Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Chapter 13

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Mark of the Two Moons
Chapter 13

        Jeremy paused, the cloth wrapped around his hand wiping the sweat away from his eyes. He had slowly walked back through the bush they had dashed through to get to the Old Woman. It seemed like days since they had torn through the bush to save Matthew from bleeding to death. Could it be only yesterday that the nightmare of the charging rhino had changed the day and life of them all?

He stopped by a large stone, letting the water skin slip from his weary shoulder. He pulled at the wooden stop and let the water trickle into his mouth, savouring each drop as it quenched his burning thirst. Cracked lips stung and he stopped drinking. He must leave more if he was to survive this walk. The burn yesterday on his shirtless back had already drained him, more of the same today under the blistering sun and he would get heatstroke quickly and die.

Squinting to the simmering red horizon, Jeremy found the point where he had mentally marked his direction after he had scaled the path up the rocky hilltop.

He must have walked several miles now, over fallen rock and sandy trails, thin pathways that wound their way through trees, bush and tall grasses. Still no sign of where the rifles might be, they were still a way off.

My God! They had travelled much further with Matthew than he had thought. Konjaru's version of "not so far" as usual had been for his benefit, knowing it was this long a trek or hike, he might not have agreed to have considered this decision.

He pulled the water skin back on his shoulder, walking stick ready in his hand, a weary sigh escaped his lips as he set off again to find the farm and the comfort security of home.

A way behind him, a fragment of cloth had fallen from his bound hands. It was nothing in the vast brown and green landscape, so small only the ants and sand blowing would have found it. Blood from cracked and blistered hands had stained the cloth a muddy brown. Laying beside the path, the warming air had found this new scent in the morning, it began to endlessly tug at it until it could carry the scent away on its wings.

The faint scent rose above the treetops, over the tall elephant grasses and thorn bush, over the dead tree stumps that littered the landscape, until the winds finally sagged with fatiqque and it faltered to the ground, a whiff now left almost spent and gone.

A lone yellow stripped female hyena, an outcast and well past her prime, walked past the dying scent. Its nostrils wet and blowing for signs of game. The winds changed direction suddenly and wound the last of the blood scent up from the ground around its nose. It back-tracked suddenly, breathing in deeply the last minute drops of blood. Finding no trail on the sands or tree limbs, it raised it head and sniffed the hot air that had brought it here.

It turned and followed the air stream up the slow incline of land to the west. Laughing and grunting, it trotted its way along with his stooped oversized broad shoulders, holding an oversized head and Africa's most powerful jaws. The hyena continued until it found a feint trail, fresh large sand prints unknown to it, led down the way. What looked like a three-legged animal added to the hyena's curiosity. It sauntered along, nose close to the ground, then raising it in the air to follow the air streams, mouth dripping with wet drooling saliva in anticipation of an easy hunt.

A bleeding animal in the bush never ventures far, they finally lay down to rest by a shadowed tree or high stone at their final stage, frightened muscles would cramp and lock them in a sitting position, unable to move when laughing death approached them as they screamed.

Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Chapter 12

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Mark of the Two Moons
Chapter 12

     Claire had not moved from the wide veranda that surrounded the home of the Bauldwin estate. A wicker chair freshly painted white with hand-stitched cushions had been her long night's companions. A deep blue shawl hand woven by her mother and shipped to her from England had barely kept the night chill at bay. Her bones and spirit shivering from the African night. Her long blond hair now streaked with coming , hung down to her shoulders, tired from the long darkness and prayers to the stars.

Born and bred a Brighton girl, she had fallen in love with a dashing man, home from the terrible war of goose-stepping Nazis who had overrun Europe with their anger, lime filled trenches filled with the now silent innocent bodies of Jews, Gypsies and political enemies of the Reich.

It could not be measured the ever silent suffering. Not of those unable to return home but of those that did. Beds empty at night with sweating men and women walking endless wooden passageways away from their memories.

