CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cyrena trusted Marais with her life, or, more important, with the meaning of it. She had trusted him when she was a child and blind, and she hoped that he would be there for her all of his days, even with the fierce cruelty of physical distance between them. And with the diminishing of his fragile health.
She would never forget their meeting at the time of her father’s funeral. She saw him with her vivid eyes, which saw the world anew, without the long filter of time to numb the harshness. She also knew something else had grown between them at that time, now that she was a woman.
And she also saw his vulnerability and stubbornness, especially when she tried to warn him about entering the Vorrh.
He had stared at her across the crowded room with a recognition that strained too far. He saw her shine in the sombre darkness of that day.
He could not wait to draw her aside and talk about her gift of sight.
“How did it happen? Was it a slow accumulation or did it happen in one startling moment?”
Before she could answer he spoke again.
“Forgive me for being so blunt, so crude, but I never expected this. When your father wrote to me saying that you could now see, I imagined a slightness of vision, not a complete, perfect condition. I don’t think I have ever heard of such a thing. And certainly the doctors in London that we consulted never suggested that such a thing was possible.”
“It was a miracle,” she said quietly.
They talked for hours, he asking many questions, which she happily answered without ever mentioning the existence of Ishmael, whose touch had restored her vision with no explanation. It wasn’t. Then it was.
Before he left they again swore to keep in touch and again she let her promise slide, this time for a different reason. Because in that sad day she had sensed two things about the great man which scared and surprised her. Firstly, the weird detachment that he had from the world that all else lived in. What she had thought to be only a misunderstanding held in place by her vivid childhood memory proved to be an actual tangible fact. Even while they spoke about her father and dined and drank with others at the funeral feast she sensed a division in him, as if some part was elsewhere or listening to something that was far off and remote. It never affected his warmth or engagement with her; in fact it strengthened the latter, no doubt because it was as if they were the only two people in the room. The second thing which surprised and unnerved her was their powerful mutual attraction. He of course was double her age, but this made no difference. His presence and the uniqueness of his mind illuminated his heart and how she imagined him physically. She could hear that he too understood this, and the flattery made him falter and question what he was feeling in such a place and time. Their departure had been unexpectedly painful. Each holding a great longing for the other without the nerve to dare to believe it to be true, shocked by the speed and momentum of its sensation. She had even suggested to him that he stay on for a few days after the other guests had gone.
“That would have been such a pleasure, I wish I had considered it before. Now my travel plans are firmly established. It’s very generous of you to offer. I know little of this part of the country and you would have made such an excellent guide.”
Cyrena smiled and took his arm.
“I have arranged to meet another friend and travel back together after visiting the Vorrh.”
“How do you plan to do that?” she asked.
“We thought we might hire horses and travel through its lower territories. My friend has some business at the garrison on the far side, in the kraal of the True People.”
They had been gently walking as they spoke, and she now stopped.
“But that’s not possible, you would be in the forest for more than four days. It’s much better to take the eastern route close to the river, which leads straight to those troubled lands. But even that is fraught with danger.” Her grip on his arm had changed.
“Cyrena, my dear, do you believe in these witch-doctor tales of monsters and malicious forces in the Vorrh?”
“Yes, Oom, I do, we all do. There is something not right. Something malignant in the great forest; a condition that seriously affects the memories of men. Any amount of time in there will begin to erase parts of the mind. My family has harvested it for two generations and all our relations with it are at extreme arm’s length.”
“Now you are really interesting me.” Marais grinned.
“I am in deadly earnest. Ask any member of the guild. Ask anybody in this city.”
“All right, my dear, I am listening and taking you seriously. I think I’d better do my homework first.” He placed his hand over her arm and they started walking again.
“Well, at least talk to Quentin Talbot before you set one foot in that direction. Or his protégé, a young man called Fleischer, who has made notable studies of its folk history and collected many stories of past travellers.”
“Those that remembered what they saw,” he joked.
“I believe in some of those stories, that they tell the truth about that place.”
“Yes, I am sure they do in some way.” He saw that his attempt at humour was producing the opposite effect, so he quickly reversed and joined in with a parallel comparison to her sincerity.
“Do you see any value in these stories?” she asked with a splinter of distrust in her voice.
