Burn My Heart (12 page)

‘Bwana kidogo! You mustn’t kill those birds!’

The inspector’s son swivelled on his heel, swinging the gun. Mugo stopped dead still. The gun pointed at him.

‘Who the hell are you, telling me what to do, boy?’ The icy eyes blazed.

Mugo’s pulse raced. ‘Please, bwana kidogo,’ he turned to Mathew, ‘please… tell your friend… about the bad luck… he must put down the gun.’

‘Don’t be mad, Lance! Mugo just wanted –’

But the inspector’s son didn’t let Mathew finish.

‘Why do you let your labour get so cheeky, Mat?’ He stepped forward with the gun, still pointing it at Mugo.

‘Seriously, Lance, it’s bad luck! Give me my gun!’ Mathew pleaded.

‘Don’t you ever dare tell me what to do, boy!’ the inspector’s son rasped at Mugo. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘I hear you, bwana kidogo,’ Mugo whispered, avoiding the mad mzungu’s eyes.

‘What? Speak up, boy!’

‘I – hear – you – bwana – kidogo,’ Mugo forced himself to speak louder. He clenched his fists to stop his trembling.

The inspector’s son lowered the gun and thrust it towards Mathew.

‘That’s the language they understand. Do you see, Mat?’

Mugo struggled to calm his breath. He never heard Mathew’s reply because at that moment Duma came haring towards the mzungu boys. Something long and feathery trailed from her mouth. She dropped it on the red earth at Mathew’s feet beneath the barrel of the gun. The mouse-like body with a neat grey crest and long grey tail fell on its side. Blood spurted from its white breast while one black eye gazed directly at Mugo.

‘Eh, eh!’ cried Mugo. His eyes darted accusingly from the dead go-away bird to the inspector’s son. He turned and ran.

‘We’ll cook it!’ Lance speared the dead bird with his pocket knife and lifted it. ‘Each one has to eat a mouthful.’

Mathew wrinkled his nose in dismay.

‘We eat bush meat. Why not bush bird, Mat? If we like it, we can eat it all.’

‘You still don’t understand, Lance! You’re not meant to kill go-away birds!’

‘Who says?’

‘In Kamau’s stories if somebody kills one, something bad always happens!’

‘You believe such mumbo-jumbo, Mat! Anyway, a secret society needs dares.’

It was impossible to win with Lance. In one breath he insulted and maddened, in the next he excited and cajoled. Since pledging their oaths, Lance seemed to have become even more infuriating. More than once, Mathew was tempted to rebel, recalling his small act of defiance in the bush above the inspector’s screening camp. Yet in school he
still enjoyed other children treating him as Lance’s best friend.

‘We have to make a fire, Mat. Somewhere no one can see us.’ Lance pulled out a box of matches from his pocket and rattled it. He had come prepared.

Mathew hesitated to suggest the narrow strip of land between the back wall of the stables and the security fence. It was his most private place, with a small den made of canes and sticks and covered with thatch, like a Kikuyu hut for storing grain. Of course Mugo had helped him. Mugo had also given him a few Kikuyu things to keep inside the hut… a broken bell for a bull’s nose, a sisal snare, a digging stick and a ball made of banana leaves. He could imagine Lance scoffing.

‘Wait here,’ he told Lance. ‘I’ll scout ahead.’

Mathew set off with his Red Ryder on one shoulder and Duma padding loyally beside him.

‘Lance is crazy, isn’t he?’ Mathew said in a confidential tone to Duma when they were out of Lance’s hearing. ‘Would you eat a go-away bird?’

The setter cocked her head up to Mathew, offering him a brief soulful glance.

‘You’re such a clever dog!’ Mathew patted her. ‘I bet you wouldn’t.’

At the stables, Mathew spied Kamau and a junior syce. They appeared to be busy with the chestnut mare. He waved the all-clear. Lance
sprinted across the garden and then coolly marched past the stables with the bird held up on his knife like a flag. Mathew cursed under his breath. Lance joined him at the far end of the building. Around the corner, purple bougainvillea grew along the side wall, before extending out as a hedge towards the security fence. It obscured the strip of land at the back of the stables. The entrance to Mathew’s hideout was a slim gap between the bougainvillea and the fence. Duma slunk through it while Mathew stationed himself a metre in front of the gap to look around. Apart from a couple of women on their knees, with their heads down weeding the flower beds on the far side, the garden was deserted. The chairs on the veranda were empty. There was no sign of Mother or Father. Once again, he gave the all-clear. Lance slipped through the gap. As Mathew sneaked after him, he heard a whistle. Lance had spotted the den. Duma had already settled down inside its shade.