Blood and dreams left poured in the dry sands; from the disaster and miracle that was Dunkirk, Canadians slaughtered and sacrificed at Dieppe preparing for Normandy, Rommel's fast Panzers against Montgomery's hesitant and over cautious counter strikes in North Africa. English, Czech, Free French and Polish, Norwegian. All had come to fight the fascist madness. Every uniform known to the Free World was found polishing a rifle and gear or mock parading up and down the coastal ways and green fields, keeping German and Irish sympathizers busy collecting details of death dreams for their masters. Whole divisions moving in the night only to be found parading miles away the following morning. The true numbers defending the besieged Parliament lead by Churchill and the proud people of Shakespeare and King Arthur never known to Berlin.

Here in the heartland of Africa, the sound of cocked thunder, the reverberating slap of leather on a stone parade ground and the sound of the air raid sirens never penetrated the long blue empty skies.

The Baldwin's had come to the edge of the modern world. Where the colonies lay in smoldering ruins after the wars, the indigenous peoples readying themselves for democratic self-rule that was to devastate a continent more than the English silk handkerchief and the Italian, French and German jackboots could have ever accomplished. The plundering of an entire people by the white tribes from the north would be imitated by their new African Marxist masters and black political and hereditary chiefs. It would be long until true voices could be found to finally liberate the people with voices of hope than with guns.

Africa contained a silence and beauty rarely found. Gone from its heart the industrial wounds of the north, she had not yet given up her rare soil and precious minerals. She lay in essence untouched by the endless yellow bulldozers and roaring machines that would eventually cart away entire mountains.

The long railway had already come. Laid by men of vision like Rhodes; who with the glint in their eyes for Imperial Glory and History, their winding silver lines connected the far ends of an Empire. From the Cape Winelands, to the diamond and gold mines of Kimberly and the Rand, through the heartland of Africa up all the way to Khartoum, finally lost by the great Gordon, the distinguished robber barons cut their way through Africa on roads of cold steel and warm blood of her peoples.

The Baldwin's had come for lasting peace and prosperity, away from the tall rubble and broken dreams. The silence they had come to love, so much the new blood coursing in their own veins. Their laughter and desires intricately connected to this new red land they had deeply dug their new roots and dreams. Smiling new children born here in this wilderness, their laughter and shouting in their play filling the wide rooms and corridors of their home.

They had paid for this serenity with their blood and sweat. Wagons loaded with their all, they had come led by yoked multi coloured oxen and glistening men at their sides under noontime sun with cracking long whips to lead them, for the tarred roads that carried the glistening lorries never cut through the vast lands beyond the hills. The long steamer lines had arrived at Mombasa two years after the war with the cut crystal, their LeMogue, fine bone china and sterling silver complete with family crests. The steamer trunks lined with colourful travel stickers from around the world, filled with English tweed never worn in the heat of this new land, replaced with simple Khaki and high leather riding boots or veltskoone and open short sleeved shirt. Treasured books from old home libraries at first closely guarded, enjoyed by a bright fire after a long day breaking ground, then later swapped at the church bazaars and county fairs, they seemed to live on forever, clutched tightly by the ever homesick and lost souls.

Africa asked little in return for her wealth and endless beauty. She welcomed all and brought all to her breasts. She was a land teeming with the sound of many tongues and cultures. Her great silence and majesty could only come with the sacrifice of the innocent, the lame and the foolish.

Africa was paid for, simply, in blood. Survival was not a matter of luck or singular prowess or courage, she alone decided on her own terms on what alter the price for her love was to be paid. No one came to this place without leaving a white bone on the horizon.

Claire knew the blood price of this beautiful land. The land's raging stark beauty masked the utter harshness, sometimes brutality and cruelty she often felt stalked indiscriminately the red land. It made no distinction between man and beast as to the severity and vengeance it could wreck on a herd, a family or people.

She feared now as she stood looking out over the cool veranda, this was finally her time to pay for the love and endless full coloured sunsets they had enjoyed.

A part of her nodded silently, her eyes watering up and spilling out down her cheeks. Her soul bowing to the spirits of this land that was now her home. All had come and paid for their time here with dreams and blood spilled to satisfy the ancestors and wild Spirit Walkers of Africa.

Jeremy had come home from the war, after several long campaigns where he had been promoted to Captain, up through the ranks as the terrible death toll of war thinned out the path before him. The same broad smile and devilish playfulness that she had found so attractive had somehow remained.