“Many scientific facts are hidden in the dull purse of village fiction and even the stupefying effect of the Vorrh might be explained.”
She said nothing.
“And it is more than possible that such a vast mass of vegetable growth might affect a human mind.”
Cyrena was now paying close attention to Marais’s words.
“How is that possible?” she asked.
“Certain toxins exist in the bark and leaves of many species of plant. And some saps can be hallucinogenic.”
“Could they take memory?”
“No, not exactly. I use these examples to say that the vegetable kingdom is not necessarily on the side of mankind.”
“You make it sound like an enemy.”
He looked deep into her peculiar eyes. “No, I say that trees could fight back if they had reason to do that.”
“How?”
“Transpiration would be my guess. If they became tired of men, they could starve them of oxygen or change the consistency of the air we breathe. Do you know how little change it would take to wipe out all breathing creatures?”
She shook her head.
“It’s been estimated that a change of three percent in oxygen levels would be seriously felt. Ten percent would choke all mammalian life, and fifteen percent would finish us forever.”
He was getting excited with these ideas and a slight tremor attached itself to his energy.
“If trees were really clever they might mix the low oxygen levels with other gases, to turn men’s minds, so that after a number of years or even generations they might become insane and more violent, and eventually annihilate each other. That potential and condition has been demonstrated from the beginning of humankind and in lesser ways in most other species in the animal kingdom.”
Cyrena was aware that his mind was speeding, rushing through a forest of questions and conclusions.
“Of course that is the astonishing difference between the two kingdoms that flourish and populate the earth. They live in different times and understandings, side by side. The vegetative being lost in a long thinking that communicates across all its species, sharing the common purpose of reproduction and survival in union. While the animal realm is driven by conflict and violence to achieve the same ends. Species against species in the gory imperative of the food chain. Mankind would happily butcher and devour every other living thing to expand its domain and keep its sex drive overactive.”
He suddenly looked up and grinned at her expression of shock. He swallowed and decided that she might just have had enough of his darkening speculation.
“But tell me something else about your part of the world.”
Her eyes refocussed on him.
“The True People, are they calm these days?” he asked.
“Yes, as far as we know. The uprising was many years ago now. We have some trade with them and our agents report nothing sinister.”
“Good, then I shall take your advice and go straight to them. They made some wonderful artifacts during their famous Possession Wars.”
“Please take care, Oom, you are very dear to us.” Her father’s death had still not truly settled in, and her speaking for them both made her affection seem even greater.
“Don’t worry about me, my dear, I am solid Afrikaans.”
The next morning he was gone and her life changed direction and depth.
Soon after, Cyrena inherited her father’s house and esteemed position in the family business in Essenwald, while her brother returned to the lowlands of Europe to protect their interests there and run the receiving yards of their highly valued wood. The Timber Guild would never allow her a seat at its meetings. But respect was given to her by all its members after the unexpected death of her father.
Marais had left Essenwald with Cyrena’s eyes still burning in his head. And some part of him feared the intensity. He forcefully switched his focus to the expedition ahead, knowing that the vastness of the forest would overwhelm such emotional disturbances. The concentration it demanded and the plain common sense of his travelling companion, Koos Nel, would establish a very different landscape of sensations. He had met up with Koos Nel at the De Bruck stables, chosen their horses, and now followed the directions suggested by the pompous young man named Fleischer, whom Cyrena had so enthusiastically recommended. Much of what Fleischer had said about the Vorrh was obviously nonsense, but his understanding of pathways and topographic features seemed sound. Marais had said nothing about the meeting he was hoping to have in a place near the western chapel path. A meeting in which he hoped to purchase some artifacts that had survived the Possession Wars.
They left the rim of the city, all sight of it devoured by the enclosure of trees.
They found a gully between the trees after an hour of searching. Koos Nel spurred his big, reluctant bay onto the path that they supposed was a track, with Marais’s smaller filly following.