‘You’re a sly one, not showing me –’

‘I’ll get wood for the fire.’ Mathew interrupted. He retreated through the bougainvillea before Lance had time to go on.

When he returned, Lance was engrossed in dissecting the bird with his knife. He had already taken off its head and tail. Mathew didn’t ask if Lance had taken a peek into his den. He looked for somewhere to build the fire. The only place
with dry earth and not much grass was around the den itself. He put down his armful of sticks, branches and a couple of small logs in front of it. There was barely two metres to the fence. On the other side was Father’s field of dried maize.

‘It’s not safe, Lance! We’re too near to the field,’ he said nervously.

‘Rubbish! You just don’t want to eat this, do you?’ Lance flicked the tail feathers across Mathew’s nose.

‘Get off !’ yelled Mathew.

‘Shhh! They’ll hear us!’ Lance chuckled. ‘It’s only a little fire, Mat. We’ll watch over it.’

Mathew yielded. The bird was so small that it wouldn’t take long to cook and they would put out the fire before they left. He wanted to show Lance how neatly he could make a fire even if he could never be as deft as Mugo. He began with a little ball of kindling twigs, then built up a tepee of sticks and a cabin of branches around the tepee. When the last pieces of wood were in place, he half expected Lance to insist on starting the fire himself. Instead Lance threw him the box of matches. Mathew lit one and slipped it through the tepee. The spark caught first time and he blew gently at the base to help the kindling. As smoke rose, he wondered about the smell. He hoped it wouldn’t carry into the stables. If Kamau came to investigate, he would tell them to put it out. Lance would be
difficult and Kamau would report them to Father… then Mathew would get the telling-off of a lifetime. Lance, however, seemed quite unworried. He produced a small ball of wire from his pocket that he unravelled and pierced through the go-away’s breast. Stringing the ends of the wire around two sticks, he gave one of them to Mathew. Both had to hold the bird above the fire with its blood dripping into the flames.

The heat burned Mathew’s face. If only he could think of the bird like a piece of chicken, then he would be able to fulfil the dare. After all, the herd boys caught all kinds of creatures from the bush to cook and eat. Lance was probably right. Kamau’s stories and Mugo’s warnings were just based on superstition. He should be more sensible.

Nevertheless, Mathew waited for Lance to take the first bite. The bird was still strung on the wire. By now its heart was surely burnt.

‘It’s good!’ Lance licked his lips. He passed the wire to Mathew with a wide smile. Duma had come out of the den to watch and drool.

Mathew would have been all right eating his first mouthful if, at that same moment, Lance hadn’t thrown the go-away’s crested head into the fire. Its black eye fixed Mathew with the stare of the dead as its crested feathers sparked into flames. A wild queasiness rose up from his stomach. He spun around and spat out the thing in his mouth.
The sickness rising inside him left him dizzy.

‘What’s wrong, Mat? I’ve eaten mine. It’s fine!’ He vaguely heard Lance but couldn’t help himself. He doubled over and was violently sick.

It was a while before he stopped shuddering. Duma came close to comfort him. Mathew avoided looking at Lance, waiting to hear his ridicule. Even worse, Lance might insist that Mathew still had to eat his share. Instead he was surprised.

‘Jeez, Mat, what happened?’ Lance actually sounded worried.

Mathew gestured ‘I don’t know’. Slowly, he made himself turn back towards the fire. To his relief and amazement, Lance had begun to throw on sand to put it out.

‘I heard your mother calling us. You didn’t hear her, throwing up like that!’ It sounded as if Lance was turning it into a joke. ‘Hurry! Give me a hand!’ He threw Mathew a digging stick to loosen some soil. Mathew recognized it as the stick he kept in his den. So Lance had gone inside. But, with his stomach still feeling raw, he said nothing as he began to dig while Lance threw on a few more handfuls of sand.

‘Mathew! Lance! Where are you?’

This time he heard Mother call. It sounded as if she had come into the garden to look for them. The last thing he wanted was for her to peer through the bougainvillea and see signs of a fire.
There wasn’t time now to think how to cover it up completely. They just had to get Mother off their track. An idea flew into Mathew’s head.

