The Sound of Thunder (45 page)

“I see from this morning’s paper that you’re engaged to be married’? ” “That’s right.”

“Well, then, break clean, no hitting low, let’s have a good fight and good luck to both of you Sean grinned and the clean man went down the passage. Sean packed his book into the briefcase, stood up and followed him.

On the balcony of the coach he stopped and lit a cheroot, their he leaned on the railings and looked out across the veld for his first glimpse of Lion Kop. This had become a ritual whenever he returned to Ladyburg.

This morning he was as happily content as he had ever been in his life. Last night, after conferring with Ma and Pa Gold berg, Ruth had set the wedding date for March next year. then Sean would have completed his first cutting of bark, an, they would take a month to honeymoon in the Cape Now, at last, I have everything a man could reasonably ask for, he thought, and smiled and in that moment he saw the smoke. He straightened up and flicked the cheroot away.

The train snaked up towards the rim of the escarpment, slowing as the gradient changed beneath it. It reached the crest and the whole vista of the Ladyburg valley opened below it. Sean saw the great irregular blot upon his trees, with the thin grey streams of smoke drifting wearily away across the hills.

He opened the balcony gate and jumped down from the train.

He hit and slid and rolled down the gravel embankment. The Skin was scraped from his knees and the palms; of his hands.

Then he was on his feet, running.

Along the road where the fire had been stopped men waited.

sitting quietly or sprawled in exhausted sleep, all of them were coated with ash and soot. Their eyes were smoke, inflamed and their bodies ached with fatigue. But they waited while the black acres smouldered and smoked sullenly, for if the wind came up again it would fan the ashes to life.

Ken Broster lifted his head from his arm, then sat up quickly.

“Sean’s here!” he said. The men around him stirred and then stood up slowly. They watched Sean approaching, he came with the sloppy, blundering legs of a man who has run five miles.

Sean stopped a little way off and his breathing wheezed and heaved in his throat.

“How? How did it happen?”

“We don’t know, Sean.” In sympathy Ken Broster dropped his eyes from Sean’s face. You do not stare at a man in anguish.

Sean leaned against one of the wagons. He could not bring himself to look again at the vast expanse of smouldering desert with the skeletons of the tree, trunks standing out of it like the twisted hand blackened fingers of an arthritic hand.

“One of your men was killed,” Ken told him softly. “One of your Zulus.” He hesitated, then went on firmly. “Others were hurt, badly burned.”

Sean made no reply, he did not seem to understand the words.

“Your nephew and your boy, Dirkie. ” Still Sean stared at him dully.

“Mbejane also. ” This time Sean seemed to cringe away from him.

“I sent them down to the homestead, the doctors there.

Still no reply from Sean, but now he wiped the palm of his hand across his mouth and eyes.

“Mike and Dirk aren’t too badly, burned, Mbeiane’s feet are in a hell of a mess.” Ken Broster spoke quickly now.

“Young Dirk got trapped in front of the flames. Mike and Mbejane went to get him … surrounded… down … picked him up … tried to help … useless… badly burned meat off his feet.

For Sean the words were disjointed, meaningless. He leaned against the wagon. There was looseness in him, a lack of will, It was too much. Let it go. Let it all go.

“Sean, are you all right?” Broster’s hands on his shoulders. He straightened up and looked around him again.

“I must go to them. Lend me a horse.

“You go ahead, Sean. We’ll stay on here and watch it for YOU.

Don’t worry about it, we’ll make bloody sure she doesn’t stan .

again.

“Thank you, Ken. ” Then he looked around the circle of ancious compassionate faces. “Thank you,” he said again.

Sean rode slowly into the stable yard on Lion Kop. There were many carriages and servants, black women and children, but a hush came upon them when they recognized him. Surrounded by women, a crude litter lay near the far wall of the yard and Sean walked across to it.

“I see you, Mbejane. ” “Nkosi.” Mbejane’s eyelashes were burned away giving his face a bland and slightly puzzled expression. His hands and his feet were bound loosely in bundles of crisp white bandages through which ointment had soaked in yellow patches. Sean squatted behind him. He could not speak. He reached out almost, hesitantly and touched Mbejane’s shoulder.

“Is it bad?” he asked then.

