The 9. 3 Marmlicher in its leather case and two mules.
They were big rangy animals, both hard workers and of equitable temper, both salted by having been deliberately exposed to the bite of the tsetse fly and surviving the onslaught of the disease that resulted. They had cost Sean dearly for this immunity, but then the nagana had an almost ninety percent mortality rate. Salted animals were essential. It would have been less trouble and had the same end result to shoot them between the eyes, rather than take unsalted animals into the fly belt beyond Chaka's Gate.
Each day, Sean set aside an hour or so to discuss with Mark the objects and the priorities of the expedition. They drew up a list, which was added to daily and, as it grew, so did Sean Courtney's enthusiasm. More than once he broke off to shake his head and grumble. You lucky brighter, what I wouldn't give to be your age again, and to be going back into the bush. You could come and visit me, Mark smiled.
I might just do that, Sean agreed, and then resettled his spectacles on his nose to bring up the next point for discussion.
The first of Mark's tasks was to compile an estimate of what species of wild animal still existed in the proclaimed area, and how many of each there were. Clearly this was of the utmost importance to any attempt at protection and conservation. All would depend on there being sufficient wild-life surviving to make their efforts worthwhile. It may already be too late in the afternoon, Sean pointed out.
No. Mark would not even listen to the suggestion. There is game there. Just enough to give us a chance. I'm sure of it Next important was for him to contact the people living in the area of Chaka's Gate, the Zulus grazing cattle along the edge of the tsetse fly belt, the native hunters and gatherers living within the belt, each wandering group, each village, each headman, each chief, and hold discussions with them; gauging the attitude of the Zulu peoples to the stricter administration of the proclaimed area, and warning them that what for many years they and their ancestors had looked upon as commonage and tribal hunting-ground was under new control. Men were no longer free to cut timber and thatch, to gather and hunt at will.
Mark's intimate knowledge of the Zulu language would serve him well here.
He was to build temporary accomodation for himself, and conduct a survey to choose the final site for a permanent warden's post. There were fifty other tasks less important, but no less demanding.
It was a programme to excite and intrigue Mark, and make him want to begin, and as the day drew nearer, only one cloud lay dark and heavy on the splendid horizon ahead of him. He would be parting from Storm, but he consoled himself with the sure knowledge that it would not be for long. He was going ahead into Eden to prepare a place for his Eve.
As Storm watched him sleep flat on his back, spread like a crucifix on the forest floor, without even the cotton underpants between him and nature, the possessive smile of a mother watching over the child at her breast warmed and softened Storm's lips.
She was naked also, her clothing scattered around them like the petals of an overblown rose, thrown there by the storm winds of passions which were now spent and quiescent. She sat over him cross-legged on the corner of the plaid rug, and she studied his face, wondering at how young he looked in sleep, feeling a choking of tenderness in her throat, and the soft melting after-glow of loving deep in her body where he had been.
She leaned over him, and her breasts swung forward with a new weightiness, the tips darker and wrinkled like small pinky brown raisins. She dipped her shoulders and let the nipples brush lightly across his face, and smiled again as he screwed up his nose and pursed his lips in his sleep, snorting as if to blow away a bothersome fly.
He came awake suddenly and as he reached for her, she squealed softly and plucked her breasts away from him, slapping at his hands. Unhand me, sir, this instant! she commanded, and he caught her and pulled her down on to his chest, so that she could hear his heart beating under her ear.
She snuggled down, making throaty little sounds of comfort. He sighed deeply, and his chest swelled and expanded under her cheek and she heard the air rush into his lungs.
Mark? she said. I'm here. You're not going. You know that, don't you? The air in his lungs stayed there as he held his breath, and the hand that was stroking lightly up from the small of her back to the nape of her neck stilled. She could feel the tension in his fingers.
They stayed like that for many seconds and then he let the air out of his lungs with an explosive grunt. What do you mean? he asked. Where am I not going? This place up there in the bush, she said. Chaka's Gate? Yes. You're not going. Why not? Because I forbid it.
He sat up abruptly, joggling her roughly off his chest.
They sat facing each other, and he was staring at her with such an expression that she ran her fingers through her hair and then folded her arms across her breasts, covering them protectively. Storm, what on earth are you talking about? he demanded.
I don't want you to waste any more time, she told him. You must start making your way now, if you're ever going to amount to anything. This is my way, our way, he said, bewildered. We agreed on it. I will go up there to Chaka's Gate and build our home. Home! She was truly appalled. Up there in the bush me in a grass hut? Mark, are You out of your mind! I thought -'What you're going to do is start making some money, she told him fiercely, and, picking up her blouse, she pulled it over her head, and as her tousled head emerged she went on, and forget about little boys games. I'll be making money. His expression was stiff, and becoming hostile.
What money? she asked, just as frostily. I'll have a salary. A salary! She flung back her head and gave a high peal of scornful laughter. A salary, forsooth! How much? I don't know, he admitted. It isn't really all that important. You're a child, Mark. Do you know that? A salary, twenty pounds a week? Can you really and truly imagine me living on your salary? She gave the word a world of contempt. Do you know who earns salaries? Mr Smothers earns a salary, she was on her feet now, hopping furiously on one leg as she drew on her knickers. Daddy's foremen at the saw-mills earn salaries. The servants that wait on the table, the stable-grooms earn salaries. She was pulling up her riding breeches, and with them all her dignity. Real men don't earn salaries, Mark. Her voice was high and shrill. You know what real men do, don't you? He was buttoning the fly of his breeches also, forced to follow her example, and he shook his head silently. Real men pay salaries, not take them, she said. Do you know that when my father was your age he was already a millionaire! Mark was never able to fathom what it was that triggered him, perhaps the mention of Sean at that particular moment, but suddenly he lost his temper. He felt it like a hot red fog behind his eyes.
I'm not your bloody father, he shouted. Don't you swear at my father, she shouted back. He's five times the man you'll ever be. They were both panting and flushed, clothing rumpled, half-clad, with wild hair and wilder eyes glaring at each other like animals, speechless with hurt and anger.
Storm made the effort. She swallowed painfully, and held out her hands palms upwards. Listen, Mark. I've got it all planned. If you went into timber, selling to the mines, Daddy would give you the agency and we could live in