In the silences of the night, when the home staff had left and the sounds of the night dimmed, she found him pacing and sweating on the veranda, body tense and weary, his shoulders hunched over as he carried his memories. Never talking of the time of the war. She had accepted his silences and distractions made during such conversations with others. Wild flaming sunsets that rose up from one end of the horizon to the next seemed to gather these memories from behind the guarded mental doors where they were kept safely out of the present life, of burning cities and razed villages, of comrades lost and loves never forgotten.

He was always a happy man, loving and good humoured. Serious about his family and the daily goings on of each, he worked hard to see them well in their days. His black fringe of hair always blowing across his face, dimpled cheeks ready for a smile. Deep in his eyes, as a woman she knew, he had seen enough of the evil of man to dim the light, the scar covering wounds to the spirit hardening until the scar itself became part of the wound.

The sun had risen this morning, beautiful as ever, yet the chill of this morning could not be warmed with coffee or hot milk. A roaring fire in the living room, adorned with and completed with a majestic set of cape buffalo horns and photos detailing the stories of their odysseys here, could not take her away from the open aired veranda, her eyes glued on the blue hazy horizon that was materializing out the night's darkness that had taken her love.

Something must have happened, so much so that Jeremy could not send Konjaru back to let her know what had happened. The three of them had set off in the morning. Matthew, with his eyes full of young courage and zest for the hunt, his daydreams of the spoils and bragging rights of his hunt already formed in his mind. ready for the evening's customary "sun downers" on the veranda.

They had left walking out into the new sunlight, yellow and orange glows spreading wide, trees swaying in a gentle wind that had come from the mountains and seas beyond, a high wave of a khaki hat held above when distance made farewells soundless, the three of them left in the direction of the lower lands, where the wild game was still thick and free roaming, not yet afraid of man. The steel plough had not broken the red land there at the widest part of their estate; it was mostly stone and rugged field, untouched since God had laid its foundations. She could not remember Jeremy going to that part of the farm for years. The rough land there had been included in the original purchase from the Crown. Useless as it was for agricultural or pastoral purposes, they believed the untamed land would keep the wildlife and spirit of the farm for later generations of Bauldwin clan.

It was to this direction she had directed Thomas, the cattle overseer and Kashezwe, who worked tending the fields of coffee to go and find the men. They had already left before the coming sunrise, heading down the long entrance road. Claire watched until their small bodies were lost in the last of the night's darkness. Not even the Kikuyu compound of round mud and thatched huts and cattle, with its dogs and early rising chorus of pecking chickens and hungry children had begun their day. Fires lay cold with the previous nights' embers drawing their last breath.

Here Claire would wait. Still in her night clothes and blue shawl, nothing distracting her away from seeing the first signs of them all reappearing up the path with long smiles and dusty stories, explaining away her tears of gratitude.

A white tea cup silently appeared and was left by her side. The sounds of the house dim and cushioned against the day, all mindful that they might be approaching a time of bitter and sorrowful mourning.

Women begin their silent weeping when warm beds are suddenly cold and empty without warning. There would be no time for anything else other than hope and silent prayers for their young foolish sons and men to return. Claire settled again into her creaking whicker chair and soft cushions, drawing close over her shoulders, her night time shawl, not knowing how the fine tea cup now warming her hands had got there. Her eyes focused straight down the dusty road lined with gently swaying trees to where they had all left marching towards their hunting honours, carrying with them, all her dreams.

High above the blue gum trees a lone falcon watched the steam rising from her morning tea, it turned after a while and rode the morning winds back down to the slopping hills to the east. 

Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Chapter 11

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Mark of the Two Moons
Chapter 11

     Konjaru stirred from his deep slumber, the cold morning lay on his skin and caused him to shiver. Muscles stiff and cold increased the weariness within. He saw Jeremy asleep by the now dead fire. A few wisps rising in the still air, all heat buried deep in the sand. He was covered with white dust from the field, hair now an unusual mangle. Normally particular as to his attire and personal presentation, the life on an Africa farm had not dimmed his sense of decorum. A full head of dark hair always well combed and fresh iron shirt the order of each day.

Now he lay by the withered cold fire, crumpled with bone numbing weariness, dark hair matted and filled with twigs and sand from every mile they had carried Matthew to this place. His shirt had been cast to the side mud wall, full of dried blood and stench, the endless flies had found it at sun up.

