simple ceremony, they walked through the university grounds to

one of the reception rooms that David had hired. It was a quiet

gathering with little laughter or joking. The Young Pilots from David's

old squadron had to leave early to return to base, and with them went

any pretence of jollity.

Debra's mother was still not yet fully recovered, and the prospect of

Debra's departure reduced her to quiet grey weeping. Debra tried

without success to comfort her.

Before he left, Dr. Edelman drew David aside.

Watch for any sign of atrophy in her eyes, any cloudiness, excessive

redness, any complaints of pain, headaches! will watch for it.

Any indications, no matter how trivial, if you have any doubts, you must

write to me. 'Thank you, doctor.

They shook hands. Good luck in your new life, said Edelman.

Through it all Debra showed iron control, but even she at last succumbed

and she, her mother, and Ella Kadesh all broke down simultaneously at

the departure barrier of Lad Airport and hung around each other's necks,

weeping bitterly.

The Brig and David stood by, stiff and awkward, trying to look as though

they were not associated with the weeping trio, until the first warning

broadcast gave them an excuse for a brief handshake and David took

Debra's arm and drew her gently away.

They climbed the boarding ladder into the waiting Boeing without looking

back. The giant aircraft took off and turned away southwards, and as

always the sensation of flight soothed David; all the cares and tensions

of these last few days left on the earth behind and below, he felt a new

lightness of the spirit, excitement for what lay ahead.

He reached across and squeezed Debra's arm.

Hello there, Morgan, he said, and she turned towards him and smiled

happily, blindly.

It was necessary to spend some time in Cape Town before they could

escape to the sanctuary of Jabulani in the north.

David took a suite at the Mount Nelson Hotel, and from there he was able

to settle the numerous issues that had piled up in his absence.

The accountants who managed his trust funds demanded ten days of his

time and they spent it in the sitting-room of the suite, poring over

trust documents and accounts.

In two years his income had grossly exceeded his spending, and the

unused portion of his income had to be re-invested. In addition the

third trust fund would soon pass to him and there were formalities to be

completed.

Debra was hugely impressed by the extent of David's wealth.

You must be almost a millionaire, she said in a truly awed voice, for

that was as rich as Debra could imagine.

I'm not just a pretty face, David agreed, and she was relieved that'he

could talk so lightly about his appearance.

Mitzi and her new husband came to visit them in their suite. However,

the evening was not a success.

Although Mitzi tried to act as though nothing had changed, and though

she still called him warrior, yet it was apparent that she and her

feelings had altered.

She was heavily pregnant and more shapeless than David would have

thought possible. It was half-way through the evening before David

realized the true reason for all the reserve. At first he thought that

his disfigurement was worrying them, but after Mitzi had given a

barr-hour eulogy of the strides that Cecil was making at Morgan Group

and the immense trust that Paul Morgan had placed in him, Cecil had

asked innocently, Are you thinking of joining us at the Group?

I'm sure we could find something useful for you to do - ha, ha! David

could assure them quietly.

No, thank you. You won't have to worry about me, Cecil, old boy. You

take over from Uncle Paul with my blessing Good Lord, I didn't mean

that, Cecil was shocked, but Mitzi was less devious.

He really will be very good, warrior, and you never were interested,

were you.

After that evening they did not see the couple again, and Paul Morgan

was in Europe, so David fulfilled his family obligations without much

pain or suffering and he could concentrate on the preparations for the

move to Jabulani.

Barney Venter spent a week with them in choosing a suitable aircraft to

handle the bush airstrip and yet give David the type of performance he

enjoyed. At last they decided on a twin-engined Piper Navajo, a

six-seater with two big 3oo-hid. p. Lycoming engines and a tricycle

undercart, and Barney walked around it with his hands on his hips.

Well, she's no Mirage. He kicked the landing-wheel and then checked

himself and glanced quickly at David's face.

I've had enough of Mirages, David told him. They bite!

On the last day David drove out with Debra to a farm near Paarl. The

owner's wife was a dog breeder and when they went down to the kennels

one of her labrador pups walked directly to Debra and placed a cold nose

on her leg as he inhaled her scent. Debra squatted and groped for his

head and after fondling for a few moments she in her turn leaned forward

and sniffed the pup's fur.

He smells like old leather, she said. What colour is he? Black, said

David. Black as a Zulu. That's what we'll call him, said Debra. Zulu.

You want to choose this one? David asked.

No, 'Debra laughed. He chose us. When they flew northwards the next

morning the pup was indignant at being placed in the back seat and with

a flying scrambling leap he came over Debra's shoulder and took up

position in her lap, which seemed to suit them both very well.

It looks like I have competition, David muttered ruefully.

From the brown plateau of the high veld, the land dropped away steeply

down the escarpment to the bush veld of southern Africa.

David picked up his landmark on the little village of Bush Buck Ridge

and the long slim snake of the Sabi River as it twisted through the open

forests of the plain.

He altered course slightly northwards and within ten minutes he saw the

low line of blue hills which rose abruptly out of the flat land.

There it is, ahead of us, David told Debra and his tone was infectious.

She hugged the dog closer to her and leaned towards David.

"What does it look like?

The hills were forested with big timber, and turreted with grey rock. At

their base the bush was thick and dark. The pools glinted softly

through the dark foliage.

He described them to her.

My father named them "The String of Pearls", and that's what they look

like. They rise out of the run-off of rain water from the sloping

ground beyond the hills.

They disappear just as suddenly again into the sandy earth of the plain,

David explained as he circled the hills, slowly losing height. They are

what give Jabulani its special character, for they provide water for all

the wild life of the plain. Birds and animals are drawn from hundreds

of miles to the Pearls. He levelled out and throttled back, letting the

aircraft sink lower. There is the homestead, white walls and thatch to

keep it cool in the hot weather, deep shaded verandas and high rooms you

will love it.

The airstrip seemed clear and safe, although the wind sock hung in dirty

tatters from its pole, David circled it carefully before lining up for

the landing, and they taxied towards the small brick hangar set amongst

the trees.

David kicked on the wheel brakes and cut the engines. This is it, he

said.

Jabulani was one of a block of estates that bounded the Kruger National

Park, the most spectacular nature reserve on earth. These estates were

not productive, in that they were unsuitable for the growth of crops and

few of them were used for grazing of domestic animals; their immense

value lay in the unspoiled bush veld and the wild life, in the peace and

space upon which wealthy men placed such a premium that they would pay

large fortunes for a piece of this Lebensraum.

When David's grandfather had purchased Jabulani he had paid a few

shillings an acre, for in those days the wilderness was still intact.

it had been used as a family hunting estate down the years, and as Paul

Morgan had never shown interest in the veld, it had passed to David's

father and so to David.

Now the eighteen thousand acres of African bush and plain, held as

freehold land, was a possession beyond price.

Yet the Morgan family had made little use of it these last fifteen

years. David's father had been an enthusiastic huntsman, and with him

most of David's school holidays had been spent here. However, after his

father's death, the visits to Jabulani had become shorter and further

apart.

It was seven years since the last visit, when he had brought up a party

of brother officers from Cobra Squadron.

Then it had been immaculately run by Sam, the black overseer, butler and

game ranger.

Under Sam's management there had always been fresh crisp linen on the

beds, highly polished floors, the exterior walls of the buildings had

been snowly white and the thatch neat and well-tended. The deep-freeze

had been well stocked with steak and the liquor cupboard filled, with

every bottle accounted for.

Sam ran a tight camp, with half a dozen willing and cheerful helpers.

Where is Sam? was the first question David asked of the two servants

who hurried down from the homestead to meet the aircraft.

Sam gone. Where to? And the answer was the eloquent shrug of Africa.

Their uniforms were dirty and needed mending, and their manners

disinterested. Where is the Land-Rover? 'She is dead. 7hey walked up

to the homestead and there David had another series of unpleasant

surprises.

The buildings were dilapidated, looking forlorn and neglected under

their rotting black thatch. The walls were dingy, grey-brown with the

plaster falling away in patches.

The interiors were filthy with dust, and sprinkled with the droppings of

the birds and reptiles that had made their homes in the thatch.

The mosquito gauze, that was intended to keep the wide verandas

insect-free, was rusted through and breaking away in tatters.

The vegetable gardens were overgrown, the fences about them falling to

pieces. The grounds of the home stead itself were thick with rank weed,

and not only the Land-Rover had died. No single piece of machinery on

the estate, water pump, toilet cistern, electricity generator, motor

vehicle, was in working order.

It's a mess, a frightful mess, David told Debra as they sat on the front

step and drank mugs of sweet tea. Fortunately David had thought to

bring emergency supplies with them.

, oh, Davey. I am so sorry, because I like it here. It's peaceful, so

quiet. I can just feel my nerves untying themselves. Don't be sorry.

I'm not. These old huts were built by Gramps back in the twenties, and

they weren't very well built even then. David's voice was full of a new

purpose, a determination that she had not heard for so long. It's a

fine excuse to tear the whole lot down, and build again. A place of our

own? she asked.

Yes, said David delightedly. That's it. That's just it! They flew

into Nelspruit, the nearest large town, the following day. In the week

of bustle and planning that followed they forgot their greater problems.

With an architect they planned the new homestead with care, taking into

consideration all their special requirements , a large airy study for

Debra, workshop and office for David, a kitchen laid out to make it safe

and easy for a blind cook, rooms without dangerous split levels and with

regular easily learned shapes, and finally a nursery section. When

David described this addition Debra asked cautiously, You making some

plans that I should know about?

You'll know about it, all right, he assured her.

The guest house was to be separate and self-contained and well away from

the main homestead, and the small hutment for the servants was a quarter

of a mile beyond that, screened by trees and the shoulder of the rocky

kopje that rose behind the homestead.

David bribed a building contractor from Nelspruit to postpone all his

other work, load his workmen on four heavy trucks and bring them out to

Jabulani.

They began on the main house, and while they worked, David was busy

resurfacing the airstrip, repairing the water pumps and such other

machinery as still had life left in it. However, the Land-Rover and the

electricity generator had to be replaced.

Within two months the new homestead was habitable, and they could move.

Debra set up her tape recorders beneath tbt: )ig windows overlooking the

shaded front garden, where the afternoon breeze could cool the room and

waft in the perfume of the frangipani and poinsettia blooms.

While David was completely absorbed in making Jabulani into a

comfortable home, Debra made her own arrangements.

Swiftly she explored and mapped in her mind all her immediate

surroundings. Within weeks she could move about the new house with all

the confidence of a person with normal sight and she had trained the

servants to replace each item of furniture in its exact position.

Always Zulu, the labrador pup, moved like a glossy black shadow beside

her. Early on he had decided that Debra needed his constant care, and

had made her his life's work.

Quickly he learned that it was useless staring at her or wagging his

tail, to attract her attention he must whine or pant. In other respects

she was also slightly feeble-minded, the only way to prevent her doing

stupid things like falling down the front steps or tripping over a

bucket left in the passage by a careless servant was to bump her with

his shoulder, or with his nose.

She had fallen readily into a pattern of work that kept her in her

workroom until noon each day, with Zulu curled at her feet.

David set up a large bird bath under the trees outside her window, so

the tapes she made had as a background the chatter and warble of half a

dozen varieties of wild birds. She had discovered a typist in Nelspruit

who could speak Hebrew, and David took the tapes in to her whenever he

flew to town for supplies and to collect the mail, and he brought each

batch of typing back with him for checking.

They worked together on this task, David reading each batch of writing

or correspondence aloud to her and making the alterations she asked for.

He made it a habit of reading almost everything, from newspapers to

novels, aloud.

Who needs braille with you around, Debra remarked, but it was more than

just the written word she needed to hear from him. It was each facet

and dimension of her new surroundings. She had never seen any of the

myriad of birds that flocked to drink and bathe below her window, though

she soon recognized each individual call and would pick out a stranger

immediately.

David, there's a new one, what it is? What does he look like? And he

must describe not only its plumage, but its mannerisms and its habits.

At other times he must describe to her exactly how the new buildings

fitted into their surroundings, the antics of Zulu the labrador, and

supply accurate descriptions of the servants, the view from the window

of her workroom, and a hundred other aspects of her new life.

In time the building was completed and the strangers left Jabulani, but

it was not until the crates from Israel containing their furniture and

other Possessions from Malik Street arrived that Jabulani started truly

to become their home.

The olive-wood table was placed under the window in the workroom.

I haven't been able to work properly, there was something missing - and

Debra ran her fingers caressingly across the inlaid ivory and ebony top

- until now Her books were in shelves on the wall beside the table, and

the leather suite in the new lounge looked very well with the

animal-skin rugs and woven wool carpets.

David hung the Ella Kadesh painting above the fireplace, Debra

determining the precise position for him by sense of touch.

Are you sure it shouldn't be a sixteenth of an inch higher? David asked

seriously.

Let's have no more lip from you, Morgan, I have to know exactly where it

is. Then the great brass bedstead was set up in the bedroom, and

covered with the ivory-coloured bedspread.

Debra bounced up and down on it happily.

Now, there is only one thing more that is missing she declared.

"What's that? he asked with mock anxiety. Is it something important?

Come here. She crooked a finger in his general direction. And I'll

show you just how important it is.

During the months of preparation they had not left The immediate

neighbourhood of the homestead, but now quite suddenly the rush and

bustle was over.

We have eighteen thousand acres and plenty of fourfooted neighbours,

let's go check it all out, David suggested.

They packed a cold lunch and the three of them climbed into the new

Land-Rover with Zulu relegated to the back seat. The road led naturally

down to the String of Pearls for this was the focal point of all life

upon the estate.

They left the Land-Rover amongst the fever trees and went down to the

ruins of the thatched summer house on the bank of the main pool.

The water aroused all Zulu's instincts and he plunged into it, paddling

out into the centre with obvious enjoyment. The water was clear as air,

but shaded to black in the depths.

David scratched in the muddy bank and turned out a thick pink earthworm.

He threw it into the shallows and a dark shape half as long as his arm

rushed silently out of the depths and swirled the surface.

Wow! David laughed. There are still a few fat ones around. We will

have to bring down the rods. I used to spend days down here when I was

a kid. The forest was filled with memories and as they wandered along

the edge of the reed banks he reminisced about his childhood, until

gradually he fell into silence, and she asked: Is something wrong,

David? 'She had grown that sensitive to his moods.

There are no animals. His tone was puzzled. Birds, yes. But we

haven't seen a single animal, not even a duiker, since we left the

homestead. He stopped at a place that was clear of reeds, where the

bank shelved gently. This used to be a favourite drinking place. It

was busy day and night, the herds virtually lining up for a chance to

drink. He left Debra and went down to the edge, stooping to examine the

ground carefully. No spoor even, just a few Kudu and a small troop of

baboon.