‘Slip out when Mother turns her back,’ he instructed Lance. ‘Tell her I’m hiding but you’ll find and bring me. I’ll sort out the fire.’

For once, Lance didn’t argue. He did what Mathew said.

There were no longer any flames but the larger pieces of wood were still burning. Mathew kept on digging and throwing on more sand. The best thing would be to bring some water to douse it and be absolutely sure. However, with Mother in the garden and Father probably sitting on the veranda with his early evening drink, he couldn’t do it right away. Instead he doubled his efforts to get more sand from the hard dry earth. By the time he heard Lance whistling for him to come out, he was satisfied that he had done a good job. All that remained was a little smouldering from the largest piece of wood. That should soon die out. No red embers remained. He picked up his Red Ryder. Duma stretched and shook herself. Mathew was already feeling a little better.

‘Come, Duma. Shall we see what Josiah has for us?’

Mathew was woken in the night by Father shouting. Outside the horses were whinnying frantically. He
rolled out of bed in panic and fumbled across the room to his door. The corridor light was on. The front door banged and he heard the bolt being pulled across. Mother came hurrying towards him in her nightgown, pistol in one hand, pointed to the floor. Her hair was down and her eyes frightened. Her words tumbled in a fearful rush.

‘Lock your windows! Don’t put on the light! I’ll have to wake Lance!’

But the door to the spare bedroom had already opened. Lance stood bemused in his pyjamas.

‘Where’s Father gone?’ Mathew yelled.

‘The stables! Lock up and hurry to Father’s study!’ Mother disappeared with Lance into the spare room.

Mathew’s mind ran riot as he stumbled back across his room. Dead guards, slashed security fences, intruders in the stables attacking the horses… and Father single-handedly trying to confront them. If the intruders got into the house, there was only Mother and her pistol. He hoped that she had the key to Father’s safe, so he could get his Red Ryder. He crouched below the window sill and thrust up a hand behind the curtains. He groped for the handle to pull the window shut. As he did so, his nose prickled. Something was burning. Looking up, he glimpsed the night sky. There was something wrong with its colour. Heart racing, he stood up and put his eye to the slit between the
curtain and the window frame. A peculiar orange haze clouded the sky on his right… the direction of the stables.

Ignoring Mother’s instructions, he dashed down the empty corridor towards the lounge. The French windows faced the stables and the maize field. He threw open the door. Even before he reached the windows, he sensed the unusual light behind the curtains. The horses’ whinnying was louder than ever. He lifted a corner of the material. Scarlet flames soared above the stables. Clouds of smoke billowed upwards. Thank goodness, the wind was carrying them away from the house. Already the fire stretched as far as he could see across the maize field. Mathew’s eyes veered desperately across the garden that was bathed in an eerie light. There were shadows everywhere but no obvious sign of intruders.
Where was Father?
The question hammered through his brain until there was a burst of movement from the stables. Father’s stallion galloped out into the garden. Wild with terror, four other horses followed, including the grey and chestnut mares. The stallion suddenly careered away from the others, bolted past the French windows and disappeared around the front of the house. Was it hoping to get out of the gate?

Father now appeared at the entrance to the stables, silhouetted against flames. With his pistol
raised, and with eyes sweeping left and right, Father also ran in the direction of the gates. Was he going to get help from the guards? Behind him, the bougainvillea bush burned brightly. The stables, the maize field and the strip of land between them, would be reduced to ashes by morning. It was like a scene from one of his war comics… or a nightmare. Mathew pinched his arm until it hurt. No, this was real enough. As real as the fact that he had forgotten to go back to his den and the dying fire with a jug of water. He watched, mesmerized, paralysed with fear.

‘I told you to come to the study!’ Mother startled him. She and Lance entered the lounge.

‘Father has saved the horses, Mother!’ His voice was no more than a whimper.

Lance slipped past Mathew to peep through the curtains.

‘Jeez!’ His face looked almost as white as Father’s stallion.

‘Come away from –’

A loud knocking interrupted Mother. Father’s voice from outside the front door sent them all scurrying to it. Mother pulled back the bolt.

Father stepped inside, coughing. He was blackened from soot and ash.

‘Oh my goodness!’ Mother gasped. ‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No, probably far away already! Burning our
maize is one thing but setting light to my
horses
…’ Father smouldered with rage. ‘It’s despicable!’