Two Distinct Divisions

Two distinct, divisions none...14

_

This post contains portrayals of homosexual actions and lifestyles.   There may be references to, or explicit descriptions of, sex between consenting adults.

If homosexuality, sexually explicit language, or swearing offends you, or if reading material that contains these violates any law applicable to your location, or is contrary to your personal or religious beliefs, you must exit now without proceeding further.

If you’re under 18 years old you may not read it either because it is against the law.  I regret this because I was once a randy teenager myself and I feel somewhat two-faced in helping enforce the law.  Hopefully, one day, censorship may disappear along with other vestiges of Big Brother and Mother Grundy.

The story is entirely fictional and all the characters portrayed are imaginary.   The Staroobryadtsy church does exist, but its name was chosen only because of the anonymity of its remoteness to South Africa.   I have no knowledge of this church or its beliefs.   I have no doubt that its members are all fine, upstanding, and God-fearing folk.

My thanks to Bill Marx, Deon du Toit, and Drew Hunt (listed alphabetically) who gave of their own time to edit my writing.   Their corrections, insights and advice do much to make this story readable, and I am humbly grateful to them.   Since, however, I make changes after I receive their suggestions, any mistakes in the tale are mine.

I have provided a glossary at the end of the story to help you with unfamiliar or esoteric words.

_

Greek Chorus

by Horatio Nimier

David kept his head close to the ground trying to make his silhouette as small as possible.   The essence of the woods flowed into his nostrils:  the tang of the decomposing foliage, the gentle scent of damp and rotting wood, the muskiness of the fungi that thrived in the lowest stratum of the forest.   The smells combined, almost masking the redolence of the pond mud he had smeared over his face and neck to blacken his skin.   Rising up on his toes and hands as in a press-up he moved forward fifteen or twenty centimetres, and then cautiously lowered his body to the ground to rest.   He was fully alert, his ears straining to discern any hint of a movement through the shrill symphony of chirrs made by the myriad insects in the darkness.   Moment by moment each nerve-end on his skin analyzed the stone or twig it touched lest his passage cause a rustle.   He tried to blend in with the blackness knowing that the slightest snap, a sudden or incautious movement, would alarm the tiny creatures that abounded in the night, causing them to fall silent and thus alert his quarry.   His eyes swept over the small camp again and again, watching and observing, learning the rhythm of the place and the quirks of the three men around the fire.

Before each advance the way in front of him was examined to see if it concealed a trip wire or a possible booby trap.   The men sent to bring him back appeared to be complacent, but to rely on that could dull his own alertness and cause him to make a mistake.   His mind was constantly running through the lessons he had been taught at the Outdoor Leadership Programme he’d suffered through in the winter.

----------ooOoo----------

The Youth Day public holiday had fallen on a Wednesday that year, a day when the temperatures began to slide.   Now, nine days later, David sat on the platform of the Ladysmith Station with his friends, Akash and Mylo, watching as two Class 18E locomotives, their cooling fans roaring, pulled the train from Johannesburg alongside the long curved platform on the opposite tracks.   In the 40 minutes since he had heaved his Bergen onto his back and stepped from the similar train that had carried them on the three hour trip from Maritzburg, he had begun to reconsider the wisdom of following Mylo’s enthusiastic badgering to sign up for the Outdoor Leadership Programme.   So far the only part that was true was that he was outdoors.    There was no sign of any leadership:  no-one from the Programme was at the station, and the sixteen boys who had stumbled off the train with him had merely mulled around trying to keep warm.   “If we hang around here much longer the cops are going to think we’re a bunch of friggin’ terrs,” a boy named Liam said, his breath condensing in the bright station lights as he spoke.

_

David nodded.   More boys came onto the platform from the newly arrived train.   “You okes here for the Outdoor Leadership thing?” one asked.

“Ja,” said Akash.   “D’you think we’re mal enough to be standing around like bergies in this bloody cold if we weren’t?”  As he spoke there was the sound of big diesel engines and three olive-green Bedford trucks followed by a Land Rover drew up outside.   “Nice of them to rock up,” he said as he hauled his pack onto his back.

