The Sound of Thunder(7)

‘Get your blankets rolled up, boy.’

Sean tried to break Dirk’s grip on the subject, but like a bulldog Dirk held on relentlessly.

‘– and why are you wearing your best clothes, Dad?’





– 4 –

They rode three abreast in the darkness, Dirk between them and Mbejane trailing behind with the pack-horses. The land rose and fell beneath them like the swells of an endless sea and the way in which the grass moved with the night wind heightened the illusion of waves. Islands in the sea were the dark bulks of the kopjes they passed, and the yelp of a jackal was the voice of a seabird.

‘Aren’t we holding too far east?’ The girl broke the silence and her voice blended with the soft sound of the wind.

‘Intentionally,’ Sean answered. ‘I want to cross the tail of the Drakensberg well clear of the Boer concentrations around Ladysmith and the line of rail,’ and he looked over Dirk’s head at her. She rode with her face lifted to the sky.

‘You know the stars?’ he asked.

‘A little.’

‘So do I. I know them all.’ Dirk accepted the challenge and swivelled towards the south. ‘That’s the Cross with the pointers, and that’s Orion with his sword on his belt, and that’s the Milky Way.’

‘Tell me some others,’ the girl invited.

‘The others are just ordinary ones – they don’t count. They haven’t even got names.’

‘Oh, but they have and most of them have got a story.’

There was a pause. Dirk was now in an invidious position; either he had to admit ignorance, and Dirk’s pride was too large to swallow with ease, or else he would forgo what promised to be a choice series of stories. Large as was his pride, his appetite for stories was even larger.

‘Tell me some,’ he conceded.

‘You see that little clump there underneath the big bright one? They are called the Seven Sisters. Well, once upon a time—’

Within minutes Dirk was completely absorbed. These were even better than Mbejane’s stories – probably because they were new, while Dirk could recite from memory Mbejane’s entire repertoire. He fell upon any weakness in the plot like a prosecuting attorney.

‘But why didn’t they just shoot the old witch?’

‘They didn’t have guns in those days.’

‘They coulda used a bow and arrow.’

‘You can’t kill a witch with a bow and arrow. The arrow just goes – psst – straight through her without hurting her.’

‘Hangs teeth!’ That was really impressive, but before accepting it Dirk found it necessary to corroborate with expert opinion. He checked with Mbejane, translating the problem to the Zulu. When Mbejane supported the girl Dirk was convinced, for Mbejane was a celebrated authority on the supernatural.

That night Dirk did not fall asleep in the saddle and when they camped before dawn the girl’s voice was hoarse with overwork, but her conquest of Dirk was complete and that of Sean was well advanced.

All night while he listened to her voice and the husky bursts of laughter that punctuated it Sean had felt the seed that was planted at their first meeting sinking its roots down into his lower belly and loins, spreading its tendrils up through his chest. He wanted this woman so violently that in her presence his wits failed him. Many times during the night he had attempted to join the discussions, but each time Dirk had brushed his efforts aside with contempt and turned avidly back to the girl. By morning he had made the disturbing discovery that he was jealous of his own son – jealous of the attention Dirk was getting, and for which he hungered so strongly.

While they drank coffee after the morning meal lying on their blankets beneath a grove of syringa trees, Sean remarked:

‘You haven’t told us your name yet.’ And of course it was Dirk that answered.

‘She told me. Your name’s Ruth – isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, Dirk.’

With an effort Sean clamped down on the senseless anger that boiled up through him, but when he spoke his voice carried traces of it.

‘We’ve heard enough from you for one night, my boy. Now get your head down, close your eyes and your mouth and keep them that way.’

‘I’m not sleepy, Dad.’

‘Do what I tell you.’ Sean jumped up and strode out of the camp. He climbed the small kopje above them. By now it was full daylight and he searched the veld to the horizon on all sides. There was no trace of habitation or human. He climbed down again and fussed with the hobbles of the horses before returning to the grove of syringas.

Despite his protestations Dirk was curled like a sleeping puppy and, near the fire from a large bundle of blankets issued the unmistakable snoring of Mbejane. Ruth lay a little apart from them, a blanket thrown over her legs, her eyes closed and the front of her shirt rising and falling in a manner that gave Sean two good reasons for not sleeping. He lay propped on one elbow and fed his eyes and his imagination on her.