Centaine and the child fought each other through the rest of that burning afternoon and on into the night.
I will not cry out, Centaine muttered through clenched teeth, you will not make me cry, damn you And the pain came in waves that made her think of the high surf of the Atlantic breaking on the barren beaches of the Skeleton Coast. She rode them, from their crests into the depths of each sickening trough.
Each time, at the pinnacle of pain, she tried to struggle up into the squatting birthing stance that H'ani had taught her, but Sister Ameliana pushed her down on to her back, and the child was locked within her.
I hate you, she snarled at the nun, and the sweat burned her eyes and blinded her. I hate you, and I hate this thing inside me. And the child felt her hatred and ripped at her, twisting its limbs to block her.
Out! she hissed. Get out of me! and she longed to feel H'ani's thin strong arms around her, sharing the strain as she bore down.
Once Lothar asked at the tent, How does it go, Sister?
It's a terrible thing, she fights like The nun replied, a warrior, not a mother. Two hours before dawn in one last spasm that seemed to cleave through her spine and separate the joints of her thighs from her pelvis, Centaine forced out the child's head, big and round as a cannon-ball, and a minute later the birth cry rang out into the night.
You cried, she whispered triumphantly, not me! As she subsided on to the strength and resolve and r, so she was left an empty, aching husk.
hatred flowed out of he When Centaine awoke, Lothar was standing at the foot of her cot. The dawn was lighting the canvas of the tent behind him, so he was in dark silhouette only. It's a boy, he told her.
You have a son.'No, she croaked. Not mine. He's yours. A son, she thought, a boy, part of me, part of my body, blood of my blood. His hair will be gold, Lothar said. I didn't want to know, that was our bargain. So his hair will burn in the sunlight, she thought, and will he be as beautiful as his father? His name is Manfred, after my firstborn.'Call him what you will, she whispered, and take him far away from me. Manfred, my son, and she felt her heart breaking, tearing like silk in her chest.
He is at the nurse's breast now, she can bring him to you if you wish to see him. Never. I never want to see him. That was our bargain.
Take him away. And her swollen untapped breasts ached to give suck to her golden-headed son.
Very welP He waited for a minute for her to speak again, but she turned her face away from him. Sister Ameliana will take him with her. They are ready to leave for Windhoek immediately. Tell her to go, and let her take your bastard with her. The light was behind him, so she could not see his face.
He turned and left the tent and minutes later she heard the motor of the truck, as it started and then dwindled away a cross the plain.
She lay in the quiet tent watching the sunrise through the green canvas of the wall. She breathed the flinty desert air that she loved, but it was tainted by the sweet odour of blood, the birth blood of her son, or was it the blood of a little old San woman clotting and congealing in the hot Kalahari sun? The image of H'ani's blood on the rocks changed in her mind's eye, and became dark seething puddles of boiling honey running like water from the sacred places of the San, and the choking sugary smoke blotted out the smell of blood.
Through the smoke she thought she saw H'ani's little heart-shaped face peering sadly out at her.
Shasa, my baby, may you always find good water. But his image smudged also and his dark hair turned to gold. You, too, my little one, I wish you good water also. But it was Lothar's face now, or was it Michael's face - she was no longer certain. f her I'm so alone! she cried into the silent spaces o soul. And I don't want to be alone Then she remembered the words: At this moment, Mrs Courtney, you are probably one of the wealthiest women in the world. She thought, I would give it all, every single diamond in the H'ani Mine, for the right to love a man, and have him love me, for the chance to have both my babies, both my sons, for ever at my side.
She crushed down the thought angrily. Those are the woolly sentimental notions of a weak and cowardly woman. You are sick and weary. You will sleep now, she told herself harshly. And tomorrow- she closed her eyes - you will be brave again, tomorrow.
The End
Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He was educated at Michaelhouse and Rhodes University. He became a full-time writer in 1964 after the successful publication of When the Lion Feeds, and has since written twenty-four novels, meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His work is now translated into twenty-five languages. He normally travels from November to February, often spending a month skiing in Switzerland, and visiting Australia and New Zealand for sea fishing. During his summer break he visits environments as diverse as Alaska and the dwindling wilderness of the African interior. He has an abiding concern for the peoples and wildlife of his native continent, an interest strongly reflected in his novels.
He is married to Danielle, to whom his last twenty books have been dedicated.
The novels of Wilbur Smith
The Courtney Novels:
When the Lion Feeds
The Sound of Thunder
A Sparrow Falls
The Burning Shore
Power of the Sword
Rage
A Time to Die
The Ballantyne Novels:
A Falcon Flies
