The Sunbird Read online

  I had carefully cleaned and polished the great battle-axe. It glittered silver, gold and ivory, and we examined the craftsmanship of its manufacture together before going across to the repository of the scrolls. Sally was too busy to talk to us. She barely lifted her head when we entered, but Hilary turned her gentle charisma on to Eldridge Hamilton and he was not proof against it. When we left an hour later Hilary had another devoted admirer.

  We went up to the cavern, and sat together above the emerald pool while the children splashed and shrieked in the cool green water. We talked together like the old and dear friends we were, but even then it was some time before Hilary could bring herself to mention that which was troubling her.

  ‘Ben, have you noticed anything different about him?’ The old question of an unhappy woman, and I made the old excuse for him.

  ‘He works so hard, Hil.’ And she snatched at it.

  ‘Yes, he’s been tied up in this hotel business for months. He’s building a chain of luxury vacation hotels across the islands of the Indian Ocean. Comores, Seychelles, Madagascar, ten of them. He is exhausting himself.’

  Then as we walked down towards the huts in the dusk, she said suddenly, ‘Do you think he has found another woman, Ben?’

  I was startled. ‘Good Lord, Hil. What on earth makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing I suppose. It’s just that—’ She stopped and sighed.

  ‘Where would he find more than he has now?’ I asked softly, and she took my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘My dear Ben. What would we do without you?’

  When I went to tuck Bobby up and kiss her goodnight, I told her what I thought of her behaviour at lunch and she snuffled a bit and said she was sorry. Then we kissed and hugged and agreed that we still loved each other. She was asleep before I had switched out the light, and with dread in my heart I went across to the common room for a repeat of the midday performance.

  At the threshold I blinked with surprise. Louren, Eldridge and Sally were in a friendly and animated huddle over the typed pile of translation sheets, while Ral and Leslie were eagerly discussing their marriage plans with Hilary. The transformation was miraculous. I made my way with relief towards the Glen Grant bottle, and poured a medium-sized one.

  ‘One for me also.’ Sally came across to me. I could see no evidence of headache. Her mouth was a hectic slash of bright lipstick, and the silk dress she wore was draped to expose her strong brown back and shoulders. She had piled her hair up on her head, and I thought I had seldom seen her look so lovely.

  I poured her a drink, and we went to join the discussion of the scrolls. In contrast to his earlier mood, Louren was at his most charming, and even Eldridge could not resist him.

  ‘Professor Hamilton has done a most remarkable job here, Ben,’ he greeted me. ‘I can only congratulate you on your choice of a colleague.’ Eldridge preened modestly.

  ‘There is something we cannot put off much longer, Ben,’ Louren went on. ‘We are going to have to make an announcement soon. We can’t keep this a secret much longer.’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed.

  ‘Have you had any thoughts on it, yet?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact—’ I hesitated. I hate having to ask Louren to spend money, ‘I was thinking of something on a rather grand scale.’

  ‘Yes?’ Louren encouraged me.

  ‘Well, I thought if we could have the Royal Geographical Society convene a special symposium on African prehistory. Eldridge is a member of the Council, I’m sure he could arrange it.’

  We looked at him, and he nodded.

  ‘Then perhaps Sturvesant International could play host to the delegates, fly them to London and pay their expenses to make sure they all attend, or at least some of them.’

  Louren threw back his head and laughed delightedly. ‘You are a scheming son-of-a-gun, Ben. I see your plan exactly. You are going to gather all your critics and enemies together in one bunch within the hallowed precincts of the RGS, and you are going to play the Al Capone of archaeology in a scientific St. Valentine’s day massacre. In the jargon, you are going to murder da bums. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  I blushed at having my plans so readily exposed.

  ‘Well,’ and then I grinned sheepishly and nodded, ‘I guess that’s about it, Lo.’

  ‘I love it.’ Sally clapped her hands with delight. ‘We will draw up a guest list.’