Koos was a farmer and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a man who could be trusted in a squeeze. They had known each other since late childhood, and renewed their comradeship when the poet had returned from Europe. Koos had never held a moral opinion about his friend’s addiction. There was no difference in his mind between morphine and gin. He had even accepted Marais’s weird ideas about hunting and how to treat the Kaffirs. When Koos had been invited along on this trip up north, he had jumped at the chance to leave his wife and sons and their greedy farm for a few days’ “sport” with his old pal the scholar. While Marais had been in the grandeur of the Lohrs’ mansion, Koos had been sampling the backroom pleasures of the Scyles, disposing of a good deal of his “travelling fund” in the process. He now hoped to top it up by joining in Marais’s treasure hunt. They were an incongruous pair, trotting tightly between the enormous trees. Marais’s spare leanness was stiff and agile against his mount, his long bony face and rampant eyes shifting to catch every movement around him, while Koos sat back in his saddle with the ease of a bored ploughman—large, muscular, and reserved, in the sense that he never wasted energy but held it contained, ready and waiting. He negotiated his way through the world with instinct and quick active response. In his youth those “talents” had been ill used by bouts of violent anger, often fuelled by excessive drinking. His broken nose and irregular knuckles still bore witness to those far-off days of thrilling scallywaggery. Solid farm work and management had slowed and matured him, but never really tamed his deep animal power and his delight in testing it. He was a foot and a half taller than Marais, as was his horse, which meant that he continually had to duck under low branches as they rode farther into the sumptuous depths of the gigantic forest. Where the trees were thicker, they dismounted and trudged ahead at a more cautious pace. Marais held a green army compass in one hand and kept a careful watch on the sun. The light was dazzling against the great trees and the solitude was growing as the slow horses snorted a steady passage.
He had recently heard of a German called Leo Frobenius who had just arrived in Africa and planned on staying for years to dig and destroy—another adventurer looting Africa, this time for cultural artifacts. During Frobenius’s excavations he started to ask his workers what they thought of the objects “he found.” He started to collect those explanations and stories. The rumours and myths that have verbally recorded the history of all tribes across the surface of the earth and their attempts at manipulating the planet’s powers. Many of the stories had doppelgängers in other parts of the world. Impossible coincidences of narrative invention that echoed in opposite continents. One of the stories that came to light was identical to a pre-Christian tale found all over Europe, that of the green man: a creature of the forests and wild places that is the spirit of the earth and vegetation, all that is not human. Frobenius became obsessed with the Black Man of the Vorrh: a fiercer, darker being of the eternal night and depth of the jungle. There were also versions of something like this in the complex pantheon of Hindu myth. Perhaps, Marais thought, he could find this Black Man himself. He was a storyteller, after all, and what better story than that of creation?
“I think we should go for two hours and then turn and follow our tracks back out,” said Koos. “Then we can skirt around and find your dealer of illicit goods.”
Marais groaned a good-natured ascent. Troupes of monkeys called from the canopy, brushing flights of loudly coloured birds swirling among the branches.
“Magnificent,” said Marais, who greatly enjoyed the contrasts to his own beloved plains.
“What’s the game like in here?” asked Koos, patting the polished butt of his saddled carbine.
“Nothing you would be interested in.”
Ten minutes later they met a fork in the path, one that ran at right angles westwards. Marais was already consulting his compass when Koos asked, “Do you think this might be a shortcut, a way of flanking towards your meeting point, save going all the way back?”
Marais looked doubtful. “We could give it a go, see where it takes us for a bit,” he responded, trying to ignore the buzzing in his head and the empty ache in his empty veins. They mounted and turned the horses, who sniffed at the new path as they entered.
“What’s that?” Koos said, pointing up into the trees.
Marais saw it too: a large mottled creature had slid from its camouflage and was shifting its position, hanging high in the trees.
“Maybe a sloth or a…” He faltered, not having a name for what he saw. He did not recognise or understand the creature that was moving at a snail’s pace, crossing the branches.
“There’s only one way of finding out,” said Koos, the truncated rifle already in his hands.
Marais had long since learned that arguing with hunters was a waste of time. Anyway, he was curious to see what the creature was and there was only one way of reaching it. Koos worked the bolt, aimed, and fired three times in quick succession. Each round found its mark with a hard thud and a shiver. After the third the animal ceased moving with a slight whimper that might have been only the sound of the vines receiving its lifeless weight. They stared upwards, waiting for it to drop. Leaves and twigs tumbled languidly onto their upturned faces; each danced momentarily in the quiet bright sun that sent lazy spokes through the canopy. The beast held its position until the birds forgot the shots and began singing again. Then it twisted around. But instead of releasing its grip and falling, the creature peeled, like an overripe banana, from the head down, its body splitting and unzipping before them.
