When the Lion Feeds (44 page)

Duff sat in the shade of a wagon and watched them work. His hurt hand was in a sling and his face was swollen, the wound crusty-looking and edged in angry red. When he was finished with the chain, Sean walked across to him. I'm sorry, Duff, we have to do it. They abolished the slave trade some time ago, just in case you didn't know. Duff tried to grin with his distorted face. He stood up and followed Sean to the hut.

Sean looped the loose end of the chain round Duff's waist. He locked it with a bolt through two of the links then flattened the end of the bolt with a dozen strokes of the hammer. That should hold you. An excellent fit, Duff commended him. Now let us inspect my new quarters. Sean followed him into the hut. Duff lay down on the bed. He looked very tired and sick. How long will it take before we know? he asked quietly.

Sean shook his head. I'm not sure. I think you should stay here at least a month, after that we'll allow you back into society. A month, it's going to be fun. Lying here expecting any minute to start barking like a dog and lifting my leg against the nearest tree Sean didn't laugh. I did a thorough job with the knife.

It's a thousand to one you'll be all right. This is just a precaution.

The odds are attractive, I'll put a fiver on it. Duff crossed his ankles and stared up at the roof. Sean sat down on the edge of the bed.

It was a long time before Duff ended the silence.

What will it be like, Sean, have you ever seen someone with rabies? No.

But you've heard about it, haven't you? Tell me what you've heard about it, Duff persisted. For Chrissake, Duff, you're not going to get it.

Tell me, Sean, tell me what you know about it. Duff sat up and caught hold of Sean's arm.

Sean looked steadily at him for a moment before he answered. You saw that jackal, didn't you?

Duff sank back onto his pillows. Oh, my God! he whispered.

Together they started the long wait. They used another tarpaulin to make an open shelter next to the hut and under it they spent the days that followed.

In the beginning it was very bad. Sean tried to pull Duff out of the black despair into which he had slumped, but Duff sat for hours at a time gazing out into the bush, fingering the scabs on his face and only occasionally smiling at the banquet of choice stories that Sean spread for him. But at last Seans efforts were rewarded, Duff began to talk.

He spoke of things he had never mentioned before and listening to him sean learned more about him than he had in the previous five years.

Sometimes Duff paced up and down in front of Sean's chair with the chain hanging down behind him like a tail; at other times he sat quietly, his voice filled with longing for the mother he had never known. , there was a portrait of her in the upper gallery, I used to spend whole afternoons in front of it. it was the kindest face I had ever seen Then it hardened again as he remembered his father, that old bastard.

He talked of his daughter. - she had a fat chuckle that would break your heart. The snow on her grave made it look like a big sugar-iced cake, she would have liked that -At other times his voice was puzzled as he examined some past action of. his, angry as he remembered a mistake or a missed opportunity. Then he would break off and grin self-consciously. I say, I am talking a lot of drivel. The scabs on his face began to dry up and come away, and more often now his old gaiety bubbled to the surface.

on one of the poles that supported the tarpaulin roof he started a calendar, cutting a notch for each day. it became a daily ceremony. He cut each notch with the concentration of a sculptor carving marble and when he had finished he would stand back and count them aloud as if by doing so he could force them to add up to thirty, the number that would allow him to shed his chain.

There were eighteen notches on the pole when the dog went mad. It was in the afternoon. They were playing Klabejas. Sean had just dealt the cards when the dog started screaming from among the wagons. Sean knocked over his chair as he jumped up. He snatched his rifle from where it leaned against the wall and ran down to the laager.

He disappeared behind the wagon to which the dog was tied and almost immediately Duff heard the shot. In the abrupt and complete stillness that followed, Duff slowly lowered his face into his hands.

it was nearly an hour before Sean came back. He picked up his chair, set it to the table and sat down. It's you to call, are you going to take on? he asked as he picked up his cards. They played with grim intensity, fixing their attention on the cards, but both of them knew that there was a third person at the table now. Promise you'll never do that to me, Duff blurted out at last.