Konjaru rose slowly from the dark earth, dusting himself off with well-aimed slaps which filled the early compound with its echoes, he stretched tight muscles briefly and walked through the open doorway. The low sun was rising at the edge of the horizon, a light morning blue and gentle pink where land and sky meet to play.

His eyes looked for and then found one of the girl's round huts. A new fire was already being tendered, a morning hot brew poured into a wooden bowl, cloth and fresh ointments for morning ministrations to her charges at the ready.

The second round hut also had a fire going, an identical girl was preparing the morning meal and grinding. His superstition prickling his skin. He came from a people that feared the same likeness of children. These children of darkness were left in the open veld and hilltops and returned to Ngai, their whispered names forgotten by their mothers and by the people.

Shivering now from the morning cold, he walked to the left of the compound where a pile of previously gathered wood had been laid to stoke their fires. He picked through the cobwebbed and ant infested black stack - small woods for kindling and larger pieces to build a golden fire. Holding these to his breast, he returned to his hut and began to stack the broken sticks in the center of the night's fire pit. When the prepared wood was ready, Konjaru rose again and walked to the first twin's fire. Touching the twin's own glowing coals with a handful of kindling, he cupped the leaves with his hand and returned to light his fire to warm the day.

With a few sharp crackles from the growing fire ringing in the morning air, Jeremy began to stir from his sleep. Restless as his own muscles began feel the new day he began to turn away from each newly discovered pain. The sound of snapping fire lifted his spirits. The visions and sounds of his dreams in the night had shriveled his soul and filled him with dread. Matthew had survived the bleeding wound but now a raging fire burned within his small body and they were miles from the protection of the wooded family farm and possible help.

A small spark flung out by the fire landed on his lower back. A quick swatting hand moving from side to side over his backside and sudden shriek brought him the rest of the way back from his dreams. Konjaru had watched the small glowing ember fly out and land on his back, he now began a laugh that rose up from his belly and filled the entire compound. Baboons out on the hilltop stopped their foraging to hear this strange sound echoing up against the stones.

"What the bloody hell are you laughing about? Can't you see I was burned by the fire spark?" Jeremy growled, not so much for the pain but his loss of pride at being caught dancing like a monkey or worse.

"You looked like a water hippo, tail like a windmill spreading his dung on the water top." Konjaru was by this time holding his beer enriched middle as he sat by the fire's side in the sand, tears streaming down his black cheeks.

"Humph" - now properly teased. As much as Jeremy wanted to remain angry, the thought of himself being described in this manner, it really was funny and brought out his own sheepish grin at the mind's image of his own self, dancing with hand behind him, squatting fires on his rear end.

"OK, OK" he said. "Burn your own black arse and see if you like it" Now this brought out the biggest whoop and laughter from Konjaru. The vision of the two of them dancing this way was too much for him to bear. New tears rolled down his face, white teeth flashing in the morning light. Now Jeremy began to smile, his friend was curled up on the sand laughing until he could not breath, coughing and spluttering.

"OK, lets go and see how Matthew is doing. Come, I need your words" Jeremy walked out of the hut and strode towards the hut of the Old Woman. This he hoped would bring a hasty end to the merriment coming at his own expense.

Gileni saw him emerge from the corner hut at the edge of the compound. She rose quickly from her place and walked out to stand between the fast walking white skinned man and to where his golden haired boy lay in fever.

Konjaru had by now ended his coughing and wiped his tears away when he had seen the direction of his friend's quest. He scrambled up and leapt to his feet. A breach of etiquette now could undo all they had done, perhaps have her invoke spirits to bring them more hardships or illness.

"Bwana, wait, you must not go there. You must not go into her place, it is not a place for you.” Konjaru spoke to the back of Jeremy's head, hoping his words would stop him before he crossed the threshold of her doorway. Now he saw that Gileni had herself risen, walked over and stood firmly between them all, her small frame now as formidable as a mud wall between them all.

Her eyes searched for Konjaru's, "He is not allowed to enter Mother's Place." She spoke in a firm tone, hand gesturing with palm between Jeremy and the hut behind her. "It is forbidden!" With that she folded her arms over her beads and breasts and stood firm.

