The Sunbird

‘This evil to be cleaned from the earth and from the minds of men, for ever.’

The words were exactly those that Timothy Mageba had spoken - the same words, but in a different language. I stared fascinated at the lined and time-quarried features of the old Matabele. It was as though he sensed my scrutiny for he looked up and saw me standing in the shadows.

He spoke again, warning them. ‘Be careful, the spider is here,’ he said. They had named me for my small body and long limbs. His words released them from the spell that held them, they shuffled their feet and coughed, glancing at me. I turned and moved away, but the old Matabele’s words stayed with me. They troubled me, increasing my restless mood.

Sally’s tent was dark now, and Louren’s also. I went to my own bed and lay awake far into the night, listening to the hyenas and pondering what tomorrow would bring. One thing was certain, by noon we would know if the patterns on the photograph were natural or man-made, and with that thought I at last fell asleep.

We could see the hills from the front of the Land-Rover by ten the following morning. They showed orange-red beyond the tops of the taller acacias, stretching across our front, higher at the centre of our horizon then dwindling in size as they strung out on either hand.

I took over the driving from Louren while he pored over map and photograph, directing me in towards the highest point of the cliffs. There was a distinctive clump of giant candelabra euphorbia trees on the skyline of the cliff - and these showed up clearly in the photograph. Louren was using them to orientate our approach.

The cliffs were between two and three hundred feet high, their exposed fronts furrowed and weather-worn, rising almost sheer to the crests. Later I was to find that they were a form of hardened sandstone heavily pigmented with mineral oxides. Below the cliffs grew a small grove of big trees, and it was clear that there was underground water trapped there to nourish these giants. Their exposed roots twisted and writhed up the face of the cliff like frenzied pythons, and their dense, dark green foliage was a welcome relief from the drab greenish grey of the thorn and acacia. In a strip about half a mile wide, the ground before the cliffs was open and sparsely covered with a low growth of scrub and pale grass.

I threaded the Land-Rover through the scrub towards the cliffs in a silence which momentarily grew more strained. Closer we crawled towards the towering red cliffs, until we had to crane our necks to look up at them.

Sally broke the silence at last, voicing our disappointment and chagrin. ‘Well, we should be within the great walls of the main enclosure now - if there was one.’

We parked at the foot of the cliff and climbed out stiffly to look around us, subdued and reluctant to meet each other’s eyes. There was no trace of a city, not a single dressed block of stone, not a raised mound of earth nor the faintest outline of wall or keep. This was virgin African bush and kopje, untouched and unmarked by man.

‘You’re sure this is the right place?’ Sally asked miserably, and we did not answer her. The trucks came up and parked. The servants climbed down in small groups, peering up at the cliffs and talking in hushed tones.

‘All right,’ said Louren. ‘While they set up the camp we will scout the area. I will go along the cliff that way. You two go the other way - and, Ben, take my shotgun with you.’

We picked our way along the base of the cliff, through the grove of silent trees. Once we startled a small troop of vervet monkeys in the high branches and they fled through the tree-tops in shrieking consternation. Their antics couldn’t raise a smile from either Sally or me. We paused to examine the cliff at intervals, but there was little enthusiasm or hope in our efforts. Three or four miles from camp we stopped to rest, sitting on a block of sandstone that had fallen out from the cliff face.

‘I could cry,’ said Sal. ‘I really could.’

‘I know. I feel the same way.’

‘But the photograph. Damn it, there was definitely something showing. You don’t think it’s his idea of a joke, do you?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Lo wouldn’t do that. He was just as keen as we were.’

‘Then what about the photograph?’

‘I don’t know. It was clearly some sort of optical illusion. The shadow from the cliff, and cloud perhaps.’

‘But those patterns!’ she protested. ‘They are geometrical and symmetrical.’

‘Light can play funny tricks, Sal,’ I said. ‘Remember that photograph was taken at six o’clock in the evening - almost sunset. Low sun throwing shadows, you could get almost any effect.’

‘I think that this is the most disappointing thing that has ever happened to me.’ She really did look as though she might burst into tears, and I went to her shyly and put one long arm around her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and she pulled a face and offered her lips to be kissed.

‘Wow!’ she said at last. ‘Dr Kazin, you do carry on!’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

‘I’ve seen too much.’ She broke away gently. ‘Come on, Ben. Let’s circle back to camp, away from the cliff. There may be something out there.’

We tramped slowly through the heat. The flowers were out here also, and I noticed the bees crawling busily into the blossoms, their back legs thick with yellow pollen. We found where the recent rains had scoured a shallow ravine, although there was no remaining trace of moisture. I climbed down into the ravine and examined the exposed layers of stone and earth. Three feet from the surface the pebbles were rounded and water-worn.

‘Good guess. Sal,’ I told her as I picked out a few pebbles and found the shell of a bivalve encrusted in the half- formed sandstone. ‘That proves at least a little of our theory. At one time this was the bed of a lake – look.’

Eagerly Sal clambered down beside me. ‘What is it?’

‘A type of unionidae, fresh-water African mussel.’

‘I wish,’ said Sally, ‘that it were something a little more exciting.’ She dropped the ancient shell in the sand.