When the Lion Feeds c-4 Page 6

  Sean and Garrick had been separated and Garrick was now at the front of the room where Mr Clark could reach him easily. Sean was near the back.

  English Readers, said Mr Clark. Standard Ones turn to page five. Standard Twos turn to Garrick sniffed wetly, hayfever Mr Clark shut his book with a snap.

  Damn you! he said softly, and then, his voice rising, Damn you! Now he was shaking with rage, the edges of his nostrils were white and flared open.

  He came down from the dais to Garrick's desk. Damn you! Damn you, you bloody little cripple, he screamed and hit Garrick across the face with his open hand. Garrick cupped both hands over his cheek and stared at him.

  You dirty little swine, Mr. Clark mouthed at him. Now you're starting it too. He caught a handful of Garrick's hair and pulled his head down so that -his forehead hit the top of the desk. I'll teach you. By God, I'll teach you! I'll show you. Bump.

  I'll teach you Bump.

  It took Sean that long to reach them. He grabbed Mr Clark's arm and pulled him backwards. Leave him alone!

  He didn't do anything!

  Mr Clark saw Sean's face in front of him, he was passed all reason, the face that had tormented him for two long years. He bunched his fist and lashed out at it.

  Sean staggered back from the blow, the sting of it made his eyes water. For a second he lay sprawled across one of the desks, watching Clark and then he growled.

  The sound sobered Clark, he backed away but only two paces before Sean was on him. Hitting with both hands, grunting with each punch, Sean drove him against the blackboard. Clark tried to break away but Sean caught the collar of his shirt and dragged him back, the collar tore half loose in his hand and Sean hit him again. Clark slid down the wall until he was sitting against it and Sean stood panting over him.

  Get out, said Clark. His teeth were stained pink by the blood in his mouth and a little of it spilled out onto his lips. His collar stood up at a jaunty angle under one ear.

  There was no sound in the room except Sean's breathing Get out, said Clark again and the anger drained out of Sean leaving him trembling with reaction. He walked to the door.

  YOU too, Clark pointed at Garrick. Get out and don't come back! Come on, Garry, said Sean.

  Garrick stood up from his desk and limped across to Sean and together they went out into the school yard.

  What are we going to do now? There was a big red lump on Garrick's forehead.

  I suppose we'd better go home. What about our things? asked Garrick.

  We can't carry all that, we'll have to send for them later. Come on. They walked out through the town and along the road to the farm. They had almost reached the bridge on the Baboon Stroorn before either of them spoke again.

  what do you reckon Pa will do? asked Garrick. He was only putting into words the problem that had occupied them both since they left the school. Well, whatever he does, it was worth it. Sean grinned.

  Did you see me clobber him, hey? Smackeroo, right in the chops. You shouldn't have done it, Sean. Pa's going to kill us!

  Me too and I didn't do anything You sniffed, Sean reminded him.

  They reached the bridge and leaned over the parapet side by side to watch the water.

  How's your leg? asked Sean.

  It's sore, I think we should rest a bit. All right, if you say so, Sean agreed.

  There was a long silence, then, I. wish you hadn't done it, Sean.

  Well, wishing isn't going to help. Old Nose-Holes is as punched up as he'll ever be and all we can do is think of something to tell Pa. He hit me, said Garrick. He might have killed me. Yes, agreed Sean righteously, and he hit me too. They thought about it for a while.

  Perhaps we should just go away, suggested Garrick.

  You mean without telling Pa? The idea had attraction.

  Yeah, we could go to sea or something, Garrick brightened.

  You'd get seasick, you even get sick in a train. Once more they applied their minds to the problem.

  Then Sean looked at Garrick, Garrick looked at Sean and as though by agreement they straightened up and started off once more for Theunis Kraal.

  Ada was in front of the house. She had on a wide-brimmed straw hat that kept her face in shadow and over one arm she carried a basket of flowers. Busy with her garden, she didn't notice them until they were halfway across the lawn and when she did she stood motionless. She was steeling herself, trying to get her emotions under control; from experience she had learned to expect the worst from her stepsons and be thankful when it wasn't as bad as that.

  As they came towards her they lost momentum and finally halted like a pair of clockwork toys running down. Hello, said Ada. Hello, they answered her together.

  Garrick fumbled in his pocket, drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Sean stared up at the steep Dutchgabled roof of Theunis Kraal as though he had never seen it before. Yes? Ada kept her voice calm.

  Mr Clark said we were to go home, announced Garrick.

  rWhy? Ada's calm was starting to crack.

  Well? Garrick glanced at Sean for support. Sean's attention was still riveted on the roof.