Two hours later the trucks stopped.   The moon was close to full, and through the canvas flaps at the rear of the Bedford David saw what appeared to be a small clearing amongst the bush.   The cab doors opened, and with a loud clang the tailgate was dropped.   “Out!  Out!  Out!”  The yelling, which would carry on continually for the next three weeks, galvanized the boys to scramble out into the darkness.   They stood around in confused groups casting long shadows in the glare of two spotlights mounted on the Landy’s roof.   “Form a line!  Form a line!  Form a line!”

“I wonder why the Pongoes always say everything three times?”  Liam asked under his breath as the boys shoved each other to stand in a row.

“Probably all bosbefok and forget that they’ve already said it once,” David said, stifling a yawn.

“So!  We have a couple of jokers here, hey!”  David opened his eyes to see one of the Programme personnel standing in front of him.   “You two lizards drop.   Give me twenty.”

Liam lifted his hands to his harness to take his pack off.   “Get down!  Get down!  Get down!”  yelled the man, little drops of spittle flying past his trimmed moustache.   “Twenty.   With your pack on.   This isn’t a mothers’ tea party.   One…Two…Three…”

The two completed the press-ups and stood, uncertain, resuming their places in line without looking left or right.   In the ensuing silence another of the Programme staff swung his frame out from behind the wheel of the Land Rover.   Despite his height — his army-style cap added but a couple of centimetres to his one and two-third metres — there was no mistaking the authority he commanded.   He walked toward the group, his back ramrod straight, swagger stick in his right hand, and the boys watched with slight trepidation as he stopped and faced them.

The man who had yelled at Liam and David turned to him and said, “Thirty-four boys present, Colonel.   All names match with the list.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Ferreira.”   The Colonel surveyed the line before him in silence.   Eventually he raised his voice and in clipped tones said, “This is the camp site.   This is your camp site.   It is part of a farm which belongs to a man who very kindly allows the Programme to use it for its training.   I expect it at all times to be kept as clean as it is now.   Tomorrow morning you will construct a proper trench latrine, meanwhile the river is over there,” he pointed to his left.   “Do not foul the water.”   Then pointing in the opposite direction, “If you need to piss or take a shit go at least thirty metres in that direction.   Do not defecate within two metres of a path.   I expect all faecal matter and any soiled paper to be completely buried.   Is that clear?”

There was a mumble of agreement.

“When I ask you something I expect a clear and concise answer.   Preferably ‘Yes, Colonel!’ Now are you all clear about my instructions?”

“Yes, Colonel!”  yelled thirty four pairs of taut, 18-year-old vocal cords.

“Good.   The Bedfords, the Land Rover, and the area to their left where I and my staff will set our tents are strictly off limits.   Right now you need to go to sleep.   Reveille will be at 06:00.   Fall-in at 06:30 with all your gear packed.   Any personal stuff, including tents, sleeping bags, or anything else left behind will be discarded.”

He turned and walked back to the Land Rover.   “Dismiss!”  barked the sergeant as the spotlights were turned off.

“Six o’ fucking clock!  It’s friggin 3:30 now,” said Liam.

_

“Enjoy it while you can.   We’re paying over R1,000 a day for this cruise!”  David replied.

----------ooOoo----------

It had taken over an hour of slow crawl for David to approach the clearing.   He knew well that taking the war to the enemy’s doorstep was his riskiest tactic.   He was keenly aware that, should it fail, he would undergo more beatings — maybe worse — but into the minds of their charges the instructors at the Programme had pounded the dictum that, if action needed to be taken, it was always best to do it at the earliest opportunity, before the foe had had time to get properly organized.

It was not quite 24 hours since he had escaped from the Reclaim Our Youth course run by the Apostolate of Christ Church.   Not quite 46 hours since he had been held across the refectory table in front of the other catechumens — the inmates as David had referred to them — while the Reverend Nienaber laid into him.   The beating had started with a dowel, but when that had broken the holy man took off his belt and scourged the helpless youth.   “Cry!”  he had yelled at David over and over, “Cry so I know the devil is leaving you!”  But David, although his mouth was open, made no sound, forcing his mind to concentrate on the pain to make it fade into insignificance.