There has not been a herd here for months, or possibly years. When he

came back to her she asked gently, You are upset? Jabulani without

its animals is nothing, 'he muttered. Come on, let's go and see the

rest of it. There is something very odd here.

The leisurely outing became a desperate hunt, as David scoured the

thickets and the open glades, followed the dried water courses and

stopped the Land Rover to examine the sand beds for signs of life.

Not even an impala, he was worried and anxious. There used to be

thousands of them. I remember herds of them, silky brown and graceful

as ballet dancers, under nearly every tree. He turned the Land-Rover

northwards, following an overgrown track through the trees.

There is grazing here that hasn't been touched. It's lush as a

cultivated garden. A little before noon they reached the dusty,

corrugated public road that ran along the north boundary of Jabulani.

The fence that followed the edge of the road was ruinous, with sagging

and broken wire and many of the uprights snapped off at ground level.

Hell, it's a mess, David told her, as he turned through a gap in the

wire on to the road, and followed the boundary for two miles until they

reached the turnoff to the Jabulani homestead.

Even the signboard hanging above the stone pillars of the gateway, which

David's father had fashioned in bronze and of which he had been so

proud, was now dilapidated and-hung askew.

Well, there's plenty of work to keep us going, said David with a certain

relish.

Half a mile beyond the gates the road turned sharply, hedged on each

side by tall grass, and standing full in the sandy track was a

magnificent kudu bull, ghostly grey and striped with pale chalky lines

across the deep powerful body. His head was held high, armed with the

long corkscrew black horns, and his huge ears were spread in an intent

listening attitude.

For only part of a second he posed like that, then, although the

Land-Rover was still two hundred yards off, he exploded into a smoky

blur of frantic flight. His great horns laid along his back as he fled

through the open bush in a series of long, lithe bounds, disappearing so

swiftly it seemed he had been only a fantasy, and David described it to

Debra.

He took off the very instant he spotted us. I remember when they were

so tame around here that we had to chase them out Of the vegetable garden

with a stic. . Again he swung off the main track and on to another

overgrown path, on which the new growth of saplings was already thick

and tall. He drove straight over them in the tough little vehicle.

What on earth are you doing? Debra shouted above the crash and swish of

branches.

In this country when you run out of road, you just make your own.

Four miles farther on, they emerged abruptly on to the fire-break track

that marked the eastern boundary of Jabulani, the dividing line between

them and the National Park which was larger than the entire land area of

the state of Israel, five million acres of virgin wilderness, three

hundred and eighty-five kilometres long and eighty wide, home of more

than a million wild animals, the most important reservoir of wild life

left in Africa.

David stopped the Land-Rover, cut the engine and jumped down. After a

moment of shocked and angry silence he began to swear.

What's made you so happy? 'Debra demanded.

Look at that, just look at that! David ranted.

I wish I could. Sorry, Debs. It's a fence. A game fence! It stood

eight feet high and the uprights were hardwood poles thick as a man's

thigh, while the mesh of the fence was heavy gauge wire. They have

fenced us off. The National Park's people have cut us off. No wonder

there are no animals. As they drove back to the homestead David

explained to her how there had always been an open boundary with the

Kruger National Park. It had suited everybody well enough, for

Jabulani's sweet grazing and the perennial water of the pools helped to

carry the herds through times of drought and scarcity.

It's becoming very important to you, this business of the wild animals.

Debra had listened silently, fondling the labrador's head, as David

spoke.

Yes, suddenly it's important. When they were here, I guess I just took

them for granted, but now they are gone it's suddenly important.

They drove on for a mile or two without speaking and then David said

with determination, I'm going to tell them to pull that fence down. They

can't cut us off like that. I'm going to get hold of the head warden,

now, right away. David remembered Conrad Berg from his childhood when

he had been the warden in charge of the southern portion of the park,

but not yet the chief. There was a body of legend about the man that

had been built up over the years, and two of these stories showed

clearly the type of man he was.

Caught out in a lonely area of the reserve after dark with a broken-down

truck, he was walking home when he was attacked by a full-grown male

lion. In the struggle he had been terribly mauled, half the flesh torn

from his back and the bone of his shoulder and arm bitten through. Yet

he had managed to kill the animal with a small sheath knife, stabbing it

repeatedly in the throat until he hit the jugular. He had then stood up

and walked five miles through the night with the hyena pack following

him expectantly, waiting for him to drop.

On another occasion one of the estate owners bounding the park had

poached one of Berg's lions, shooting it down half a mile inside the

boundary. The poacher was a man high in government, wielding massive

influence, and he had laughed at Conrad Berg.

What are you going to do about it, my friend? Don't you like your job?

Doggedly, ignoring the pressure from above, Berg had collected his

evidence and issued a summons. The pressure had become less subtle as

the court date approached, but he had never wavered. The important

personage finally stood in the dock, and was convicted.

He was sentenced to a thousand pounds fine or six months at hard labour.

Afterwards he had shaken Berg's hand and said to him, Thank you for a

lesson in courage, and perhaps this was one of the reasons Berg was now

chief warden.

He stood beside his game fence where he had arranged over the telephone

to meet David. He was a big man, broad and tall and beefy, with thick

heavily muscled arms still scarred from the lion attack, and a red

sunburned face.

He wore the suntans and slouch hat of the Park's service, with the green

cloth badges on his epaulets.

Behind him was parked his brown Chevy truck with the Park Board's emblem

on the door, and two of his black game rangers seated in the back. One

of them was holding a heavy rifle.

Berg stood with his clenched fists on his hips, his hat pushed back and

a forbidding expression on his face. He so epitomized the truculent

male animal guarding his territory that David muttered to Debra, Here

comes trouble. He parked close beside the fence and he and Debra

climbed down and went to the wire.

Mr. Berg. I am David Morgan. I remember you from when my father owned

Jabulani. I'd like you to meet my wife. Berg's expression wavered.

Naturally he had heard all the rumours about the new owner of Jabulani;

it was a lonely isolated area and it was his job to know about these

things. Yet he was unprepared for this dreadfully mutilated young man,

and his blind but beautiful wife.

With an awkward gallantry Berg doffed his hat, then realized she would

not see the gesture. He murmured a greeting and when David thrust his

hand through the fence he shook it cautiously.

Debra and David were working as a team and they turned their combined

charm upon Berg, who was a simple and direct min. Slowly his defences

softened as they chatted. He admired Zulu, he also kept labradors and

it served as a talking-point while Debra unpacked a Thermos of coffee

and David filled mugs for all of them.

Isn't that Sam? David pointed to the game ranger in the truck who held

Berg's rifle. ja. Berg was guarded. He used to work on Tabulani. He

came to me of his own accord, Berg explained, turning aside any implied

rebuke.

He wouldn't remember me, of course, not the way I look now. But he was

a fine ranger, and the place certainly went to the bad without him to

look after it, David admitted before he went into a frontal assault. The

other thing which has ruined us is this fence of yours. David kicked

one of the uprights.

You don't say? I Berg swished the grounds of his coffee around the mug

and flicked it out.

Why did you do it? For good reason. , MY father had a gentleman's

agreement with the Board, the boundary was open at all times. We have

got water and grazing that you need. With all respects to the late Mr.

Morgan, Conrad Berg spoke heavily, I was never in favour of the open

boundary. Why not? Your daddy was a sportsman. He spat the word out,

as though it were a mouthful of rotten meat. When my lions got to know

him and learned to stay this side of the line, then he used to bring

down a couple of donkeys and parade them along the boundary, to tempt

them out. David opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it slowly.

He felt the seamed scars of his face mottling and staining with a flush

of shame. It was true, he remembered the donkeys and the soft wet lion

skins being pegged out to dry behind the homestead.

He never poached, David defended him. He had an owner's licence and

they were all shot on our land. 'No, he never poached, Berg admitted.

He was too damned clever for that. He knew I would have put a rocket up

him that would have made him the first man on the moon. 'So that's why

you put up the fence. 'No. Why then? Because for fourteen years

Jabulani has been under the care of an absentee landlord who didn't give

a good damn what happened to it. Old Sam here, he motioned at the game

ranger in the truck - did his best, but still it became a poachers

paradise. As fast as the grazing and water you boast of pulled my game

out of the Park, so they were cut down by every sportsman with an itchy

trigger finger. When Sam tried to do something about it, he got badly

beaten up, and when that didn't stop him somebody put fire into his hut

at night.

They burned two of his kids to death. David felt his very soul quail at

the thought of the flames on flesh, his cheeks itched at the memory. I

didn't know, he said gruffly.

No, you were too busy making money or who tever is your particular form

of pleasure, Berg was angry. -all at last Sam came to me and I gave him

a job. Then I strung this fence. There is nothing left on Jabulani, a

few kudu and a duiker or two, but otherwise it's all gone. You are so

right. it didn't take them long to clean it out. 'I want it back. Why?

Berg scoffed. So you can be a sportsman like your daddy? So you can

fly your pals down from Jo'burg for the weekend to shoot the shit out of

my lions? Berg glanced at Debra, and immediately his red face flushed a

deep port-wine colour. I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan, I did not mean to say

that. That's perfectly all right, Mr. Berg. I think it was very

expressive. Thank you, ma'am. Then he turned furiously back to David.

Morgan's Private Safari Service, is that what you are after? I would

not allow a shot fired on Jabulani, 'said David.

I bet, except for the pot. That's the usual story.

Except for the pot, and you've got the battle of Waterloo being fought

all over again. No, said David. Not even for the pot.

You'd eat butcher's beef? Berg asked incredulously.

Look here, Mr. Berg. if you pull your fence out, I'll have Jabulani

declared a private nature reserve Berg had been about to say something,

but David's declaration dried the words, and his mouth remained hanging

open. He closed it slowly.

You know what that means? he asked at last. You place yourself under

our jurisdiction, completely. We'd tie you up properly with a lawyer's

paper and all that stuff: no owner's licence, no shooting lions because

they are in a cattle area. Yes. I know. I've studied the act. But

there is something more. I'd undertake to fence the other three

boundaries to your satisfaction, and maintain a force of private game

rangers that you considered adequate, all at my own expense. Conrad

Berg lifted his hat and scratched pensively at the long sparse grey

hairs that covered his pate. Man, he said mournfully, how can I say no

to that?

Then he began to smile, the first smile of the meeting. It looks like

you are really serious about this then. 'My wife and I are going to be

living here permanently.

We don't want to live in a desert. Ja, he nodded, understanding

completely that a man should feel that way. The strong revulsion that

he had onginally felt for the fantastic face before him was fading.

I think the first thing we should work on is these poachers you tell me

about. Let's snatch a couple of those and make a few examples, David

went on.

Berg's big red face split into a happy grin.

I think I'm going to enjoy having you as a neighbour, he said, and again

he thrust his hand through the fence.

David winced as he felt his knuckles cracking in the huge fist.

Won't you come to dinner with us tomorrow night?

You and your wife? Debra asked with relief. It will be a mighty great

pleasure, ma'mI'll get out the whisky bottle, said David. That's kind

of you, said Conrad Berg seriously, but the missus and I only drink Old

Buck dry gin, with a little water. 'I'll see to it, said David just as

seriously.

Jane Berg was a slim woman of about Conrad's age. She had a dried-out

face, lined and browned by the sun. Her hair was suribleached and

streaked with grey, and, as Debra remarked, she was probably the only

thing in the world that Conrad was afraid of.

I'm talking, Connie, was enough to halt any flow of eloquence from her

huge spouse, or a significant glance at her empty glass sent him with

elephantine haste for a refill. Conrad had a great deal of trouble

finishing any story or statement, for Jane had to correct the details

during the telling, while he waited patiently for an opportunity to

resume.

Debra chose the main course with care so as not to give offence,

beefsteaks from the deep freeze, and Conrad ate four of them with

unreserved pleasure although he spurned the wine that David served.

That stuff is poison. Killed one of my uncles, and stayed with Old Buck

gin, even through the dessert.

Afterwards they sat about the cavernous fireplace with its logs blazing

cheerfully and Conrad explained, with Jane's assistance, the problems

that David would face on Jabulani.

You get a few of the blacks from the tribal areas coming in from the

north Or across the river, Jane added.

Or across the river, but they are no big sweat They set wire snares

mostly, and they don't kill that much. But it's a terribly cruel way,

the poor animals linger on for days with the wire cutting down to the

bone, Jane elaborated.

As I was saying, once we have a few rangers busy that will stop almost

immediately. It's the white poachers with modern rifles and hunting

lamps 'Killing lamps, Jane corrected.

killing lamps, that do the real damage. They finished off all your game

on Jabulani in a couple of seasons. Where do they come from? David

asked, his anger was rising again, the same protective anger of the

shepherd that he had felt as he flew the skies of Israel.

There is a big copper mine fifty miles north of here at Phalabora,

hundreds of bored miners with a taste for venison. They would come down

here and blaze away at every living thing, but now it's not worth the

trip for them. Anyway they were just the amateurs, the weekend

poachers. 'Who are the professionals? Where the dirt road from

Jabulani meets the big national highway, about thirty miles from here -

At a place called Bandolier Hill, Jane supplied the name. - there is a

general dealer's store. it's just one of those trading posts that gets

a little of the passing trade from the main road, but relies on the

natives from the tribal areas. The person who owns and runs it has been

there eight years now, and I have been after him all that time, but he's

the craftiest bastard, I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan I have ever run into.

'He's the one? David asked.

He's the one, Conrad nodded. Catch him, and half your worries are over.

What's his name? Akkers. Johan Akkers, Jane gave her assistance, the

Old Buck was making her slightly owl-eyed, and she was having a little

difficulty with her enunciation.

How are we going to get him! David mused. There isn't anything left on

Tabulani to tempt him, the few kudu we have got are so wild, it wouldn't

be worth the effort. No, you haven't got anything to tempt him right

now, but about the middle of September More like the first week in

September, Jane said firmly with strings of hair starting to hang down

her temples. - the first week in September the morula trees down by your

pools will come into fruit, and my elephants are going to visit you. The

one thing they just can't resist is morula berries, and they are going

to flatten my fence to get at them. Before I can repair it a lot of

other game are going to follow the jumbo over to your side.

You can lay any type of odds you like that our friend Akkers is oiling

his guns and drooling at the mouth right this minute. He will know

within an hour when the fence goes. 'This time he may get a surprise.

'Let's hope so. I think- David said softly - that we might run down to

Bandolier Hill tomorrow to have a look at this gentleman. 'One thing is

for sure, said Jane Berg indistinctly, a gentleman, he is not.

