not a flattering thought.
He felt with sudden discomfort that despite Pungushe's wounds, and Mark's position of superiority, so far he had had the worst of the exchange. It seems that ngaga has at last found what he seeks, he _pointed out grimly, and went to the mule for his blanket roll.
Under the bloody bunch of leaves there was a deep dark hole where the point of the buffalo horn had driven in. It might have gone in as far as the kidneys, in which case the man was as good as dead. Mark thrust the thought aside, and swabbed out the wound as gently as he could with a solution of acriflavine.
His spare shirt was snowy white and still crisp from Marion's meticulous laundering and ironing. He ripped off the sleeves, folded the body into a wad and placed it over the gaping hole, binding it up with the torn sleeves.
Pungushe said nothing as he worked, made no protest nor showed any distress as Mark lifted him into a sitting position to work more easily. But when Mark ripped the shirt he murmured regretfully, It is a good shirt. There was once a young and handsome ngaga who might have died from the fever, Mark reminded him, but a scavenging old jackal carried him to a safe place and gave him drink and food. Ah, Pungushe nodded. But he was not such a stupid jackal as to tear a good shirt. The ngaga is much concerned that the jackal is in good health, so that he will be able to labour mightily at the breaking of rocks and other manly tasks when he is an honoured guest at the kraal of King Georgey. Mark ended that subject, and repacked his blanket roll. Can you make water, O jackal? It is necessary to see how deep the buffalo has speared you. The urine was tinged pinky brown, but there were no strings of bright blood. It seemed that the kidneys may merely have been badly bruised, and that the thick pad of iron muscle across the Zulu's back had absorbed much of the brutal driving thrust. Mark found himself praying silently that it was so, although he could not imagine why he was so concerned.
Working quickly, he cut two long straight saplings, and plaited a drag litter from strips of wet bark. Then he padded the litter with his own blankets and Pungushe's kaross, before hitching it up to Trojan.
He helped the big Zulu into the litter, surprised to find how tall he was, and how hard was the arm he placed around Mark's shoulder to support himself.
With Pungushe flat in the litter, he led the mule back along the game trail, and the ends of two saplings left a long snaking drag mark in the soft earth.
It was almost dark when they passed the scene of the buffalo hunt. Looking across the reed banks, Mark Could make out the obscene black shapes of the vultures in the trees, waiting their turn at the carcass. Why did you kill my buffalo? he asked, not certain that Pungushe was still conscious. All men know the new laws. I have travelled to every village, I have spoken with every induna, every chief, all men have heard. All men know the penalty for hunting in this valley. If he was your buffalo, why did he not carry the mark of your iron? Surely it is the custom of the Abelungu, the white men, to burn their mark upon their cattle? Pungushe asked from the litter, without a smile nor with any trace of mockery, yet mockery Mark knew it was. He felt his anger stir. This place was declared sacred, even by the old king, Chaka. No, said Pungushe. It was declared a royal hunt, and, his voice took a sterner ring, I am Zulu, of the royal blood.
I hunt here by my birthright, it is a man's thing to do. No man has the right to hunt here. Then what of the white men who have come here with their isibamu, their rifles, these past hundred seasons?
asked Pungushe. They are evil-doers, even as you are. Then why were they not taken to be guests at the kraal of King Georgey, as I am so honoured? They will be in future, Mark assured him. Ho! said Pungushe, and this time his voice was thick with contempt and mockery. When I catch them, they will go also, Mark repeated doggedly, but the Zulu made a weary gesture of dismissal with one expressive pink-palmed hand, a hand that said clearly that there were many laws, some for rich, some for poor, some for white and some for black. They were silent again until after dark when Mark had camped for the night, and put Trojan to graze on a head-rope.
As he squatted over the fire, cooking the evening meal for both of them, Pungushe spoke again from his litter in the darkness beyond the firelight. For whom do you keep the silwane, the wild animals of the valley? Will King George come here to hunt? Nobody will ever hunt here again, no king nor common man. Then why do you keep the silwane? Because if we do not, then the day will dawn when there will be no more left in this land. No buffalo, no lion, no kudu, nothing. A great emptiness. Pungushe was silent for the time it took Mark to spoon a slop of maize porridge and bully beef into the lid of the pannikin and take it to the Zulu. Eat, he commanded, and sat crosslegged opposite him with his own plate in his lap.
What you say is true, Pungushe spoke thoughtfully. When I was a child, of your age, Mark noted the barb but let it pass, there were elephant in this valley, great bulls with teeth as long as a throwing-spear, and there were many lions, herds of buffalo like the great king's cattle, he broke off. They have gone, soon what is left will go also. Is that a good thing? Mark asked. It is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Pungushe shrugged and began to eat. It is merely the way of the world, and there is little profit in pondering it. They finished eating in silence and Mark cleared the plates and brought coffee, which Pungushe waved away. Drink it, snapped Mark. You must have it to cleanse the blood from your water. He gave Pungushe one of his cigarettes, and the Zulu carefully broke off the brown cork tip before putting it between his lips. He wrinkled his broad flat nose at the insipid taste, for he was accustomed to the ropey black native tobacco, but he would not belittle a man's hospitality by making comment.
When it is all gone, when the great emptiness comes here to this valley, what will become of you, O jackal?
Mark asked. I do not understand your question. You are a man of the silwane. You are a great hunter.
Your life is yoked to the silwane, as the herdsman is yoked to his cattle. What will become of you, O mighty hunter, when all your cattle are gone? Mark realized that he had reached the Zulu. He saw his nostrils flare, and something burn up brightly within him, but he waited while Pungushe considered the proposition at great length and in every detail. I will go to Igoldi, said Pungushe at last. I will go to the gold mines, and become rich. They will put you to work deep in the earth, where you cannot see the sun nor feel the wind, and you will break rocks, just as you go now to do at the kraal of King Georgey.
Mark saw the repugnance flit across the Zulu's face. I will go to Tekweni, Pungushe changed his mind. I will go to Durban and become a man of much consequence. In Tekweni you will breathe the smoke of the cane mills into your lungs, and when the fat babu overseer speaks to you, you will reply, yehbo, Nkosi, yes, master! This time the repugnance on the Zulu's face was deeper still and he smoked his cigarette down to a tiny sliver of paper and ash which he pinched out between thumb and forefinger.
Jarnela, he said sternly. You speak words that trouble a man. Mark knew well that the big Zulu's injury was- more serious than his stoic acceptance of it would indicate. It was womanly to show pain.
It would be a long time before he was ready to make the journey by side-car over the rough tracks and rutted dusty roads to the police station and magistrate's court at Ladyburg.
mark put him into the small lean-to tool-shed that he had built on the far wall of the mule stables. it was dry and cool, and had a sturdy door with a Yale padlock. He used blankets from Marion's chest and the mattress she
