went on. Annn moved slightly in her seat, let her stay in the house in Lady-burg, let her rot there, but her voice was mild as she answered, Theunis Kraal belongs to you now, Garry, and I'm your wife. Perhaps your stepmother knows what's best. Anna touched his arm and smiled at him, Anyway we'll talk about it some other time. Let's get home now, it's been a long drive and I'm very tired. Immediately concerned, Garrick turned to her. I'm terribly sorry, my dear. How thoughtless of me. He touched the horses with the whip and they went down the slope towards the homestead.
The lawns of Theunis Kraal were green and there were cannas in bloom, red and pink and yellow.
It's beautiM, thought Anna, and it's mine. I'm not poor any more. She looked at the gabled roof and the heavy yellow wood shutters on the windows as the carriage rolled up the drive.
There was a man standing in the shade of the veranda.
Anm and Garrick saw him at the same time. He was tall with shoulders as wide and square as the crosstree of a gallows, he stepped out of the shadow and came down the front steps into the sunlight. He was smiling with white teeth in a brown burnt face; it was the old irresistible smile.
Sean, whispered Anna.
Sean really noticed him for the first time when they stopped to water the horses. They had left Chelmsford's Column the previous noon to scout towards the northeast. It was a tiny patrol, four mounted white men and a half-a-dozen Nongaai, the loyal Native troops from Natal.
He took the reins from Sean's hands. I will hold your horse while you drink. His voice had a resonance to it and Sean's interest quickened. He looked at the man's face and liked it immediately. The whites of the eyes had no yellow in them and the nose was more Arabic than negroid. His colour was dark amber and his skin shone with oil.
Sean nodded. There is no word in the Zulu language for thank you, just as there are no words for I am sorry.
Sean knelt beside the stream and drank. The water tasted sweet for he was thirsty; when he stood again there were damp patches on his knees and water dripping from his chin.
He looked at the man who was holding his horse. He wore only a small kilt of civet-cat tails: no rattles nor cloak, no head-dress. His shield was black rawhide and he carried two short stabbing spears. How are you called? Sean asked, noticing the breadth of the man's chest and the way his belly muscles stood out like the static ripples on a windswept beach.
Mbejane. Rhinoceros. For your horn? l The -an chuckled with delight, his masculine vanity tickled. How are you called, Nkosi? Sean Courtney. Mbejane's lips formed the name silently and then he shook his head.
ZIt is a difficult name. He never said Sean's name, not once in all the years that were to follow.
Mount up, called Steff Erasmus. Let's get moving.
They swung up onto the horses, gathered the reins and loosened the rifles in the scabbards. The Nongaai who had been stretched out resting on the bank stood up.
Come on, said Steff. He splashed through the stream.
His horse gathered itself and bounded up the far bank and they followed him. They moved in line abreast across the grassland, sitting loose and relaxed in their saddles, the horses trippling smoothly.
At Sean's right stirrup ran the big Zulu, his long extended stride easily pacing Sean's horse. Once in a while Sean dropped his eyes from the horizon and looked down at Mbejane, it was a strangely comforting feeling to have him there.
They camped that night in a shallow valley of grass.
There were no cooking fires; they ate biltong for supper, the black strips of dried salt meat, and washed it down with cold water. We're wasting our time. There hasn't been a sign of Zulu in two days riding, grumbled Bester Klein, one of the troopers. I say we should turn back and rejoin the Column, We're getting farther and farther away from the centre of things, we're going to miss the fun when it starts. Steff Erasmus wrapped his bLanket more closely about his shoulders: the night's first chill was on them. Fun, is it? He spat expertly into the darkness. Let them have the fun, if we find the cattle. Don't you mind missing the fighting? Look, you, I've hunted bushmen in the Karroo and the Kalahari, I've fought Xhosas and Fingoes along the Fish river, I went into the mountains after Moshesh and his Basutos. Matabele, Zulu, Bechuana, I've had fun with all of them. Now four or five hundred head of prime cattle will be payment enough for any fun we miss. Steff lay back and adjusted his saddle behind his head. Anyway what makes you think there won't be guards on the herds when we find them. You'll get your fun, I promise you.