Sean looked up at him. That I'll never do what to you? What you did to that dog. The dog! The bloody dog. He should never have taken a chance with it, he should have destroyed it that first night, Just because the dog got it doesn't mean that you Swear to me, Duff interrupted fiercely, swear you won't bring the rifle to me. Duff, you don't know what you're asking. Once you've got it, Sean stopped;

anything he said would make it worse.

Promise me, Duff repeated. All right, I swear it then. It was worse now than it had been in the beginning.

Duff abandoned his calendar and with it the hope that had been slowly growing stronger. If the days were bad then the nights were hell, for duff had a dream. It came to him every night, sometimes two or three times. He tried to keep awake after Sean had left, reading by the light of a lantern; or he lay and listened to the night noises, the splash and snort of buffalo drinking down at the waterhole, the liquid half-warble of night birds or the deep drumming of a lion. But in the end he would have to sleep and then he dreamed.

He was on horseback riding across a flat brown plain: no hills, no trees, nothing but lawnlike grass stretching away on all sides to the horizon. His horse threw no shadow, he always looked for a shadow and it worried him that there never was one. Then he would find the pool, clear water, blue and strangely shiny. The pool frightened him but he could not stop himself going to it.

He would kneel beside it and look into the water; the reflection of his own face looked up at him, animal-snouted , shaggy-brown with wolf teeth, white and long.

He would wake then and the horror of that face would last until morning.

Nearly desperate with his own utter helplessness, Sean tried to help him. Because of the accord they had established over the years and because they were so close to each other, Sean had to suffer with him.

He tried to shut himself off from it; sometimes he succeeded for an hour or even half a morning but then it came back with a stomach-swooping shock. Duff was going to die, Duff was going to die an unspeakable death. Was it a mistake to let someone get too deep inside you, so that you must share his agony in every excruciating detail? Didn't a men have enough of his own that he must share the full measure of another's suffering?

By then the October winds had started, the heralds of the rain: hot winds fall of dust, winds that dried the sweat on a man,'s. body before it had time to cool him, thirsty winds that during daylight brought the game to the waterhole in full view of the camp.

Sean had half a case of wine hoarded under his cot. That last evening he cooled four bottles, wrapping them in wet sacking. He took them up to Duff's shelter just before supper and set them on the table. Duff watched him. The scars on his face were almost completely healed now, glassy red marks on his pale skin.

Chateau Olivier, said Sean and Duff nodded. It's a good wine, most probably travel-sick. Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it away again, said Sean. I'm sorry, laddie, Duff spoke quickly. I didn't mean to he ungrateful. This wine suits my mood tonight. Did you know that wine is a sad drink? Nonsense! Sean disagreed as he twisted the corkscrew into the first cork Wine is gay. He poured a little into duff's glass and Duff picked it up and held it towards the fire so the light shone through it. You see only the surface, Sean. A good wine has the elements of tragedy within it. The better the wine the more sad it is.

Sean snorted. Explain yourself, he invited.

Duff put his glass down on the table again and stared at it. How long do you suppose this wine has taken to reach its present perfection? Ten or fifteen years, I suppose, Sean answered.

Duff nodded. "And now all that remains is to drink it the work of years destroyed in an instant. Don't you think that is sad? Duff asked softly. My God, Duff, don't be so damned morbid But Duff wasn't listening to him. Wine and mankind have this in common. They can find perfection only in age, in a lifetime of seeking. Yet in the finding they find also their own destruction. So you think that if a man lives long enough he will reach perfection? Sean challenged him, and Duff answered him still staring at the glass. Some grapes grew in the wrong soil, some were diseased before they went to the press and some were spoiled by a careless vintner, not all grapes make good wine Duff picked up his glass and tasted from it, then he went on. A man takes longer and he must find it not within the quiet confines of the cask but in the cauldron of life; therefore his is the greater tragedy. Yes, but no one can live for ever, Sean protested.