  ‘We will do this in style,’Louren promised. ‘We’ll fly them in first class and we’ll put them at the Dorchester. We’ll give a champagne lunch to lull them and then we’ll turn Ben and Eldridge loose amongst them like a pack of ravening wolves.’ He had entered fully into the spirit of the thing and he turned to Eldridge.

  ‘How long would it take to arrange?’

  ‘Well, it would have to go before the Council for approval. We would have to give them some idea of the agenda, but of course your offer to pay the expenses would make it a lot easier. I will lobby a couple of the other Council members.’ Eldridge was enjoying it also. There is a rather perverse thrill to be had out of planning and executing the professional assassination of one’s enemies. ‘I think we could arrange it for April.’

  ‘April the first,’ I suggested.

  ‘Lovely,’ laughed Louren.

  ‘We must have Wilfred Snell,’ Sally pleaded.

  ‘He’s top of the list,’ I assured her.

  ‘And that slimy little Rogers.’

  ‘And De Vallos.’

  We were still gloating and scheming when we sat down to eat the fiery curry of wild pheasant that I hoped would make the sultry night air seem cool by comparison. There were pitchers of cold draught beer to go with it, and the meal developed into a festive occasion. We were still gloating on the discomfort of our scientific enemies and planning the confrontation in detail, when Sally turned suddenly to Hilary who had been sitting quietly beside me.

  ‘You must forgive us, Mrs Sturvesant. This must be terribly boring for you. I don’t suppose a word of it makes sense to you.’ Sally’s tone was honeyed and solicitous. I was as surprised as Hilary, for I understand enough of the secret language of women to recognize this as an open declaration of war. I hoped that I was mistaken, but five minutes later Sally attacked again.

  ‘You must find the heat and primitive conditions here most trying, Mrs Sturvesant. Not the sort of weather for your tennis parties, is it?’

  The way she said it made tennis seem the pastime of a spoiled and ineffectual butterfly. But this time Hilary was ready for her, and with a face like an angel and tones every bit as sugary as Sally’s, she ripped back in a devastating counterattack.

  ‘I’m sure it can be most unhealthy, especially after any length of time, Dr Benator. The sun can play havoc with one’s skin, can it not? And you are still looking peaky from your headache. We were very worried about you. I do hope you are feeling better now.’

  Sally found that despite her gentle nunlike air, Hilary was an opponent worthy of her steel. She changed her attack. She turned all her attention onto Louren, laughing gaily at his every word and not taking her eyes from his face. Hilary was helpless in the face of these tactics. I seemed to be the only one in the party aware of this duel in progress, and I sat silently trying to puzzle out the meaning of it all - until Hilary played her trump.

  ‘Louren, darling, it has been such a busy, exciting day. Won’t you take me to bed now, please.’

  She swept off the field on Louren’s arm, and reluctantly I had to admit that my Sally had received the treatment she deserved.

  I woke to the awareness of somebody else in my bedroom with me, and I tensed myself for sudden violent action as I rolled my head stealthily and looked towards the door. It was open. The moonlight outside was bright and dear. Sally stood in the opening.

  She wore a flimsy nightdress, which did not conceal the lovely outline of her nude body against the silver moonlight. The long legs, the swelling womanly hips, the nip-in of waist and flare of brea
st, the long gazelle neck with tilt of dainty head.

  ‘Ben?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Yes.’ I sat up, and she came quickly to me. ‘What it is, Sal?’

  In reply she kissed me with open mouth and probing tongue. I was taken completely by surprise, frozen in her arms and she laid her cheek against mine. In a small gusty voice she whispered, ‘Make love to me, Ben.’

  There was something wrong here, desperately wrong. I felt no awakening of desire, only a warm rise of compassion for her.

  ‘Why, Sal?’ I asked. ‘Why now?’

  ‘Because I need it, Ben.’

  ‘No, Sally. I don’t think you do. I think that is the very last thing in the world you need now.’

  And suddenly she was crying, big broken silent sobs. She cried for a long time, and I held her. When she was quiet I laid her on the pillow and covered her with the blankets.

