A Lion by the Mane Page 15

  ‘I see your point,’ she said. ‘Leave Jan to me . . . he’ll soon come round.’

  ‘Hmm,’ commented Van Heerdon, ‘that pure exterior is, as I guessed, a cover for a scheming intelligent mind. Right, go on out and get to work.’

  That was not what she had expected. Jan would tell her to go to hell also, and her meddling in his affairs would make him even more fractious. Worse, would be the humiliation he would feel at having to stand with that abomination round his neck while she spoke to him. No, she could not subject him to that even had there been any hope that he might listen to her.

  ‘I said we were lovers, not queen and slave,’ she began. ‘A woman’s ways of persuasion are not to rope a man to a peg and demand his surrender, they are infinitely more subtle . . . and leave him feeling not the least resentful.’ Where once these comments would have been expressed in clinical tones, her voice now grew warm and soft at the thought of what she was suggesting. ‘In other words, I need to get him alone in here. You know Jan,’ she gushed on, ‘he won’t be rushed into anything, especially by a woman, but I can gradually work him round to accepting your terms without his realizing it wasn’t his decision.’

  Van Heerdon wasn’t happy, but saw the wisdom of her words. ‘I suppose you are right. I’ll give you until sundown. If you fail, we’ll try my way again tomorrow – even if it strains relationships somewhat!’

  ‘Go and untie him. I’ll have him eating out of my hand by your deadline.’

  Her anxiety had to continue a little longer, however.

  ‘It is not a simple matter of untying him. First, I have to tell the witch-doctor so that he can give the order and not lose face with his people. He was seen to tether the evil spirit, and he must be the one to declare that the malevolence has temporarily left the white man’s body. You see how childlike these people can be, yet it is a popular belief that a European way of life should not be denied them. I’ll leave you to reflect on that while I negotiate.’

  It must have been a good fifteen minutes before sounds of excitement in the compound drew Margaret to the window. She had been sitting on one of the mats, unable to watch the scene outside until it was evident some action was forthcoming. Van Heerdon had kept his word. Amid great shouting, the witch-doctor’s trusty henchmen ceremoniously removed the collar, and Jan was free! For a terrible moment, it seemed he was unable to move and Margaret willed him to stay upright. Then he was walking unsteadily towards the hut behind the guards, and watched by a bevy of curious eyes. Margaret found her bare arms rising in goose pimples, and shivered.

  She caught his arm as he came in, and hastily undid the cord fastening his wrists. With almost impossible self-control she turned her back on him while searching for the water bottles she had brought across the border with her.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down,’ she invited in a wobbly voice, ‘and I’ll give you a drink.’

  It was only the wall which was keeping him up, so by the simple expedient of gratefully letting his knees buckle, he slid to the ground and held out a hand for the water. Sweat ran from that fatal red hair, sheening the stubble on his face and soaking into the material of his shirt, but he made no attempt to wipe it away. In fact, he resembled an automaton with no awareness of where he was or what he was doing. Margaret hugged herself tautly as he slowly sipped from the bottle, wasting a lot which splashed on to the mud floor.

  Now the moment had come, a ridiculous feeling of faintheartedness prevented her from explaining why he had been set free. An indefinable mind-barrier was preventing any kind of flow between them, and five minutes passed in utter silence until Jan slid sideways and lay on the mat staring at the ceiling.

  She took the water-bottle from a hand which was burning! This detachedness must be caused by fever. Over an hour in sunshine which generated a temperature of over a hundred degrees would raise his own to a dangerous level, bringing headaches and vagueness – even temporary blindness, perhaps. A search in her handbag produced aspirin and she went on her knees beside him intending to persuade him to swallow them, but that was as far as she got. One look at his face was enough to convince her that sun-stroke was not wholly responsible for his condition.

  ‘Don’t, Jan. It’s over now.’ She put a hand over his eyes to hide what she saw there, and touched her mouth lightly against his.

