Pilgrims Way Page 19

  Over the remains of the naval officer’s dream, Bossy read the Psalm of Life, lingered meaningfully over ‘dust to dust retumeth’ and sang another verse of ‘Rule Britannia’ with an emotional choke. Some few yards right of the mound round which we had been standing was a sturdy pole or stake, firmly fixed to the ground and reaching a height of seven feet two inches. Bossy speculated that this was a post to which offenders were attached before punishment. He did not seem aware of Blunt’s discoveries in the area. In demagogical style, right hand clasping the heart, left hand resting lightly on the stake, he elaborated. Deadwood remnants of the crude implements used to punish trivial offenders against the autocratic rule of the Viceroy of a northern island crown. He refused to be more specific, but was willing to speculate that it might have been part of the British hordes that briefly occupied many parts of Africa. Moving quickly right and left again, and on one occasion lying supine for several seconds, he attempted to demonstrate how the punishment post or totem might have been part of an important barbarian ritual. At the word of command, which he insisted I utter, the salvo blew his cheeks apart. ‘That will teach the wog bugger to pay his taxes next time,’ he concluded.

  I begged to differ. I conceded that the stake was clearly deadwood remnant but I inclined to the view that it was more reminiscent of the pillar-post thatchwood style of the Indonesians. This had the merit of according with Blunt’s discoveries. On once water-covered plains, now the dry plateau beloved by big-game hunters, a musical lyre was found by the British Archaeological Expedition to the East Coast of Africa in 1929, under the leadership of Blunt KCMG, to clinch the theory of a massive Indonesian invasion of Africa. The instrument was clearly not indigenous. None of the Stone Age natives found in occupation of the plateau at that time were capable of the manufacture of an artifact of such complexity. Fragments of skull found by Blunt KCMG at the lip of the gully on this same island suggest human life before the beginning of time, as counted from the eighth millennium BC. Before that do not apply.

  We found Blunt Gully with ease, and Bossy crouched again, nearly choking from the smell. I made some enquiries about his diet and delivered him a brief warning on the laxity of his standards of hygiene. I quoted directly from my mother’s regular pronouncements on the matter.

  In a grove of palms choked with weeds and wild tomatoes, we discovered an underground town. We paused to study the extent of the settlement and the occupations of the settlers. Our intention was to capture a small handful of the beasts, to torture and dissect them at our ease. We were not welcome and hurried away from fierce mandibles until, weakened by fatigue and hunger, we collapsed under a mango tree. Pungent leaf-mould and rotting humus and ripe mangoes oozing contentedly on the ground. We named this place Mango Park. Bossy bigboots was voted upstairs to wheedle bounty for the starving vanguard of a civilising race. Mangoes on the ground in torpid contentment, oozing their dysentery under the clouds of flies. The Captain returned with phosphates in his eyes, the bounty of a discordant piebald crow. We sank to our knees in humiliating penance and fought for mangoes with the flies. God was on our side.

  Bossy brushed the dirt off his booty while hygiene rang through my skull. I held Hunger in Abeyance and warned him that by Avarice he was undone. ‘O Mummy in my heart,’ I prayed, ‘if I ever needed you it is now. Tell me truly, O Fount of Hygiene, will I sooner die of Hunger or of Dysentery? O Wiper of my Arse, I have heeded your word through Thick and Thin, generally speaking, but now a Text sirens through my guts to throw Caution to the winds. Could it be the Serpent, viper vile, that so flatters me to eat against your Word?’ To a thicket I slunk and guiltily Rash gorged of the Forbidden Fruit. Earth trembled from her Entrails, but I took no thought, content to eat my fill.

  I knelt down waiting for the thunder to strike while Bossy looked on in pagan amazement. ‘I have seen the error of my ways,’ I whispered. ‘I have sinned when knowing that I was sinning. I have no right to ask of you that you show mercy when all that I have done invites your anger. Forgive me, forgive me just one time, Mother Hygiene. I have sinned.’ Mother Hygiene restrained her hand. We left that pernicious grove, myself restrained and chastened, Bossy exultant and full.