“Christ, what is it?” said Koos, shielding his eyes with his large hand.
Marais did not have an answer. He realised he was watching an unknown species die before him. After an agonising and silent time, it fell from trees in an asymmetrical, sodden parachute of skin. Koos dismounted and gave his reins to Marais, who watched as he approached the collapsed mass. He held his rifle out before him, knowing that not all prone creatures were defenceless. He walked around it and kicked it.
“Well, what kind of thing is it?” asked Marais.
Koos was very quiet and bent down to look even closer. Something in his sturdy gait had changed. He looked back at his comrade with strange eyes.
“Well?” insisted Marais again.
“I think it might have been a man,” he said quietly.
Marais dismounted and pulled both horses behind him. As he drew closer they resisted, stepping backwards, pulling against the reins in his firm grip.
“Take them, let me look,” he commanded.
Koos happily complied, walking away from the split fleshy pod. Marais knelt close to it and smelt its strange aroma of cinnamon and seashells. He peeled its fibrous winglike flaps away and saw the fragments of a rib cage smothered in its density. He poked inside it with his crop, moving the wrecked cranium that was elongated to look like a stalk. He rolled it over and saw that a dense black-brown mass like stiff hair protruded from its back, following the ripples of a knobbly spine. The horses were still shying backwards, neighing and shaking their heads against the tight reins.
“What the fuck is it?” said Koos, shouting over his shoulder while arguing with the nags.
“God knows, I have never seen anything like it before. We should take it back for dissection.”
“You are joking,” said Koos. “It’s already spooking the horses and stinking the place up.”
“We could make a sledge and pull it out.”
“You could. I want nothing to do with it.”
“But, Koos, this is unique.”
“Look, man, the day is wearing and we have got other business here. If we cart that fucking thing with us, we’ll never make the west side before dark.”
Marais looked at the sun, already forked in the high branches. He realised that his friend was right and stood up and walked away from the prize specimen and back to his mount.
“Perhaps we might come back for it tomorrow?”
Koos ignored that and said, “Let’s go back the way we came.”
With great reluctance Marais mounted his sweating horse and turned it back the way they had come. After twenty minutes Koos stopped.
“Have we missed it?”
Marais’s head was pounding and his veins were aching for their fix, but this was far too early. He hadn’t expected his need to come barking and scratching for at least another five hours.
“I said have we missed it?”
“What?” groaned Marais.
“The turning, man, the spoor back.”
They were gullied in a gently curving track, thick trees on either side.
“We must have missed it.”
They turned the horses again and slowly rode back the way they had just come. No junction appeared and they stopped only when the horses started to object. They were at the spot where the mysterious creature had fallen. Except that it was not there.
“It must have been taken by scavengers,” said Koos.
Marais said nothing. They turned the horses again and took five paces before Koos spat-whispered, “Christ.” He was looking through the interior trees.
“What?” whispered Marais, instantly infected by his friend’s sudden violent quietness. Koos just pointed. It took Marais’s bleary eyes moments to focus onto the dappled and vine-crossed interior. Then he saw it. The thing Koos had shot, standing upright twenty feet away and appearing to be looking straight at them. It was one again, its limp skin zipped up, back in place.
“It can’t be,” said Koos, his hand already on his carbine.
“Is it another one?” Marais was rubbing his aching head. The watching pod appeared to bend as if looking more intently. As it flexed, two of the wounds in its smooth mottled skin opened and closed like kissing mouths.
“Christ,” said Koos.
Then the horses bolted. They charged through the curved channel in the trees with both men furiously yanking their reins and demanding the animals to halt. But nothing would slow them and they were now running at full tilt. Both men were experienced bush equestrians, but they were finding it difficult to stay in their saddles, especially as hitherto unnoticed low-hanging branches and thick swaying liana were threatening to snatch or wipe them off the horses. The forest sped past with a new intensity that made the riders’ flesh creep under the spray of their sweat and the thin paper cuts from the hanging, whipping leaves. Suddenly they were in a clearing; the horses spun and reared, kicking dust from the perimeter road, and finally stopped. They were back where they had begun, panting outside the vast forest. The Vorrh had spat them out. They continued on their way to a chapel where they were told “goods” would be on sale.