Eventually he had passed out.

He remembered being dragged into what had apparently at one time been an attic store room and dropped on the floor.   As they left, one of the pair who had held him down aimed a kick at David’s groin.   In spite of the pain of the flogging gripping him, he instinctively drew up his legs, and his thigh took the brunt of the force, but the boot made a glancing contact with the testes and David spewed out vomit as his whole abdomen seared.

----------ooOoo----------

The boys never managed more than six hours of sleep at night;  four was the norm.   Their bodies were knackered.   The days — short in the time of the Southern Hemisphere’s winter solstice — were filled with cross country runs, map-reading exercises, hand-to-hand fighting and first-aid classes.   Later, when the last vestiges of twilight had disappeared, they practiced moving around in the dark, first at a walk and later with stealth.   They worked in pairs, learning how to camouflage themselves in different surroundings and in various conditions of light and weather.   The days were reasonably warm and the runs could be done in T-shirts, but after the sun set the temperature dropped to between 9°C and 10°C and the boys slept with all their gear on.   David was glad of his shemagh and between sunset and sunrise it was rarely not wound around his neck or head.   ‘D’you think you’re some Arab freedom fighter?’ someone had asked him during the Bedford ride from the station, but when, on the following morning, Akash and four or five other boys were seen wrapped in them and, twenty minutes later, the Colonel was similarly attired as he stood before them at fall-in, the snide remarks turned into the grudging respect of experience.

_

But the real problem was the hunger.   On the first morning they had been issued a 24-hour ration pack.   For some the contents were gone in a day.   For others it lasted two.   But during the week there was no other commissary.   A couple of the boys had one or two Granola bars or Bar-Ones, but for the most part the hunger grew.   On the first Sunday, the second day at The Programme, the two sergeants left the camp and three hours later returned with a bush pig they had shot.   The boys were ecstatic, but the carcass was tied to a St. Andrew’s cross affair in the middle of the camp ground and declared off limits.   In the warmth of the days that followed the animal proceeded to decay.   The stench settled over everything and there was no escape.   Flies swarmed about the camp.

At a break on one of their cross-country hikes, David noticed one of the others grubbing around a fallen log.   “What’re you doing, Thomas?”  he asked.

“Getting my dinner.”

“What’s there?”

“Termites,” he said, popping the little white insects into his mouth.

“You eat them raw?”

“Yes.   They’re OK.   Try some.”

David squatted next to him and picked gently at the rotting wood.   He pinched a termite and gingerly placed it on his tongue.   He felt it move and gulped to swallow it.   “Is this a Xhosa thing?”

The other boy laughed.   “Xhosa, Zulu, Pedi.   We are people of the land.”

_

David began picking at the insects, mimicking the other boy in speed as he pushed them into his mouth.

----------ooOoo----------

He awoke in the morning with the sound of the key in the door lock being turned.   One of the kitchen workers pushed an enamel plate of porridge and a mug of water in and, rolling his eyes, backed out.   The morning passed slowly with David alternating between bouts of coma-like sleep and periods of incredible pain.   There were blood stains all around him on the floor.    When he peed into the tin can that had been left there he noticed the pink stain in his urine.

At midday he was given another mug of water.   He pointed to the can and told the worker he needed to use the toilet.   The worker retreated without saying a word, relocking the door behind him.   Half an hour later one of the deacons came up and unlocked the door.   He tossed the book bag David had brought with him to the church onto the floor.   It was a PC bag, but electronics were banned in the Reclaim Our Youth course so all he had brought were some books, a notepad and ballpoint.   It had astonished David that most of those books had been confiscated when he had arrived, making him wonder whether, to become straight, one had also to be illiterate.   Pointing down the corridor to a toilet, the deacon told David to take his can as well.   He had difficulty getting his legs to co-ordinate and staggered a bit, falling against the wall and splashing a little of the urine on the floor, but the man merely pushed him on the shoulder and told him to hurry up.   The toilet had no door and the deacon spent a full five minutes watching David do his business and clean himself.   As he escorted David back, the man opened a small cupboard and pulled out a sheet which he tossed onto the floor of the room.   “Don’t bleed all over the place,” he instructed as he walked back to the door but, just as he was about to close it, he turned to David with a puzzled look.   “Why didn’t you cry out?  Why did you hold the devil trapped inside you?  You could have let him out and the beating would have stopped.”