The road down to Bandolier Hill was heavily corrugated and thick with

white dust that rose in a banner behind the Land-Rover and hung in the

air long after they had passed. The hill was rounded and thickly

timbered and stood over the main metalled highway.

The trading post was four or five hundred yards from the road junction,

set back amidst a grove of mango trees with their deep green and

glistening foliage. It was a type found all over Africa, an unlovely

building of mud brick with a naked corrugated iron roof, the walls

plastered thickly with posters advertising goods from tea t o flashlight

batteries.

David parked the Land-Rover in the dusty yard beneath the raised stoop.

There was a faded sign above the front steps:

Bandolier Hill General Dealers.

At the side of the building was parked an old green Ford one-ton truck

with local licence plates. In the shade of the stoop squatted a dozen

or so potential customers, African women from the tribal area, dressed

in long cotton print dresses, timeless in their patience and their

expressions showing no curiosity about the occupants of the Land-Rover.

One of the women was suckling her infant with an enormously elongated

breast that allowed the child to stand beside her and watch the

newcomers without removing the puckered black nipple from his mouth.

Set in the centre of the yard was a thick straight pole, fifteen feet

tall, and on top of the pole was a wooden structure like a dog kennel.

David exclaimed as from the kennel emerged a big brown furry animal. it

descended the pole in one swift falling action, seemingly at lightly as

a bird, and the chain that was fastened to the pole at one end was, at

the other, buckled about the animal's waist by a thick leather strap.

It's one of the biggest old bull baboons I've ever seen. Quickly he

described it to Debra, as the baboon moved out to the chain's limit, and

knuckled the ground as he made a leisurely circle about his pole, the

chain clinking as it swung behind him. It was an arrogant display, and

he ruffled out the thick mane of hair upon his shoulders.

When he had completed the circle, he sat down facing the Land-Rover, in

a repellently humanoid attitude, and thrust out his lower jaw as he

regarded them through the small brown, close-set eyes.

A nasty beast, David told Debra. He would weigh ninety pounds, with a

long dog-like muzzle and a jaw full of yellow fangs. After the hyena,

he was the most hated animal of the veld, cunning, cruel and avaricious,

all the vices of man and none of his graces. His stare was unblinking

and, every few seconds, he ducked his head in a quick aggressive

gesture.

While all David's attention was on the baboon, a man had come out of the

store and now leaned on one of the pillars of the veranda.

What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan? he asked in a thick accent. He was

tall and spare, dressed in slightly rumpled and not entirely clean khaki

slacks and openneck shirt, with heavy boots on his feet and braces

hooked into his pants, crossing his shoulders.

How did you know my name? David looked up at him, and saw he was of

middle age with close-cropped greying hair over a domed skull. His

teeth were badly fitting with bright pink plastic gums and his skin was

drawn over the bones of the cheeks, and his deep-set eyes gave him a

skull-like look. He grinned at David's question.

Could only be you, scarred face and blind wife, you the new owner of

Jabulani. Heard you built a new house and all set to live there now.

The man's hands were huge, out of proportion to the rest of his rangy

body, they were clearly very powerful and the lean muscles of his

forearms were as tough as rope.

He slouched easily against the pillar and took from his pocket a clasp

knife and a stick of black wind-dried meat, the jerky of North America,

boucan of the Caribbean, or the biltong of Africa, and he cut a slice as

though it were a plug of tobacco, popping it into his mouth.

Like I asked, what can we do for you? he chewed noisily, his teeth

squelching at each bite.

I need nails and paint David climbed out of the Land-Rover.

Heard you did all your buying in Nelspruit Akkers looked him over with a

calculated insolence, studying David's ruined face with attention. David

saw that his deep-set eyes were a muddy green in colour.

I thought there was a law against caging or chaining wild animals.

Akkers had roused David's resentment almost immediately, and the needle

showed in his tone.

Akkers began to grin again easily, still chewing. You a lawyer, are

you? 'Just asking. 'I got a permit, you want to see it? David shook

his head, and turned to speak to Debra in Hebrew. Quickly he described

the man.

I think he can guess why we are here, and he's looking for trouble.

'I'll stay by the car, said Debra. Good. David climbed the steps to

the veranda.

What about the nails and paint? he asked Akkers.

Go on in, he was still grinning. I got a nigger helper behind the

counter. He will look after you. David hesitated and then walked on

into the building.

it smelled of carbolic soap and kerosene and maize meal.

The shelves were loaded with cheap groceries, patent medicines, blankets

and bolts of printed cotton cloth.

From the roof hung bunches of army surplus boots and greatcoats,

axe-beads and storm lanterns. The floor was stacked with tin trunks,

pick handles, bins of flour and maize meal and the hundreds of other

items that traditionally make up the stock of the country dealer.

David found the African assistant and began his purchase.

outside in the sunlight Debra climbed from the Land Rover and leaned

lightly against the door. The labrador scrambled down after her and

began sniffing the concrete pillars of the veranda with interest where

other dogs before him had spurted jets of yellow urine against the

white-washed plaster.

Nice dog, said Akkers.

Thank you. Debra nodded politely.

Akkers glanced quickly across at his pet baboon, and his expression was

suddenly cunning. A flash of understanding passed between man and

animal. The baboon ducked its head again in that nervous gesture, then

it rose from its haunches and drifted back to the pole. With a leap and

bound it shot up the pole and disappeared into the opening of its

kennel.

Akkers grinned and carefully cut another slice of the black biltong.

You like it out at Jabulani? he asked Debra, and at the same time he

offered the scrap of dried meat to the dog.

We are very happy there, Debra replied stiffly, not wanting to be drawn.

Zulu sniffed the proffered titbit, and his tail beat like a metronome.

No dog can resist the concentrated meat smell and taste of biltong. He

gulped it eagerly. Twice more Akkers fed him the scraps, and Zulu's

eyes glistened and his soft silky muzzle was damp with saliva.

The waiting women in the shade of the veranda were watching with lively

interest now. They had seen this happen before with a dog, and they

waited expectantly.

David was in the building, out of sight. Debra stood blind and

unsuspecting.

Akkers cut a larger piece of the dried meat and offered it to Zulu, but

when he reached for it he pulled his hand away, teasing the dog. With

his taste for biltong now firmly established, Zulu tried again for the

meat as it was offered. Again it was pulled away at the last moment.

Zulu's black wet nose quivered with anxiety, and the soft ears were

cocked.

Akkers walked down the steps with Zulu following him eagerly, and at the

bottom he showed the dog the biltong once more, letting him sniff it.

Then he spoke softly but urgently, Get it, boy, and threw the scrap of

biltong at the base of the baboon's pole. Zulu bounded forward, still

slightly clumsy on his big puppy paws, into the circle of the chain

where the baboon's paws had beaten the earth hard. He ran on under the

pole and grubbed hungrily for the biltong in the dust.

The bull baboon came out of his kennel like a tawny grey blur and

dropped the fifteen feet through the air; his limbs were spread and his

jaws were open in a snarl like a great red trap, and the fangs were

vicious, long and yellow and spiked. He hit the ground silently, and

his muscles bunched as they absorbed the shock and hurled the long lithe

body feet first at the unsuspecting pup. The baboon crashed into him,

taking him on the shoulder with all the weight of his ninety pounds.

Zulu went down and over, rolling on his back with a startled yelp, but

before he could find his feet or his wits, the baboon was after him.

Debra heard the pup cry, and started forward, surprised but not yet

alarmed.

As he lay on his back, Zulu's belly was unprotected, sparsely covered

with the silken black hair, the immature penis protruding pathetically,

and the baboon went onto him in a crouching leap, pinning him with

powerful furry legs as he bowed his head and buried the long yellow

fangs deep into the pup's belly.

Zulu screamed in dreadful agony, and Debra screamed in sympathy and ran

forward.

Akkers shot out a foot as she passed him and tripped her, sending her

sprawling on her hands and knees.

Leave it, lady, he warned her, still grinning. You'll get hurt if you

interfere. The baboon locked its long curved eye teeth into the tender

belly, and then hurled the pup away from it with all the fierce strength

of its four limbs. The thin wall of the stomach was ripped through, and

the purple ropes of the entrails came out, hanging festooned in the

baboon's jaws.

Again the disembowelled pup screamed, and Debra rolled blindly to her

feet.

David! she cried wildly. David, help me! David came out of the

building running; pausing in the doorway he took in the scene at a

glance and snatched up a pick handle from the pile by the door. He

jumped off the veranda, and in three quick strides he had reached the

pup.

The baboon saw him coming and released Zulu. With uncanny speed, he

whirled and leapt for the pole, racing upwards to perch on the roof of

the kennel, his jowls red with blood, as he shrieked and jabbered,

bouncing up and down with excitement and triumph.

David dropped the pick and gently lifted the crawling crippled black

body. He carried Zulu to the Land-Rover and ripped his bush jacket into

strips as he tried to bind up the torn belly, pushing the hanging

entrails back into the hole with his fist.

David, what is it? Debra pleaded with him, and as he worked he

explained it in a few terse Hebrew sentences.

Get in, he told her and she clambered into the passenger seat of the

Land-Rover. He laid the injured labrador in her lap, and ran around to

the driver's seat.

Akkers was back at the doorway of his shop, standing with his thumbs

hooked into his braces, and he was laughing. The false teeth clucked in

the open mouth as he laughed, rocking back and forth on his heels.

On its kennel the baboons shrieked and cavorted, sharing its master's

mirth.

Hey, Mr. Morgan, Akkers giggled, don't forget your nails!

David swung round to face him, his face felt tight and hot, the

cicatrice that covered his cheeks and forehead were inflamed and the

dark blue eyes blazed with a terrible anger. He started up the steps.

His mouth was a pale hard slit, and his fists were clenched at his

sides.

Akkers stepped backwards swiftly and reached behind the shop counter. He

lifted out an old double-barrelled shotgun, and cocked both hammers with

a sweep of his thick bony thumb.

Self defence, Mr. Morgan, with witnesses, he giggled with sadistic

relish. Come one step closer and we will get a look at your guts also.

David paused at the top of the steps, and the gun held in one huge fist,

pointed at his belly.

David, hurry, oh, please hurry, Debra called anxiously from the

Land-Rover, with the weak squirming body of the pup in her lap.

We'll meet again, David's anger had thickened his tongue.

That will be fun, said Akkers, and David turned away and ran down the

steps.

Akkers watched the Land-Rover pull away and swing into the road in a

cloud of dust, before he set the shotgun aside. He went out into the

sunlight, and the baboon scrambled down from its pole and rushed to meet

him.

It jumped up on to his hip and clung to him like a child.

Akkers took a boiled sweet from his pocket and placed it tenderly

between the terrible yellow fangs.

You lovely old thing, he chuckled, scratching the high cranium with its

thick cap of grey fur and the baboon squinted up at his face with narrow

brown eyes, chattering softly.

Despite the rough surface, David covered the thirty miles back to

Jabulani in twenty-five minutes. He skidded the vehicle to a halt

beside the hangar, and ran with the pup in his arms to the aircraft.

During the flight Debra nursed him gently in her lap, and her skirts

were sodden with his dark blood. The pup had quieted, and except for an

occasional whimper now lay still. Over the W T David arranged for a car

to meet them at Nelspruit airfield and forty-five minutes after take-off

they had Zulu on the theatre table in the veterinary surgeon's clinic.

The veterinary surgeon worked with complete concentration for over two

hours at repairing the torn entrails and suturing the layers of

abdominal muscle.

The pup was so critically injured, and infection was such a real danger,

that they dared not return to Jabulani until it had passed. Five days

later when they flew home with Zulu still weak and heavily strapped but

out of danger, David altered his flight path to bring them in over the

trading store at Bandolier Hill.

The iron roof shone like a mirror in the sun, and David felt his anger

very cold and hard and determined.

The man is a threat to us, he said aloud. A real threat to each of us,

and to what we are trying to build at Jabulani. Debra nodded her

agreement, stroking the pup's head and not trusting herself to speak.

Her own anger was as fierce as David's. I'm going to get him, he said

softly, and he heard the Brig's voice in his memory.

The only excuse for violence is to protect that which belongs to you. He

banked steeply away and lined up for his approach to the landing-strip

at Jabulani.

Conrad Berg called again to sample the Old Buck gin, and to tell David

that his application to have Jabulani declared a private nature reserve

had been approved by the Board and that the necessary documentation

would soon be ready for signature. Do you want me to pull the fence out

now. 'No, David answered grimly. Let it stand. I don't want Akkers

frightened off. Ja, Conrad agreed heavily. We have got to get him. He

called Zulu to him and examined the scar that was ridged and shaped like

forked lightning across the pup's belly. The bastard, 'he muttered, and

then glanced guiltily at Debra.

Sorry, Mrs. Morgan. I I couldn't agree more, Mr. Berg, she said softly,

and Zulu watched her lips attentively when she spoke, his head cocked to

one side.

Like all young things, he had healed cleanly and quickly.

The morula grove that ran thickly along the base of

the hills about the String of Pearls came -into flower.

The holes were straight and sturdy, each crowned with a fully rounded,

many-branched head of dense foliage, and the red flowers made a royal

show.

Almost daily David and Debra would wander together through the groves,

down the rude track to the pools, and Zulu regained his strength on

these leisurely strolls which always culminated in a swim and a lusty

shaking off of water droplets, usually on to the nearest bystander.

Then the green plum-shaped fruits that covered the female marulas

thickly began to turn yellow as they ripened, and their yeasty smell was

heavy on the warm evening breeze.

The herd came up from the Sabi, forsaking the lush reed beds for the

promise of the morula harvest. They were led by two old bulls, who for

forty years had made the annual pilgrimage to the String of Pearls, and

there were fifteen breeding cows with calves running at heel and as many

adolescents.

They moved up slowly from the south, feeding spread out, sailing like

ghostly grey galleons through the open bush, overloaded bellies

rumbling. Occasionally a tall tree would catch the attention of one of

the bulls and he would place his forehead upon the thick trunk and,

swaying rhythmically as he built up momentum, he would strain suddenly

and bring it crackling and crashing down. A few mouthfuls of the tender

tip leaves would satisfy him, or he might strip the bark and stuff it

Untidily into his mouth before moving on northwards.

When they reached Conrad Berg's fence the two bulls moved forward and

examined it, standing shoulder to shoulder as though in consultation,

fanning their great grey ears, and every few minutes picking up a large

pinch of sand in their trunks to throw over their own backs against the

worrisome attention of the stinging flies.

In forty years they had travelled, and knew exactly all the boundaries

of their reserve. As they stood there contemplating the game fence, it

was as though they were fully aware that its destruction would be a

criminal act, and injurious to their reputations and good standing.

