The Angels Weep (74 page)

‘I think she can. I have prepared medications for her to
take on the journey. I have also made out medical certificates,
which should be sufficient to see her safely through any security
checks as far as the border with Zambia. I will provide one of my
best medical orderlies, a black male nurse, to travel with her. I
would go myself, but it would attract too much
attention.’

Tungata was silent for a long time, his hard handsome features
rapt in thought. He had such a presence of command and authority
that Leila found herself waiting almost timidly for his next
words, eager to respond whether they were command or
question.

However, when he spoke, it was to muse softly. ‘The
woman is as valuable dead as alive, and dead she would be easier
to handle, I presume you could preserve her body in formaldehyde
or something of that nature.’

Despite herself, Leila was shocked, and yet strangely awed by
the ruthlessness, excited by the man’s deadly resolve.

‘I pray that won’t be necessary,’ she
whispered, staring at him. She had never met a man like this.

‘I will see her first, then I will decide,’
Tungata said quietly. ‘I wish to do so
immediately.’

There were three weird crones squatting outside the door of
the private ward on the top floor in the south wing of the
hospital. They were dressed in the dried skins of wild cat and
jackal and python, and hung about the neck and waist with bottles
and gourds and stoppered buckhorns, with dried goat-bladders and
bone rattles, with phials and the leather bags that contained
their divining bones.

‘These are the old woman’s followers,’ Leila
St John explained, ‘they will not leave her.’

‘They will,’ said Tungata softly, ‘when I
decide that they will.’

One of them hopped towards him, whining and snivelling,
reaching out to touch his leg with filth-encrusted fingers, and
Tungata spurned her aside with his foot, and opened the door to
the private ward. He went in, and Leila followed him and closed
the door behind them. It was a small room with bare tiled floor
and the walls were painted with a white gloss paint. There was a
bedside locker with a stainless-steel tray of medicines and
instruments upon it. The bed was on castors with an adjustable
handle and screw at the foot. The head of the bed-frame was
raised and the frail figure under the single sheet seemed no
larger than a child. There was the glass bowl of a drip suspended
above the bed, and a transparent plastic tube snaked down from
it.

The Umlimo was asleep. Her unpigmented skin was a dusty
pinkish grey, crusted with dark scabs that extended up over the
pale bald scalp. The skin that covered her skull was so thin and
fragile that the bone seemed to shine through it like a
water-worn pebble beneath the surface of a mountain stream, but
from her brow down to the edge of the white sheet beneath her
chin, the skin was impossibly wrinkled and folded, like that of
some prehistoric relic from the age of the great reptiles. Her
mouth was open, the scabbed lips trembled with each breath, and
there was a single yellow worn tooth left in the desiccated grey
gums. She opened her eyes. They were pink as those of a white
rabbit, sunk deeply in folds of grey skin, swimming in their own
gummy mucus.

‘Greetings, old Mother.’ Leila went to her and
touched the age-ravaged cheek. ‘I have a visitor for
you,’ she said in perfect Sindebele.

The old woman made a small keening sound in her throat, and
she began to shake, her entire body taken by convulsions, as she
stared at Tungata.

‘Calm yourself, old Mother.’ Leila was concerned.
‘He will not harm you.’

The old woman lifted one arm from under the sheet. It was
skeletal, the elbow-joint enlarged and distorted by arthritic
processes, the hand was a claw, with lumpy knuckles and twisted
fingers. She pointed them at Tungata.

‘Son of kings,’ she wailed, her voice surprisingly
clear and strong, ‘father of kings. King that will be, when
the falcons return. Bayete, he that will be king, Bayete!’
It was a royal salute, and Tungata went rigid with shock. His own
skin-tone changed to dark grey, and little blisters of sweat
burst out upon his brow. Leila St John fell back until she was
against the wall. She stared at the frail old woman in the high
steel bed. Spittle frothed on the thin scabbed lips, and the pink
eyes rolled back into the ancient skull, yet the wailing voice
rose higher.