“No, Nkosi. It is not too bad. My wives have come for me I will return when I am ready.

They spoke together a little while, and Mbejane told him about Dirk and how Michael had come. Then he murmured, , This woman is the wife of the one who died.”

Sean noticed her for the first time. She sat alone in the crowded yard, on a blanket against the wall. A child stood beside her: leaning forward, naked, holding one of her fat, black breasts, with both hands as he fed from it. She sat impassively with her legs folded under her, a cloak of ochre, dyed leather drape loosely over her shoulders, but open at the front for the child Sean moved across to her. The child watched him with large eyes, but without removing the nipple from his mouth and the corners of his mouth were wet with spilled milk.

“He was a man,” Sean greeted the woman.

She inclined her head gravely. “He was a man!” she agreed.

“Where will you go?” Sean asked.

“To my father’s kraal.” The high headdress of red clay enhanced the quiet dignity of her reply.

“Select twenty head of cattle from my herds to take with you.

“Ngi Yabonga, I praise you, Nkosi.

“Go in peace.”

“Stay in peace. ” She stood, lifted the child on to her hip and walked slowly from the yard without looking back.

“I will go now, Nkosi.” Mbejane spoke from the litter. The colour of his skin was grey with pain. “And when I return we will plant again. It was only a small fire.”

“it was only a small fire.” Sean nodded. “Go in peace, my friend. Drink much beer and grow fat. I will visit you.

Mbejane chuckled softly and signalled his wives to their places around the litter. They lifted him, young women strong from their work in the fields, on to the soft mattress of fur, and they carried him out of the yard. They began to sing as they passed the gates, moving in double file on each side of the litter, stately and tall, their naked backs glistening with oil, rumps swaying together beneath the brief loin cloths, and their voices joined high and proud in the ancient song of welcome to the warrior returned from battle.

Gathered on the stoep of Lion Kop were many of his neighbours and their wives, come with sympathy and offers of assistance.

Ada was waiting for him as Sean climbed the steps.

“Dirk?” he asked.

“He is well, asleep now. Laudanum.

“Michael?”

“He is waiting for you. He refused the drug. I’ve put him in your room.

On his way down the passage Sean stopped at Dirk’s room and looked in. Dirk lay on his back with bandaged hands folded across his chest.

His face was swollen and laced with ugly red lines where the wattle branches had clawed him. beside his bed Mary sat in patient vigil. She looked at Sean and made to rise. Sean shook his head.

“No, I will come back when he is awake.” He went down the passage to his own room.

Three of Ada’s girls hovered and chirruped about Michael’s bed like birds whose nests are endangered. They saw him and stopped their chatter. All Ada’s girls held Sean in unexplained awe.

“Oh, Mr. Courtney. His poor hands one little lass began, then blushed crimson, dropped a hurried curtsey and escaped from the room.

The others followed quickly.

Sean moved across to the bed.

“Hello, Mike.” His voice was gruff, as he saw the blister that hung like a pale grape on Michael’s cheek.

“Hello, Uncle Sean.” The raw places of his face and lips were smeared with yellow ointment. Sean sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed

“Thank you, Michael,” he said.

Ronny Pye called early the following morning. With him came Dennis Petersen and both of them were wearing suits.

“Very fancy turnout,” Sean greeted them. “Business or social?

Well, you might say a little of each.” Ronny paused at the top of the veranda steps. ” May we come in?”

Sean led them to the end of the veranda, and they seated themselves before anyone spoke again.

“I heard about the fire, Sean. Terrible business. I heard there was a native killed and both Dirk and Michael were hurt. Terrible business.” Ronny shook his head in sympathy.

“Did you also hear that I lost four thousand acres of timber?

Sean inquired politely.

“Heard that also.” Ronny nodded solemnly. “Terrible business.

Ronny and Dennis glanced at each other furtively, and then looked down at their hands.

“Very nasty,” Ronny repeated and a silence fell upon them.

“Anything else worrying you?” Sean inquired politely.

“Well, now that you’ve brought it up— Ronny reached inside his jacket and withdrew a long folded document tied with a red ribbon.

“Mind you, we don’t have to discuss it today.

Leave it until you feel better?”

“Ok!” Sean grunted.

