'I sent them down to the homestead, the doctors there.
Still no reply from Sean, but now he wiped the palm of his hand across
his mouth and eyes.
'Mike and Dirk aren't too badly, burned, Mbeiane's feet are in a hell
of a mess.' Ken Broster spoke quickly now.
'Young Dirk got trapped in front of the flames. Mike and Mbejane went
to get him ... surrounded... down ... picked him up ... tried to help
... useless... badly burned meat off his feet.
For Sean the words were disjointed, meaningless. He leaned against the
wagon. There was looseness in him, a lack of will, It was too much.
Let it go. Let it all go.
'Sean, are you all right?' Broster's hands on his shoulders. He
straightened up and looked around him again.
'I must go to them. Lend me a horse.
'You go ahead, Sean. We'll stay on here and watch it for YOU.
Don't worry about it, we'll make bloody sure she doesn't stan .
again.
'Thank you, Ken. ' Then he looked around the circle of ancious
compassionate faces. 'Thank you,' he said again.
Sean rode slowly into the stable yard on Lion Kop. There were many
carriages and servants, black women and children, but a hush came upon
them when they recognized him. Surrounded by women, a crude litter lay
near the far wall of the yard and Sean walked across to it.
'I see you, Mbejane. ' 'Nkosi.' Mbejane's eyelashes were burned away
giving his face a bland and slightly puzzled expression. His hands and
his feet were bound loosely in bundles of crisp white bandages through
which ointment had soaked in yellow patches. Sean squatted behind him.
He could not speak. He reached out almost, hesitantly and touched
Mbejane's shoulder.
'Is it bad?' he asked then.
'No, Nkosi. It is not too bad. My wives have come for me I will
return when I am ready.
They spoke together a little while, and Mbejane told him about Dirk and
how Michael had come. Then he murmured, , This woman is the wife of
the one who died.'
Sean noticed her for the first time. She sat alone in the crowded
yard, on a blanket against the wall. A child stood beside her: leaning
forward, naked, holding one of her fat, black breasts, with both hands
as he fed from it. She sat impassively with her legs folded under her,
a cloak of ochre, dyed leather drape loosely over her shoulders, but
open at the front for the child Sean moved across to her. The child
watched him with large eyes, but without removing the nipple from his
mouth and the corners of his mouth were wet with spilled milk.
'He was a man,' Sean greeted the woman.
She inclined her head gravely. 'He was a man!' she agreed.
'Where will you go?' Sean asked.
'To my father's kraal.' The high headdress of red clay enhanced the
quiet dignity of her reply.
'Select twenty head of cattle from my herds to take with you.
'Ngi Yabonga, I praise you, Nkosi.