How do you know they've got the cattle up here?
insisted Sean. They're here, said Steff, and we'll find them. He turned his head towards Sean. You've got the first watch, keep your eyes open. He tilted his top hat forward over his face, groped with his right hand to make sure his rifle lay beside him and then spoke from under the hat, Goodnight The others settled down into their blankets: fully dressed, boots on, guns at hand. Sean moved out into the darkness to check the Nongaai pickets.
There was no moon, but the stars were fat and close to earth; they lit the land so that the four grazing horses were dark blobs against the pale grass. Sean circled the camp and found two of his sentries awake and attentive.
He had posted Mbejane on the north side and now he went there. Fifty yards in front of him he picked up the shape of the small bush beside which he had left Mbejane.
Suddenly Sean smiled and sank down onto his hands and knees, he cradled his rifle across the crooks of his elbows and began his stalk. Moving flat along the ground silently, slowly he closed in on the bush. Ten paces from it he stopped and lifted his head, careful to keep the movement inchingly slow. He stared, trying to find the shape of the Zulu among the scraggy branches and bunches of leaves.
The point of a stabbing spear pricked him below the ear in the soft of his neck behind the jaw bone. Sean froze but his eyes rolled sideways and in the starlight he saw Mbejane kneeling over him holding the spear. Does the Nkosi seek me? asked Mbejane solemnly, but there was laughter deep down in his voice. Sean sat up and rubbed the place where the spear had stung him.
only a night ape sees in the dark, Sean protested. And only a fresh caught catfish flops on its belly, chuckled Mbejane, You are Zulu, Sean stated, recognizing the arrogance, although he had known immediately from the man's face and body that he was not one of the bastard Natal tribes who spoke the Zulu language but were no more Zulu than a tabby-cat is a leopard. Of Chaka's blood, agreed Mbejane, reverence in his voice as he said the old king's name. And now you carry the spear against Cetewayo, your king? My king? The laughter was gone from Mbejane's voice. My king? he repeated scornfully.
There was silence and Sean waited. Out in the darkness a jackal barked twice and one of the horses whickered softly. There was another who should have been king, but he died with a sharpened stick thrust up into the secret opening of his body, until it pierced his gut and touched his heart. That man was my father, said Mbejane. He stood up and went back into the shelter of the bush and Sean followed him. They squatted side by side, silent but watchful. The jackal cried again up above the camp and Mbejane's head turned towards the sound.
Some jackals have two legs, he whispered thoughtfully. Sean felt the tingle along his forearms.
Zulus? he asked. Mbejane shrugged, a small movement in the darkness. Even if it is, they will not come for us in the night. In the dawn, yes, but never in the night Mbejane shifted the spear in his lap. The old one with the tan hat and grey beard understands this. Years have made him wise, that's why he sleeps so sweetly now but mounts up and moves in the darkness before each dawn Sean relaxed slightly. He glanced sideways at Mbejane. The old one thinks that some of the herds are hidden near here. Years have made him wise, repeated Mbejane. Tomorrow we will find the land more broken, there are hills and thick Thorn bush. The cattle will be hidden among themDo you think we'll find them? Cattle are difficult to hide from a man who knows where to look. Will there be many guards with the herds? I hope so answered Mbejane, his voice a purr.
His hand crept to the shaft of his assegai and caressed it. I hope there will be very many. -You would kill your own people, your brothers, your cousins? asked Sean. I would kill them as they killed my father. Mbejane's voice was savage now. They are not my people. I have no people. i have no brothers, I have nothing. Silence settled between them again, but slowly the ughness of Mbejane's mood evaporated and in its place came a sense of companionship. Each of them felt comforted by the other's presence. They sat on into the night.
Mbejane reminded Sean of Tinker working a bird, he had the same half-crouched gait and the same air of complete absorption. The white men sat their horses in silence watching him. The sun was well up already and Sean unbuttoned his sheepskin coat and pulled it off. He strapped it onto the blanket roll behind him.
Mbejane had moved out about fifty yards from them and now he was working slowly back towards them. He stopped and minutely inspected a wet pat of cow dung. Hierdie Kaffir verstaan wat by doen, opined Steff Erasmus approvingly, but no one else spoke. Bester Klein fidgeted with the hammer of his carbine; his red face was already sweaty in the rising heat.
Mbejane had proved right, they were in hilly country.
Not the smoothly rounded hills of Natal but bills with rocky crests,
