When the Lion Feeds (54 page)

Oh, my God, said Sean. i'd forgotten about that- He looked round desperately. what can we use? Haven't you got one in your chest or something? Katrina shook her head, opened her lips to answer but closed them again as another pain took her. Sean held her while it lasted and when she relaxed he looked UP angrily at Alpbonso. Marry us . . .

damn you. Don't you see there's no time for all the trimmings? Ring?

said Alphonso again. He looked very unhappy. all right, I'll get you a ring Sean leapt out of the wagon and shouted at Mbejane. Bring my rifle, quickly-if Sean wanted to shoot the Portuguese that was his business and Mbejane's duty was to help him. He brought Sean the rifle.

Sean found a gold sovereign in the pouch on his belt, he threw it on the ground and held the muzzle of the rifle on it. The bullet punched a ragged hole through it. He tossed the rifle back to Mbejane, picked up the small gold circle and scrambled back into the wagon.

Three times during the service the pains made Katrina gasp and each time sean held her tight and AlPhonso increased the speed of his delivery.

Sean put the punctured sovereign on Katrina's finger and kissed her.

Alphonso gabbled out the last line of Latin and Katrina said, Oh, Sean, it's coming. Get out Sean told Alphonso and made an expressive gesture towards the door, thankfully AlPhonso went.

It did not take long then, but to Sean it was an eternity like that time when they had taken Garrick's leg. Then in a slippery rush it was finished. Katrina lay very quiet and pale, while on the cot below her, still linked to her purple-blotched and bloody lay the child that they had made. It's dead, croaked Sean. He was sweating and he had backed away against the far wall of the wagon.

No Katrina struggled up fiercely. No, it's not . . .

Sean, you must help me.

She told him what to do and at last the child cried. It's a boy, said katrina softly. Oh, Sean . . . it's a boy.

She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her before;

pale and tired and beautiful.

Sean's protests were in vain, Katrina left her bed the next morning and squeezed into one of her old dresses.

Sean hovered between her and the child on the cot.

I'm still so fat, she lamented. Fancy, please stay in bed another day or two. She pulled a face at him and went on struggling with the lacing of her bodice. Who's going to look after the baby? I will! said Sean earnestly. You can tell me what to do Arguing with Katrina was like trying to pick up quicksilver with your fingers, not worth the effort.

She finished dressing and took up the child.

You can help me down the steps. She smiled at him.

Sean and Alphonso set a chair for her in the shade of one of the big shuma trees and the servants came to see the child. Katrina held him in her lap and Sean stood over them in uncertain possession. For Sean it seemed unreal yet . . . too much for his mind to digest in so short a time.

He grinned dazedly at the steady stream of comment from his servants and his arm was limp when Alphonso shook his hand for the twentieth time that morning. Hold your child . . .

Nkosi. Let us see you with him on your arm called mbejane and the other zulus took up the cry. Sean's expression changed slowly to one of apprehension. Pick him up, Nkosi Katrina proffered the bundle and a hunted look came into Sean's eyes. Have no fear, Nkosi, he has no teeth, he cannot harm you, Hlubi encouraged him. Sean held his first-born awkwardly and assumed the hunchbacked posture of the new father. The Zulus cheered him and slowly Sean's face relaxed and his smile was a glow of pride. Mbejane, is he not beautiful? As beautiful as his father, Mbejane agreed.

Your words are a blade with two edges, laughed Sean.

He looked at the child closely. It wore a cap of dark hair, its nose was flat as a bulldog's, its eyes were milky-grey and its legs were long, skinny and red, How will you name him? asked Hlubi. Sean looked at Katrina.

Tell them, he said.

He shall be called Dirk, she said in Zulu. What is the meaning? asked hlubi, and Sean answered him. It means a dagger . . . a sharp knife.

There was immediate nodded approval from all the servants.

