Men of Men - Smith Wilbur (онлайн книга без txt) 📗

"I would thrust for the heart," Zouga said, suddenly his eyes cold and green, "a small mobile force of mounted men, "

"How many men?"

And suddenly they were talking war as the sun fell below the dusty mauve and purple plain, leaving the sinister shadows to draw in around the little group under the camel-thorn tree.

Jan Cheroot threw logs on the fire and they sat on in the ruddy wavering light and the talk was of gold and of war, diamonds and gold and war, Empire and war, and their words conjured columns of armed and mounted men from the night, dark phantoms riding into the future.

Suddenly Zouga checked in the middle of a sentence, his expression changed as though he had seen a ghost or recognized an old implacable enemy in the shadows under the camel-thorn tree.

"What is it, Ballantyne?" Rhodes asked sharply, swivelling the big untidy head to follow the direction of Zouga's gaze.

A Against the bole of the thorn tree stood the tall green soapstone bird-statue. Unnoticed until now, hidden by the welter of harness and loose equipment that festooned the branches around it, some trick of the flames, the fall and flare of one of the burning logs, had illuminated it with sudden and dramatic firelight.

It stood taller than the seated men, seeming to preside over their counsels, listening to and directing the talk of gold and of blood. The falcon head, timeless as evil itself, as ancient as the hills of the far land from which it had been hewn, stared back at Zouga with sightless, yet somehow all-seeing, blank eyes, the cruel curve of the beak seemed on the point of opening to emit the falcon's hunting cry, or to bury itself in living flesh. To Zouga it seemed that in the darkness above the statue the words of the prophecy, spoken so long ago in that deep cavern of the Matopos hills by the beautiful naked witch who was the Umlimo of Monomatapa, still persisted, hovering in the shadows like living things: The stone falcons will fly afar... There shall be no peace in the kingdoms of the Marnbos or the Monomatapas until they return. For the white eagle will war with the black bull until the stone falcons return to roost.

In his memory Zouga heard the words again, spoken by that silken voice, and they seemed to echo against the dome of his skull and fill the drums of his ears.

"What is it, my dear fellow?" Pickering repeated the question and something slithered along Zouga's spine and crawled upon the skin of his forearms so that the hair came erect and he had to shudder to free himself of it.

"Nothing," he answered, huskily. "It's nothing; a grey goose walked over my grave." But he stared still at the statue and Rhodes followed his gaze.

"By Jove. Isn't that the bird you wrote about in the book?"

Rhodes sprang to his feet.

Eagerly he strode to where it stood and paused before it for a long silent moment before he reached out and touched the head.

"What an extraordinary piece of work," he said softly, and went down on one knee to examine the shark-tooth pattern that was carved into the plinth. In that attitude he seemed like a worshipper, a priest conducting some weird rite before the idol.

Again Zouga felt that superstitious flutter of nerves crawl like insects upon his skin, and to break the mood he called loudly for Jan Cheroot to bring a lantern.

In the lantern's beam they scrutinized the polished greenish stone, and as Rhodes ran his big large-knuckled hand over it his expression was rapt, the gaze of those strange pale eyes remote, like a poet hearing words in his head.

Long after Pickering and Zouga had returned to their seats by the log fire, Rhodes stood alone under the camel-thorn tree with the falcon, and when at last he left it to join them once more, his tone was brittle with accusation.

"That thing is a treasure, Ballantyne. It is unforgivable to leave it lying out under a tree."

"It's lain in worse conditions for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years," Zouga replied drily.

"You are right." Rhodes sighed, his attention straying back to the bird. "It's yours to do with as you wish." And then, impulsively, "I wish to purchase it from you. Name a price."

"It's not for sale," Zouga told him".

"Five hundred pounds," said Rhodes.

The sum startled Zouga, but his reply was immediate.

"No., "A thousand., "I say," Pickering intervened. "You can pick up ten claims in number 6 Section for that."

Rhodes did not glance at him, but he nodded. "Yes, you could, or Major Ballantyne could pay for his share of the new stagings with a thousand pounds."

A thousand pounds. Zouga felt himself tempted. A thousand pounds would see him clear.

"No." He shook his head. "I'm sorry." He felt he had to explain. "It has become the household god, my personal good-luck symbol."

"Good luck!" snorted Jan Cheroot from across the fire, and all three of them turned their heads in his direction.

None of them noticed him sitting on the edge of the shadows like a wizened little yellow gnome.

"Good luck!"the Hottentot repeated scornfully. "Since we picked up that verdamned bird we haven't seen a day's good luck." He spat into the fire, and his phlegm sizzled and exploded in a little puff of steam. "That bird has put blisters on our feet and rubbed the skin from our backs, it has broken the axles of our wagons and lamed our horses. It has brought us fever, and sickness and death. Miss Aletta died looking at that bird, and Jordie would have followed her if I hadn't thrown the verdamned thing out."

"That's nonsense," Zouga snapped sharply. "That's an old Hottentot maid's superstition."

"Ja," Jan Cheroot challenged him hotly. "Is it an old Hottentot superstition that we are sitting in the dust of this hell-hole, swatting flies and rubbing empty bellies?

Is it superstition that all around us they are pulling fat diamonds and we find only the droppings and manure?

Is it superstition that the earth has fallen on our claims and that it nearly swallowed Ralph? Is that your good luck that you boast the bird brings you, Master Zouga?

If it is, then hear the words of old Jan Cheroot and take the thousand pounds that mister Rhodes offers you; take it with both hands, and thank him for getting rid of that that -" Jan Cheroot ran out of words and glared across the fire at the birdshape under the thorn tree.

"Damn me," Pickering smiled. "But you nag like a wife."

None of them were surprised at the familiar address between servant and master. In Africa relationships like this were common; the servant considering himself to be part of the family with a voice in the affairs of the family, and his claim was accepted by all.

"Jan Cheroot has hated the idol since the day we discovered it."

"Tell me about that day, Jan Cheroot," ordered Rhodes brusquely; and Jan Cheroot puffed up visibly with selfimportance. There were few things he enjoyed more than an important and attentive audience and a good story to tell them. While he made a show of packing his clay pipe with black Magaliesberg shag tobacco and lighting it with an ember from the fire, the two boys crept out of the tent drawn by the prospect of a story. They glanced cautiously at Zouga and, when he made no move to send them back, they were emboldened.

Jordie sat next to Jan Cheroot and leaned his curly golden head against the Hottentot's shoulder, while Ralph came diffidently to sit with the men beside the fire.

"We had been one year in the bush," Jan Cheroot began, tone year without seeing a civilized man, one year trekking and hunting-" And the boys settled down with delicious anticipation. They had heard the story a hundred times before and enjoyed each telling more than the last.