The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur - Страница 77

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The little old woman was an extraordinary colour, she seemed to glow like amber in the sunlight, and Centaine thought of the polished bowl of her father's meerschaum pipe which he had cured with such care. But this colour was even brighter than that, bright as a ripe apricot on the tree, and despite her weakness, a little smile flickered over Centaine's lips.

Instantly the old woman who had been studying Centaine with equal attention, smiled back. The network of wrinkles constricted about her eyes, reducing them to slanted Chinese slits. Yet there was such a merry sparkle in those black shiny pupils that Centaine wanted to reach out and embrace her, as she would have embraced Anna.

The old woman's teeth were worn down almost to the gums and were stained tobacco brown, but there were no gaps in them, and they appeared even and strong.

Who are you? Centaine whispered through her dark swollen dry lips, and the woman clicked and hissed softly back at her.

Under the loose wrinkled skin she had a small, finely shaped skull, and her face was sweetly heart-shaped. Her scalp was dotted with faded grey woolly hair that was twisted into small tight kernels, each the size of a green pea, and there was bare scalp between them. She had small pointed ears lying close to the skull like the pixies in Centaine's nursery books, but there were no lobes to the ears, and the effect of sparkling eyes and pricked ears was to give her an alert, quizzical expression.

Do you have water? Centaine whispered. Water.

Please. The old woman turned her head and spoke in that sibilant clicking tongue to the figure behind her. He was almost her twin, the same impossibly wrinkled, apricot, glowing skin, the same tight wisps of hair dotting the scalp, bright eyes and pointed lobeless ears, but he was male. This was more than evident, for the leather loincloth had pulled aside as he squatted and a penis out of all proportion to his size hung free, the uncircumcised tip brushing the sand. It had the peculiar arrogance and half erect tension of the member of a man in full prime. Centaine found herself staring at it, and swiftly averted her eyes.

Water, she repeated, and this time Centaine made the motion of drinking. Immediately a spirited discussion flickered back and forth between the two little old people.

O'wa, this child is dying from lack of water, the old Bushwornan told her husband of thirty years. She pronounced the first syllable of his name with the popping sound of a kiss. Kiss-wa. She is already dead, the Bushman replied quickly. it is too late, Hlani. His wife's name began with a sharp, explosive aspirate and ended with a soft click made with the tongue against the back of the top teeth, the sound that in Western speech usually signifies mild annoyance.

Water belongs to all, the living and the dying, that is the first law of the desert. You know it well, old grandfather. H'ani was being particularly persuasive, so she used the enormously respectful term old grandfather.

Water belongs to all the people, he agreed, nodding and blinking. But this one is not San, she is not a person.

She belongs to the others. With that short pronouncement O'wa had succinctly stated the Bushman's view of himself in relation to the world about him.

The Bushman was the first man. His tribal memories went back beyond the veils of the ages to the time when his ancestors had been alone in the land. From the far northern lakes to the dragon mountains in the south, their hunting grounds had encompassed the entire continent. They were the aboriginals. They were the men, the San.

The others were creatures apart. The first of these others had come down the corridors of migration from the north, huge black men driving their herds before them. Much later, the others with skins the colour of fish's belly that redden in the sun, and pale, blind-looking eyes had come out of the sea from the south. This female was one of those. They had grazed sheep and cattle on the ancient hunting grounds, and slaughtered the game which were the Bushman's kine.

With his own means of sustenance wiped out, the Bushman had looked upon the domesticated herds that had replaced wild game on the veld. He had no sense of property, no tradition of ownership nor of private possession.

He had taken of the herds of the others as he would have taken of wild game, and in so doing had given the owners deadly offence. Black and white, they had made war upon the Bushmen with pitiless ferocity, ferocity heightened by their dread of his tiny childlike arrows that were tipped with a venom that inflicted certain, excruciating death.

In impis armed with double-edged stabbing assegais, and in mounted commandos carrying firearms, they had hunted down the Bushmen as though they were noxious animals. They had shot them and stabbed them and sealed them in their caves and burned them alive, they bad poisoned and tortured them, sparing only the youngest children from the massacre. These they chained in bunches, for those that did not pine and die of broken hearts could be tamed. They made gentle, loyal and rather lovable little slaves.

The Bushmen bands that survived this deliberate genocide retreated into the bad and waterless lands where they alone, with their marvelous knowledge and understanding of the land and its creatures could survive.

She is one of the others, O'wa repeated, and she is already dead. The water is only sufficient for our journey. H'ani had not taken her eyes off Centaine's face, but she reproached herself silently. Old woman, it was not necessary to discuss the water. If you had given without question, then you would not have been forced to endure this male foolishness. Now she turned and smiled at her husband.

Wise old grandfather, look at the child's eyes, she wheedled. There is life there yet, and courage also. This one will not die until she empties her body of its last breath. Deliberately, H'ani unslung the rawhide carrying bag from her shoulder, and ignored the little hissing sound of disapproval that her husband made. in the desert the water belongs to everybody, the San and the others, there is no distinction, such as you have argued. From the bag she took out an ostrich egg, an almost perfect orb the colour of polished ivory. The shell had been lovingly engraved with a decorative circlet of bird and animal silhouettes and the end was stoppered with a wooden plug. The contents sloshed as H'ani weighed the egg in her cupped hands and Centaine whimpered like a puppy denied the teat.

You are a wilful old woman, said O'wa disgustedly. It was the strongest protest the Bushman tradition allowed him. He could not command her, he could not forbid her.

A Bushman could only advise another, he had no rights over his fellows; amongst them there were no chiefs nor captains, and all were equal, man and woman, old and young.

Carefully H'ani unplugged the egg and shuffled closer to Centaine. She put her arm round the back of Centaine's neck to steady her and lifted the egg to her lips. Centaine gulped greedily and choked, and water dribbled down her chin. This time H'ani and O'wa hissed with dismay, each drop was as precious as life blood. H'ani withdrew the egg, and Centaine sobbed and tried to reach for it.

You are impolite, H'ani admonished her. She lifted the egg to her own lips and filled her mouth until her cheeks bulged. Then she placed her hand under Cen tame's chin, bent forward and covered Centaine's mouth with her own lips. Carefully she injected a few drops into Centaine's mouth and waited while she swallowed before giving her more. When she had passed the last drop into Centaine's mouth, she sat back and watched her until she deemed that she was ready for more. Then she gave her a second mouthful, and later a third.

This female drinks like a cow elephant at a waterhole, O'wa said sourly. Already she has taken enough water to flood the dry riverbed of the Kuiseb. He was right, of course, H'ani conceded reluctantly.

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