The Cloven Read online

  “Perhaps we might come back for it tomorrow?”

  Koos ignored that and said, “Let’s go back the way we came.”

  With great reluctance Marais mounted his sweating horse and turned it back the way they had come. After twenty minutes Koos stopped.

  “Have we missed it?”

  Marais’s head was pounding and his veins were aching for their fix, but this was far too early. He hadn’t expected his need to come barking and scratching for at least another five hours.

  “I said have we missed it?”

  “What?” groaned Marais.

  “The turning, man, the spoor back.”

  They were gullied in a gently curving track, thick trees on either side.

  “We must have missed it.”

  They turned the horses again and slowly rode back the way they had just come. No junction appeared and they stopped only when the horses started to object. They were at the spot where the mysterious creature had fallen. Except that it was not there.

  “It must have been taken by scavengers,” said Koos.

  Marais said nothing. They turned the horses again and took five paces before Koos spat-whispered, “Christ.” He was looking through the interior trees.

  “What?” whispered Marais, instantly infected by his friend’s sudden violent quietness. Koos just pointed. It took Marais’s bleary eyes moments to focus onto the dappled and vine-crossed interior. Then he saw it. The thing Koos had shot, standing upright twenty feet away and appearing to be looking straight at them. It was one again, its limp skin zipped up, back in place.

  “It can’t be,” said Koos, his hand already on his carbine.

  “Is it another one?” Marais was rubbing his aching head. The watching pod appeared to bend as if looking more intently. As it flexed, two of the wounds in its smooth mottled skin opened and closed like kissing mouths.

  “Christ,” said Koos.

  Then the horses bolted. They charged through the curved channel in the trees with both men furiously yanking their reins and demanding the animals to halt. But nothing would slow them and they were now running at full tilt. Both men were experienced bush equestrians, but they were finding it difficult to stay in their saddles, especially as hitherto unnoticed low-hanging branches and thick swaying liana were threatening to snatch or wipe them off the horses. The forest sped past with a new intensity that made the riders’ flesh creep under the spray of their sweat and the thin paper cuts from the hanging, whipping leaves. Suddenly they were in a clearing; the horses spun and reared, kicking dust from the perimeter road, and finally stopped. They were back where they had begun, panting outside the vast forest. The Vorrh had spat them out. They continued on their way to a chapel where they were told “goods” would be on sale.

  * * *

  Never trust the Men Without Substance to tell the truth, especially about the power of their gods. The True People would never be fooled again. The white men were pilfering all their sacred artifacts and instruments of divination in exchange for crossed sticks, thick books, and too many clothes, and that would never be forgotten. None of the old deities of their forefathers would ever leave the village again. The Possession Wars had reestablished the old gods back in their rightful home. And some of the sacred objects that came into being before the great conflict were equally prized. One such was the roughly circular block of dried mud called “the crown.” It was not unlike a thick heavy cow pat. Straw and root fibres mixed with the mud to hold it in one piece. Charms and amulets were woven into its tightness. Its name came from the regular gold-coloured protuberances that made an elliptical pattern on the surface of the block, each sticking out an inch above the sunbaked earth. The rest of the surface had been painted and drawn with the story of the crown. Pictographs and glyphs telling how the crown had once belonged to the prized Irrinipeste and was worn by her legendary mother when she gave birth in the depth of the Vorrh. Nobody knew who had inscribed the object thus, but its status was unquestionable.

  The Irrinipeste cult had caused a fracture inside the unity of the tribe and this had been deepened by the Sea People’s claim that Irrinipeste had imprisoned their messianic saviour, whom they called Oneofthewilliams but who was her lover, the Bowman, Peter Williams.

  So the sanctity of the crown was held solid by most of the elders of the True People. Some said that it had been made of rare mud taken from deep and holy wells. Others that Irrinipeste’s mother had brought it from the other side of the world. Some believed it was sleeping, some thought it dead. Most were afeared to touch it.

  It lived with other lesser objects of power in the longhouse of the the zealots of the Irrinipeste cult, protected by the Tarpfa family, one of the oldest clans of the True People, until Kweki Tarpfa stole everything and ran towards the dwellings of the Men Without Substance, who were said to be buying such things for a small fortune. Kweki was running low and wild. The small bag that was strapped tight to his chest was not heavy, but its irregular load frayed and scratched his worried skin. He had stolen the sacred crown and the joined coconut shells that were called the head bones and an armful of lesser trophies and was heading towards the edge of the Vorrh, where he knew men would meet to buy these things.

  He was running out of his history, his tribe, and his life. He reached the place of barter by the old broken chapel before the bidders arrived and sat on the scuffed fractured wall until they came. The loud man who was there collecting for Leo Frobenius arrived first. Then another, who was there for Nebsuel, and a tall silent man who watched everybody else with great care. They observed one another with anxious, controlled eyes. Tarpfa said he was not ready to begin the auction but wanted to rest and wait for the allotted hour. Frobenius’s man seemed irritated. Sometime later, when they were just about to begin, a squat, very black man in a green robe appeared, apparently out of the forest. He said he was called Iron Engine. Nobody laughed or passed comment. Iron Engine did not look the type to share a jest about his name. The sound of horses broke the tension, and Marais and Koos Nel rode in and joined the group.