  Well... You see Sean sort of punched him in the head until he fell down. I didn't do anything. Ada moaned softly, Oh, no! She took a deep breath. all right.

  Start at the beginning and give me the whole story.

  They told it in relays, a garbled rush of words, interrupting each other and arguing over the details.

  When they had finished Ada said, You better go to your room. Your father is working in the home section today and he'll be back for his lunch soon. I'll try and prepare him a little. The room had the cheery atmosphere of a condemned cell.

  How much do you reckon he'll give us? asked Garrick.

  I reckon until he gets tired, then he'll rest and give us some more, Sean answered.

  They heard Waite's horse come into the yard. He said something to the stable boy and they heard him laugh; the kitchen door slammed and there was half a minute of suspense before they heard Waite roar. Garrick jumped nervously.

  For another ten minutes they could hear Waite and Ada talking in the kitchen, the alternate rumble and soothing murmur. Then the tap of Ada's feet along the passage and she came into the room. Your father wants to see you, he's in the study. Waite stood in front of the fireplace. His beard was powdered with dust and his forehead as corrupted as a ploughed land with the force of his scowl.

  Come in, he bellowed when Sean knocked and they filed in and stood in front of him. Waite slapped his riding-whip against his leg and the dust puffed out of his breeches.

  Come here, he said to Garrick and took a handful of his hair. He twisted Garrick's face up and looked at the bruise on his forehead.

  Hmm, he said. He let go of Garrick's hair and it stood up in a tuft. He threw the riding-whip on the stinkwood desk.

  Come here, he said to Sean. Hold out your hands no, Palms down The skin on both hands was broken and one knuckle was swollen and puffy looking.

  HMM" he said again. He turned to the shelf beside the fireplace, took a pipe out of the rack and filled it from the stone jar of tobacco.

  You're a pair of bloody fools, he said, but I'll take a chance and start you on five shillings a week all found.

  Go and get your lunch... we've got work to do this afternoon.

  They stared at him a moment in disbelief and then back towards the door.

  Sean. Sean stopped, he knew it was too good to be true. Where did you hit him?

  All over, Pa, anywhere I could reach That's no good, Waite said. You must go for the side of his head, here, he tapped the point of his jaw with his pipe, and keep your fists closed tight or you'll, break every finger in Your hands before you're much older. Yes, Pa.

  The door closed softly behind him and Waite allowed himself to grin.

  They've had enough book learning anyway, he said aloud and struck a match to his pipe; when it was drawing evenly he blew out smoke.

  Christ, I wish I could have watched it. That
little penpusher will know better than to tangle with my boy again Now Sean had a course along which to race. He was born to run and Waite Courtney led him out of the stall in which he had fretted and gave him his lead. Sean ran, unsure of the prize, unsure of the distance; yet he ran with joy, he ran with all his strength.

  Before dawn, standing with his father and Garrick in the kitchen, drinking coffee with hands cupped around the mug, Sean felt excitement for each coming day. Sean, take 7-ama and N'duti with you and make sure there are no strays in the thick stuff along the river. I'll only take one herdboy, Pa, you'll need NIduti at the dipping tankAll right, then. Try and meet us back at the tank before midday, we've got to push through a thousand head today!

  Sean gulped the remains of his coffee and buttoned his jacket. I'll get going then A groom held his horse at the kitchen door. Sean slid his rifle into the scabbard and went up into the saddle without putting his foot into the steel; he lifted a hand and grinned at Waite, then he swung the horse and rode across the yard. The morning was still dark and cold.

  Waite watched him from the doorway. So goddamned sure of himself, thought Waite. Yet he had the son he had hoped for and he was proud.

  What you want me to do, Garrick asked beside him.

  Well, there are those heifers in the sick paddock, Waite stopped. No. You'd better come with me, Garry.

  Sean worked in the early morning when the sunlight was tinted as a stage effect, all golden and gay, and the shadows were long and black. He worked in the midday sun and sweated in the heat; in the rain; in the mist that swirled down grey and damp from the plateau; in the short African twilight, and came home in the dark. He loved every minute of it.

  He learned to know cattle. Not by name, for only the trek oxen were named, but by their size and colour and markings, so that by running his eye over one of the herds he knew which animals were missing.

  Zama, the old cow with the crooked horn. Where is she? Nkosi, no longer the diminutive Nkosizana, little lord. Nkosi, yesterday I took her to the sick paddock, she has the worm in her eye.

  He learned to recognize disease almost before it started.

  The way a beast moved and held its head. He learned the treatment for them. Screw worm, kerosene poured into the wound until the maggots fell out like a shower of rice.