“I didn’t cry?”

The deacon shook his head.   David nodded and when the silence lingered the deacon turned and walked out, closing the door and locking it.

In the afternoon David studied the cell.   There was no window, and the only fresh air came in through a ventilation grill high up on the wall and passed out through a gap under the ill-fitting door.   The 40 watt lamp that hung from the ceiling provided the only light, the bulb and the round water pipe that ran from side to side above his head the only departures from the rectangular shapes that surrounded him.   David sat on the floor and pondered.   An hour later he was still thinking and studying every part of his surroundings.   He crawled across the wooden floor examining every plank, every joint, but each board was held securely by the old screws and age.

And then he noticed something.   Across the floor in irregular patches were dark stains.   They looked suspiciously like dried blood.   Yet they were not his:  he hadn’t sat or lain anywhere where they were.   His blood was fresher, and even where it had dried, was not as dark.    Somebody else had bled in this room.

Perhaps his treatment had not been unique.

He considered what the import of this discovery was.   And there was something else.   Next to the skirting board was a small line of black dirt.   At first David had thought it was accumulated wax from the floor, but those boards had not seen wax in over a decade.   He scraped a little with his finger and held it to his nose, but it seemed odorless.   He touched it with the tip of his tongue and then he knew what it was.

----------ooOoo----------

David’s punishment when he had arrived at the camp seemed to presage his first week there.   It wasn’t as though he couldn’t handle discipline — he had been a boarding school brat for nine years and had had no issues with the regulations — but The Programme’s rules seemed often to simply make no sense.   On the second morning he had got up a bit earlier, put his underwear and socks in the Ziploc, added some baking soda and water, shaken it around to get, he hoped, some of the dirt and smell out, and then rinsed them.   Before fall-in he had safety-pinned the laundry to his Bergen straps to dry in the sun as he had done on many a hike.   “What the fuck do you think this is?”  Sergeant Ferreira shouted at him when he came by.   “You think you’re some scrompie back in Durbs?”

_

“I don’t think the scrompies wash their clothes,” David retorted, then tried to reason, “Look, we’re not going to be effective if we’re covered in sores because we’re dirty.”   Noticing the vein pulsing on the man’s temple he hastily added, “Sergeant.”

“Down.   Twenty.”

Twenty, ten and five seemed to enter David’s life every day.   Twenty press-ups for some-or-other infraction, ten laps around the camp in full kit, a five kilo stone added to his Bergen for a march for doing something else wrong or too slowly.   It wasn’t as though no-one else was getting punished:  it was a never ending fact that someone was being yelled at.   It just seemed that David got the lion’s share.

_

There were three ways of leaving the Programme before graduation.   VR was voluntary return.    It meant the student had decided for some or other reason that he did not wish to continue.    MR meant a medical return, that the boy had a medical reason for not continuing:  heatstroke, passing out, bitten by a snake.   Of the three, XR was the worst.   Expelled.   The Programme couldn’t or wouldn’t take your shit another minute.

----------ooOoo----------

The posse that had been hastily assembled to follow David and return him to the fold had all the advantages:  the three were relatively fit and had food, water and all the clothing they needed.   They had the means to start a fire and, from scanning the small clearing, David noted that they carried a walkie-talkie radio — and that they had a pistol.

In his bag, now two hundred metres behind him, David had only one spare hoody, a second pair of socks, a towel and a sheet — the last two all that had been available for him to steal in the brief opportunity he had had to escape.   The flogging he had endured had caused some loss of blood and had brought him to the very edge of shock.   Worse, it made his legs hard to control:   several times they gave way completely, and at best his gait was staggering, making his spoor easy to follow.   With every step, every stumble, the PC bag that served as his pack had banged on his back and caused more blood to ooze out from the barely formed scabs.   Each time he came to water he rinsed his T-shirt, wringing it out thoroughly before putting it back on.   He knew the risks of bilharzia but he didn’t want the smell of blood to pique the interest of a nearby hyena.