Never trust the Men Without Substance to tell the truth, especially about the power of their gods. The True People would never be fooled again. The white men were pilfering all their sacred artifacts and instruments of divination in exchange for crossed sticks, thick books, and too many clothes, and that would never be forgotten. None of the old deities of their forefathers would ever leave the village again. The Possession Wars had reestablished the old gods back in their rightful home. And some of the sacred objects that came into being before the great conflict were equally prized. One such was the roughly circular block of dried mud called “the crown.” It was not unlike a thick heavy cow pat. Straw and root fibres mixed with the mud to hold it in one piece. Charms and amulets were woven into its tightness. Its name came from the regular gold-coloured protuberances that made an elliptical pattern on the surface of the block, each sticking out an inch above the sunbaked earth. The rest of the surface had been painted and drawn with the story of the crown. Pictographs and glyphs telling how the crown had once belonged to the prized Irrinipeste and was worn by her legendary mother when she gave birth in the depth of the Vorrh. Nobody knew who had inscribed the object thus, but its status was unquestionable.
The Irrinipeste cult had caused a fracture inside the unity of the tribe and this had been deepened by the Sea People’s claim that Irrinipeste had imprisoned their messianic saviour, whom they called Oneofthewilliams but who was her lover, the Bowman, Peter Williams.
So the sanctity of the crown was held solid by most of the elders of the True People. Some said that it had been made of rare mud taken from deep and holy wells. Others that Irrinipeste’s mother had brought it from the other side of the world. Some believed it was sleeping, some thought it dead. Most were afeared to touch it.
It lived with other lesser objects of power in the longhouse of the the zealots of the Irrinipeste cult, protected by the Tarpfa family, one of the oldest clans of the True People, until Kweki Tarpfa stole everything and ran towards the dwellings of the Men Without Substance, who were said to be buying such things for a small fortune. Kweki was running low and wild. The small bag that was strapped tight to his chest was not heavy, but its irregular load frayed and scratched his worried skin. He had stolen the sacred crown and the joined coconut shells that were called the head bones and an armful of lesser trophies and was heading towards the edge of the Vorrh, where he knew men would meet to buy these things.
He was running out of his history, his tribe, and his life. He reached the place of barter by the old broken chapel before the bidders arrived and sat on the scuffed fractured wall until they came. The loud man who was there collecting for Leo Frobenius arrived first. Then another, who was there for Nebsuel, and a tall silent man who watched everybody else with great care. They observed one another with anxious, controlled eyes. Tarpfa said he was not ready to begin the auction but wanted to rest and wait for the allotted hour. Frobenius’s man seemed irritated. Sometime later, when they were just about to begin, a squat, very black man in a green robe appeared, apparently out of the forest. He said he was called Iron Engine. Nobody laughed or passed comment. Iron Engine did not look the type to share a jest about his name. The sound of horses broke the tension, and Marais and Koos Nel rode in and joined the group.
“A rough journey, bwana?” said Lupo, the richly costumed emissary of Frobenius. Everybody ignored him and looked at Tarpfa, who got up from his squatting position and started to unwrap his bundles. He laid out the prized objects in a ragged line on the low wall, touching each as if it were precious Meissen. Three of the bidders scurried forth. Marais sauntered behind them, demonstrating a dignified curiosity. The silent man just watched. Lupo was acting like his boss and elbowed his way to the front, being the first to touch the crown and barking his bid. The auction had begun: each man bidding for his chosen object, each in his own currency. Tarpfa sat back to watch them squabble and started calculating the various values in his head. The crown was the prized item. All had placed bids on it except the quiet man who now held the halo of dried mud in his careful hands. Nebsuel’s man had made a minor bid because he was interested only in a dull leather bag that contained mangled and besmirched charms. Lupo wanted everything and had no difficulty in pushing the stakes higher than most others could afford. He stood proud and defiant, just saying “All” and giving his price.
“A bit selfish to want everything, couldn’t ya leave something for somebody else?” said Koos automatically.
“Money or be gone,” said the bidder to Koos, and Marais put a restraining hand on his friend’s wrist, holding back his tense fist and riding crop.
“Leave him,” Marais hissed.
Koos unclenched at his friend’s request.