‘The falcons have flown afar. There will be no peace in
the kingdoms of the Mambos or the Monomatopas until they return.
He who brings the stone falcons back to roost shall rule the
kingdoms.’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘Bayete, Nkosi
nkulu. Hail, Mambo. Live for ever, Monomatopa.’ The Umlimo
greeted Tungata with all the titles of the ancient rulers, and
then collapsed against the soft white pillows. Leila hurried back
to her side, and placed her fingers over the sticklike wrist.

‘She’s all right,’ she said after a moment,
and looked up at Tungata. ‘What do you want me to
do?’

He shook himself like a man awakening from deep sleep, and
with the sleeve of his white coat, wiped the icy sweat of
superstitious dread from his forehead.

‘Look after her well. Make sure she is ready to leave by
morning. We will take her north across the great river,’ he
said.

L
eila St John
backed up her small Fiat into the ambulance bay beside the
casualty department, and screened from curious eyes, Tungata
slipped through the back door and crouched down between the
seats. Leila spread a mohair travelling-rug over him and drove
down to the main gates. She spoke briefly to one of the guards,
and then swung the Fiat onto the branch road that led to the
superintendent’s residence.

She spoke without looking back or moving her lips.

‘No sign of security forces, not yet. It looks as though
your arrival has gone unnoticed, but we will take no
chances.’

She parked in the lean-to garage which had been added to the
old stone-walled building, and while she unloaded her valise and
a pile of files from the seat, she made certain they were still
not observed. The garden was screened from the road and the
thatched church by trellised creepers and flowering shrubs.

She opened the side door to the house, and said, ‘Please
keep low, and go in as quickly as you can.’

He ducked out of the Fiat, and she followed him into the
living-room. The shutters and curtains were drawn and it was
half-dark.

‘My grandmother built this house after the original was
burned down during the 1896 troubles. Fortunately she took
precautions against the troubles of the future.’

Leila crossed the floor of sawn Rhodesian teak, the highly
polished surface of which was strewn with tanned animal skins and
hand-woven rugs in bold patterns and primary colours.

She entered the walk-in stone fireplace and drew aside the
black grate. The floor of the fireplace was of slate flags, and
she used the fire irons to prise and lift one of these. When
Tungata stepped up beside her, he saw that she had exposed a
square vertical shaft, into one wall of which were set stone
steps.

‘This was where Comrade Tebe was hiding that
night?’ Tungata asked. ‘When the Scouts, the
kanka
, could not find him?’

‘Yes, he was here. It would be best if you went down
now.’

He dropped nimbly down the shaft and found himself in
darkness. Leila closed the slate hatch and came down beside him.
She groped along the wall and turned a switch. A bare electric
bulb lit on the roof of the tiny stone cell. There was a deal
table on which were stacked a few well-thumbed books, pushed
beneath it was a low stool and there was a narrow truckle-bed
against the far wall. A chemical toilet stood at its foot.

‘Not very comfortable,’ she apologized. ‘But
nobody will find you here.’

‘I have had less luxurious accommodation,’ he
assured her. ‘Now let us go over your
arrangements.’

She had the medical certificates ready on the table, and she
sat on the stool and wrote down his requirements for the
transportation of the Umlimo as he dictated them.

When she had finished, he said, ‘Memorize that and
destroy it.’

‘Very well.’

He watched while she went over the list carefully and then
looked up.

‘Now, there is a message for you to take to Comrade
Inkunzi,’ she said. ‘It is from our friend in high
places.’

‘Give it to me,’ he nodded.

‘Ballantyne’s Scouts, the
kanka
, they are
planning a special operation. It is to destroy Comrade Inkunzi
and his staff. Your own name is high on their list.’

Tungata’s expression did not change. ‘Do you have
any details of their plans?’

‘All the details,’ she assured him. ‘This is
what they will do—’

She spoke slowly and deliberately for almost ten minutes, and
he did not interrupt her. Even when she had finished, he was
silent for many minutes, lying flat on his back on the bed,
staring up at the electric bulb. Then she saw that his jaws
clenched and that a smoky red tide seemed to have spread over his
eyeballs. His voice, when he spoke, was thick with loathing.