  He turned his head away. ‘Please, Maggie, the one thing I really don’t want at this moment is for you to feel you have to make the supreme sacrifice on my behalf.’

  That was the deciding stroke. The gamble was lost and the jewel would never be a perfect solitaire! In that moment it became clear she had a desperate fight on her hands. This lion had no intention of letting anyone grab him by the mane – especially Margaret Ward! The afternoon blazed into a mellower glory as they lay on their respective mats separated by opposing emotions yet each, with a strange irony, had arrived at a vital turning point.

  Jan faced the denouement of his life-long struggle. He had not noticed the black faces surrounding him as he stood in the centre of that compound. The terrible humiliation which had washed over him when the rope had fastened him to the spot had not been caused by these people. They could not be blamed; he knew, only too well, the sway a witch-doctor held with simple tribesmen. It was recollection which had provided the torment. With the slipping on of that collar he had travelled back through the years to a sun-washed prosperous farm where the golden days went on for ever, and nights were purgatory . . . and five children had tied him to a tree.

  The Schroeder children had been obsessed with a film concerning a lynch mob, and had consequently decided to re-enact the film the following afternoon. At six years old, Jan had a very small pony, so the others voted that he would have to be the outlaw because their larger mounts would easily outrun his. It had been a wild, hilarious chase with his pony putting up a game fight, but he had soon flagged and the outlaw was captured. They had tied his hands behind him and led him to a tall tree where a noose was slipped over his head. One of his blood-thirsty sisters had pointed out that men sometimes took all day to die if their necks didn’t break at the first jerk. Chris had said kindly that Jan’s neck, being small, would snap quite easily bringing a quick death. They always went on like that and Jan knew they were joking . . . but there was always that dreadful fear that something would go wrong and it would really happen.

  Chris had slung the rope over a branch and was about to lift his youngest brother on to the pony when Kip found a snake, and the capricious enthusiasm of children had found this more diverting than a game which had really gone as far as it could. Chris had killed the creature and they had rushed off to show their father, leaving Jan quite forgotten. He had said the rudest words he knew and prepared to walk the long distance to the house with his hands tied behind him, but only got a few yards before he was pulled up short by the noose round his neck. A knot in the rope had wedged itself between the trunk and the branch and would not pull free.

  At first, he didn’t realize how helpless he was until attempts to free himself proved useless, but real panic didn’t set in until it became obvious the others were not coming back for him. When he became husky from shouting, he tried giving his pony a kick to send it back to the house, but the stupid creature remained loyally by his side. His absence was not noticed until it was time for his supper, and there was all hell to pay!

  Randell, who was eighteen and no longer played with the others, his father, with Chris and Kip to guide them to the spot, rode out to bring him home. Jan had never forgotten that scene. The two boys had looked deathly white and frightened for the first time in their lives. Their father had thrashed them both severely and further penalized them by making them work on the farm for the remainder of the school holidays. Chris had gone out of his way to be kind to his small brother after that – had even offered him the model plane which was his prized possession – but nothing would wipe away the humiliation Jan had felt when the rescue party turned up. He had been crying!

  From
his earliest days Chris had been his hero. Randell was already grown-up and led his own life, George, his nearest brother, was a book-worm, the girls didn’t count, but Chris, nine years older, was perfect! It was Chris who thought of all the daring escapades; Chris who found the haunted kopje first, who drove the tractor without Father’s knowledge, who brewed home-made beer in his bedroom. Chris was tall, fearless, and infallible in the eyes of the young Jan. The one big snag was Kip! Only eleven months separated the spiritual twins so it was Kip who commanded Chris’s brotherly affection, sharing all his secrets and confidences. They also shared a bedroom, which made Jan burn with resentment, and he was often found curled up on Chris’s bed when the older boys went up and had to be carried back to the room known as the nursery.