“It’s all fucking mumbo-jumbo crap anyway,” he said, turning away and fishing in his pockets for his cigarettes.
It appeared that the auction was over and that Lupo would bring Frobenius a king’s ransom. Not that Lupo would have ever mentioned his master’s name. He would own these goods himself for a day or so and then sell them to Bwana Leo for twice the price. Most of the other bidders just stood around, dejected and gloomy, still admiring the line of ugly objects. Iron Engine stepped forward and held out his round polished fist. Then he dramatically placed a single irregular brown object on the crumbling wall next to the coconut shells that he so wanted.
“Head bones, one possidum,” he said.
There was an intake of breath and the expression on Lupo’s face changed utterly. None of them had ever seen a possidum, but everyone knew what it was and that it was more valuable than anything else on the slumped wall or all the coins that the other bidders had called out before. Tarpfa walked over on stiff, unbelieving legs and stared at the dirty-brown octagonal lump. All began to move towards it, except Lupo, whose jaw had locked with rage and humiliation.
“What’s a possidum?”
It could have been only Koos who did not know. He was whispering, again looming over Marais’s shoulder.
“May we touch?” asked another bidder.
“Sure thing.” Iron Engine beamed and made a magnanimous gesture, displaying an alarming array of gold teeth.
Marais took Koos aside. He was very excited and anxious to explain.
“It’s very valuable: a fabled ancient treasure, truly a handmade enigma, very rare and never seen in these parts.”
“Where’s it from?”
“That is a very good and almost impossible question, only matched by ‘where’s it going,’ ” said Marais, a fierce twinkle in his clear eyes.
“Don’t riddle me, man, just give it to me clear and simple.”
“It comes from a place that most people think never existed. A land of another god where all was perfection. A land that vanished beneath the sea thousands of years before Jehovah was conceived of.”
“Christ!” said Koos.
“And a hell of a long time before him,” Marais continued. “That chunk of pure gold is the only known artifact from that fabled land. Every scholar and witch doctor has heard stories about its value. It was some sort of currency. For buying not property, goods, and chattel but knowledge in its purest form. One of those is the key to absolute gnosis.”
“Christ,” said Koos, not really understanding.
“They are very rare and some say they can give one the ultimate truth. Can you guess it?”
Koos looked blank.
“The soul’s journey. Existence itself.” And here he pointed to the hushed men who held the metal object with enormous reverence.
“One of those might be the key to eternity. Beyond heaven itself to the other side of everything. There are men all over the world who would give their right arm and more for that thing.”
“Christ,” said Koos. “But why is he wasting it on that broken tat?”
The question was never answered because it and all the concentration and respect of the little group was broken when Lupo pushed his way in between everybody and snarled.
“Take your wretched head-bone shells. I will buy the rest. All else.”
He glared down at the jet-black man with the gold teeth, who made a gesture of contempt, showing that he would endure no more of this upstart’s insults.
“You will own nothing today,” he said, turning his back on his new, angry, overdressed enemy. Iron Engine then retrieved the possidum and addressed Tarpfa directly, putting the small heavy weight in the thief’s hand and forcibly closing his fingers around it. “I will buy all with this. I will take the head bones myself and give all else to these good fellows.” He waved a thick black hand in the general direction of the assembled gawping men.
“But,” he said, “he gets nothing.” And here he pointed into the furious face of the man who had just lost Frobenius everything.
While the tension sizzled, the thief agreed, with the proviso that if anyone here wanted the same thing, then they would have to bid again and that he would split the profits with Iron Engine, who laughed back.
“You keep all,” he said. He carefully picked up the broken coconuts, wrapping them like a newborn child in brightly coloured silk. He then said his salaams and walked back into the forest. All but one applauded him as he disappeared with his back to them, waving.
When he was finally gone and the clapping had ceased, they turned towards the objects and the snarling, defeated bidder. They ignored him and debated quietly among themselves.
Lupo knew that he had lost not just the auction but also his job and the trust of the man who had changed his life. There were hundreds, thousands who would have done anything to gain Bwana Leo’s patronage. His failure today meant that he would be replaced instantly from the queue of eager, devoted young men who sought his place in the world. He decided that now the arrogant fool was gone he could deal with these dithering men, could win them over and start the bidding again, and if it did not work, he would kill them. If not here and now, then later. After that he would track his enemy back into the Vorrh and slit his fat throat and take the broken shells for himself.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “May we begin again. My sponsor only seeks two of these goods, so shall we agree on one artifact each?”