Conrad Berg was deadly serious when he discussed his elephants sense of

right and wrong with David. He spoke of them like schoolboys who had to

be placed on good behaviour, and disciplined when they transgressed.

The Discipline might take the form of driving, darting with drugs, or

formal execution with a heavy rifle. This ultimate punishment was

reserved for the incorrigibles who raided cultivated crops, chased

motor-cars or otherwise endangered human life.

Sorely tempted, the two old bulls left the fence and ambled back to the

breeding herd that waited patiently for their decision amongst the thorn

trees. For three days the herd drifted back and forth along the fence,

feeding and resting and waiting, then suddenly the wind turned westerly

and it came to them laden with the thick, cloyingly sweet smell of the

morula berries.

David parked the Land-Rover on the firebreak road and laughed with

delight.

So much for Connie's fence! " For reasons of pachyderm prestige, or

perhaps merely for the mischievous delight of destruction, no adult

elephant would accept the breach made by another.

Each of them had selected his own fence pole, hard wood uprights

embedded in concrete, and had effortlessly snapped it off level with the

ground. Over a length of a mile the fence was flattened, and the wire

mesh lay across the firebreak.

Each elephant had used his broken pole like a tightrope, to avoid

treading on the sharp points of the barbed wire. Then once across the

fence they had streamed in a tight bunch down to the pools to spend a

night in feasting, an elephantine gorge on the yellow berries, which

ended at dawn when they had bunched up into close order and dashed back

across the ruined fence into the safety of the Park, perhaps pursued by

guilt and remorse and hoping that Conrad Berg would lay the blame on

some other herd.

However, the downed fence provided ready access for many others who had

long hankered after the sweet untouched grazing and deep water holes.

Ugly little blue wildebeest with monstrous heads, absurdly warlike manes

and curved horns in imitation of the mighty buffalo. Clowns of the

bush, they capered with glee and chased each other in circles. Their

companions the zebra were more dignified, ignoring their antics, and

trotted in businesslike fashion down to the pools. Their rumps were

striped and glossy and plump, their heads up and ears pricked.

Conrad Berg met David at the remains of his fence, climbing out of his

own truck and picking his way carefully over the wire. Sam, the African

ranger, followed him.

Conrad shook his head as he surveyed the destruction, chuckling

ruefully.

It's old Mahommed and his pal One-Eye, I'd know that spoor anywhere.

They just couldn't help themselves, the bastards - He glanced quickly at

Debra in the Land-Rover.

That's perfectly all right, Mr. Berg, she forestalled his apology.

Sam had been casting back and forth along the soft break road and now he

came to where they stood.

Hello, Sam, David greeted him. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get

Sam to accept that this terribly disfigured face belonged to the young

nkosi David who he had taught to track, and shoot and rob a wild beehive

without destroying the bees.

Sam saluted David with a flourish. He took his uniform very seriously

and conducted himself like a guardsman now. It was difficult to tell

his age, for he had the broad smooth moonface of the Nguni, the

aristocratic warrior tribes of Africa, but there was a frosting of

purest white on the close-curled hair of his temples under the slouch

hat, and David knew he had worked at Jabulani for forty years before

leaving. The man must be approaching sixty years of age.

Quickly he made his report to Conrad, describing the animals and the

numbers which had crossed into Jabulani.

There is also a herd of buffalo, forty-three of them, Sam spoke in

simple Zulu that David could still follow. They are the ones who drank

before Ripape Dam near Hlangulene. That will bring Akkers running, the

sirloin of a young buffalo makes the finest biltong there is, Conrad

observed dryly.

How long will it be before he knows the fence is down? David asked, and

Conrad fell into a long rapidfire discussion with Sam that lost David

after the first few sentences. However, Conrad translated at the end.

Sam says he knows already, all your servants and their wives buy at his

store and he pays them for that sort of information. It turns out that

there is bad blood between Sam and Akkers. Sam suspects him of

arranging to have him beaten, on a lonely road on a dark night.

Sam was in hospital three months, he also accused Akkers of having his

hut fired to drive him off Jabulani. 'It adds up, doesn't it? David

agreed.

Old Sam is dead keen to help us grab Akkers, and he has a plan of action

all worked out. Let's hear it. Well, as long as you are in residence

at Jabulani Akkers is going to restrict his activities to night poaching

with a killing lamp. He knows every trick there is and we will never

get him. So? You must tell your servants that you are leaving for two

weeks, going to Cape Town on business. Akkers will know as soon as you

leave and he will believe he has the whole of jabulam to himself, For an

hour more they discussed the details of the plan, then they shook hands

and parted.

As they drove back to the homestead they emerged from the open forest

into one of the glades of tall grass, and David saw the brilliant white

egrets floating like snow flakes over the swaying tops of golden grass.

Something in there, he said and cut the engine. They waited quietly

until David saw the movement in the grass, the opening and closing at

the passage of heavy bodies. Then three egrets, sitting in row, moved

slowly towards him, home on the back of a concealed beast as it grazed

steadily forward.

Ah, the buffalo! David exclaimed as the first of them appeared, a great

black bovine shape. It stopped as it saw the Land-Rover on the edge of

the trees and it regarded them intently from beneath the wide spread of

its horns, with its muzzle lifted high. It showed no alarm for these

were Park animals, almost as tame as domestic cattle.

Gradually the rest of the herd emerged from the tall grass. Each in

turn scrutinized the vehicle and then resumed feeding once more. There

were forty-three of them, as Sam had predicted, and amongst them were

some fine old bulls standing five and a half feet tall at the shoulder

and weighing little less than 2000 lb. Their horns were massively

bossed, meeting in the centre of the head and curving downwards and up

to blunt points, with a rugged surface that became polished black at the

tips.

Crawling over their heavy trunks and thick short legs were numbers of

ox-peckers, dull-plumaged birds with scarlet beaks and bright beady

eyes. Sometimes head down they scavenged for the ticks and other

blood-sucking body vermin in the folds of skin between the limbs.

Occasionally one of the huge beasts would snort and leap, shaking and

swishing its tail, as a sharp beak pried into a delicate portion of its

anatomy, under the tail or around the heavy dangling black scrotum. The

birds fluttered up with hissing cries, waited for the buffalo to calm

down and then settled again to their scurrying and searching.

David photographed the herd until the light failed, and they drove home

in the dark.

Before dinner David opened a bottle of wine and they drank it together

on the stoop, sitting close and listening to the night sounds of the

bush, the cries of the night birds, the tap of flying insects against

the wire screen and the other secret scurrying and rustling of small

animals.

Do you remember once I told you that you were spoiled, and not very good

marriage material? Debra asked softly, nestling her dark head against

his shoulder.

I'll never forget it. I'd like to withdraw that remark ron-nally, she

went on, and he moved her gently away so that he could study her face.

Sensing his eyes upon her she smiled, that shy little smile of hers. I

fell in love with a little boy, a spoiled little boy, who thought only

of fast cars and the nearest skirt, she said, but now I have a man, a

grown man, she smiled again, and I like it better this way He drew her

back to him and kissed her, their lips melded in a lingering embrace

before she sighed happily and laid her head back upon his shoulder. They

were silent for a while before Debra spoke again.

These wild animals, that mean so much to you Yes?" he encouraged her.

I am beginning to understand. Although I have never seen them, they are

becoming important to me also I'm glad. David, this place of ours, it's

so peaceful, so perfect.

It's a little Eden before the fall. We will make it so, he promised,

but in the night the gunfire woke him. He rose quickly, leaving her

lying warm and quietly sleeping, and he went out on the stoop.

It came again, faintly on the still night, distance muting it to a small

unwarlike popping. He felt his anger stirring again, as he imagined the

long white shaft of the killing lamp, questing relentlessly through the

forest until it settled suddenly upon the puzzled animal, holding it

mesmerized in the beam, the blinded eyes glowing like jewels, making a

perfect aiming point in the field of the telescopic rifle sight.

Then suddenly the rifle blast, shocking in the silence, and the long

licking flame of the muzzle flash. The beautiful head snapping back at

the punch of the bullet and the soft thump of the falling body on the

hard earth, the last spasmodic kicking of hooves and again the silence.

He knew it was useless to attempt pursuit now, the gunman would have an

accomplice in the hills above them ready to flash a warning if any of

the homestead lights came on, or if an auto engine whirred into life.

Then the killing lamp would be doused and the poacher would creep away.

David would search the midnight T expanse of Jabulani in vain. His

quarry was cunning and experienced in his craft of killing, and would

only be taken by greater cunning.

David could not sleep again. He lay awake beside Debra, and listened to

her soft breathing, and at intervals to the distant rifle fire. The

game was tame and easily approached, innocent after the safety of the

Park.

It would run only a short distance after each shot, and then it would

stand again staring without comprehension at the mysterious and dazzling

light that floated towards it out of the darkness.

David's anger burned on through the night, and in the dawn the vultures

were up. Black specks against the pink dawn sky, they appeared in

ever-increasing numbers, sailing high on wide pinions, tracing wide

swinging circles before beginning to drop towards the earth.

David telephoned Conrad Berg at Skukuza Camp, then he and Debra and the

dog climbed into the Land Rover, warmly dressed against the dawn chill.

They followed the descent of the birds to where the poacher had come on

the buffalo herd.

As they approached the first carcass, the animal scavengers scattered,

slope-backed hyena cantering away into the trees, hideous and cowardly,

looking back over their misshapen shoulders, grinning apologetically

little red jackal with silvery backs and alert ears, trotting to a

respectful distance before standing and staring back anxiously.

The vultures were less timid, seething like fat brown maggots over the

carcass as they squawled and squabbled, fouling everything with their

stinking droppings and loose feathers, leaving the kill only when the

Land Rover was very close and then flapping heavily up into the trees to

crouch there grotesquely with their bald scaly heads out-thrust.

There were sixteen dead buffalo, lying strung out along the line of the

herd's flight. On each carcass the belly had been split open to let the

vultures in, and the sirloin and fillet had been expertly removed.

He killed them just for a few pounds of meat? Debra asked

incredulously.

That's all, David confirmed grimly. But that's not bad, sometimes

they'll kill a wildebeest simply to make a fly whisk of its tail, or

they'll shoot a giraffe for the marrow in its bones. I don't

understand, Debra's voice was hopeless. What makes a man do it? He

can't need the meat that badly. No, David agreed. It's deeper than

that. This type of killing is a gut thing. This man kills for the

thrill of it, he kills to see an animal fall, to hear the death cry, to

smell the reek of fresh blood, his voice choked off, this is one time

you can be thankful you cannot see he said softly.

Conrad Berg found them waiting beside the corpses, and he set his

rangers to work butchering the carcasses.

No point in wasting all that meat. Food there for a lot of people. Then

he put Sam to the spoor. There had been four men in the poaching party,

one wearing light rubbersoled shoes and the others bare-footed.

One white man, big man, long legs. Three black men, carry meat, blood

drip here and here. They followed Sam slowly through the open forest as

he patted the grass with his long thin tracking staff, and moved towards

the unsurfaced public road.

Here they walk backwards, Sam observed, and Conrad explained grimly.

Old poacher's trick. They walk backwards when they cross a boundary. If

you cut the soar while patrolling the fence you think they have gone the

other way leaving instead of entering, and you don't bother following

them. The spoor went through a gap in the fence, crossed the road and

entered the tribal land beyond. It ended where a motor vehicle had been

parked amongst a screening thicket of wild ebony. The tracks bumped

away across the sandy earth and rejoined the public road.

Plaster casts of the tyre tracks? David asked.

Waste of time. Conrad shook his head. You can be sure they are changed

before each expedition, he keeps this set especially and hides it when

it's not in use. 'What about spent cartridge shells? David persisted.

Conrad laughed briefly. They are in his pocket, this is a fly bird.

He's not going to scatter evidence all over the country. He picks up as

he goes along. No, we'll have to sucker him into it. And his manner

became businesslike. Right, have you selected a place to stake old Sam

out? I thought we would put him up on one of the kopies, near the

String of Pearls. He'll be abe to cover the whole estate from there,

spot any dust on the road, and the height will give the two-way radio

sufficient range. After lunch David loaded their bags into the luggage

compartment of the Navajo. He paid the servants two weeks wages in

advance.

Take good care. He told them. I shall return before the end of the

month.

He parked the Land-Rover in the open hangar with the key in the ignition

facing the open doorway, ready for a quick start. He took off and kept

on a westerly -heading, passing directly over Bandolier Hill and the

buildings amongst the mango trees. They saw no sign of life, but David

held his course until the hill sank from view below the horizon, then he

came around on a wide circle to the south and lined up for Skukuza, the

main camp of the Kruger National park.

Conrad Berg was at the airstrip in his truck to meet the Cessna, and

Jane had placed fresh flowers in the guest room. Jabulani lay fifty

miles away to the northwest.

It was like squadron Red standby again, with the Navajo parked under one

of the big shade trees at the end of the Skukuza airstrip, and the radio

set switched on, crackling faintly on the frequency tuned to that of

Sam's transmitter, as he waited patiently on the hill-top above the

pools.

The day was oppressively hot, with the threat of a rainstorm looming up

out of the east, great cumulus thunderheads striding like giants across

the busliveld.

Debra and David and Conrad Berg sat in the shade of the aircraft's wing,

for it was too hot in the cockpit.

They chatted in desultory fashion, but always listening to the radio

crackle, and they were tense and distracted.

He is not going to come, said Debra a little before noon.

He'll come, Conrad contradicted her. Those buffalo are too much

temptation. Perhaps not today, but tomorrow or the next day he'll come.

David stood up and climbed in through the open door of the cabin. He

went forward to the cockpit.

T, Sam, he spoke into the microphone. Can you hear me?

There was a long pause, presumably while Sam struggled with radio

procedure, then his voice, faint but clear:I hear you, Nkosi.

Have you seen anything? 'There is nothing. Keep good watch. 'Yebho,

Nkosi.

Jane brought a cold picnic lunch down to the airstrip, they ate heartily

despite the tension, and they were about to start on the milk tart, when

suddenly the radio set throbbed and hummed. Sam's voice carried clearly

to where they sat.

He has come!

Red standby, Go! Go! shouted David, and they rushed for the cabin

door, Debra treading squarely in the centre of Jane's milk tart before

David grabbed her arm and guided her to her seat.

Bright Lance, airborne and climbing, David laughed with excitement and

then memory stabbed him with a sharp blade. He remembered Joe hanging

out there at six o'clock but he shut his mind to it and he banked

steeply on to his headin& not wasting time in grabbing for altitude but

staying right down at tree-top level.