  To the waterfall. It seemed then that there ought to have been a windmill as a sign of progress and evidence of an ancient Indonesian culture. Feet in the pool at the base of the miniature waterfall, kicking the water in adolescent delight. We drank the water at our feet, walked to the slimy rocks mid-pool, half-submerged like rising crustaceans covered with slime. We posed for a photi to show the folks back home, hand on hip. This rock we named Bygone My Arse.

  As we sat under that rippling fall, we gazed at what the old voyagers must have seen. In this same place an Indonesian Sultan could have stood, with the power of the human gaze to tear holes through nature’s incomprehensible veil. Bear thee up, Bossy, and trust the power of thy unflinching gaze. How many men stood where you and I then stood and saw nothing of what we saw? We were God’s chosen, and I say this with all possible humility. It was our destiny. We sat by the brimming pool and saw world without end in our humble reflections, in foolish daydream pretence. The words of dead past masters were ringing anvils in our ears to confirm the destiny of our race, to stiffen our self-esteem in times of trial. Not for us the frenzy of self-affirmation and worldliness. Our task was greater than all of us.

  Soon it was time to leave the haven of that waterfall encampment for the final leg of our journey. Bossy took the lead while I patrolled the rear, for the thought of raiders from the underground town we had disturbed earlier still troubled us. As I watched our Captain hack his way through the thickets, I wondered again at the destiny that the Almighty had arranged for us. But, come what may, I knew we had done our share in fulfilling the burden of our race.

  When we got to the beach where we had left our outrigger, we went in for a swim. A ritual ablution, Bossy suggested, and proceeded to thrash around in the water like a demented priest. He screamed strange words at the sky, holding his arms aloft in a curiously vulnerable gesture. Having cleansed his soul, he stroked gently away from the beach while I stood waist-deep in water washing the grime off my body. For no special reason Bossy increased the pace of his strokes and started to sprint away.

  ‘Don’t show off,’ I shouted.

  He waved, a large grin resting lightly on the water. He turned towards the beach, treading water for a few moments, then swam furiously inshore. I shouted out to him again, telling him not to show off, but he could not possibly have heard me. He hauled himself out of the water, a contented self-satisfied grin on his face.

  ‘Did you enjoy that? I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll grow up and realise that it’s childish to show off.’

  He threw himself on the beach, still grinning. We sat in the sun for a little, not speaking. Suddenly he chuckled. ‘I can swim to the town quicker than you can sail the boat there,’ he said, his face radiant. ‘Take a bet on it if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I believe you,’ I said. He often boasted like that so I took no notice. When we had pushed the boat back in the water, I jumped in first and helped Bossy in after me. We caught the breeze immediately, and as soon as the sail was secure and our progress was steady, Bossy said goodbye and jumped overboard.

  ‘See you in town,’ he shouted, grinning in the water.

  I shouted to him not to be stupid but he was already on his way. I stood in the boat calling to him, yelling his name with anxiety and growing anger. Suddenly a fierce squall filled out the sail and I struggled for the tiller. The fierceness of the storm was unexpected. The sail was ballooning out ahead of itself, moving the boat across the island and away from the direction of the town. I tried to manoeuvre the tiller and nearly overturned. I sat horrified while the boat sped away with me like a frenzied animal. I thought of lowering the sail but as soon as I let go of the tiller, the sail flapped savagely and I had to grab the tiller to steady the boat again. I cursed the fool and his showing off
. He would have known what to do. We were still going alongside the island, and I could see me being blown out to sea and dying a violent death at the jaws of a shark. I tried to calm myself. Don’t panic, don’t panic. I tried to imagine myself standing firm at the tiller, grimly bearing up, face turned to the freedom of the seas. We were beginning to leave the island behind, still heading away from the town. Then just as suddenly as it had started, the wind died away. I rushed for the sail and lowered it.

  I could not find him. I called for him, yelled out for him, screamed for him. I tried to turn the boat round to go back to the island, but as soon as I put up the sail the breeze filled it out and took me in the opposite direction. I didn’t know what to do.

