above, accentuating the perfection of his features. The smooth, broad
depth of his forehead, the flaring dark lines of his brows set off the
large but delicately formed plane of his nose. But now his mouth was a
line of pain. of cold white pain.
I hate him. ' His mouth did not lose the shape of pain, as he
whispered the words, 'and I hate her. He doesn't care about me
anymore-all he cares about is that woman. ' The vicious hiss of breath
through his lips was the sound of despair.
'I always try to show him ... No one else but him, but he doesn't care.
Why doesn't he understand-Why? Why? Why?
And he shivered feverishly.
'He doesn't want me. He doesn't care.'
The shivering ceased, and the shape of his mouth changed from pain to
hatred.
' 'I'll show him. If he doesn't want me-then I'll show him.
And the next words he spat as though they were filth from his mouth,
'I hate him.' Around him the wattle branches rustled in the wind. He
jumped to his feet and ran, following the moonlit road deeper into the
plantations of Lion Kop.
A meerkat hunting alone along the road saw him and scampered into the
trees like a small grey ferret. But Dirk ran on, faster now as his
hatred drove him and his breathing sobbed in rhythm with his feet. He
ran with the dry west wind into his &face, he needed the wind. His
revenge would ride on the wind.
'Now, we'll see,' he shouted suddenly as he ran. 'You don't want
me-then have this instead!' And the wattle and wind answered him with
a sound like many voices far away.
At the second access road he turned right and ran on into the heart of
the plantations. He ran for twenty minutes and when he stopped he was
panting wildly.
'Damn you-God damn you all. ' His voice came catchy from his dried-out
mouth.
'Damn you, then.' And he walked off the road and fought his way into
the trees. They were two-year growth not yet thinned, and the branches
interlaced to dispute his passage hands trying to hold him, small
desperate hands clutching at him, tugging at his clothing like the
supplicating hands of a beggar. But he shrugged them away and beat
them off until he was deep in amongst them.
'Here!' he said harshly and dropped to his knees in the soft crackling
trash of small twist and dry leaves that carpeted the earth.
Hooking his fingers he raked a pyramid of the stuff, and he sobbed as
he worked so that his muttering was broken and without coherence.
'Dry, its dry. I'll show you then-you don't want-Everything I've done
you've ... I hate you ... Oh, Pa! Why? Why don't YOU-what have I
done?'
And the matchbox rattled. TWice he struck and twice the match broke in
his fingers. The third flared blue, spitting tiny sparks of sulphur,
burning acrid, settling down to a small yellow flame that danced in the
cup of Ins hands.
'Have this instead!' And he thrust the flame into the pile of