"Bwana- she says you must not come this way - you may not go to this place, it is forbidden.” Konjaru now tapped him on his shoulder to bring his head about. "Wait by the flat stones and crooked tree, I will ask on Matthew and return to you with their words. Go please, I will come." With that, Konjaru turned to Gileni and spoke this time to her directly.

Drawing himself square to her, with an outstretched hand he said to her in her own tongue, "Good morning Twin Girl, this man is very eager to see the son of his brother, please forgive him. He does not know the proper ways of our people. I should have told him more clearly of these things and come to you directly for understanding on this matter, for you are truly seen as being of great importance to the Old Mother"

Konjaru spoke to her eyes now, appealing in silence for her understanding. This young girl had the power to cause them all to fail. Appealing to her African sense of pride and hoping his shameful and blatant attempt to move her with words covered with honey were not too obvious as to his end. She did not take the outstretched hand.

"Tell the white man, the golden boy sleeps. Old Mother has caused the red river to stop and has worked with the Spirits to help clean the boys of the fire in his blood that came with the rhino's anger. It will be many days before he sees the blue skies and walks to the river to bathe. There is nothing more to do but wait. This you must do." Gileni gently spoke, her soft voice melting in the horning hues.

"We thank you for these good things and the blessing of the Great Mother and Spirits who have come to help heal the boy. I shall speak to him of your words" he turned and indicated to Jeremy who had by now come to the center place and had sat against the tree.

"You have been blessed by the Great Mother to learn of the healings of Ngai" Konjaru bowed just enough to give dignity and solemnity to his words without loosing his high place with her as a man.

"My mother has given me the secrets of healing herbs and sacred prayers to the ancestors to help in the healing of two boys who lay by her fire." Gileni said. The honey words were as nothing to her, coming for the healing of the golden haired boy. He was not like the man boy she had cared for, wounded yet with eyes proud of the blood in his veins when his red rimmed eyes had met hers the first night she had cared for him. A faint blush on her skin as she remembered his young spear jumping in the fire light and then withering after he had completed his blood rush as a man.

Konjaru stopped, eyes furrowed now in interest. He turned back to Gileni, and after a step in returning he said, "There is another boy here by her fire? Is he ill from spirits and evils that come from bad foods or has he come to her after fighting with an animal." Thinking a traditional way of initiation had ended with a young Masai boy being clawed by a lion. Slashed muscles a life reminder to their ascension into manhood.

"It is for the Great Mother to speak on these things. He had come from the Masai village near here, brought here on the instructions of his father the Chief.” With this Gileni walked back towards her fire and the duties that she had now left unattended.

Konjaru stopped cold in his tracks, dust setting like flies to where he now stood. Son of a Masai village chief!. There was only one village close enough for a sick child to be brought on a litter to this Milk Eyed woman.

Etona!

He was here and in the Old Woman's hut with a fever or some great ailment that was serious enough that his father had broken with long tradition and had had the boy brought here to be healed. He had not had his own laibon, medicine man brought forward to bring fresh or crushed herbs to heal in drink or salve or performed of the ancestor's blessing to his son. The tales of the old woman's healing far and wide had been too great and had directed the wise old chief to this new path.

Etona! Here!

Events outside of his visions had moved and changed. He felt a chill now not born of the morning cold. Not just for his sick son. Clouds were gathering, and turning over onto themselves in their haste to change the destinies of men.

"Twin Child - wait! What is wrong with the second boy inside? Is he bleeding, or ill? Has a darkness of an Ancestor Spirit come and given him the Slim Sickness?" he was gesturing now to Gileni, hands outstretching imploring for news that could calm a father's heart and soul.

"Old Mother will speak to you on these things that do not concern you, if it is her wish. It is not for me to speak of this.'

She turned now, and walked directly back to her fires and duties, not giving the two men behind her another thought. Old Mother had ordered new mixtures of herbs to drink and salves to sooth hot flesh. She was waiting now by her fire and would ask of her delay in returning.

Konjaru walked back to where the flat stones and wind swept tree had kept Jeremy company, his mind running with the sudden news that his son was here with the Old Mother. Not knowing the reason for his illness and the fact it had been serious enough to have made his father break with long standing tradition, was a point even more disturbing.