  When Chris became an airline pilot, Jan was filled with envy and vowed he would be a flier, too . . . but it was Kip who was asked to be a partner in Schroeder Freight at the birth of the company. For the first time, the brothers had variant ideas and Kip stuck to his desire to be a farmer like their father. Jan seized his chance and took an apprenticeship in aircraft maintenance, at Chris’s suggestion. Even that didn’t bring him any closer to his hero; it was still Kip who claimed that honour. He even stole one of his brother’s girl-friends and married her, but Chris had met Helen by then and didn’t hold it against Kip.

  Eventually, the chance came for Jan to learn to fly and he applied himself eagerly. He acquired the licence in record time which earned lavish praise from Chris, yet his request for another aircraft which was unanimously turned down by the rest of the family seemed remarkably like a vote of no-confidence in his ability. When Chris accepted the decision without question it put the seal on twenty years of imagined inadequacy, and started him on the road which had ended with another rope round his neck.

  The bitter taste of failure was still in his mouth as he lay on the floor of the primitive hut that afternoon. As a child, his elaborate efforts to impress Chris had been unsuccessful; more recently, his subconscious continuation of the theme had resulted in complete disaster. The lunatic urge to become a second Chris had driven him to a way of life he didn’t enjoy among people he had no respect for. Now, the final unacceptable blow! Van Heerdon’s words out there under the sun filled him with disgust. If one man thought him capable of selling his brother out and embarking on large-scale crime, how many more held the same opinion? Did Chris himself?

  He threw an arm up over his eyes in an attempt to blot out the mental images which flogged at his brain, and the sweat flowed freely as he rode out his anger during the long hot afternoon, but when the hands of his watch stood at four-thirty, he was calm and resolute enough to let himself sleep. His next awakening would be metamorphic as well as physical!

  As he slept, Margaret watched him, knowing such scrutiny would be out of the question when he was awake. The camera of her new love photographed every detail so that the pictures could be brought out in some future winter to recapture the spring of this moment. Throughout the afternoon she had seen his restlessness, had known he was living through some personal agony of mind which his make-up prevented him from sharing with her, but his brow was unfurrowed and his hands were relaxed in sleep. His quality of complete independence, although it hurt her, nevertheless earned her admiration. She traced the stubborn set of his mouth and the strength of a jaw which had clamped tightly shut on the excuses he could have produced to offset the anger his actions had induced in another; the red-gold lashes lying against the shadows beneath his eyes; a small white scar behind one ear which was probably the result of some childish escapade. All these things increased her awareness of him, telling her that from now on his every look, every touch, would be like striking a match in the parched veld.

  She decided to wake him at five-thirty. The sun was dipping very low and Van Heerdon would be back for his answer once the light had gone. As before, Jan slept like the dead. Margaret ended up slapping his face when pokes and prods had no effect, but even then he came to the surface in slow motion.

  ‘Oooh! I guessed it was you when those matron-like slaps rained on me. Any other woman would have woken me gently.’

  She smiled her delight at his return to normal. ‘I’ve tried that method. It doesn’t work half as quickly as a slap!’

  ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t let me sleep in peace,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s not as if there were anything to wake up for.’

  ‘Van Heerdon is coming back at sunset.’

  ‘Is he!’ That brought him instantly alert. ‘In that case I must talk to you quickly.’

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ she put in.

  ‘Whatever it is can be said later. This is urgent. Now listen carefully and don’t interrupt!’ He sat up and put his hand on her arm, little knowing what the contact did to her. ‘It appears my flying skill is a valuable commodity to Van Heerdon . . . so valuable he has made me a very attractive proposition. At first, I told him what to do with it, but I’ve weighed up the alternatives and decided to accept.’

  ‘I see,’ she said with a frozen face.

  ‘It’s your position I’m worried about. Whatever idiocy persuaded you to follow me this morning has led you into a situation I wouldn’t wish on anyone . . . even you! This isn’t Norfolk, you know. Here, you are dealing with the native mind, which is something no white man will ever completely understand, and to these people women are in the lower order. Their function is simply to carry the burdens, till the fields, harvest the crops, cook the food . . . and bear the sons! They are not expected to have any finer feelings and their worth is based on their stamina. As far as you are concerned, you didn’t even rate an evil spell from the witch-doctor – you are nothing!’