  You left me, Bossy. I knew then that you’d left me. You played your games once too often. You left me all too soon. Hardly time to wave and say fond farewells. I knew as I stood there calling out to you, calling you back, that you’d gone. Bossy, what happened to you? O Bossy my Bossy, I sat in that boat hugging my knees to my chest, not knowing what to do, knowing that I had failed you. I sat in that boat frightened to death that you might be in trouble and there was nothing I could do to help you. The boat was too big for me, the water too deep for me, and you were nowhere in sight, Bossy. I called for you and all the time I was moving away from you. Bossy O Bossy my Bossy, you wanted to make me feel a fool while you swam to land and I felt a fool, but where did you go, Bossy? You left me. You left me and I was lost, Bossy. I did all that I could but I could not turn that boat back to you. You would have admired its power, Bossy, you would have admired its power even while you laughed at me you would have admired its power. What else is there to say? I tried all I could.

  Then I thought that maybe I was just being a fool, that you were safe and well and on your way to town. Then I thought I would never make it back to town myself and I was angry at what you had done. ‘Childish bastard! Suppose I’m late back!’ I stood up in the boat and called you names and all the time I knew you had gone. I think of you even now and I still cry for you. I think of you in times of need and I still cry for you. What else is there to say? I managed to reach land. I don’t know how. The wind and the tide took me round the northern headland and dragged me on to land.

  You missed the worst, Bossy.

  It was night when I landed. I knew it was somewhere near Mbweni because it was still light when I started coming in towards land and I had recognised the Hindu crematorium on the cliff, surrounded by the shadows of the vegetation all around it. It was dark when I reached land. I walked along the beach, mile after mile it seemed, worrying if the boat was safe where I had left it. I was hurrying to find out if you had come in. I did not get past the golf course. I was beaten by men with sticks and stones. They told me the day had come. They told me this was the day when all Arabs would get theirs. There must have been six or seven of them. I could see the road into town across the golf course, the street-lamps lighting it up as broad as day. I cannot describe the pain. They hit me with sticks first. I thought only the first few would hurt but incredibly the more they hit me the more unbearable the pain . . . Eventually they held me up, held my head up and made me look at the man standing in front of me. He said something but I was past understanding. He took deliberate aim with his stick, swinging it easily from side to side like a golfer practising a stroke. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the pain in my bones and on the panic-stricken howls thickly flooding my ears. I felt every ounce of that man’s hatred on my skull.

  I thought I was dead. I woke up on the beach. Perhaps they had dragged me there to drown me. Grit and sand were caked with blood down one side of me. When I tried to sit up I felt blood sliming down my face and dripping down on my arm. I heard the sound of gunfire in the air. At first I did not recognise it, it sounded like children playing with pop-guns. A car streaked at speed along the road towards the town. I struggled along the beach, stopping to wash the salt of the sea into my wounds. I was too afraid to go on the road and ask for help. I knew I could get home by following the beach all the way round to the other side of town. I got as far as Shangani before I was stopped by a large group of very wild-looking men with pangas and guns. Where did they get guns? I was too weak to run. They said I was an askari from the barracks and they were going to shoot me. They said they had overrun the barracks and the Prime Minister had surrendered and they had beaten the fuck out of him. The day had come, they said. The Sultan had already run away to the ship off the harbour, they said, and if they were to get hold of him they would whip his cloth off and fuck his arse before stuffing it full of dynamite. All the dirty arse-fuckers would be dead before the night was through. They told me I deserved to die with the rest of them. Mtu mbaya! They said where did you get those cuts from if you weren’t at the barracks? Kill him! They said kill the bastard! They said there’d be none of us left by the time they’d finished and what was I shaking like that for? They said this fellow is a khanithi. Fuck him before you put a bullet in him. They said we’ve got no time, kill him now before the others get to the rich houses. They said if we don’t hurry all the best stuff will be gone and all the good women will be ruined. They said don’t waste a bullet on him. Here, let me do him with my steel. Here, they said, hold your head up . . . but I was too tired and weak and they beat me and urinated on me and left me lying senseless on the beach.