‘Colonel Roland Ballantyne. If we could get him! He is
responsible for the deaths of over three thousand of our people
– he and his
kanka
. In the camps they speak his name
in whispers, as though he were some sort of demon. His name alone
turns our bravest men to cowards. I have seen him and his
butchers at work. Oh, if we could only take him.’ He sat up
and glared at her. ‘Perhaps—’ His voice was
choked and slurred as though he was drunk with hatred.
‘Perhaps this is our chance.’

He reached out and took Leila by the shoulders. His fingers
dug deeply into her flesh and she winced and tried to draw away.
He held her without effort.

‘This woman of his. You say that she will fly from the
Victoria Falls? Can you get me the date, the number of the
flight, the exact time?’

She nodded, afraid of him now, terrified by his strength and
fury.

‘We have somebody in the airway booking-office,’
she whispered, no longer trying to escape the agony of his grip.
‘I can get it for you.’

‘The bait,’ he said, ‘the tender lamb that
will lure the leopard into the trap.’

S
he brought him
food and drink down the stone shaft and waited while Tungata
ate.

For a while he ate in silence, then abruptly he returned to
the subject of the Umlimo.

‘The stone falcons,’ he started, ‘you heard
what the old woman said?’

She nodded and he went on, ‘Tell me what you know of
these things.’

‘Well, the stone falcons are the emblem on the flag.
They are minted on the coinage of this country.’

‘Yes, go on.’

‘They are ancient carvings of bird figures. They were
discovered in the ruins of Zimbabwe by the early white
adventurers, and stolen by them. There is a legend that Lobengula
tried to prevent them, but they were taken south.’

‘Where are they now?’ Tungata demanded.

‘One of them was destroyed by fire when Cecil
Rhodes’ house at Groote Schuur was burned down, but the
others, I’m not absolutely certain, but I think they are at
Cape Town in South Africa.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘In the museum, there.’

He grunted and went on eating steadily. When the bowl and mug
were empty he pushed them aside and stared at her again with
those smoky eyes.

‘The words of the old woman,’ he began and then
paused.

‘The prophecy of the Umlimo,’ she went on for him,
‘that the man who returned the falcons would rule this
land, and that you were that man.’

‘You will tell nobody what she said – do you
understand me?’

‘I will tell nobody,’ she promised.

‘You know that if you do, I will kill you.’

‘I know that,’ she said simply, and gathered the
bowl and mug and replaced them on the tray.

She stood before him waiting, and when he did not speak again,
she asked, ‘Is there anything else?’

He went on staring at her, and she dropped her eyes.

‘Do you wish me to stay?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and she turned to the light
switch.

‘Leave the light,’ he ordered. ‘I want to
see your whiteness.’

The first time she cried out, it was in fear and pain, the
second time – and the uncounted times after that –
was in mindless, incoherent transports of ecstasy.

D
ouglas
Ballantyne had selected a dozen of the finest slaughter-beasts
from the herds of King’s Lynn and Queen’s Lynn. The
prime carcasses had hung in the cold room for three weeks until
they were perfect. They were being barbecued whole on the open
coal pits at the bottom of the gardens. The kitchen servants of
Queen’s Lynn worked in relays, turning the spits and
basting the sizzling golden carcasses amidst clouds of fragrant
steam.

There were three bands to provide continuous music. The
caterers had been flown in with all their equipment from
Johannesburg, and paid suitable danger-money for entering the war
zone. The gardens of every homestead for fifty miles around had
been ransacked for flowers and the marquees were filled with
banks of floral decorations, of roses and poinsettia and dahlia
in fifty blazing shades of colour.

Bawu Ballantyne had chartered a special aircraft to bring the
liquor up from South Africa. There was a little over four
tons’ weight of fine wines and spirits. After searching his
political conscience, Bawu had even decided to suspend his
personal sanctions against the United Kingdom of Great Britain
and Ireland for the duration of the wedding festivities, and had
included one hundred cases of Chivas Regal whisky in the
shipment. This was his most valuable contribution to the
preparations, but there had been others.