  ‘I am a bitch, aren’t I, Ben?’ she whispered, and went to sleep. I stayed awake all that night, watching over her. I think I knew then what was happening, but I did not want to admit it to myself.

  At breakfast Louren abruptly announced that the family would return immediately to Johannesburg, rather than stay the extra day as had been originally planned. I found it hard to hide my disappointment, and when I asked Louren for a reason as soon as we were alone, he merely looked towards the heavens and shrugged with exasperation.

  ‘You are plain lucky you never married, Ben. My God -women!’

  Life at the City of the Moon returned to its normal satisfying routine for a week, during which Ral and I pursued our search for the tombs and the others worked steadily at the scrolls. Then while Ral and I sat in a sizzling midday sun under the meagre shade of a camel thorn, a little puckish figure rose from the grass seemingly at my feet.

  ‘Sunbird,’ said Xhai softly, 1 have travelled many days to seek the sunshine of your presence.‘ He turns the prettiest compliment, and my heart went out to him.

  ‘Ral,’ I said, ‘let me have your tobacco pouch, please.’

  We sat together all that afternoon under the camel thorn, and we talked. The conversations of primitive Africa are an art form, with elaborate rituals of question and answer, and it was late before Xhai reached the subject which he had come to discuss,

  ‘Does Sunbird remember the water-in-the-rock at the place where we slew the elephant?’

  Sunbird remembered it well.

  ‘Does Sunbird remember the little holes that the white ghosts made in the rock?’

  Sunbird would never forget them.

  ‘These holes gave Sunbird and the big golden one much pleasure, did they not?’

  They did indeed.

  ‘Since that day I have looked with fresh eyes upon the rocks as I hunted. Would Sunbird wish to visit another place where there are many such holes?’

  Would I!

  ‘I will lead you there,’ Xhai promised.

  ‘And I will give you as much tobacco as you can carry away,’ I promised him in return, and we beamed at each other.

  ‘How far is this place?’ I asked, and he began to explain. It was beyond the ‘big wire’ he told me. This was the 300-mile-long game fence along the Rhodesian border which was erected to control movements of the wild animals as a precaution against foot and mouth disease. We would need clearance from the Rhodesians, and when Xhai went on to describe an area which seemed fairly close to the Zambezi river border with Zambia, I knew I would have to ask Louren to arrange an expedition. It was obviously squarely within the zone of terrorist activity.

  Xhai refused to accompany me back to a camp which was filled with his traditional enemies, the Bantu. Instead we arranged to meet under the camel thorn three days later, once Xhai had completed the rounds of his trap line.

  I was fortunate enough that evening to find Louren had returned an hour before from Madagascar.

  ‘What’s the trouble, Ben?’ His voice boomed above the radio static.

  ‘No trouble, Lo. Your little bushman friend has found another ancient gold working site. He’s happy to take me to it.’

  ‘That’s great, Ben. The elephant mine is in production already, and looking very good indeed.’

  ‘There is only one problem, Lo. It’s in Rhodesia, in the closed area.’

  ‘No problem, Ben. I’ll fix it.’ And the following evening we spoke again.

  ‘It’s set up for Monday week. There will be a Rhodesian police escort to meet us at the Panda Matenga border gate.’

  ‘Us?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m stealing a couple of days off, Ben. Just couldn’t resist it. You take the bushman with you, go by Land-Rover through to Panda Matenga. I will come in from Bulawayo by helicopter. See you there. Monday week, morning, okay?’

  The commander of the police escort was one of those beefy, boyish young Rhodesians with impeccable manners, and an air of quiet competence which I found most reassuring. He was an assistant inspector with an Askari sergeant and five constables under him. His rank and the composition of the escort gave me some indication of the level to which Louren had applied for cooperation.

  We had two Land-Rovers, both with mounted medium machine-guns on the bonnet, and the armament of the rest of the party was impressive, as was to be expected on the borders of a country subjected to unceasing harassment by terrorist infiltrators from the north.