Jeremy looked up now to him, eyes full of hopeful expectation and weariness from the strain. He translated what Gileni had said to him earlier, leaving nothing out, save, the news of the second boy healing from an unknown illness in the recesses of the old woman's hut. Time enough to find the mystery of this new development, now he had to prepare Jeremy for his return back to the farm.

"Bwana, it is time for you to return now to the farm, before the sting of the sun comes to make you more red like a flower." Konjaru teased Jeremy now to lighten the mood in preparation for the long journey ahead.

"Well, not much I can do about that. I would have to borrow your black skin if I was going to avoid the joy a serious sun burn. I hope you don't mind if a take a couple of pieces for myself." With a growing smile, Jeremy pulled out his bush knife and brought the blade up to the side of his arm as if to follow through with his suggestion.

"Wait, I think it would be better if I can get some of the dirt out of your shirt - it would be easier for both of us." Konjaru had leapt back a foot in mock horror, his wide eyes burning with imagined fear. "You must not frighten me so, I am small and afraid of your little shinning spear. It might draw blood,” he was openly smiling at his stab at comedy.

He walked away towards their own compound to retrieve the soiled shirt laying by the wall. Hopefully a traditional sand wash by the stream would be sufficient to get the worst of it out. There was no way Jeremy was going to walk back with an already sun burned back as his only shield against the sun. He would be dead before he reached the safety of the blue gum trees that rimmed the farmhouse.

Jeremy squinted now into the low morning sun. The heat was building over the scorched red veld and in an hour the sweat would be dripping from his furrowed eyes as the hot sun beat down on him. Nothing to do now about Matthew but head home and have Konjaru hold the fort and watch over him until he returned with the Land Rover. Hopefully the old rings were holding, it had been due for a check-up this time of the year but had not gotten around to it yet. For the return trip he would make sure he traveled with some extra oil as reserve.

This morning, he would need plenty of water, something to cover his head and a good walking stick to use as both protection, and as the third leg needed to balance a worn and tired body.

Pathera had finished with her own duties at her fire and was bringing what looked like morning meal to the center of the compound where Jeremy was sitting, waiting for Konjaru to return from the river.

Sitting with his back against a high stone, Jeremy went through in his minds eye the direction they had taken to get here. Much of the land markings he thought he would remember but they were in such an exhausted state during the mad rush getting here over the bush veldt, he had to admit he had left it to Konjaru leading their litter to find their destination and had paid little attention to the course taken. Heading back in the general direction he knew once he had made out a few land marks closer to home, it would be only a matter of time until he was safe again under the blue gum trees and stern attention of Claire.

The polished rifles left by the side of a tree when they had prepared the litter for the wounded Matthew, were going to be a bigger problem. This he would have to leave to Konjaru to retrieve. The thought of loaded rifles out in the bush for a wanderer to stumble upon caused him to suddenly pause. No matter how liberal he thought or conducted of himself, word of a lost rifle left out for a black man in these times, regardless of how it had been lost, would spread like open range fire. The next white farmer killed here in the out bush, where the commander in command of law and defence was miles away from the open hills and rolling savannah. The bullet that would spray a farmer's brains on carefully whitewashed walls while his wife was forced to watch before her own end came with a merciful swing of a panga or axe, would have his name branded on it. No word would be said in the air-conditioned clubs of polished oak and brass in Nairobi, where social occasions dictated, they periodically attend. All it would take was an over filled gin glass at the end of a black tie event and someone needing to flush out their anger and loss.

 An accusation directed to their sumptuous table, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding suddenly forgotten, as new blood feuds rose up between them that would outlast generations here in the outlying regions of the former empire.

Too many blood feuds still existed from the times when the first steel ploughs broke the red earth here, as the former blue bloods of the Isle stalked the Empire to mark out the cornerstones of their own new estates carved out of the wild lands. They all of returning at a later time when their own fortunes had multiplied with luck and blood and allowed them the chance to buy back good Olde English soil and stone. Oldest sons then inheriting the bulk of these new manors and estates, throwing the young sibling pups out with little more than letters of introductions.