  “A rough journey, bwana?” said Lupo, the richly costumed emissary of Frobenius. Everybody ignored him and looked at Tarpfa, who got up from his squatting position and started to unwrap his bundles. He laid out the prized objects in a ragged line on the low wall, touching each as if it were precious Meissen. Three of the bidders scurried forth. Marais sauntered behind them, demonstrating a dignified curiosity. The silent man just watched. Lupo was acting like his boss and elbowed his way to the front, being the first to touch the crown and barking his bid. The auction had begun: each man bidding for his chosen object, each in his own currency. Tarpfa sat back to watch them squabble and started calculating the various values in his head. The crown was the prized item. All had placed bids on it except the quiet man who now held the halo of dried mud in his careful hands. Nebsuel’s man had made a minor bid because he was interested only in a dull leather bag that contained mangled and besmirched charms. Lupo wanted everything and had no difficulty in pushing the stakes higher than most others could afford. He stood proud and defiant, just saying “All” and giving his price.

  “A bit selfish to want everything, couldn’t ya leave something for somebody else?” said Koos automatically.

  “Money or be gone,” said the bidder to Koos, and Marais put a restraining hand on his friend’s wrist, holding back his tense fist and riding crop.

  “Leave him,” Marais hissed.

  Koos unclenched at his friend’s request.

  “It’s all fucking mumbo-jumbo crap anyway,” he said, turning away and fishing in his pockets for his cigarettes.

  It appeared that the auction was over and that Lupo would bring Frobenius a king’s ransom. Not that Lupo would have ever mentioned his master’s name. He would own these goods himself for a day or so and then sell them to Bwana Leo for twice the price. Most of the other bidders just s
tood around, dejected and gloomy, still admiring the line of ugly objects. Iron Engine stepped forward and held out his round polished fist. Then he dramatically placed a single irregular brown object on the crumbling wall next to the coconut shells that he so wanted.

  “Head bones, one possidum,” he said.

  There was an intake of breath and the expression on Lupo’s face changed utterly. None of them had ever seen a possidum, but everyone knew what it was and that it was more valuable than anything else on the slumped wall or all the coins that the other bidders had called out before. Tarpfa walked over on stiff, unbelieving legs and stared at the dirty-brown octagonal lump. All began to move towards it, except Lupo, whose jaw had locked with rage and humiliation.

  “What’s a possidum?”

  It could have been only Koos who did not know. He was whispering, again looming over Marais’s shoulder.

  “May we touch?” asked another bidder.

  “Sure thing.” Iron Engine beamed and made a magnanimous gesture, displaying an alarming array of gold teeth.

  Marais took Koos aside. He was very excited and anxious to explain.

  “It’s very valuable: a fabled ancient treasure, truly a handmade enigma, very rare and never seen in these parts.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “That is a very good and almost impossible question, only matched by ‘where’s it going,’ ” said Marais, a fierce twinkle in his clear eyes.

  “Don’t riddle me, man, just give it to me clear and simple.”

  “It comes from a place that most people think never existed. A land of another god where all was perfection. A land that vanished beneath the sea thousands of years before Jehovah was conceived of.”

  “Christ!” said Koos.

  “And a hell of a long time before him,” Marais continued. “That chunk of pure gold is the only known artifact from that fabled land. Every scholar and witch doctor has heard stories about its value. It was some sort of currency. For buying not property, goods, and chattel but knowledge in its purest form. One of those is the key to absolute gnosis.”

  “Christ,” said Koos, not really understanding.

  “They are very rare and some say they can give one the ultimate truth. Can you guess it?”

  Koos looked blank.

  “The soul’s journey. Existence itself.” And here he pointed to the hushed men who held the metal object with enormous reverence.

  “One of those might be the key to eternity. Beyond heaven itself to the other side of everything. There are men all over the world who would give their right arm and more for that thing.”

  “Christ,” said Koos. “But why is he wasting it on that broken tat?”

  The question was never answered because it and all the concentration and respect of the little group was broken when Lupo pushed his way in between everybody and snarled.

  “Take your wretched head-bone shells. I will buy the rest. All else.”

  He glared down at the jet-black man with the gold teeth, who made a gesture of contempt, showing that he would endure no more of this upstart’s insults.

  “You will own nothing today,” he said, turning his back on his new, angry, overdressed enemy. Iron Engine then retrieved the possidum and addressed Tarpfa directly, putting the small heavy weight in the thief’s hand and forcibly closing his fingers around it. “I will buy all with this. I will take the head bones myself and give all else to these good fellows.” He waved a thick black hand in the general direction of the assembled gawping men.

  “But,” he said, “he gets nothing.” And here he pointed into the furious face of the man who had just lost Frobenius everything.

  While the tension sizzled, the thief agreed, with the proviso that if anyone here wanted the same thing, then they would have to bid again and that he would split the profits with Iron Engine, who laughed back.