Hiubi produced his snuff-box and passed it among them and Mbejane took a pinch. That, he said, is a good name. Paternity, the subtle alchemist, transformed Sean's attitude to life within twelve hours. Never before had anything been so utterly dependent upon him, so completely vulnerable. That first evening in their wagon he watched katrina sitting cross-legged on her cot, stooping forward over it to give it her breast. Her hair hung in a soft wing across one cheek, her face was fuller, more matronly and the child in her lap fed with a red face and small wheezings. She looked up at him and smiled and the child tugged her breast with its tiny fists and hunting mouth.

Sean crossed to the cot, sat beside them and put his :arm around them.

Katrina rubbed her cheek against his chest and her hair smelt warm and clean. The boy went on feeding noisily. Sean felt vaguely excited as though he were on the threshold of a new adventure.

A week later, when the first rain clouds built up in the sky, Sean took the wagons across the Sabi and onto the slopes of the mountains to escape the heat of the plains.

There was a valley-he had noticed when he and Mubi had made their journey to the coast. The valley bottom was covered with short sweet grass and cedar trees grew along a stream of clean water. Sean took them to this place.

Here they would wait out the rainy season and when it was finished and the baby was strong enough to travel they could take the ivory south and sell it in Pretoria. It was a happy camp. The oxen spread out along the valley, filling it with movement and the contented sound of their lowing; there was laughter among the wagons and at night when the mist slumped down off the mountains the camp fire was bright and friendly.

Father Alphonso stayed with them for nearly two weeks. He was a pleasant young man and although he and Sean never understood what the other was saying yet they managed well enough with sign language. He left at last with Hlubi and one of the other servants to escort him back over the mountains, but before he did he managed to embarrass Sean by kissing him goodbye. Sean and Katrina were sorry to see him go. They had grown to like him and Katrina had almost forgiven him his religion.

The rains came with the usual flourish and weeks drifted into months.

Happy months, with life centring around Dirk's cot. Mbejane had made the cot for him out of cedarwood and one of Katrina's chests produced the sheets and blankets for it. The child grew quickly: each day he seemed to occupy more of his cot, his legs filled out, his skin lost its blotchy-purple look and his eyes were no longer a vague milky-blue.

There was green in them now, they would be the same colour as his mother's.

To fill the long lazy days Sean started to build a cabin beside the stream. The servants joined in and from a modest first plan it grew into a thing of sturdy plastered walls and neatly thatched roof with a stone fireplace at one end. When it was finished Sean and Katrina moved into it. After their wagon with its thin canvas walls, the cabin gave a feeling of permanence to their love. One night, when the rain hissed down in darkness outside and the wind whined at the door like a dog wanting to be let in, they spread a mattress in front of the fireplace and there in the moving firelight they started another baby.

Christmas came, and after it the New Year. The rains stuttered and stopped and still they stayed on in their valley. Then at last they had to go, for their supplies of basic stores, powder, salt, medicines, cloth, were nearly finished. They loaded the wagons, inspanned and left in the early morning. As the line of wagons wound down the valley towards the plains Katrina sat on the box-seat of the lead wagon holding dirk on her lap and Sean rode beside her. She looked back, the roof of their cabin showed brown through the branches of the cedar trees. It seemed forlorn and lonely. We must come back one day, we've been so happy here, she said softly. Sean leaned out of the saddle towards her and touched her arm. Happiness isn't a place, my fancy, we aren't leaving it here, we're taking it with us. She smiled at him. The second baby was starting to show already.

They reached the Limpopo river at the end of July and found a place to cross. It took three days to unload the wagons, work them through the soft sand and then carry the ivory and stores across. They finished in the late afternoon of the third day and by then everyone was exhausted.

They ate an early supper and an hour after sunset the Zulus were rolled in their blankets, and Sean and Katrina were sleeping around head-on-chest in the wagon. In the morning Katrina was quiet and a little pale.

Sean didn't notice it until she told him that she felt tired and was going to lie down, immediately he was all attentive. He helped her into the wagon and settled the pillows under her head.

Are you sure you're all right! he kept asking. Yes . . . it's nothing, I'm just a bit tired. I'll be all right, she assured him. She appreciated his concern but was relieved when finally he went to see to the business of reloading the wagons for Sean's ministrations were always a little clumsy. She wanted to be left alone, she felt tired and cold.