  Ophthalmia, rinse the eye with permanganate. Anthrax and quarter-evil, a bullet and a bonfire for the carcass.

  He delivered his first calf among the acacia trees on the bank of the Tugela; he did it alone with his sleeves rolled up above the elbows and the soapy feel of the slime on his hands. Afterwards, while the mother licked it and it staggered at each stroke of the tongue, Sean felt a choking sensation in his throat.

  All this was not enough to burn up his energy. He played while he worked.

  Practising his horsemanship: swinging from the saddle and running beside his horse, up again and over the other side, standing on the saddle at full gallop and then opening his legs and smacking down on his backside, his feet finding the stirrups without groping.

  Practising with his rifle until he could hit a running jackal at a hundred and fifty paces, cutting the fox-terriersized body in half with the heavy bullet.

  Then there was much of Garrick's work to do also. I don't feel very well, Sean. What's, wrong? My leg's sore, you know how it chafes if I ride too much. Why don't you go home, then? Pa says I've got to fix the fence round the Number Three dip tank. Garrick leaned forward on his horse to rub his leg giving a brave little smile.

  You fixed it last week, Sean protested. Yes, but the wires sort of came loose again. There was always a strange impermanency about any repairs that Garrick effected. Have you got the wire cutters? and Garrick produced them with alacrity from his saddle bag.

  I'll do it, said Sean.

  Hell, man, thanks a lot, and then a second's hesitation. You won't tell Pa, will you? No, you can't help it if your leg's sore, and Garrick rode home, sneaked through to his bedroom and escaped with Jim Hawkins into the pages of Treasure Island.

  From this work came a new emotion for Sean. When the rain brought the grass out in green and filled the shallow pans on the plateau with water it was no longer simply a sign that the birdnesting season had begun and that the fishing in the Baboon Stroorn would improve now it meant that they could take cattle up from the valley, it meant that there would be fat on the herds they drove into the sale pens at Lady-burg it meant that another winter had ended and again the land was rich with life and the promise of life. This new emotion extended to the cattle also. It was a strong almost savage feeling of possession, It was in the late afternoon. Sean was sitting on his horse among trees, looking out across open vleiland at the small herd that was strung out before him. They were feeding, heads down, tails flicking lazily. Between Sean and the main body of cattle was a calf, it was three days old, still pale-beige in colour and unsure of its legs. It was trying them out, running clumsy circles in the short grass.

  From the herd a cow lowed and the calf stopped dead and stood with its legs splayed awkwardly under it and its ears up. Sean grinned and picked up the reins from his horse's neck; it was time to start back for the homestead.

  At that moment he saw the lammergeyer: it had already begun its stoop at the calf, dropping big and dark brown from the sky, wings cocked back and its talons reaching for the strike. The wind rustled against it with the speed of its dive.

  Sean sat paralysed and watched. The eagle hit the calf and Sean heard bone break, sharp as the snap of a dry stick, and then the calf was down in the grass struggling feebly with the eagle crouched on top of it.

  For a second longer Sean sat, dazed with the speed at which it had happened. Then hatred came on him. It came with a violence that twisted his stomach. He hit his horse with his heels and it jumped forward. He drove it at the eagle and as he rode he screamed at it, a high-pitched formless Sound, an animal expression of hate.

  The eagle turned its head, looking at him sideways with one eye. it opened its great yellow beak and answered his scream, then it loosed its claws from the calf and launched itself into the air. its wings flogged heavily and it moved low along the ground, gaining speed, lifting, drawing away from Sean.

  Sean pulled his rifle from the scabbard and hauled his horse back onto its haunches. He threw himself out of the saddle and levered open the breech of the rifle.

  The eagle was fifty yards ahead of him rising fast now.

  Sean slipped a cartridge into the breech, closed it and brought the rifle up in one continuous movement.

  it was a difficult shot. Moving away from him and rising, the beat of its wings jerking its body. Sean fired.

  The rifle jumped back into his shoulder and the gunsmoke whipped away on the wind, so he could watch the bullet connect.

  The eagle collapsed in the air. It burst like a pillow in a puff of feathers and fell with its six-feet-long wings fluttering limply. Before it hit the ground Sean was running.

  It was dead when he reached it, but he reversed his rifle: holding it by the muzzle, he swung the butt down from above his head onto its body. At the third blow the butt of his rifle broke off, but he kept on hitting. He was sobbing with fury.

  When he stopped and stood panting the sweat was running down his face and his body was trembling. The eagle was a squashy mess of broken flesh and feathers.

  The calf was still alive. The rifle was jammed. Sean knelt beside it with tears of anger burning his eyes and killed it with his hunting-knife.