He thought that Storm was sleeping also as he stooped over her, but then he realized that she was lying rigidly with her face pressed into the pillow to stifle the harsh silent sobs that convulsed her.
She did not lift her face to him and he kissed her hair and her neck, then he straightened up and walked out into the dark. The motorcycle started at the first kick and he wheeled it out into the lane.
Storm lay in the dark and listened to the sound of the engine die away into the night, and afterwards there was only the lonely mournful sound of the surf and the clink of the tree frogs outside the window.
Mark sat on the carved wooden stool in the sunset, in front of Pungushe's hut, and he asked for the first time something that had been in his mind since their first meeting. Pungushe, tell me of the time when the Jackal pulled the Ngaga from the flooding river. And the Zulu shrugged. What is there to tell? I found you caught in the branches of a flooded tree on the edge of the river, and if I had sense, I would have walked away, for you were clearly a very dead Ngaga and the brown water was washing over your head. Did you see how it was that I fell into the river? There was a pause, while Pungushe steeled himself to admit ignorance. It seemed to me that you had been blinded with fever and fallen into the river. You did not see the man I killed, nor the man that fired at me with a rifle? Pungushe covered his amazement nobly, but shook his head. A little time before I found you in the river I heard the sound of guns, four, perhaps five shots, from up the valley. This must have been you and the one who hunted you, but I saw no man and the rain washed away all sign, before the next morning. The flood waters would have washed the dead man away and the crocodiles eaten him. They were silent again while the beer pot passed between them.
Did you see the man who fired at you? Pungushe asked. Yes, said Mark. But my eyes were weak with fever, and as you say, it was raining. I did not see him clearly. Hobday stood within the hall, against the wall, out of the crush of excited bodies. He stood like a rock, solid and immovable, his head lowered on the thick wrestler's neck.
His eyes were hooded, as though he were able like a great bird of prey to draw an opaque nictitating membrane across them. Only his jaw made an almost imperceptible chewing motion, grinding the big flat teeth together so that the muscle in the points of his jaw bulged slightly.
He was watching Dirk Courtney across the crowded hall, the way a faithful mastiff watches its master.
Tall and urbane, Dirk Courtney had a warm double handshake for each of those who crowded forward to assure him of support and to wish him luck. His gaze was straight and calm, but it kept flicking back to the long counting tables.
They were trestle tables that had done duty at a thousand church socials, and as many weddings.
Now the scrutineers sat along them, and the last ballot boxes from the outlying areas were carried in through the front doors of the Ladyburg Church Hall.
The sprawling shape of the constituency of Ladyburg meant that some of the boxes had come in sixty miles, and although the voting had closed the previous evening, it was now an hour before noon and no result had yet been announced.
Mark crossed slowly towards where General Sean Courtney sat, pushing his way gently through the throng that lined the roped-off area around the counting tables.
Mark and Marion had come in from Chaka's Gate three days before, especially to assist at the elections. There were never enough helpers, and Marion had been completely at home, cutting sandwiches and dispensing coffee, working with twenty other women under Ruth Courtney's supervision in the kitchens behind the hall.
Mark had scoured the village district with other party organizers. Like a press gang, they had hunted down missing or recalcitrant voters and brought them into the ballot stations.
It had been hard work, and then none of them had slept much the previous night. The dancing and barbecue had lasted until four in the morning, and after that the anticipation of the announcement of the result had kept most of them from sleep.
For Mark it all had a special significance. He knew now with complete certainty, that if Dirk Courtney was returned as the member of Parliament for Ladyburg, then his dreams for Chaka's Gate were doomed.
As the voters had come in during the day, their hopes had see-sawed up and down. Often it seemed that the end of the hall where Dirk Courtney's organizers sat under huge posters of their candidate was as crowded as Sean Courtney's end of the hall was deserted.
When this happened, Marion's brother-in-law, Peter Botes, removed his pipe from his mouth and smirked comfortably at Mark across the length of the hall. He had become an enthusiastic supporter of Dirk Courtney's, and his circumstances had altered remarkably in the last six months. He had opened offices of his own on the first floor of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank. He drove a new Packard and had moved from the cottage to a fine rambling house in three acres of garden and orchard, where he had insisted that Marion and Mark dine with him the previous night. The evening star sets, the morning star rises, my dear Mark. The wise man recognizes that, he had sermonized as he carved the roast. General Courtney's star has not set yet, said Mark stubbornly. Not yet, agreed Peter. But when it does, you will need new friends. Powerful friends. You can always rely on us, said Marion's sister kindly. You don't always have to live out there in the bush. You don't understand, Mark interrupted quietly. My life's work is out there, in the bush. Oh, I wouldn't bank on that. Peter heaped slices of roast beef onto Mark's plate. There are going to be changes in the Ladyburg district when Mr Dirk Courtney takes over. Big changes! Besides, it isn't fair on poor Marion. No woman wants to live out there. Oh, I am quite happy wherever Mark wants to go, Marion murmured. Don't worry, Peter assured them. We'll look after you.
And he patted Mark's shoulder in a brotherly fashion. Mr Dirk Courtney thinks the world of Peter said his wife proudly.
Now as Mark crossed the hall towards General Sean Courtney, he felt the heavy doughy feeling of dread in his guts. He did not want to bear the tidings he had for the General, yet he knew it was better that they came gently from a friend, rather than in gloating triumph from an enemy.
He paused to watch Sean Courtney from a distance, feeling both pity and anger. Sean had rallied strongly since those low days at Emoyeni. His shoulders had regained some of that wide rakish set, and his face had filled out.
Some of the gaunt shadows had smoothed away, and he had been in the sun again. The skin was tanned brown against the silver of his beard and his hair.
Yet he was seated now. The strain of the last few days had taxed him sorely. He sat erect on a hard-backed chair, both hands resting on the silver head of his cane. With him were many of his old friends who had gathered to give him support, and he listened seriously to his brother Garrick who sat in the chair beside him, nodding his agreement.