  16

  Catherine rocked him from side to side while he wept like a wounded child. She was the one who was really the child, she thought, having found it so hard to let him see tears on her face. He seemed oblivious to her, sobbing with small, bitter gasps like a man gulping the last breaths of air before his life ended, baby man railing against an indifferent universe. When he had managed to stop, he lay silently beside her in the dark, saying nothing for a long time. She felt him beginning to doze off and gradually drifted off to sleep herself. When she came to, it was light and he was sitting up beside her, waiting for her to wake up. It was she who spoke first, her mind turning to the boy in the sea.

  ‘Did you find him?’ she asked. ‘Tell me how you found him.’

  He did not reply, but he turned to look at her, to show he had heard. It struck him how lovely she looked, her body glowing with health, with a kind of radiance. He, on the other hand, felt tired and ill. She looked bright and clean, when he felt grimy and full of aches.

  ‘It’s so hard to credit,’ she said, resting on an elbow and pressing forward a little to lean against him. ‘To connect the things you hear with real people. You see someone and you think of him as a man, or a woman, or just another person to handle with care. It never occurs to you what history he brings, or what tragedies are tearing him apart. Perhaps even that thought presumes too much. Why should there be anything? You see people like that, it’s not that you don’t. All messed up and torn apart. But you know them. They have scarred faces and eccentric stares, and carry an air of misery about them.’

  ‘And you imagine them living in dingy rooms performing unspeakable cruelties on themselves and on their loved ones,’ he finished for her. She made to protest but he stopped her, putting up a hand and smiling. ‘What about your histories and your tragedies?’

  ‘But they’re so bland they hardly seem real,’ she said.

  He was suspicious, but did not feel that he wanted to convince her that her life did not lack tragedy. Tragedy is in the eye of the beholder, he might have started if he had been in a letter-writing mood. Instead he slid back into bed and shuffled up against her, groaning with contentment as she responded to him.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked after a while. ‘After the . . .’

  He waited for her to complete the question, but she did not. ‘I tried to get home. Running and hiding . . . in that small place! I was captured . . . detained before I got home. It wouldn’t have made any difference. My parents were already in detention. Everybody was rounded up . . . some people never came out of those camps but for most of us it was just humiliation and abuse. The two men who capt
ured me tied me up and made me watch while they raped an Indian girl.’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t want to hear,’ she said, turning away from him.

  ‘It’s all right. I wasn’t going to tell you.’ Two men with guns in their hands, one holding a young girl while the other clubbed her mother with the butt of his rifle, the mother rolling silently on the ground, unable to avoid the blows.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, her face still turned away.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me!’ she shouted, whipping round and punching him furiously on the chest.

  ‘All you could hear was the thud of the rifle butt striking the woman on her head and chest. The young girl, maybe fourteen, was trying to free her wrist. I just turned a corner and came upon them. I don’t know why I didn’t run. I couldn’t believe that a man could do that. The woman was in her death throes, and the man was following her movements, taking careful aim each time before delivering his blow. Then he laughed and shared the joke with the other man. The girl screamed when she saw me, crying for help. The man looked up from his work with glaring eyes, a picture of primeval guilt, Adam eating off the tree, a weasel plundering an egg-nest. Then I ran, but it was too late. The alley was too long. They were shooting behind me but I didn’t really think they’d hit me. I remember shouting Bang Bang, ebo missed. It’s what we used to say as children when we played cops and robbers. But the gunfire was so frightening that I ran into a handcart. I panicked, I just didn’t see it.

  ‘They took me back to where the two women still were, the girl kneeling beside her mother. There must have been people watching behind closed shutters. They tied me up with the mother’s sari and then raped the young girl. She must’ve known the moment would come, and when it did she stood in front of the men, her arms pressed to her side. Long tresses of hair and dark glowing eyes. They threw her on the ground and raped her one after the other. The girl’s sobbing would catch as a new pain took her breath away, and then she would howl with agony. They were not gentle with her.’