  ‘Dr Kazin,’ The inspector saluted and we shook hands.

  ‘My name’s MacDonald. Alastair MacDonald. May I introduce my men?’

  They were Matabeles, all of them. The big moon-faced descendants of Chaka’s fighting impis, led here 150 years ago by the renegade general, Mzilikazi. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues with soft jungle hats, and they stood to rigid attention as MacDonald led me down the single rank.

  ‘This is Sergeant Ndabuka.’ And when I acknowledged the introduction in fluent Sindebele, the stern military expressions dissolved into huge flashing smiles.

  Xhai was obviously very ill at ease in this company. He followed on my heels like a puppy.

  ‘Did you know, Doctor, that there is still a field order issued to the British South Africa Police that hasn’t been rescinded,’ MacDonald told me, as he looked Xhai over with interest. ‘It is an instruction to shoot all bushmen on sight. This is the first one I’ve ever seen. Poor little blighters.’

  ‘Yes.’ I had heard of that order which was maintained as a curiosity, but too faithfully reflected the attitude of the last century. The time of the great bushmen hunts, when a hundred mounted men would band together into a commando to hunt and kill these little yellow pixies as though they were dangerous animals.

  White and black had hunted them mercilessly. The atrocities committed against them were legion. Shot and speared - and worse. In 1869 King Khama had enticed a whole tribe of them to a feast of reconciliation, and while they sat at his board, with their weapons laid aside, his warriors seized them. The king had supervised the subsequent torture personally. The last bushman died on the fourth day. With this history to remember it was no wonder that Xhai stayed within arm’s length of me, and watched these colossal strangers with frightened Chinese eyes.

  I explained to MacDonald our approximate destination, pointing out the general area on his map as accurately as I could reckon it from Xhai’s description, and the inspector looked grave. He picked a shred of sunburnt skin from the tip of his nose before replying.

  ‘That’s not a very good area, Doctor.’ And he went off to talk to his men.

  It was midday before the helicopter came clattering over the tree-tops from the south-east. Louren jumped from the cabin lugging his own bag.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Ben. I had to wait for a phone call from New York.’

  MacDonald came forward and touched his cap-brim.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’ His attitude was deferential. ‘The prime minister asked me to give you his respects, Mr Sturvesant, and I am to place myself at your disposal.’

  We left the track before we reached the ranching coun
try near Tete, and we swung away northwards towards the Zambezi. MacDonald was in the leading Land-Rover with a driver and a trooper on the machine-gun. We followed in the central spot, Louren driving and another trooper riding shotgun in the passenger seat. Xhai and I together in the back. The second police Land-Rover took the rearguard with Sergeant Ndabuka in command.

  The slow miles ground past, as the column wound through forests of mopane, and climbed the low ranges of granite. At any hesitation in our advance, Xhai’s arm would signal the direction and we would move forward, jolting and pitching over the rough places or humming swiftly through open glades of brown grass. I realized that Xhai was guiding us along the elephant trail, the migratory road that the huge beasts had beaten out from the river to the sanctuary of the Wankie game reserve in the south. Skilled trail blazers, they had picked a route that required the minimum effort to negotiate. Always it was the easy gradient, the low pass through the hills, and the river drifts with gentle sloping banks that they chose.

  We camped beside one of these drifts. The river-bed was dry, choked with polished black boulders that glittered like reptiles in the sunset. There were banks of sugar-white sand, patches of tall reeds and a pool of slimy green water overhung with the branches of fever trees.

  Beyond the river the ground rose steeply in another of those rocky ridges dotted with marula trees and patches of scrub. However, on this side the bush was open, offering a clear field of fire around our camp. MacDonald drew the three vehicles into a defensive triangle, and while he placed his sentries, Louren and I, followed by Xhai, went down the bank to the pool.

  We sat on the rocks and watched a colony of yellow weaver birds chattering and fluttering around their nests of woven grass that hung from the fever trees over the green water.