flesh of the dead horse; he used lumps of horsemeat as padding, and strips of horsehide to tie the splint into place.
He ate some horsemeat, raw, then, as an afterthought, threw a dollop at the headman; it hit his nose and fell to the dust. The headman salvaged it with his mouth, tasted the dust and spat it out.
'Choosy,' said Togura. 'Beggars can't be choosers, you know.'
'Donz-m'dola,' said the headman.
That little phrase had something to do with the idea of getting bigger, or increasing. Togura had a hazy notion that in some contexts it was obscene, but that could hardly be the case here. Realising what the headman meant, Togura cut a sizeable chunk of meat and tossed it so that it fell within mouthreach.
'Zon,' said the headman.
Which mean more.
Togura provided. He ate some more, feeding methodically. When he could eat no more, he decided it was time to go. To give his broken shinbone the smoothest possible ride, he was constrained to travel on his back. He started off, using his hands and his good leg. Raising his buttocks from the ground sent pains shooting along his right leg; his saddle-sick buttons would have to drag along in the dust.
'Gjonga,' said the headman.
The word, a very formal form of 'goodbye,' was unknown to Togura. He did not answer, but concentrated on the task at hand. He scraped along, clumsy as a broken insect. Under the pitiless sun. Under the pitiless sky. Flies were already festering on his horsemeat padding. His broken leg, even though it was splinted, nagged him constantly.
It was hot, hot work. The meat ripened as the sun lazed through the sky. He started to feel nauseous, perhaps from the burden of horsemeat in his stomach, or from the stench of rotting meat wrapped round his leg, or from the constant twinges of pain from the leg – pain which was sharp, stabbing, unrelenting, worse than toothache.
– Pain is the worse thing.
The battlefield was distant now. He could just make out a small clump of shadows far away on the open plain. Carrion birds circled overhead.
– Courage, Togura.
His hands hurt. His buttocks hurt. His legs hurt. Thirst, like a jagged spatula, scraped at the back of his throat. Familiar muscles began to cramp; unfamiliar muscles ached and protested. He was starting to get backache. He was a crippled skeleton. An insect man, a freak of nature. A damaged organism.
The skin was wearing away from his buttocks. And from the palms of his hands. He should have padded himself with something. Strips of horsehide, perhaps. From time to time he had little dizzy spells in which the world blurred and darkened. Drops of sweat crept down from his forehead.
He needed water. So what was he going to do about it? Dig a well? Do a rain dance? He laughed, hurting himself. He tried to generate saliva, so he could ease the scraping thirst in his throat. No joy. He should have brought some spare horse meat with him. He could have sucked on it. Before setting out, he should have dragged himself round the dead men and the dead horses, looking for a water skin. Surely there would have been at least one. He was an experienced survivor. He had no excuse for not thinking of these things.
He halted, to take a rest. High overhead, a skylark was singing. He listened intently to its attenuated song. It carried him up, up, up, higher and higher into the dizzy sky. Then vanished, dropping him away to nothing.
He fainted.
He woke when something hurt his leg. Opening his eyes, he saw a big bald-headed bird gashing into his horsemeat splint padding. He waved an arm. It went scuffling into the air, then settled on the ground. Its beady eyes considered him. Then it hopped forward. He dragged himself away, thinking unpleasant thoughts about the carrion birds he had seen circling over the battlefield, and about the headman lying there, utterly defenceless, with two broken wrists. Well, at least the headman would be able to jerk his head around; that would probably dissuade the birds, at least while they had plenty of quiescent carcasses to feed on.
– Onward, Togura.
He dragged himself on, chafing away the last of the clothing protecting his buttocks. The skin began to rub away. He endured.
– Pain is life.
Night came, bringing unrelenting cold. Togura slept a little, then dragged himself on. When the pain was at its worst, he cried out with high, harsh, half-singing exclamations, which sounded almost like broken snatches of song. He allowed himself a little sleep, dreaming of pain only to wake to pain.
– Worse things happen at sea.
He kept the stars of the north dead ahead of him, knowing that the south lay behind his head. The moon rose, making shadowed craters out of the hoof-marks of horses. He was on the right track.
Toward morning, he heard dogs barking in the distance.
– Strength, Togura, strength.
He was taking the journey a step at a time. Pause. Brace. Push. Scrape. Endure the pain. Rest. Think out the next move. Gather courage. Brace. Push. Scrape.
– This is your test.
Rest. And brace. And now – strength! – push. Scrape. Rest. Endure. And once more, Togura, once more. Brace! Push! Scrape!
– And once more.
The light slowly lightened. The sun rose. His blood, pulsing through his ears, sang to him. He felt the steady thud of his heart in his chest. He pushed himself along. Relentlessly. He was a master torturer now, absolutely without pity for the broken organism he was punishing. Brace – push – scrape -
– And rest.
Resting, he heard hoofbeats. They came closer and closer, then the horse wheeled, riding in to halt behind him. Looking up he saw, hazily, a man in the saddle. Togura recognised him by his haircut. He was from the home village.
'Dosh,' croaked Togura, pointing north. Then, louder: 'Dosh!'
Then he fainted.
Chapter 33
Togura's arrival back at the village was a source of some surprise to the inhabitants. Unbeknownst to him, one of the village men who had survived the fight in the night had come riding back, wounded, to say that the pursuit party had been slaughtered by half a thousand of the enemy. As Togura's return cast doubt on this story, a rescue party was sent north,eventually retrieving the headman from the open plains. Apart from his broken wrists, there was nothing wrong with him but a slipped disc, which was put back into place by skilled manipulation.
As for Togura, his leg was properly splinted. With time, the bone healed, as bones will. The skin he had lost grew back, or was replaced with scar tissue. By the time he was able to walk again, his muscles were badly wasted. He found his tendons had shortened because of his long, idle days in bed without any exercise; his legs were stiff. But the headman, who took a personal interest in his case, showed him, by sign and example – Togura's language skills had not improved – how to build up his strength and regain his flexibility.
Togura foudn that his right leg ached in damp weather. But there was not much damp weather for it to ache in; spring was at an end, and summer had begun.
Soon after he was up and about, there was a big festival, with much eating and drinking. And music making, which he took no part in. He did not sit behind the headman, as he was accustomed to, but beside him, in a place of honour. The next day, all the unmarried women – Namaji this time beign excluded from their ranks – were lined up in front of Togura.
He hesitated.
Someone said something, and all the women laughed. The headman silenced them, then pointed to one of the taller,wider women and gave her an order. To shouts, applause and the stamping of feet, the woman stripped, proudly. She was not what he was looking for, not exactly – she was stronger than he was, and taller – but there