Conrad Berg was bunched in the seat behind them, and his face was redder

than usual, seeming about to burst like an over-ripe tomato.

Where is the Land-Rover key? he demanded anxiously. It's in the

ignition, and the tank is full Can't you go faster? Conrad growled.

Have you got your walkie talkie? David checked him.

Here! It was gripped in one of his huge paws, and his double-barrelled

. 450 magnum was in the other.

David was hopping the taller trees, and sliding over the crests of

higher ground with feet to spare. They flashed over the boundary fence

and ahead of them lay the hills of Jabulani.

Get ready, he told Conrad, and flew the Navajo into the airstrip,

taxiing up to the hangar where the Land Rover waited.

Conrad jumped down at the instant that David braked to a halt, then he

slammed the cabin door behind him and raced to the Land-Rover.

Immediately David opened the throttle and swung the aircraft around,

lining up for his take-off before the Navajo had gathered full momentum.

As he climbed, he saw the Land-Rover racing across the airstrip,

dragging a cloak of dust behind it.

Do you read me, Conrad?

Loud an clear, Conra s voice boomed out of the speaker, and David turned

for the grey ribbon of the public road that showed through the trees,

beyond the hills.

He followed it, flying five hundred feet above it, and he searched the

open parkland.

The green Ford truck had been concealed from observation at ground

level, again in a thicket of wild ebony, but it was open from the sky.

For Akkers had never thought of discovery coming from there.

Connie, I've got the truck. He's stashed it in a clump of ebony about

half a mile down the bank of the Luzane stream. Your best route is to

follow the road to the bridge, then go down into the dry river bed and

try and cut him off before he gets to the truck. 'Okay, David. 'Move

it, man.

I'm moving. David saw the Land-Rover's dust above the trees, Conrad

must have his foot down hard.

I'm going to try and spot the man himself, chase him into your arms.

You do that? David started a long climbing turn towards the hills,

sweeping and searching, up and around. Below him the pools granted and

he opened the throttles slightly, seeking altitude to clear the crests.

From the highest peak, a tiny figure waved frantically.

Sam, he grunted. Doing a war dance. He altered course slightly to

pass him closely, and Sam stopped his imitation of a windmill and

stabbed with an extended arm towards the west. David acknowledged with

a wave, and turned again, dropping down the western slopes.

Ahead of him the plain spread, dappled like a leopard's back with dark

bush and golden glades of grass. He flew for a minute before he saw a

black mass, moving slowly ahead of him, dark and amorphous against the

pale grass.

The remains of the buffalo herd had bunched up and were running without

direction, desperate from the harrying they had received.

Buffalo, he told Debra. On the ran. Something has alarmed them. She

sat still and intent beside him, hands in her lap, staring unseeingly

ahead.

All! David shouted. Got him, with blood on his hands! In the Centre

of one of the larger clearings lay the black beetle-like body of a dead

buffalo, its belly swollen and its legs sticking out stiffly as it lay

on its side.

Four men stood around it in a circle, obviously just about to begin

butchering the carcass. Three of them were Africans, one with a knife

in his hand.

The fourth man was Johan Akkers. There was no mistaking the tall gaunt

frame. He wore an old black Fedora hat on his head, strangely formal

attire for the work in which he was engaged, and his braces crisscrossed

his tan-Coloured shirt. He carried a rifle at the trail in his right

hand, and at the sound of the aircraft engines he swung round and stared

into the sky, frozen with the shock of discovery.

You swine. Oh, you bloody swine, whispered David, and his anger was

strong and bright against the despoilers.

Hold on! he warned Debra, and flew straight at the man, dropping

steeply on to him.

The group around the dead buffalo scattered, as the aircraft bore down

on them, each man picking his own course and racing away on it, but

David selected the lanky galloping frame with the black hat jammed down

over the ears and sank down behind him. The tips. of the propellers

clipped the dry grass, as he swiftly overtook the running Akkers.

He was set to fly into him, driven by the unreasoning anger of the male

animal protecting his own, and he lined up to cut him down with the

spinning propeller blades.

As David braced himself for the impact Akkers glanced back over his

shoulder, and his face was muddy grey with fright, the skull eyes dark

and deeply set. He saw the murderous blades merely feet from him, and

he threw himself flat into the grass.

The Navajo roared inches over his prone body, and David pulled it round

in a steep turn, with the wing-tip brushing the grass. As he came round

he saw that Akkers was up and running, and that he was only fifty paces

from the edge of the trees.

David levelled out, aimed for the fugitive again but realized that he

could not reach him before he was into the trees. Swiftly he sped

across the clearing, but the lumbering figure drew slowly closer to the

timber line and as he reached the sanctuary of a big leadwood trunk,

Akkers whirled and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He aimed at the

approaching aircraft; although the rifle was unsteady in his hands the

range was short.

Down, shouted David, pushing Debra's head below the level of the

windshield, and he pulled open the throttles and climbed steeply away.

Even above the bellow of the engines David heard the heavy bullet clang

into the fuselage of the aircraft.

What's happening, David? Debra pleaded.

He fired at us, but we've got him on the run. He'll head back for his

truck now, and Conrad should be there waiting for him. Akkers kept

under cover of the trees, and circling above him David caught glimpses

of the tall figure trotting purposefully along his escape route.

David, -can you hear me? Conrad's voice boomed suddenly in the tense

cockpit. What is it, Connie? We've got trouble.

I've hit a rock in your Land- Rover and knocked out the sump. She's had

it, pouring oil all over the place.

How the hell did you do that? David demanded.

I was trying a short cut. Conrad's chagrin carried clearly over the

ether.

How far are you from the Luzane stream? About three miles. God, he'll

beat you to it, David swore. He's two miles from the truck and going

like he's got a tax collector after him.

You have not seen old Connie move yet. I'll be there waiting for him,

Berg promised.

Good luck, David called, and the transmission went dead.

Below them Akkers was skirting the base of the hills, his black hat

bobbing along steadily amongst the trees.

David kept his starboard wing pointed at him and the Navajo turned

steadily, holding station above him.

Other movement caught David's eye on the open slope of the hill above

Akkers. For a moment he thought it was an animal, then with an intake

of breath he realized that he was mistaken.

What is it? Debra demanded, sensing his concern.

It's Sam, the damned fool. Connie told him not to leave his post, he's

unarmed, but he's baring down the slope to try and cut Akkers off. Can't

you stop him? Debra asked anxiously, and David didn't bother to answer.

He called Conrad four times before there was a reply.

Conrad's voice was thick and wheezing with the effort of running.

Sam is on to Akkers. I think he's going to confront him. Oh God damn

him, groaned Conrad. I'll kick his black ass for him.

Hold on, David told him, I'm going around for a closer look. David saw

it all quite plainly, he was only three hundred feet above them when

Akkers became aware of the running figure on the slope above him. He

stopped dead, and half-lifted the rifle; perhaps he shouted a warning

but Sam kept -on down, bounding over the rocky ground towards the man

who had burned his children to death.

Akkers lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed deliberately, the

rifle jumped sharply, the barrel kicking upwards at the recoil and Sam's

legs kept on running while his upper torso was flung violently backwards

by the strike of the heavy soft-nosed bullet.

The tiny brown-clad body bounced and rolled down the slope, before

coming to a sprawling halt in a clump of scrub.

David watched Akkers reload the rifle, stooping to pick up the empty

cartridge shell. Then he looked up at the circling aircraft above him,

David may have been mistaken but it seemed the man was laughing, that

obscene tooth-clucking giggle of his, then he started off again at a

trot towards the truck.

Connie, David spoke hoarsely into his handset, he just killed Sam.

Conrad Berg ran heavily over the broken sandy ground.

He had lost his hat and sweat poured down his big red face, stinging his

eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead. The

walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped

rhythmically against his hip.

He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of

his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs. A thorn

branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his

skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.

He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's

aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left. That marked

for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground

in his desperate race to head off the escape.

The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not

halt now. To break his run would mean he would only slump down

exhausted. He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and

he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost

finished. He was burning the last of his reserves now.

Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward

and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to

finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as

sugar. The radio was digging painfully into his flesh and he dragged it

out from under him.

Still lying in the sand he panted like a dog, blinded by sweat and he

fumbled the transmit button of the set.

David - he croaked thickly, I am in the bed of the stream, can you see

me? The aircraft was arcing directly overhead now, and David's answer

came back immediately.

I see you, Connie, you are a hundred yards downstream from the truck.

Akkers is there, Connie, he has just reached the truck, he'll be coming

back down the river bed at any moment. Painfully, gaspin& choking for

breath, Conrad Berg dragged himself to his knees, and at that moment he

heard the whirr and catch and purr of an engine. He unstrapped the

heavy radio and laid it aside, then he unslung his rifle, snapped open

the breech to check the load, and pulled himself to his feet.

Surprised at the weakness of his own massive body, he staggered into the

centre of the river bed.

The dry river bed was eight feet deep with banks cut sheer by flood

water, and it was fifteen feet wide at this point, and the floor was of

smooth white sand, scattered with small water-rounded stones no bigger

than a baseball. It made a good illegal access road into Jabulani, and

the tracks of Alkkers truck were clearly etched in the sol t sand.

Around a bed in the stream Conrad heard the truck revving and roaring as

it came down a low place in the bank into the smooth bed.

Conrad stood squarely in the middle of the river bed with the rifle held

across his hip, and he fought to control his breathing. The approaching

roar of the truck reached a crescendo as it came skidding wildly around

the bend in the stream, and raced down towards him.

Showers of loose sand were thrown out from under the spinning rear

wheels.

Johan Akkers crouched over the steering wheel, with the black hat pulled

down to his eyebrows, and his face was grey and glistening with sweat,

and he saw Conrad blocking the river bed.

Stop! Conrad shouted, hefting the rifle. Stop or I shoot!

The truck was swaying and sliding, the engine screamed in tortured

protest. Akkers began to laugh, Conrad could see the open mouth and the

shaking shoulders. There was no slackening in the truck's roaring

rocking charge.

Conrad lifted the rifle and sighted down the stubby double barrels, At

that range he could have put a bullet through each of Johan Akkers

deep-set eyes, and the man made no effort to duck or otherwise avoid the

men ace of the levelled rifle. He was still laughing, and Conrad could

clearly see the teeth lying loosely on his s. He steeled himself with

the truck fifty feet away, gum and racing down upon him.

it takes a peculiar state of mind before one man deliberately and

cold-bloodedly shoot down another. It must either be the conditioned

reflex of the soldier or lawenforcement officer, or it must be the

terror of the hunted, or again it must be the unbalanced frenzy of the

criminal lunatic.

None of these was Conrad Berg. Like most big strong men, he was

essentially a gentle person. His whole thinking was centred on

protecting and cherishing life, he could not pull the trigger.

With the truck fifteen feet away, he threw himself aside, and Johan

Akkers swung the wheel wildly, deliberately driving for him.

He caught Berg a glancing blow with the side of the truck, hurling him

into the earthen bank of the stream.

The truck went past him, slewing out of control. It hit the bank

farther down the stream in a burst of earth and loose pebbles, swaying

wildly as Akkers fought the bucking wheel. He got it under control

again, jammed his foot down on the accelerator and went roaring on down

the river bed, leaving Conrad lying in the soft sand below the bank.

As the truck hit him, Conrad felt the bone in his hip shatter like

glass, and the breath driven from his lungs by the heavy blow of metal

against his rib cage.

He lay in the sand on his side and felt the blood well slowly into his

mouth. It had a bitter salt taste, and he knew that one of the broken

ribs had pierced his lung like a lance and that the blood sprang from

deep within his body.

He turned his head and saw the radio set lying ten paces away across the

river bed. He began to drag himself towards it and his shattered leg

slithered after him, twisted at a grotesque angle.

David, he whispered into the microphone. I couldn't stop him. He got

away, and he spat a mouthful of blood into the white sand.

David picked the truck up as it came charging up the river bank below

the concrete bridge of the Luzane, bounced and bumped over the drainage

ditch and swung on to the road. It gathered speed swiftly and raced

westwards towards Bandolier Hill and the highway. Dust boiled out from

behind the green chassis, marking its position clearly for David as he

turned two miles ahead of it.

After crossing the Luzane the road turned sharply to avoid a rocky

outcrop, and then ran arrow-straight for two miles, hedged in with thick

timber and undulating like a switchback, striking across the water shed

and the grain of the land.

As David completed his turn he lowered his landing gear, and throttled

back. The Navajo sank down, lined up on the dusty road as though it was

a landing-strip.

Directly ahead was the dust column of the speeding truck. They were on

a head-on course, but David concentrated coldly on bringing the Navajo

down into the narrow lane between the high walls of timber. He was

speaking quietly to Debra, reassuring her and explaining what he was

going to attempt.

He touched down lightly on the narrow road, letting her float in easily,

and when she was down he opened the throttles again, taking her along

the centre of the road under power but holding her down. He had speed

enough to lift the Navajo off, if Akkers chose a collision rather than

surrender.

Ahead of them was another hump in the road, and as they rolled swiftly

towards it the green truck suddenly burst over the crest, not more than

a hundred yards ahead: Both vehicles were moving fast, coming together

at a combined speed of almost two hundred miles an hour, and the shock

of it was too much for Johan Akkers.

The appearance of the aircraft dead in the centre of the road, bearing

down on him with the terrible spinning discs of the propellers was too

much for nerves already run raw and ragged.

He wrenched the wheel hard over, and the truck went into a broadside dry

skid. It missed the port wing-tip of the Navajo as it went rocketing

off the narrow road. The front wheels caught the drainage ditch and the

truck went over, cartwheeling twice in vicious slamming revolutions that

smashed the glass from her windows and burst the doors open. The truck

ended on its side against one of the trees.

David shut the throttles and thrust his feet hard down on the wheel

brakes, bringing the Navajo up short. .

Wait here, he shouted at Debra, and jumped down into the road. His face

was a frozen mask of scar tissue, but His eyes were ablaze as he

sprinted back along the road towards the wreckage of the green truck.

Akkers saw him coming, and he dragged himself shakily to his feet. He

had been thrown clear and now he staggered to the truck. He could see

his rifle lying in the cab, and he tried to scramble up on to the body

to reach down through the open door. Blood from a deep scratch in his

forehead was running into his eyes blinding him, he wiped it away with

the back of his hand and glanced around.

David was close, hurdling the irrigation ditch and running towards him.

Akkers scrambled down from the battered green body, and groped for the

hunting knife on his belt. It was eight inches of Sheffield steel with

a bone handle, and it had been honed to a razor edge.

He hefted it under-handed, in the classical grip of the knife-fighter

and wiped the blood from his face with the palm of his free hand.