“Clause eight. ” Ronny spread the document between the coffee-cups on the table. “In the event of the said security, namely, a certain block of wattle known as No 2 block of Lion Kop Estates in extent approximately Ronny hesitated.

“Guess there’s no sense in me reading it all. You know what it says. That wattle was part of the collateral for the loan.

“How long will you give me to raise the money?” Sean asked.

“Well, Sean, you understand there is no period of grace allowed in the contract. Seems to me you’ll have to put it up right away.

“I want a month,” Sean told him.

“A month! ” Ronny was shocked and hurt by the request.

See here now, Sean. I don’t honestly-I mean, surely you’ve got the money. I mean why do you need a month? Just let us have your cheque.

“You know damned well I haven’t got it.”

“Seems to me-” Ronny offered delicately. “Seems to me if you haven’t got it now, there’s not much chance you’ll have it in a month.

No offence, Sean, but we have to look at this thing from a business angle. If you follow me.”

“I follow you.” Sean nodded. “And I want a month.”

“Give it to him,” blurted Dennis Petersen, his first contribution, and Ronny turned on him instantly with his face twisting into a snarl.

The struggle he had within himself to smooth out his features and to restore his voice to its level and reasonable tone lasted fully five seconds.

“Well now, Dennis,” he murmured. “That’s an unusual way to look at it. Seems to me-” “I spoke to Audrey before we came up here. I promised her … Anyway, we both agreed.” Dennis was staring out across the valley, unable to meet his partner’s eyes.

Suddenly Ronny Pye chucided. Yes, by all means, It would be seem better that way-watching this big arrogant bastard crawling round begging, with his hat in his hands. Sean would go to Jackson first and Ronny had telegraphed Jackson the previous afternoon. He had also telegraphed Nichols at the Standard Bank. By now the message would be spreading swiftly along the network of South African banking channels.

Sean Courtney would find it difficult to borrow the price of a meal.

“All right then, Sean. As a special concession you can have a month. ” Then all the laughter was gone and he leaned forward in his chair. “You’ve got exactly thirty days. Then, by Christ, I am going to sell out under you.

After they were gone Sean sat alone on the wide veranda. The sunlight on the hills was bright and hot, but in the shade it was cool.

He heard Ada’s girls chattering somewhere in the house, then one of them giggled shrilly. The sound irritated Sean, his frown deepened and he drew a rumpled envelope from his jacket pocket and smoothed it out on the arm of his chair. Awhile he sat in thought nibbling the stub of a pencil.

Then he wrote: “Jackson. Natal Wattle. ” And again, Standard Bank. ” Then

“Ben Goldberg. ” He paused and considered this last name on his list. Then he grunted aloud and scratched it out with two hard strokes of the pencil. Not from the Goldbergs. Leave them out of this.

He wrote quickly, scrawling a single word-“Candy” and below it “Tim Curtis.”

That was all. John Acheson was in England. It would take two months to receive a reply from him.

That was all. He sighed softly and folded the envelope into his pocket. Then he lit a cheroot, sank down in the chair and placed his feet on the low veranda wall in front of him. I’ll leave on tomorrow morning’s train, he thought.

The windows behind him were open. Lying beyond them in the bedroom Michael Courtney had heard every word of their conversation.

Now he stood up painfully from the bed and began to dress. He went out the back way and nobody saw him leave.

His horse was in the stables, and on a borrowed saddle he rode back to Theuniskraal.

Anna saw him coming and ran out into the yard to meet him.

“Michael! Oh, Michael. Thank God you are safe. We heard Then she saw his face and the raw, swollen burn on it and she from. Michael dismounted slowly and one of the grooms led his horse away.

“Michael, darling. Your poor face.” And she embraced him quickly.

“It’s nothing, Mother.”

“Nothing!” She pulled away from him, lips drawn into a tight, hard line. “You run away in the middle of the night to that … that Then you come home days later with your face and your hands in a terrible mess-is that nothing!

“I’m sorry, Mother. Gran’a looked after me.

“You knew I’d be half-dead with worry, sitting here imagining all sorts of things. You didn’t send word to me, you just let me, … “You could have come to Lion Kop, ” he said softly.

“To the home of that monster? Never! ” And Michael looked away from her.

“Where’s Father?