Some never returned to the rain drenched motherland, only too glad to leave the social class-distinctive society that no matter what the fortunes of a man, left him and his own on the outside. Second class citizens of the Empire. Of the few lucky who wished or managed to escape the jeweled ceiling, the price for their daughters to marry up the glittering ladder came with their own banishments from their children's lives. Large middle-class dowries did not include their own successful climb to the new levels of the social elite.

Konjaru had returned from the outlaying stream with a now clearly wet but clean shirt for Jeremy to wear. While Jeremy was finishing ringing out the last of the clear water from his shirt, Konjaru had begun to tear his own at its length. Clear was the understanding the cloth was needed to cover his head, corners knotted to hold it in place. Watered as he walked the veld back to the farm, it would keep him cool and stop him from becoming delirious. Better to stop and rest until the evening cool than to suffer the death thirst that came from overheating.

The rest of the shirt was wound over his cracked hands, stiff blood still clung to them. The long day ahead would tear at them again, and he would need all his strength to find his way home. Deciding not to wash them and soften the skin, he let the hardness remain.

After enjoying the simple meal of millie cakes provided by Pathera, Konjaru walked to her fire where she had returned kneeling at its warm side and thanked her for their hospitality. He then enquired if a water skin was available to be used for the return trek home. This was found back inside her own dark hut and given over. Konjaru looked closely at her again and found no difference between the two young woman. It was like looking into the mirror up at the farm house, two of one the same. He walked back to the river marvelling at nature's strangeness, hairs on his neck still erect - still suspecting and pondering the possible evils that had caused such a thing.

Returning to the center compound where Jeremy was stuffing the last of the millie cakes into his shirt pockets, Konjaru handed over the filled water skin. Jeremy slung it over his shoulder.

Turning now directly to Konjaru he said, "Well, this is it Konjaru. You look after Matthew now. I won't be back until tomorrow all going well." His eyes now holding Konjaru's own and in a firm voice,

"If I am not back tomorrow, I did not make it back to the farm, or," seeing now the distress rise in the others eyes, he completed in a lighter tone "I might have just been delayed because of the rings in the Land Rover or some other stupid thing. You know how it is, something always comes up at the farm. No end to it as you know." Now Jeremy tried a tired grin to clear the mood, a school boy pat on the shoulder a small comfort to his friend.

There was a chance of his not making it. Walking through open bush without a rifle or spear, odds were, if something did come up, he was in a poor position to defend himself. His missing body and grieving wife would be added to the lore that was Africa.

"Just wait here then, until Matthew is strong enough for both of you to make the journey home. Does not mater how long it takes but get him back to the farm alive.”

Adding quickly, "Both of you."

He held out his hand to Konjaru, the solemn moment finally here. For a moment the sky became quiet, the glowing fires behind them ceased crackling and dancing in the morning air. Their eyes crossed the barrier of culture and skin, they bade farewell as men do, without words. Deep in their hearts, they heard the others silence with nodding approval. They would either meet with heartfelt backslaps and smiles all around, or one would stand head hung low by a shallow grave, remembering their time of friendship.

"Go in peace, Bwana."

"Come in peace my friend."

With that, Jeremy turned with walking stick gleaned from the woodpile and walked to the winding sandy path that began at the opening at the edge of the compound. It seemed like a week since they had come down that very path, holding Matthew bleeding and unconscious between them. Worn out and tired, bloodied and afraid they had come not knowing if by night they would have a healing boy or a cold memory to return home to a grieving father and mother.

Konjaru watched him as he rose up the path, between the burned stones and bushes. The time to ascend now clearly slower than when they had come down from the hilltop. The larger boulders hindered Jeremy. He had to go around many of the larger stones where before they had walked down over their bold roughness,.

At last Jeremy's wave rose from the hilltop, between the large burned stones that crowned the crest and had marked the center of their trek to this place. Konjaru stood up to wave in return, quickly turning to brush the sand from his pants.

Too late, the silhouette gone.

Only the blue sky waved back to him. A lone falcon rose to ride the air and currents towards the western rolling hills and the high lands where smoke rose from the fires of man.

With a single palm raised to the sun Konjaru bowed his head for a moment, the image of his friend's wave from the crest still fresh in his mind's eye.

"Go in peace my friend. May Ngai and your ancestors, watch over you"