He was crouching slightly, facing David, and the haft of the knife was

completely covered by the huge bony fist.

David stopped short of him, his eyes fastened on the knife, and Akkers

began to laugh again. It was a cracked falsetto giggle, the hysterical

laughter of a man driven to the very frontiers of sanity.

The point of the knife weaved in the slow mesmeric movement of an erect

cobra, and it caught the sunlight in bright points of light. David

watched it, circling and crouching, steeling himself, summoning all the

training of paratrooper school, screwing up his nerve to go in against

the naked steel.

Akkers feinted swiftly, leaping in, and when David broke away, he let

out a fresh burst of high laughter.

Ago in they circled, Akkers mouthing his teeth loosely, sucking at them,

gigglin& watching with those muddy green eyes from their deep, close-set

sockets.

David moved back slowly ahead of him, and Akkers drove him back against

the body of the truck, cornering him there.

He came then, flashing like the charge of a wounded leopard. His speed

and strength were shockin& and the knife hissed upwards for David's

belly.

David caught the knife hand at the wrist, blocking the thrust and

trapping the knife low down. They were chest to chest now, face to

face, like lovers, and Akkersbreath stank of unwashed teeth.

They strained silently, shifting like dancers to balance each other's

heaves and thrusts.

David felt the knife hand twisting in his grip. The man had hands and

arms like steel, he could not hold him much longer. In seconds it would

be free, and the steel would be probing into his belly.

David braced his legs and twisted sideways. The move caught Akkers

off-balance and he could not resist it.

David was able to get his other hand on to the knife arm, but even with

both hands he was hard put to hold on.

They swayed and shuffled together, panting, grunting, straining, until

they fell, still locked together, against the bonnet of the truck. The

metal was hot and smelled of oil.

David was concentrating all his strength on the knife, but he felt

Akkers free hand groping for his throat. He ducked his head down on his

shoulders, pressing his chin against his chest but the fingers were

steel hard and powerful as machinery. They probed mercilessly into his

flesh, forcing his chin up, and settling on his throat, beginning to

squeeze the life out of him.

Desperately David hauled at the knife arm, and found it more manageable

now that Akkers was concentrating his strength on strangling him.

The open windscreen of the truck was beside David's shoulder, the glass

had been smashed out of it, but jagged shards of it still stood in the

metal rim, forming a crude but ferocious line of saw-teeth.

David felt the fingers digging deep into his throat, crushing the

gristle of his larynx and blocking off the arteries that fed his brain.

His vision starred and then began to fade darkly, as though he were

pulling eight G's in a dogfight.

With one last explosive effort David pulled the knife arm around on to

the line of broken glass, and he dragged it down, sawing it desperately

across the edge.

Akkers screamed and his strangling grip relaxed, back and forth David

sawed the arm, slashing and ripping through skin and fat and flesh,

opening a wound like a ragged-petalled rose, hacking down into the

nerves and arteries and sinews so that the knife dropped from the

lifeless fingers and Akkers screamed like a woman.

David broke from him and shoved him away. Akkers fell to his knees

still screaming and David clutched at his own throat massaging the

bruised flesh, gasping for breath and feeling the flow of fresh blood to

his brain.

God Jesus, I'm dying. I'm bleeding to death. Oh sweet Jesus, help me!

screamed Akkers, holding the mutilated arm to his belly. Help me, oh

God, don't let me die.

Save me, Jesus, save me! Blood was streaming and spurting from the arm,

flooding the front of his trousers. As he screamed his teeth fell from

his mouth, leaving it a dark and empty cave in the palely glistening

face.

You've killed me. I'll bleed to death! he screamed at David, thrusting

his face towards David. You've got to save me, don't let me die. David

pushed himself away from the truck and took two running steps towards

the kneeling man, then he swung his right leg and his whole body into a

flying kick that took Akkers cleanly under the chin and snapped his head

back.

He went over backwards and lay still and quiet, and David stood over

him, sobbing and gasping for breath.

For purposes of sentence Mr. justice Barnard of the Transvaal division

of the Supreme Court took into consideration four previous convictions,

two under the wildlife conservation act, one for aggravated assault, and

the fourth for assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm.

He found Johan Akkers guilty of twelve counts under the Wildlife

Conservation Act, but considered these as one when sentencing him to

three years at hard labour without option of a fine, and confiscation of

firearms and motor vehicles used in commission of these offences.

He found him guilty of one count of aggravated assault, and sentenced

him to three years at hard labour without option.

The prosecutor altered one charge from attempted murder to assault with

intent to do grievous bodily harm. He was found guilty as charged on

this count, and the sentence was five years imprisonment without option.

On the final charge of murder he was found guilty and justice Barnard

said in open court; In considering sentence of death on this charge, I

was obliged to take into account the fact that the accused was acting

like an animal in a trap, and I am satisfied that there was no element

of premeditation The sentence was eighteen years imprisonment, and all

sentences were to run consecutively. They were all confirmed on appeal.

As Conrad Berg said from his hospital bed with one heavily plastered leg

in traction, and a glass of Old Buck gin in his hand, Well, for the next

twenty-eight years we don't have to worry about that bastard, I beg your

pardon, Mrs. Morgan. Twenty-nine years, dear, Jane Berg corrected him

firmly.

In July the American edition of A Place of Our Oven was published, and

it dropped immediately into that hungry and bottomless pool of

indifference wherein so many good books drown. It left not a sign, not

a ripple of its passing.

Bobby Dugan, Debra's new literary agent in America, wrote to say how

sorry he was, and how disappointed.

He had expected at least some sort of critical notice to be taken of the

publication.

David took it as a personal and direct insult. He ranted and stormed

about the estate for a week, and it seemed that at one stage he might

actually journey to America to commit a physical violence upon that

country, a sort of one-man Vietnam in reverse.

They must be stupid, he protested. It's the finest book ever written.

Oh, David! Debra protested modestly.

It is! And I'd love to go over there and rub their noses in it, and

Debra imagined the doors of editorial offices all over New York being

kicked open, and literary reviewers fleeing panic-stricken, jumping out

of skyscraper-windows or locking themselves in the women's toilets to

evade David's wrath.

David, my darling, you are wonderful for me, she giggled with delight,

but it had hurt. It had hurt very badly. She felt the flame of her

urge to write wane and flutter in the chill winds of rejection.

Now when she sat at her desk with the microphone at her lips, the words

no longer tumbled and fought to escape, and the ideas no longer jostled

each other. Where before she had seen things happening as though she

were watching a play, seen her characters laugh and cry and sing, now

there was only the dark cloud banks rolling across her eyes, unrelieved

by colour or form.

For hours at a time she might sit at her desk and listen to the birds in

the garden below the window.

David sensed her despair, and he tried to help her through it. When the

hours at the desk proved fruitless he would insist she leave it and come

with him along the new fence lines, or to fish for the big blue

Mozambique bream.

in the deep water of the pools.

Now that she had completely learned the layout of the house and its

immediate environs, David began to teach her to find her way at large.

Each day they would walk down to the pools and Debra learned her

landmarks along the track; she would grope for them with the carved

walking-stick David had given her. Zulu soon realized his role in these

expeditions, and it was David's idea to clip a tiny silver bell on to

his collar so that Debra could follow him more readily. Soon she could

venture out without David, merely calling her destination to Zulu and

checking him against her own landmarks.

David was busy at this time with the removal of Conrad's game fence, as

he was still laid up with the leg, and with building his own fences to

enclose the three vulnerable boundaries of Jabulani. In addition there

was a force of African rangers to recruit and train in their duties.

David designed uniforms for them, and built outposts for them at all the

main access points to the estate.

He flew into Nelspruit at regular intervals to consult Conrad Berg on

these arrangements, and it was at his suggestion that David began a

water survey of the estate.

He wanted surface water on the areas of Jabulani that were remote from

the pools, and he began studying the feasibility of building catchment

dams of sinking boreholes. His days were full and active, and he became

hard and lean and sunbrowned. Yet always there were many hours spent in

Debra's company.

The 35-mm. colour slides that David had taken of the buffalo herd

before Johan Akkers had decimated it, were returned by the processing

laboratory and they were hopelessly inadequate. The huge animals seemed

to be standing on the horizon, and the ox-peckers on their bodies were

tiny grey specks. This failure spurred David, and he returned from one

trip to Nelspruit with a

600-mm. telescopic lens.

While Debra was meant to be working, David set up his camera beside her

and photographed the birds through her open window. The first results

were mixed.

Out of thirty-six exposures, thirty-five could be thrown away, but one

was beautiful, a grey-headed bush shrike at the moment of flight, poised

on spread wings with the sunlight catching his vivid plumage and his

sparkling eye.

David was hooked by the photography bug, and there were more lenses and

cameras and tripods, until Debra protested that it was a hobby which was

completely visual, and from which she was excluded.

David had one of his inspirations of genius. He sent away for pressings

of June Stannard's bird song recordings, and Debra was enchanted. She

listened to them intently, her whole face lighting with pleasure when

she recognized a familiar call.

From there it was a natural step for her to attempt to make her own bird

recordings, which included the tinkle of Zulu's silver bell, the buzz of

David's Land Rover, the voices of the servants arguing in the kitchen

yard, and faintly, very faintly, the chatter of a glossy starling.

It's no damned good, Debra complained bitterly I wonder how she got hers

so clear and close David did some reading, and built a parabolic

reflector for her. it did not look particularly lovely, but it worked.

Aimed at a sound source it gathered and directed the sound waves into

the microphone.

From the window of Debra's study they became more adventurous and moved

out. He built permanent and comfortable hides beside the drinking

places at the pools, and when his rangers reported a nesting site of an

interesting bird species, they would build temporary blinds of thatch

and canvas, sometimes on tall stilts where David and Debra spent many

silent and enjoyable hours together, shooting film and catching sound.

Even Zulu learned to he still and silent with his bell removed on these

occasions.

Slowly they had begun to build up a library of photographs and

recordings of a professional standard, until at last David plucked up

sufficient courage to send to African Wild Life Magazine a selection of

a dozen of his best slides. Two weeks later, he received a letter of

acceptance, with a cheque for a hundred dollars. This payment

represented a return of approximately one twentieth of one percent of

his capital outlay on equipment. David was ecstatic, and Debra's

pleasure almost as great as his. They drank two bottles of Veuve

Clicquot for dinner, and under the spell of excitement and champagne

their love-making that night was particularly inventive.

When David's photographs were published in Wild Life accompanied with

Debra's text, they reaped an unexpected harvest of letters from persons

of similar interest all over the world, and a request from the editors

for a full-length, illustrated article on Jabulani, and the Morgans

plans for turning it into a game sanctuary.

Debra made a lovely model for David's photographs that he compiled for

the article, and she also worked with care on the text, while David fed

her ideas and criticism.

Debra's new book lay abandoned, but her disappointment was forgotten in

the pleasure of working together.

Their correspondence with other conservationists provided them with

sufficient intellectual stimulus, and the occasional company of Conrad

Berg and Jane satisfied their need for human contact. They were still

both sensitive about being with other people, and this way they could

avoid it.

The Wild Life article was almost complete and ready for postin& when a

letter arrived from Bobby Dugan in New York. The editor of Cosmopolitan

magazine had chanced upon one of the few copies of A Place of Our Own in

circulation. She had liked it, and the magazine was considering

serialization of the book, possibly linked with a feature'article on

Debra. Bobby wanted Debra to let him have a selection of photographs of

herself, and four thousand words of autobiographical notes.

The photographs were there, ready to go to Wild Life, and Debra ran

through the four thousand words in three hours with David making

suggestions, some helpful and some bawdy.

They sent off the tape and pictures in the same post as the article to

Wild Life. For nearly a month they heard nothing more about it and then

something happened to drive it from their minds.

They were in the small thatch and daub hide beside the main pool,

sitting quietly and companionably during a lull in the evening activity.

David had his camera tripod set up in one of the viewing windows and

Debra's reflector was raised above the roof of the hide, daubed with

camouflage paint and operated by a handle above her head.

The water was still and black, except where a surface feeding bream was

rising near the far reed banks. A flock of laughing doves was lining up

with a chattering troop of spotted guinea fowl at the water's edge,

sipping water and then pointing their beaks to the sky as they let it

run down their throats.

Suddenly David took her wrist as a cautionary signal, and by the

intensity of his grip she knew that he had seen something unusual and

she leaned close against him so that she could hear his whispered

descriptions, and with her right hand she switched on the recorder and

then reached up to aim the reflector.

A herd of the rare and shy nyala antelope were approaching the drinking

place timidly, clinging until the last possible moment to the security

of the forest.

Their ears were spread, and their nostrils quivered and sucked at the

air, huge dark eyes glowing like lamps in the gloom.

There were nine hornless females, delicate chestnut in colour, striped

with white, dainty-stepping and suspicious, as they followed the two

herd bulls. These were so dissimilar from their females as though to

belong to a different species. Purplish black, and shaggy with a rough

mane extending from between the ears to the crupper. Their horns were

thick and cork screwed, tipped with cream, and between their eyes was a

vivid white chevron marking.

Advancing only a step at a time, and then pausing to stare with the

limitless patience of the wild, searching for a hint of danger, they

came slowly down the bank.

They passed the hide so closely that David was afraid to press the

trigger of his camera lest the click of the shutter frighten them away.

He and Debra sat frozen as they reached the water; Debra smiled happily

as she picked up the soft snort with which the -lead bull blew the

surface before drinkin& and the liquid slurping with which he drew his

first mouthful.

Once they were all drinking, David aimed and focused with care, but at

the click of the shutter the bull nearest him leapt about and uttered a

hoarse, throbbing alarm bark. Instantly the entire herd whirled and

raced away like pale ghosts through the dark trees.

I got it! I got it! exulted Debra. Wow! He was so close, he nearly

burst my eardrums. The excitement on Jabulani was feverish. Nyala

antelope had never been seen on the estate before, not even in David's

father's time, and all steps were taken to encourage them to remain. The

pools were immediately placed out of bounds to all the rangers and

servants, lest the human presence frighten the herd off before they had

a chance to settle down and stabilize their territory.

Conrad Berg arrived, still using a stick and limping heavily as he would

for the rest of his life. From the hide he watched the herd with David

and Debra, and then back at the homestead he sat before the log fire,

eating prime beef steak and drinking Old Buck while he gave his opinion.

They aren't from the Park, I shouldn't think. I would have recognized a

big old bull like that if I'd ever seen him before, they have probably

sneaked in from one of the other estates, you haven't got the south

fence up yet, have you? 'Not yet. Well, that's where they have moved

from, probably sick of being stared at by all the tourists. Come up

here for a bit of peace. He took a swallow of his gin. You're getting

a nice bit of stuff together here, Davey, another few years and it will

be a real show-place. Have you got any plans for visitors, you could

make a good thing out of this place, like they have at Mala-Mala.