  ‘Thanks, that’s done my ego no end of good.’

  It made him angry. ‘This is no time for flippancy, Maggie. Your only chance to live is if I take you with me, and God knows that’s the last thing I want to do. When Van Heerdon comes back let me do all the talking, and for once in your life, do as you are told! Can I have your word on that?’

  There was nothing she wanted more than for him to take charge of everything. Since his startling announcement, a strange limbo of mind and body had overtaken her, leaving her with the desire to think of nothing more perplexing than how she could have a wash and change into fresh clothes.

  Van Heerdon might be a self-confessed soul of generosity when it came to payment of his employees, but he was a miser with time. The sun had still not completely disappeared when Margaret, at the window aperture, saw him crossing the compound. Apart from telling Jan of his coming, she kept silent during the short proceedings, and Van Heerdon showed no surprise at Jan’s acceptance of his offer. Even when the pilot made the proviso that Margaret should accompany them, he merely nodded and said, ‘Naturally.’

  Things moved quickly after that, although the night had moved even quicker. The brief dusk had changed into darkness by the time they left the hut and were conducted across to the stockade.

  ‘I fear you will have to avoid this kraal from now on, Jan. Having been told that you are bad medicine these people will be dedicated for life to killing you if you ever appear here unshackled. They hunt over quite a large area, so bear that in mind, won’t you,’ said Van Heerdon by way of a gentle warning against possible treachery. ‘Have you ever seen the results of a medicine murder?’ he asked, and went on to describe in detail some of the cases in recent years during the drive in the jeep which had been waiting for them outside the kraal.

  It was impossible to follow the route. Sitting beside the black driver Margaret was only aware of ghost trees which loomed at them in the lights from their headlamps as they bounced and zig-zagged over the rough track. Apart from that island of light, the rest of the night was dark, humid and alien. She was reminded of that other nocturnal journey in the police truck with Jan driving like a demon, and yet another before that with him stretched at her feet, dazed with pain. Her nights in Africa were doomed to be spent in careering about the countrys
ide, it seemed.

  When the cessation of movement brought her suddenly awake Margaret thought they had gone round in a circle. The kraal looked exactly like the one they had left, but her illusion was soon dismissed when she saw the inhabitants. Certainly the women wore the same wrap-around skirts and bead belts which left their breasts bare, and their fuzzy hair was built into similar gigantic beehives, but the men were vastly different from the warriors she had seen leaping round Jan. These were in loose-fitting camouflage uniforms, floppy jungle-green hats, and jungle boots. Most of them lounged around in doorways, but several were posted at vantage points around the stockade and carried rifles. They looked unreal, like extras on a film set, until Margaret realized Van Heerdon had brought them to the rebel headquarters.

  Chapter Nine

  They got out and the jeep shot off into a makeshift garage formed by camouflage nets strung between trees, then Van Heerdon led them behind the grass-topped huts on to a well-worn path running uphill away from the kraal. They must have walked for a good ten minutes before the way became rocky and uneven, slowing their progress and making the two men breathe heavily: Van Heerdon because of a thickening waistline, Jan because of his exhausted condition.

  At last, after a further five minutes of climbing, the beam from Van Heerdon’s torch hit a wall of rock and revealed a cleft wide enough to admit a man’s body. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to see Craig Barker sitting there on an upturned box, but this definite proof of his villainy shook Margaret. He did not look as debonair as at Myala. The gauche bravado he assumed was not given any credence by the twitching of a nerve at the corner of his mouth when he saw who had entered.

  ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed a trifle overloudly. ‘I thought you’d sing a different song when it became a choice between your skin and that of your precious brother. Admit it, Jan, underneath we are all devoted to self-preservation.’ When Jan failed to answer he raised his arms, then let them fall. ‘Sorry about that affair this morning, but you do see that I hadn’t any choice? No hard feelings, eh?’