  “You keep all,” he said. He carefully picked up the broken coconuts, wrapping them like a newborn child in brightly coloured silk. He then said his salaams and walked back into the forest. All but one applauded him as he disappeared with his back to them, waving.

  When he was finally gone and the clapping had ceased, they turned towards the objects and the snarling, defeated bidder. They ignored him and debated quietly among themselves.

  Lupo knew that he had lost not just the auction but also his job and the trust of the man who had changed his life. There were hundreds, thousands who would have done anything to gain Bwana Leo’s patronage. His failure today meant that he would be replaced instantly from the queue of eager, devoted young men who sought his place in the world. He decided that now the arrogant fool was gone he could deal with these dithering men, could win them over and start the bidding again, and if it did not work, he would kill them. If not here and now, then later. After that he would track his enemy back into the Vorrh and slit his fat throat and take the broken shells for himself.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “May we begin again. My sponsor only seeks two of these goods, so shall we agree on one artifact each?”

  Before any of the bidders could open their mouths, Koos stepped forward.

  “You must be deaf, man. You ain’t getting a goddamn thing. Make tracks.”

  “I have the right to buy!” shouted Lupo, suddenly enraged by the insult of this obviously penniless white lout. He demonstrated his full height, taking long steps forward and puffing out the breadth of his shining black chest, adorned in golden chains.

  “You have the right to fuck off before you get my boot up your arse,” said Koos. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  Then the emissary made the biggest mistake of his life. He kept coming, and as he did so, he drew an ornate curved dagger from his waistband. Everybody flinched except Koos, who dropped his cigarette and then made minor adjustments to every part of his body. Three fast steps away and trapped in his own growing momentum Lupo knew he had made a terrible error. He saw it in Koos’s eyes and in his grin, just before the Boer launched himself low and horizontal, his stiff muscular leg pistoning out. The heavy steel-tipped boot smashed sideways into the running assailant’s leading leg, just below the kneecap. The force stopped the lower leg in an instant, so that the whole, full-speed weight of the man toppled over the static knee and ripped it apart against the joint. He fell in the dust screaming as Koos moved aside and stood up, brushing dust off his shorts. He thought about kicking the sobbing fool in his stupid mouth, but couldn’t be bothered when he saw Lupo’s wrecked leg swelling to comic proportions. He fished in his pockets for another cigarette as he walked past the buyers who stared up at him, but they were already thinking about dividing the goods. The grovelling man had stopped crying and passed out, his fine gown covered in the loose dust. He lay in the scratched composition of his own expressive agony that was drawn around him in the thick, dry earth.

  Before each man had begun to decided which fetish they wanted, the silent man stepped forward again holding the crown of mud.

  “This must be yours,” he said with great solemnity, holding the thing out to Marais. For some unknown reason, nobody seemed to want to argue or disagree with him. They turned away to paw over the other fragments that remained. Marais looked closely at his benefactor.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Another white man called me Seil Kor.”

  “Where are you from, Seil Kor?”

  The tall man’s dignified face broke into a beaming smile. “That, Herr Marais, is a more difficult question. Shall we just say I know the Vorrh and the god that walks in its inner garden. These are my lands and they have held me well.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Yes, but not you.”

  “Why do you give me this and what is it?”

  “I once was lost with a white man in this forest. He spoke only French and could see only with hi
s imagination, which lived at home. We were lost together in two different places. This magical thing is from the True People, who know that all seeing is without doubt or meaning. Is this not the way you understand this country of mine?”

  Marais was speechless and Koos, who was listening, started to make noises of irritation. Marais turned to placate his confused and impatient friend. When he turned back with more questions brimming, Seil Kor was gone. Marais turned the ring of encrusted earth in his hands and started to walk away from the gathering.

  “Truly a thing of wonder. A gifted enigma.”

  “It ain’t much to look at,” said Koos as they walked towards the horses.

  “True,” said Marais. “But it has a heart of gold.”

  Koos laughed out a warm cloud of smoke and they mounted and turned towards the city. It was an hour before nightfall and the voices of the forest had changed. The other men had already left, each going their own way with their new possession.

  “We are skirting the Vorrh, right?” said Koos.

  “For sure, it’s the only way,” said Marais, adding: “What about him?” He looked down at the mangled Lupo.

  “He’s sleeping like a baby,” said Koos.

  “He’s mercifully unconscious, he will never be able to walk away from here or defend himself.”

  “That’s his lookout, man: Behave like a cunt, die like a cunt.”

  The long, plodding night seemed to dissolve the memories and effects of the day, so that as Marais and Koos neared the outskirts of Essenwald, all recollections of their journey and adventures had faded. Nothing of the unknown creature, the buying of the crown, or the crippling of Lupo remained in their wandering minds. Their mounts took them back to the stables. The owner then ferried them to the aerodrome where their plane had been waiting for twenty hours. After a brief wash in a corrugated hut both men opened warm bottles of thin beer while their possessions were loaded aboard the plane. Marais prepared his hypodermic and Koos smoked. Thirty minutes later they slept and rattled all the way back to the cape.