Before any of the bidders could open their mouths, Koos stepped forward.
“You must be deaf, man. You ain’t getting a goddamn thing. Make tracks.”
“I have the right to buy!” shouted Lupo, suddenly enraged by the insult of this obviously penniless white lout. He demonstrated his full height, taking long steps forward and puffing out the breadth of his shining black chest, adorned in golden chains.
“You have the right to fuck off before you get my boot up your arse,” said Koos. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Then the emissary made the biggest mistake of his life. He kept coming, and as he did so, he drew an ornate curved dagger from his waistband. Everybody flinched except Koos, who dropped his cigarette and then made minor adjustments to every part of his body. Three fast steps away and trapped in his own growing momentum Lupo knew he had made a terrible error. He saw it in Koos’s eyes and in his grin, just before the Boer launched himself low and horizontal, his stiff muscular leg pistoning out. The heavy steel-tipped boot smashed sideways into the running assailant’s leading leg, just below the kneecap. The force stopped the lower leg in an instant, so that the whole, full-speed weight of the man toppled over the static knee and ripped it apart against the joint. He fell in the dust screaming as Koos moved aside and stood up, brushing dust off his shorts. He thought about kicking the sobbing fool in his stupid mouth, but couldn’t be bothered when he saw Lupo’s wrecked leg swelling to comic proportions. He fished in his pockets for another cigarette as he walked past the buyers who stared up at him, but they were already thinking about dividing the goods. The grovelling man had stopped crying and passed out, his fine gown covered in the loose dust. He lay in the scratched composition of his own expressive agony that was drawn around him in the thick, dry earth.
Before each man had begun to decided which fetish they wanted, the silent man stepped forward again holding the crown of mud.
“This must be yours,” he said with great solemnity, holding the thing out to Marais. For some unknown reason, nobody seemed to want to argue or disagree with him. They turned away to paw over the other fragments that remained. Marais looked closely at his benefactor.
“Thank you,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Another white man called me Seil Kor.”
“Where are you from, Seil Kor?”
The tall man’s dignified face broke into a beaming smile. “That, Herr Marais, is a more difficult question. Shall we just say I know the Vorrh and the god that walks in its inner garden. These are my lands and they have held me well.”
“You know my name?”
“Yes, but not you.”
“Why do you give me this and what is it?”
“I once was lost with a white man in this forest. He spoke only French and could see only with his imagination, which lived at home. We were lost together in two different places. This magical thing is from the True People, who know that all seeing is without doubt or meaning. Is this not the way you understand this country of mine?”
Marais was speechless and Koos, who was listening, started to make noises of irritation. Marais turned to placate his confused and impatient friend. When he turned back with more questions brimming, Seil Kor was gone. Marais turned the ring of encrusted earth in his hands and started to walk away from the gathering.
“Truly a thing of wonder. A gifted enigma.”
“It ain’t much to look at,” said Koos as they walked towards the horses.
“True,” said Marais. “But it has a heart of gold.”
Koos laughed out a warm cloud of smoke and they mounted and turned towards the city. It was an hour before nightfall and the voices of the forest had changed. The other men had already left, each going their own way with their new possession.
“We are skirting the Vorrh, right?” said Koos.
“For sure, it’s the only way,” said Marais, adding: “What about him?” He looked down at the mangled Lupo.
“He’s sleeping like a baby,” said Koos.
“He’s mercifully unconscious, he will never be able to walk away from here or defend himself.”
“That’s his lookout, man: Behave like a cunt, die like a cunt.”
The long, plodding night seemed to dissolve the memories and effects of the day, so that as Marais and Koos neared the outskirts of Essenwald, all recollections of their journey and adventures had faded. Nothing of the unknown creature, the buying of the crown, or the crippling of Lupo remained in their wandering minds. Their mounts took them back to the stables. The owner then ferried them to the aerodrome where their plane had been waiting for twenty hours. After a brief wash in a corrugated hut both men opened warm bottles of thin beer while their possessions were loaded aboard the plane. Marais prepared his hypodermic and Koos smoked. Thirty minutes later they slept and rattled all the way back to the cape.