so you think that makes it less sad? Duff shook his head. You're wrong of course. It does not detract from it, it enhances it. If only there were some escape, some way of ensuring that what is good could endure instead of this complete hopelessness. Duff lay back in his chair, his face pale and gaunt-looking. Even that I could accept, if only they had given me more time. I've had enough of this talk. Let's discuss something else. I don't know what you're worrying about. You're not fit to drink yet, you've got another twenty or thirty years to go, Sean said gruffly and Duff looked up at him for the first time. Have 1, Sean? Sean couldn't meet his eyes. He knew Duff was going to die. Duff grinned his lopsided grin and looked down again at his glass. Slowly the grin disappeared and he spoke again.

if only I had more time, I could have done it. I could have found the weak places and fortified them. I could have seen the answers. His voice rose higher. I could have! I know I could have! Oh God, I'm not ready yet. I need more time. His voice was shrill and his eyes wild and haunted. It's too soon, it's too soon!

Sean couldn't stand it, he jumped up and caught Duff's shoulders and shook him.

Shut up, God damn you, shut up, he shouted at him.

Duff was panting, his lips were parted and quivering. He touched them with the tips of his fingers as though to stop them. I'm sorry, laddie, I didn't mean to let go like that. Sean dropped his hands from Duffs shoulders, Both of us are too damned edgy, he said. It's going to be A right, you wait and see. Yes, it will be all right. Duff ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his eyes. Open another bottle, laddie. That night after Sean had gone to bed, Duff had his dream again. The wine he had drunk slowed him down and prevented him from waking. He was trapped in his fancy, struggling to escape into wakefulness but only reaching the surface before he sank back to dream that dream again.

Sean went up to Duffs shelter the next morning early.

Although the night's coolness still lingered under the spreading branches of the wild figs the rising day promised to blow dry and burn hot. The animals could sense it. The trek oxen were clustered among the trees and a small herd of eland was moving from the waterhole, The bull, with his short thick horns and the dark tuft on his forehead, was leading his cows away to find shAde. Sean stood in the doorway of the hut and waited while his eyes adjusted themselves to its gloom. Duff was awake. Get out of bed or you'll have bed sores to add to your happiness.

Duff swung his feet off the litter and groaned.

What did you put in that wine last night? He massaged his temples gently. I've got a hundred hobgoblins doing a Cossack dance around the roof of my skull Sean felt the first twinge of alarm. He put his hand on Duff's shoulder feeling for the heat of fever, but Duff was quite cool. He relaxed. Breakfast's ready, said Sean. Duff played with his porridge and barely tasted the grilled eland liver. He kept screwing his eyes up against the glare of the sun and when they had finished their coffee he pushed back his chair. I'm going to take my tender head to bedAR right.

Sean stood up as well. We're a bit short of meat. I'll go and see if I can get a buck. No, stay and talk to me, Duff said quickly. We can have a few hands of cards. They hadn't played in days and Sean agreed readily. He sat on the end of Duff's bed and within half an hour he had won thirty-two pounds from him. You must let me teach you this game sometime, he gloated.

Petulantly, Duff threw his hand in. I don't feel like playing any more.

He pressed his fingers to his closed eyelids. I can't concentrate with this headache. Do you want to sleep? Sean gathered up the cards and put them in their box. No. Why don't you read to me?

Duff picked up a leather-bound copy of Bleak House from the table beside the bed and tossed it into Sean's lap.

Where shall I start! Sean asked. It doesn't matter, I know it almost by heart. Duff lay back and closed his eyes. Start anywhere. Sean read aloud. He stumbled on for half an hour with his tongue never quite catching the rhythm of the words.

Once or twice he glanced up at Duff, but Duff lay still with a faint sheen of sweat on his face and the scars very noticeable. He was breathing easily. Dickens is a powerful sleeping-draught for a hot morning and Sean's eyelids sagged down and his voice slowed and finally stopped.