strike in on a compass-bearing.’
‘What kind of going will we meet, I wonder.’
‘Sand veld, like as not. I’ve never been in there before.’
‘Let’s ask the drivers,’ I suggested.
‘Good idea.’ Louren called the two of them across and the gunboys, who had by now finished the skilled work and were leaving the rest to the camp boys, joined us as was their right.
‘This is where we want to go.’ Louren pointed it out on the map. ‘These hills here. They haven’t got a name marked, but they run in line with the edge of the pan, like this.’
It took a moment or two for the drivers to figure out their bearings on the chart, and then a remarkable change came over both of them. Their features dissolved into blank masks of incomprehension.
‘What kind of country is it between the pan and the hills?’ Louren asked. He had not sensed the change in them. The drivers exchanged furtive glances.
‘Well?’ asked Louren.
‘I do not know that country. I have never heard of these hills,’ Joseph, the elder driver, muttered, and then went on to give himself the lie. ‘Besides there is much sand, and there are river-beds which one cannot cross.’
‘There is no water, agreed David, the second driver. ’I have never been there. I have never heard of these hills either.‘
‘What do the white men seek?’ asked the old gimboy in Sindebele. It was obvious that maps meant nothing to him.
‘They want to go to Katuba Ngazi,’ the driver explained quickly. They were all convinced by now that neither Louren nor I had mastery of the language, and that they could speak freely in front of us. This then was the first time I heard the name spoken. Katuba Ngazi - the Hills of Blood.
‘What have you told them?’ demanded the gunbearer.
‘That we do not know the place.’
‘Good,’ the gunbearer agreed. ‘Tell them that there are no elephant there, that the wild animals are south of the pan.’ The driver dutifully relayed this intelligence, and was disappointed in our obvious lack of dismay.
‘Well,’ Louren told them pleasantly, ‘you will learn something today. For the first time you will see these hills.’ He rolled up the map. ‘Now get the meat loaded and let us go on.’
In five minutes the whole tone of the expedition had changed. Sally and the entire staff were all in the deepest depression. The smiles and horseplay were gone, there were sulky faces and meetings in muttering groups. The tempo of work dropped to almost zero, and it took almost half an hour to load the butchered gemsbok. While this was happening I led Louren away from the cluster of vehicles out of earshot and quickly told him of the exchange between the African servants.
‘Hills of Blood! Wonderful!’ Louren enthused. ‘It means that almost certainly they know about the ruins - there is probably a taboo on them.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But now we are going to have to watch for attempts to sabotage the trip. Look at them.’ We turned to watch the slow-motion, almost somnambulistic movements of our staff. ‘My guess is that it’s going to take longer to reach the Hills of Blood than we allowed for.’
We got off the pan once more, for the going is suspect with soft places beneath the crust that will bog a vehicle, and we followed the firm but sandy ground along the edge. We crossed another of the steep ravines, after having scouted for a place where the banks were flattened, and drove on for twenty minutes before we realized that neither of the trucks were following us. After waiting ten minutes, with both Louren and I fuming impatiently, we turned back and retraced our course to the dry river-bed.
One truck was hanging half over the edge of the ravine, one front wheel and one rear wheel not touching earth, but its belly heavily grounded. The other truck was parked nearby, and fourteen grown men were sitting or standing around in various attitudes of relaxation without making the least attempt to free the stranded truck.
‘Joseph,’ Louren called the driver. ‘How did this happen?’
Joseph shrugged his shoulders disinterestedly, but he was having difficulty hiding his satisfaction.
‘All right, gentlemen, let’s get it out,’ Louren suggested with heavy irony. Half an hour later, despite the ladylike efforts of all fourteen of them, and despite Joseph’s hearty clashing of gears and desperate engine racing and stalling, the truck still hung over the edge of the ravine. Finally they all climbed out of the ravine and looked at Louren and me with interest.
‘Okay, Ben?’ Louren turned to me as he began to strip his bush jacket.
‘All right, Lo,’ I agreed. I was delighted to see how well Louren had taken care of himself. His body looked rock-hard, and denuded of fatty tissue. At six foot two he carried a mass of muscle whose outlines beneath the skin were unblurred.
I kept my shirt on. My body, although it has the same utility as Louren’s, is not so good to look at.
‘Front end first,’ Louren suggested.
The truck had been unloaded, petrol tank about half filled, I estimated the front end weight at a little over two thousand pounds. I windmilled my arms as I looked at the problem, loosening up cold muscles. The servants looked puzzled, and one of them giggled. Even Sally put aside her book and climbed out of the Land-Rover to watch.
Louren and I went to the front of the truck and stooped to it, placing our hands carefully, bending at the knee, spreading our legs a little.
‘All the way, partner?’
‘All the way, Lo,’ I grinned back at him, and we began the lift. I started slow, just taking up the slack in my muscles, bringing on the strain evenly and letting it build up in shoulders, thighs and belly. It was a dead unmoving mass and I started to burn the reserves, feeling the tension turn to pain and my breathing start to scald my