By midday the wagons were loaded to Sean's satisfaction. He went to katrina's wagon, lifted the canvas and peeped in. He expected her to be asleep. She was lying on the cot with her eyes open and two of the thick grey blankets wrapped around her. Her face was as pale as a two-day corpse. Sean felt the first leap of alarm, he scrambled into the wagon. My dear, you look ghastly. Are you sick? He put his hand on her shoulder and she was shivering. She didn't answer him, instead her eyes moved from his face to the floor near the foot of the bed and sean's eyes followed hers. Katrina's luxury was her chamber-pot; it was a massive china thing with red roses hand-painted on it. She loved it dearly and Sean used to tease her when she was perched on top of it. Now the pot stood near the foot of the bed and when Sean saw what was in it his breathing stopped. It was half full of a liquid the colour of milk stout. oh, my God, he whispered. He went on staring at it, standing very still while a gruesome snatch of doggerel he remembered hearing sung in the canteens of the Witwatersrand began trotting through his brain like an undertaker's hack.

Black as the Angel, Black as disgrace When the fever waters flow They're as black as the ace.

Roll him in a blanket Feed him on quinine But all of us we know It's the end of the line.

Black as the Angel Black as disgrace Soon we'll lay him down below And chuck dirt in his face.

He raised his head and looked steadily at her, searching for the signs of fear. But just as steadily she looked back at him. Sean, it's blackwater! Yes . . . I know, Sean said, for there was nothing to be gained by denial, no room for extravagant hope. It was blackwater fever:

malaria in its most malignant form, attacking the kidneys and turning them to fragile sacks of black blood that the slightest movement could rupture.

Sean knelt by her cot. You must be very still. He touched her forehead lightly with the tips of his fingers and felt the heat of her skin.

Yes, she answered him, but already the expression in her eyes was blurring and she made the first restless movement of delirium. Sean put his arm across her chest to hold her from struggling.

By nightfall Katrina was deep in the nightmare of malaria. She laughed, she screamed in senseless terror, she shook her head and fought him when he tried to make her drink. But she had to drink, it was her one chance, to flush out her kidneys that she might live. Sean held her head and forced her.

Dirk started crying, hungry and frightened by the sight of his mother.

Mbejane! shouted Sean, his voice pitched high with desperation. Mbejane had waited all afternoon at the entrance of the wagon. Nkosi, what can i do? The child . . . can you care for him?

Mbejane picked up the cot with Dirk still in it.

Do not worry about him again. I will take him to the other wagon. Sean turned his whole attention back to Katrina. The fever built up steadily within her. Her body was a furnace, her skin was dry and with every hour she was wilder and her movements more difficult to control.

An hour after dark Kandhla came to the wagon with a pot of steaming liquid and a cup. Sean's nose wrinkled as he caught the smell of it.

What the hell is that?

I have stewed the bark from a maiden's breast tree . . .

the Nkosikazi must drink it It had the same musty smell as boiling hops and Sean hesitated. He knew the tree. It grew on high ground, it had a diseased-looking lumpy bark and each lump was the size and shape of a breast surmounted by a thorn. Where did you get it? I have seen none of these trees near the river. Sean was marking time while he decided whether to make Katrina drink the brew. He knew these Zulu remedies, what they didn't kill they sometimes cured.

Ifflubi went back to the hills where we camped four days ago . . . be brought the bark into the camp an hour ago. A thirty-mile round journey in something under six hours, even in his distress Sean could smile.

Tell Hlubi the Nkosikazi will drink his medicine. Kandhla held her head and Sean forced the evil-smelling liquid between her lips, he made her finish the whole potful. The juice of the bark seemed to relieve the congestion of her kidneys; four times before morning she passed frothy black water. Each time Sean held her gently, cushioning her body from any movement that might have killed her. Gradually her delirium became coma; she lay huddled and still in the cot, shaken only by the brief fits of shivering. When the morning sun hit the wagon canvas and lit the interior, Sean saw her face, and he knew that she was dying. Her skin was an opaque yellowish white, her hair had lost its glow and was lifeless as dry grass.