Five-star safaris at economy prices - Connie, I'm just too damn selfish

to want to share this with anybody else.

The distractions and the time had given Debra an opportunity to recover

from the American failure of A Place of Our Own, and one morning she sat

down at her desk and began working again on her second novel.

That evening she told David: One of the blocks I have had is that I

hadn't a name for it. It's like a baby, you have to give it a name or

it's not really a person. 'You have got a name for it? he asked. Yes.

'Would you like to tell me?

She hesitated, shy at saying it to some other person for the first time.

I thought I'd call it, A Bright and Holy Thing, she said, and he thought

about it for a few moments, repeating it softly, You like it? she asked

anxiously. It's great, he said. I like it. I really do. With Debra

once more busy on her novel it seemed each day was too short for the

love and laughter and industry which filled it.

The call came through while David and Debra were sitting around the

barbecue in the front garden. David ran up to the house when the

telephone bell insisted.

Miss Mordecai? David was puzzled, the name was vaguely familiar.

Yes. I have a person-to-person call from New York, for Miss Debra

Mordecai, the operator repeated impatiently, and David realized who she

was talking about.

She'll take it, he said, and yelled for Debra. It was Bobby Dugan, and

the first time she had heard his voice. Wonder girl, he shouted over

the line. Sit down, so you don't fall down. Big Daddy has got news for

you that will blow your mind! Cosmopolitan ran the article on you two

weeks ago. They did you real proud, darling, full-page photograph, God,

you looked good enough to eat, Debra laughed nervously and signalled

David to put his ear against hers to listen.

the mag hit the stands Saturday, and Monday morning was a riot at the

book stores. They were beating the doors down. You've caught the

imagination of everybody here, darling.

They sold seventeen thousand hardback in five days, you jumped straight

into the number five slot on the New York Times bestseller list, it's a

freak, a phenomenon, a mad crazy runner, darling, we are going to sell

half a million copies of this book standing on our heads. All the big

papers and mags are screaming for review copies, they've lost the ones

we sent them three months ago. Doubleday are reprinting fifty thousand,

and I told them they were crazy, it should have been a hundred thousand,

it's only just starting next week will see the west coast catch fire and

they'll be screaming for copies across the whole country There was much

more, Bobby Dugan riding high, shouting his plans and his hopes, while

Debra laughed weakly and kept saying, No! I can't believe it! and It's

not true! They drank three bottles of Veuve Clicquot that night, and a

little before midnight Debra fell pregnant to David Morgan.

Miss Mordecai combines superb use of language and a sure literary touch

with the readability of a popular bestseller, said the New York Times.

Who says good literature has to be dull? asked Time, Debra Mordecai's

talent burns like a clean white flame. 'Miss Mordecai takes you by the

throat, slams you against the wall, throws you on the floor and kicks

you in the guts. She leaves you as shaken and weak as if you had been

in a car smash, added the Free Press.

Proudly David presented Conrad Berg with a signed copy of A Place of Our

Own. Conrad had finally been prevailed upon to drop the Mrs. Morgan and

call Debra by her given name. He was so impressed with the book that he

had an immediate relapse.

How do you think of those things, Mrs. Morgan? 'he asked with awe.

Debra, Debra prompted him.

She doesn't think of them, Jane Berg explained helpfully. It just comes

to her, it's called inspiration. Bobby Dugan was correct, they had to

reprint another fifty thousand copies.

It seemed as though the fates, ashamed of the cruel pranks they had

played upon them, were determined to shower Debra and David with gifts.

As Debra sat at her olive-wood table, growing daily bigger with her

child, once again the words flowed as strongly and as clearly as the

spring waters of the String of Pearls. However, there was still time to

help David with the illustrated publication he was compiling on the

birds of prey of the bushveld, and to accompany him on the daily

expeditions to different areas of Jabulani, and to plan the furnishings

and the layout of the empty nursery.

Conrad Berg came to her secretly to enlist her aid in his plan to have

David nominated to the Board of the National Parks Committee. They

discussed it in length and great detail. A seat on the Board carried

prestige and was usually reserved for men of greater age and influence

than David.

However, Conrad was confident that the dignity of the Morgan name

combined with David's wealth, ownership of Jabulani, demonstrated

interest in conservation and his ability to devote much time to the

affairs of the Board would prevail.

Yes, Debra decided. It will be good for him to meet people and get out

a little more. We are in danger of becoming recluses here. Will he do

it? I Don't worry, Debra assured him. I'll see to it. Debra was

right. After the initial uneasiness of the first meeting of the Board,

and once the other members became accustomed to that dreadful face and

realized that behind it was a warm and forceful person, David gathered

increasing confidence with each subsequent Journey to Pretoria where the

Board met. Debra would fly up with him and while they were at their

deliberations she and Jane Berg shopped for the baby and the other items

of luxury and necessity that were not readily come by in Nelspruit.

However, by November Debra was carrying low and she felt too big and

uncomfortable to make the long flight in the cockpit of the Navajo,

especially as the rains were about to break and the air was turbulent

with storm cloud and static and heavy thermals. It would be a bumpy

trip, and she was deeply involved in the last chapters of the new book.

I'll be perfectly all right here, she insisted. I've got a telephone

and I have also got six game rangers, four servants and a fierce hound

to guard me.

David argued and protested for five days before the meeting and agreed

only after he had worked out a timetable.

If I leave here before dawn I'll be at the meeting by nine, we'll be

finished by three and I can be back here by six-thirty at the latest, he

muttered. If it wasn't the budget and financial affairs vote, I would

cut it, tell them I was sick. 'It's important, darling. You go. 'You

sure now? 'I won't even notice you're not here. Don't get too carried

away by it, he told her ruefully.

J might stay just to punish you. In the dawn the thunderheads were the

colour of wine and flame and ripe fruit, turning and magnificent,

towering high above the tiny aircraft, high above the utmost ceiling of

which it was capable.

David flew the corridors of open sky alone and at peace, wrapped in the

euphoria of flight which never failed for him. He altered course at

intervals to avoid the mountainous upsurges of cloud; within them lurked

death and disaster, great winds that would tear the wings from his

machine and send the pieces whirling on high, up into the heights where

a man would perish from lack of oxygen.

He landed at Grand Central where a hire car was waiting for him, and

spent the journey into Pretoria reading through the morning papers. It

was only when he saw the meteorological prediction of a storm front

moving in steadily from the Mozambique channel that he felt a little

uneasy.

Before he entered the conference-room he asked the receptionist to place

a telephone call to Jabulani.

Two-hour delay, Mr. Morgan. Okay, call me when it comes through When

they broke for lunch he asked her again.

What happened to my call?

I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. I was going to tell you. The lines are down.

They are having very heavy rainfull in the low veld. His vague

uneasiness became mild alarm.

Would you call the meteorological office for me, please?

The weather was down solid. From Barberton to Mpunda Milia and from

Lourenro Marques to Machadodorp, the rain was heavy and unrelenting. The

cloud ceiling was above twenty thousand feet and it was right down on

the ground. The Navajo had no oxygen or electronic navigational

equipment.

How long? David demanded of the meteorological officer. How long until

it clears?

Hard to tell, sir. Two or three days.

Damn! DAmn! said David bitterly, and went down to the canteen on the

ground floor of the government building. Conrad Berg was at a corner

table with two other members of the Board, but when he saw David he

jumped up and limped heavily but urgently across the room.

David, he took his arm, and his round face was deadly serious. I've

just heard, Johann Akkers broke jail last night. He killed a guard and

got clean away.

He's been loose for seventeen hours.

David stared at him, unable to speak with the shock of it.

Is Debra alone?

David nodded, his face stiff with scar tissue, but his eyes dark and

afraid.

You'd better fly down right away to be with her. 'The weather, they've

grounded all aircraft in the area. Use my truck! said Conrad urgently.

I need something faster than that. Do you want me to come with you?

No, said David. If you aren't there this afternoon, they won't approve

the new fencing allocations. I'll go on my own.

Debra was working at her desk when she heard the wind coming. She

switched off her tape recorder and went out on to the veranda with the

dog following her closely.

She stood listening, not sure of what she was hearing.

It was a soughing and sighing, a far-off rushing like that of a wave

upon a pebble beach.

The dog pressed against her leg and she squatted beside him, placing one

arm around his neck, listening to the gathering rush of the wind,

hearing the roar of it building up swiftly, the branches of the morula

forest beginning to thrash and rattle.

Zulu whimpered, and she hugged him a little closer.

There, boy. Gently. Gently, she whispered and the wind struck in a

mighty squalling blast, crashing through the treetops, tearing and

cracking the upper branches.

It banged into the insect screen of the veranda with a snap like a

mainsail filling, and unsecured windows and doors slammed like cannon

shots.

Debra sprang up and ran back into her workroom, the window was swinging

and slamming, dust and debris boiling in through it. She put her

shoulder to it, closing it and securing the latch, then she ran to do

the same to the other windows and bumped into one of the house servants.

Between them they battened down all the doors and windows. Madam, the

rain will come now. Very much rain. 'Go to your families now, 'Debra

told them. The dinner, madam? Don't worry, I'll make that, and

thankfully they streamed away through the swirling dust to their

hutments beyond the kopje.

The wind blew for fifteen minutes, and Debra stood by the wire screen

and felt it tugging and whipping her body. Its wildness was infectious,

and she laughed aloud, elated and excited.

Then suddenly the wind was passed, as swiftly as it had come, and she

heard it tearing and clawing its way over the hills above the pools.

In the utter silence that followed the whole world waited, tensed for

the next onslaught of the elements.

Debra felt the cold, the sudden fall in temperature as though the door

to a great ice-box had opened and she hugged her arms and shivered; she

could not see the dark cloud banks that rolled across Jabulani, but

somehow she sensed their menace and their majesty in the coldness that

swamped her.

The first lightning bolt struck with a crackling electric explosion that

seemed to singe the air about her, and Debra was taken so unawares that

she cried out aloud. The thunder broke, and seemed to shake the sky and

rock the earth's very foundations.

Debra turned and groped her way back into the house, locking herself

into her room, but walls could not diminish the fury of the rain when it

came. It drummed and roared and deafened, battering the window panes,

and striking the walls and doors, pouring through the screen to flood

the veranda.

As overpowering as was the rainstorm, yet it was the lightning and the

thunder that racked Debra's nerves.

She could not steel herself for each mighty crack and roar. Each one

caught her off balance, and it seemed that they were aimed directly at

her.

She crouched on her day bed, clinging to the soft warm body of the dog

for a little comfort. She wished she had not allowed the servants to

leave, and she thought that her nerve might crack altogether under the

bombardment.

Finally she could stand it no longer. She groped her way into the

living-room. In her distress she had almost lost her way about her own

home, but she found the telephone and lifted it to her ear.

Immediately she knew that it was dead, there was no tone to it but she

cranked the handle wildly, calling desperately into the mouthpiece,

until finally she let it fall and dangle on its cord.

She began to sob as she stumbled back to her workroom, hugging the child

in her big belly, and she fell upon the day bed and covered her ears

with both hands.

Stop it, she screamed. Stop it, oh please God, make it stop.

The new national highway as far as the coal-mining town of Witbank was

broad and smooth, six lanes of traffic, and David eased the hired

Pontiac into the fast lane and went flat, keeping his foot pressed down

hard.

She peaked out at a hundred and thirty miles an hour, and she sat so

solid upon the road that he hardly needed to drive her. His mind was

free to play with horror stories, and to remember Johan Akkers face as

he stood in the dock glaring across the Court Room at them. The

deep-set muddy eyes, and the mouth working as though he were about to

spit. As the warders had led him to the stairs down to the cells he had

pulled free and shouted back.

I'm going to get you, Scarface, he giggled. If I have to wait

twenty-nine years, I'm going to get you, and they took him away.

After Witbank the road narrowed. There was heavy traffic and the bends

had dangerous camber and deceptive gradients.

David was able to concentrate on keeping the big car on the road, and to

drive the phantoms from his mind.

He took the Lyndenburg turn off, cutting the corner of the triangle, and

the traffic thinned out to an occasional truck. He was able to go flat

out again, and race along the edge of the high escarpment. Then

suddenly the road turned and began its plunge down into the low veld.

When he emerged from the Erasmus tunnel David ran into the rain. it was

a solid grey bank of water that filled the air and buffeted the body of

the Pontiac. It flooded the road, so David had difficulty following its

verge beneath the standing sheets of water, and it swamped the

windshield, so that the efforts of the wipers to clear it were defeated.

David switched on his headlights and drove as fast as he dared, craning

forward in his seat to peer into the impenetrable blue-grey curtains of

rain.

Darkness came early in the rain, beneath the lowering black clouds, and

the wet road dazzled him with the reflections of his own headlights,

while the fat falling drops seemed as big as hailstones. He was forced

to moderate his speed a little more, creeping down the highway towards

Bandolier Hill.

In the darkness he almost missed the turning, and he reversed back to

it, swinging on to the unmade surface.

It was slushy with mud, puddled and swampy, slippery as grease.

Again he was forced to lower his speed.

Once he lost it, and slid broadside into the drainage ditch. By packing

loose stones under the wheels and racing the engine he pulled the

Pontiac out and drove on.

By the time he reached the bridge over the Luzane stream, he had been

six hours at the wheel of the Pontiac, and it was a few minutes after

eight o'clock in the evening.

As he reached the bridge the rain stopped abruptly, a freak hole in the

weather. Directly overhead the stars showed mistily, while around them

the cloud banks swirled, turning slowly, as though upon the axis of a

great wheel.

David's headlights cut through the darkness, out across the mad brown

waters to the far bank a hundred yards away. The bridge was submerged

under fifteen feet of flood water, and the water was moving so swiftly

that its waves and whirlpools seemed sculptured in polished brown

marble, and the trunks of uprooted trees dashed downstream upon the

flood.

It seemed impossible that the bed of this raging torrent had been the

narrow sandy bed in which Johan Akkers had run down Conrad with the

green Ford truck.

David climbed out of the Pontiac and walked down to the edge of the

water. As he stood there he saw the level creeping up perceptively

towards his feet. It was still rising.

He looked up at the sky, and judged that the respite in the weather

would not last much longer.

He reached his decision and ran back to the Pontiac.

He reversed well back onto the highest ground and parked it off the

verge with the headlights still directed at the river edge. Then,

standing beside the door, he stripped down to his shirt and underpants.

He pulled his belt from the loops of his trousers and buckled it about

his waist, then he tied his shoes to the belt by their laces.

Barefooted he ran to the edge of the water, and began to feel his way

slowly down the bank. It shelved quickly and within a few paces he was

knee-deep and the current plucked at him, viciously trying to drag him

off-balance.

He posed like that, braced against the current, and waited, staring

upstream. He saw the tree trunk coming down fast on the flood, with its

roots sticking up like beseeching arms. It was swinging across the

current and would pass him closely.

He judged his moment and lunged for it. Half a dozen strong strokes

carried him to it and he grasped one of the roots. Instantly he was

whisked out of the beams of the headlight into the roaring fury of the

river. The tree rolled and bucked, carrying him under and bringing him

up coughing and gasping.

Something struck him a glancing blow and he felt his shirt tear and the

skin beneath it rip. Then he was under water again, swirling end over

end and clinging desperately to his log.

All about him the darkness was filled with the rush and threat of crazy

water, and he was buffeted and flogged by its raw strength, grazed and

bruised by rocks and driftwood.

Suddenly he felt the log check and bump against an obstruction, turning

and swinging out into the current again.

David was blinded with muddy water and he knew there was a limit to how

much more of this treatment he could survive. Already he was weakening

quickly.

He could feel his mind and his movements slowing, like a battered prize

fighter in the tenth round.

He gambled it all on the obstruction which the log had encountered being

the far bank, and he released his death-grip on the root and stuck out

sideways across the current with desperate strength.

His overarm stroke ended in the trailing branches of a thorn tree

hanging over the storm waters. Thorns tore the flesh of his palm as his

grip closed over them, and he cried out at the pain but held on.

Slowly he dragged himself out of the flood and crawled up the bank,

hacking and coughing at the water in his lungs. Clear of the river, he

fell on his face in the mud and vomited a gush of swallowed water that

shot out of his nose and mouth.

He lay exhausted for a long while, until his coughing slowed and he

could breathe again. His shoes had been torn from his belt by the

current. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered forward into the

darkness. As he ran, he held his hand to his face, pulling the broken

thorns from the flesh of his palm with his teeth.

Stars were still showing overhead and by their feeble light he made out

the road, and he began to run along it, gathering strength with each

pace. It was very still now, with only the dripping of the trees and

the occasional far-off murmur of thunder to break the silence.

Two miles from the homestead, David made out the dark bulk of something

on the side of the road, and it was only when he was a few paces from it

that he realized it was an automobile, a late model Chevy. It had been

abandoned, bogged down in one of the greasy mudholes, that the rains had

opened.

The doors were unlocked and David switched on the interior and parking

lights. There was dried blood on the seat, a dark smear of it, and on

the back seat was a bundle of clothing. David untied it quickly and

recognized immediately the coarse canvas suiting as regulation prison

garb. He stared at it stupidly for a moment, until the impact of it

struck him.

The car was stolen, the blood probably belonging to the unfortunate

owner. The prison garb had been exchanged for other clothing, probably

taken from the body of the owner of the Chevy.

David knew then beyond all possible doubt that Johan Akkers was at

Jabulani, and that he had arrived before the bridge over the Luzane

stream had become impassable, probably three or four hours previously.

David threw the prison suiting back into the car, and he began to run.

Johan Akkers drove the Chevy across the Luzane bridge with the rising

waters swirling over the guard rail, and with the rain teeming down in

blinding white sheets.

The muddy water shoved at the body of the car, making steering

difficult, and it seeped in under the doors, flooding the floorboards

and swirling about Akkers feet; but he reached the safety of the far

bank and raced the engine as he shot up it. The wheels spun on the soft

mud, and the Chevy skidded and swayed drunkenly in the loose footing.

The closer he drew to Jabulani the more reckless he became in his haste.

Before his conviction and imprisonment, ARkers had been a twisted and

blighted creature, a man of deep moods and passionate temper. Feeling

himself rejected and spurned by his fellow men he had lived in a world

of swift defensive violence, but always he had kept within the bounds of

reason.

However, during the two years that he had laboured and languished within

prison walls, his anger and his lust for vengeance had driven him over

that narrow boundary.

Vengeance had become the sole reason for his existence, and he had

rehearsed it a hundred times each day.

He had planned his prison break to give himself three days of freedom,

after that it did not matter. Three days would be enough.

He had infected his own jaw, running a needle poisoned with his excreta

deeply into the gum. They had taken him to the dental clinic as he had

planned. The guard had been easily handled, and the dentist had

cooperated with a scalpel held to his throat.

Once clear of the prison, Akkers had used the scalpel, vaguely surprised

by the volume of blood that could issue from a human throat. He had

left the dentist slumped over his steering-wheel on a plot of waste

ground and, with his white laboratory gown over his prison suit, he had

waited at a set of traffic lights.

The shiny new Chevy had pulled up for a red light and Akkers had opened

the passenger door and slid in beside the driver.

He had been a smaller man than Akkers, plump and Prosperous-looking,

with a smooth pale face and soft little hairless hands on the

steering-wheel. He had obeyed meekly Akkers instruction to drive on.

Akkers had rolled his soft white body, clad only in vest and shorts,

into a clump of thick grass beside a disused secondary road and pulled

the grass closed over him, then he had beaten the first road block out

of the city area by forty minutes.

He stayed on the side roads, picking his way slowly eastwards. The

infection in his jaw had ached intolerably despite the shot of

antibiotics the dentist had given him, and his crippled claw of a hand

had been awkward and clumsy on the gear lever, for the severed nerves

and sinews had never knitted again. The hand was a dead and insensate

thing.

Using the caution of a natural predator and helped by the newsflashes on

the radio, he had groped his way carefully through the net that was

spread for him, and now he was on Jabulani and he could restrain himself

no longer.

He hit the mud hole at forty and the Chevy whipped and spun, slewing her

back end deep into the mud and high-centring her belly on the soft ooze.

He left her there and went on swiftly through the rain, loping on long

legs. Once he giggled and sucked at his teeth, but then he was silent

again.

It was dark by the time he climbed the kopie behind Jabulani homestead.

He lay there for two hours peering down into the driving rain, waiting

for the darkness.

Once night fell, he could see no lights, and he began to worry, there

should have been lights burning.

He left the kopje and moved cautiously through the darkness down the

hill. He avoided the servants quarters, and went through the trees to

the landing-strip.

He ran into the side of the hanger in the dark and followed the wall to

the side doorway.

Frantically he spread his arms and felt for the aircraft that should be

here, and when he realized that it was not he let out a groan of

frustration.

They were gone. He had planned and schemed in vain, all his desperate

striving was in vain.

Growling like an animal, he smashed the fist of his good hand against

the wall, enjoying the pain of it in his frustration, and his anger and

his hatred was so strong that it shook his body like a fever, and he

cried out aloud, a formless animal cry without coherence or sense.

Suddenly the rain stopped. The heavy drum of it upon the iron roof of

the hangar ceased so abruptly that Akkers was distracted. He went to

the opening and looked out.

The stars were swimming mistily above him, and the only sound was the

gurgle and chuckle of running water and the dripping of the trees.

There was the glimmering of light now, and he saw the white walls of the

homestead shine amongst the trees. He could do damage there, Akkers

realized. He could find there some outlet for his terrible frustration.

There was furniture to smash, and the thatch would burn, if lit from

inside, the thatch would burn even in this weather.

He stared towards the homestead through the dark sodden trees.

Debra woke in the silence. She had fallen asleep in the midst of the

storm, perhaps as a form of escape.

Now she groped for the warm comforting body of the dog but he was gone.

There was a patch of warmth on the bed beside her where he had lain.

She listened intently and there was nothing but the soft sounds of water

in the guttering and far-off the growl of thunder. She remembered her

earlier panic and she was ashamed.

She stood up from the bed and she was shivering with the cold in her

loose, free-flowing dark blue maternity blouse, and the elastic-fronted

slacks that were adjustable to her expanding waistline. She felt with

her toes and found the light ballet pumps on the stone floor and pushed

her feet into them.

She started towards her dressing-room for a sweater, then she would make

herself a cup of hot soup, she decided.

Zulu started barking. He was outside in the front garden. Clearly he

had left the house through the small hinged doorway that David had built

especially for him in the veranda wall.

The dog had many barks, each with a different meaning which Debra

understood.

A self-effacing woof, that was the equivalent of the watch-man's Ten

o'clock on a June night, and all's well. Or a longer-drawn-out yowl,

that meant, There is a full moon out tonight, and the wolf's blood in my

veins will not allow me to sleep.

A sharper, meaningful bark, Something is moving down near the pump

house. It may be a lion. And then there was an urgent clamouring

chorus, There is dire danger threatening. Beware!

Beware! It was the danger bark now, and then growling through closed

jaws as though he were worrying something.

Debra went out on to the veranda and she felt the puddled rainwater

soaking through her light shoes. Zulu was harrying something in the

front garden, she could hear the growling and scuffling, the movement of

bodies locked in a struggle. She stood silently, uncertain of what to

do, knowing only that she could not go out to Zulu. She was blind and

helpless against the unknown adversary. As she hesitated she heard

clearly the sound of a heavy blow. it cracked on bone, and she heard

the thump of a body falling. Zulu's growls were cut off abruptly, and

there was silence. Something had happened to the dog.

Now she was completely alone in the silence.

No, not silence. There was the sound of breathing a heavy panting

breath.

Debra shrank back against the veranda wall, listening and waiting.

She heard footsteps, human footsteps coming through the garden towards

the front door. The footsteps squelched and splashed in the rain

puddles.

She wanted to call out a challenge, but her voice was locked in her

constricted throat. She wanted to run, but her legs were paralysed by

the sound of the intruder climbing the front steps.

A hand brushed against the wire scieening, and then settled on the

handle, rattling it softly.

At last Debra found her voice. Who is that? she called, a high panicky

cry that ran out into the night silence.

Instantly the soft sounds ceased. The intruder was frozen by her

challenge. She could imagine whoever it was standing on the top step,

peering through the screening into the darkness of the veranda, trying

to make her out in the gloom. Suddenly she was thankful for the dark

blouse and black slacks.

She waited motionlessly, listening, and she heard a little wind shake

the tree-tops, bringing down a sudden quick patter of droplets. A

hunting owl called down near the dam. She heard the thunder murmur

bad-temperedly along the hills, and a nightiar screeched harshly from

amongst the poinsettia bushes.

The silence went on for a long time, and she knew she could not stand it

much longer. She could feel her lips beginning to quiver and the cold

and fear and the weight of the child were heavy upon her bladder, she

wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to.

Then suddenly the silence was broken. In the darkness there was the

sound of a man giggling. It was shockingly close and clear, and it was

a crazy sound. The shock of it seemed to clutch at her heart and crush

the air from her lungs. Her legs went weak under her, beginning to

shake, and the pressure on her bladder was intolerable, for she

recognized the sound of that laughter, the sick insane sound of it was

graven upon her mind.

A hand shook the door handle, jerking and straining at it. Then a

shoulder crashed into the narrow frame. It was a screen door, not built

to withstand rough treatment. Debra knew it would yield quickly.

She screamed then, a high ringing scream of terror, and it seemed to

break the spell which held her. Her legs would move again, and her

brain would work.

She whirled and ran back into her workroom, slamming the door and

locking it swiftly.

She crouched beside the door, thinking desperately.

She knew that as soon as he broke into the house Akkers need only switch

on a light. The electricity generator would automatically kick in on

demand, and in the light he would have her at his mercy. Her only

protection was darkness. In the darkness she would have the advantage,

for she was accustomed to it.

She had heard the nightjar and the owl calling so she knew that night

had fallen, and it was probable that the raincloud still blanketed moon

and stars. Darkness was out there in the forest. She must get out of

the house, and try to reach the servants quarters.

She hurried through the rooms towards the rear of the house, and as she

went she thought of a weapon. The firearms were locked in the steel

cabinet in David's office, and the key was with him. She ran through to

the kitchen and her heavy walking-stick was in its place by the door.

She grasped it thankfully and slipped open the door catch.

At that moment she heard the front door crash open, with the lock kicked

in, and she heard Akkers charge heavily into the living-room. She

closed the kitchen door behind her and started across the yard. She

tried not to run, she counted her steps. She must not lose her way. She

must find the track around the kopje to the servants hutments.

Her first landmark was the gate in the fence that ringed the homestead.

Before she reached it she heard the electricity generator throb to life

in the power house beyond the garages. Akkers had found a light switch.

She was slightly off in her direction and she ran into the barbed-wire

fence. Frantically she began to feel her way along it, trying for the

gate. Above her head she heard the buzz and crackle of the element in

one of the arc lamps that lined the fence and could flood the gardens

with light.

Akkers must have found the switch beside the kitchen door, and Debra

realized that she must be bathed in the light of the arcs.

She heard him shout behind her, and knew that he had seen her. At that

moment she found the gate, and with a sob of relief she tore it open and

began to run.

She must get out of the light of the arcs, she must find the darkness.

Light was mortal danger, darkness was sanctuary.

The track forked, left to the pools, right to the hutments. She took

the right-hand path and ran along it.

Behind her she heard the gate clank shut. He was after her.

She counted as she ran, five hundred paces to the rock on the left side

of the path that marked the next fork.

She tripped over it, falling heavily and barking her shins.

She rolled to her knees, and she had lost the walkingstick. She could

not waste precious seconds in searching for it. She groped for the path

and ran on.

Fifty paces and she knew she was on the wrong fork.

This path lead down to the pumphouse, and she was not familiar with it.

It was not one of her regular routes.

She missed a turn and ran into broken ground. She stumbled on until

rank grass wrapped about her ankles and brought her down again, falling

heavily on her side so that she was winded.

She was completely lost, but she knew she was out of the arc lights now.

With luck she was shielded by complete darkness, but her heart was

racing and she felt nauseous with terror.

She tried to control her gulping, sobbing breath, and to listen.

She heard him coming then, pounding footsteps that rang clearly, even on

the rain-soaked earth. He seemed to be coming directly to where she

lay, and she shrank down against the wet earth and she pressed her face

into her arms to hide her face and muffle her breathing.

At the last moment his blundering footsteps passed her closely, and ran

on. She felt sick with relief, but it was premature for abruptly the

footsteps ceased and he was so close she could hear him panting.

He was listening for her, standing close beside where she lay in the

grass. They stayed like that during the long slow passage of minutes.

For Debra it seemed an eternity of waiting, broken at last by his voice.

All! There you are, he giggled, there you are. I can see you. Her

heart jumped with shock, He was closer than she had thought. Almost she

jumped up and began to run again, but some deeper sense restrained her.

I can see you hiding there, he repeated, giggling and snickering. I've