In an hour the moon would rise up above the tree tops casting light that would shift some advantage to the foe.   He noted the sleeping bags were motionless where two of the posse were asleep, their feet pointed toward the fire.   The other man, the smallest of the three, sat on a log close to the burning embers.   Occasionally he took a sip from a cup and, from time to time, lifted his head and glanced into the blackness of the forest; his vision limited by the flames he had been staring at.   He never looked toward his two companions.

David edged between the sleeping bags to where their owners’ boots lay.   The men had been asleep he estimated about thirty minutes and, with the hiking and the heat of the day taking their toll, were beyond being disturbed.   His nostrils drew in the scents of the men’s bodies, and his senses remained taut as he assiduously refrained from any sudden movement or noise.    He moved his whole body, resisting the temptation to stretch his arms out to their limits.   He noted the two-way radio but he could not afford the weight so he contented himself with unscrewing the antenna and shoving it into one of the boots.   He picked up each of the water canteens and jammed the heavier of the two into another boot.   Gently he unscrewed the cap of the second flask slightly and laid it down to drain into the ground.   Refilling and purifying their water supply would add a further delay to his followers getting back on his trail and, almost as importantly, add to their irritation:  angry people tended to think less clearly, to miss signs, to make mistakes.

Gripping the two pairs of boots David began to edge back into the forest.

An hour later he was sufficiently concealed from the camp to stand up and start to walk away, his toes curled up so the edge of each sock-covered foot would touch the ground first, feeling as it did so for any twig that might crack.   He retrieved his own sneakers and, ripping a towel in two, used the laces from the purloined boots to bind the pieces over the soles to disguise his spoor.   “A good tracker will always be able to follow you,” the Colonel — his instructor at The Programme — had told the group.   “The only sure way to stop someone tracking you is to kill them.”

The statement had been delivered matter-of-factly.   He gave no adjunct, no lemma to help the young men grapple with the morality of his statement:  it was, after all, a class to encourage and develop initiative.   Nor did it come across as braggadocio:  the ease with which he performed tasks that to his students appeared impossible, and the fact that he and his assistants had spent the entire time alongside them, enduring with them the hunger and every hardship, had proved to the novitiates that he had no need to brag.

Having slaked his thirst from the canteen and tossed the radio antenna into the bush, David returned his pack, heavier with the two pairs of boots, to his back and set out.   At right angles to his previous track he crossed the fairly open grassland where his presence would be too easily noticed in the daylight.   He walked along the moonlit path as quickly as his injuries allowed, wary only of finding a puff adder soaking up the warmth of the packed earth.

He was, he estimated, probably three kilometres further when the sounds of distant angry shouts carried through the still night.   “Skuz ’apo!”  he muttered with a smile.   The Colonel could be proud of him.

It was probably about 1am, David estimated, when he re-entered the forest and found a suitable boulder to curl up beside, and with the hood of the sweatshirt over his head and neck and the sheet pulled over his body and hands to keep any insects at bay, he fell asleep.

----------ooOoo----------

On the Saturday, a week after the boys had arrived, the Colonel summoned David after the fall-in parade.

_

“I think, Lawrence, the time has come when you need to step back, take a look at yourself, and make a decision.   Do you really think this training programme is what you want to be doing?   You have been here a week and you have run up a tab of nine demerits.   The boy with the next highest demerits has five.   Do you see some pattern there?”

Suppressing the desire to point out that two of anything never created a pattern, David stood rigidly at attention and replied, “I’ll do better now, Colonel.   I will.   I’ve got the hang of things.”

The Colonel looked down at his notebook and read out:  “Insubordination, insubordination, insubordination, late for fall-in, out of camp without permission, insubordination, fighting, not completing exercise in allotted time, insubordination.”   The Colonel raised his eyes and stared at David.   “Would you say that based on these that you have a problem with authority and following orders?”

“No, Colonel.”

“No, Lawrence?”

“Permission to speak to the Colonel?”

“Granted.”

“Colonel, it’s not that having rules that’s the problem.   It’s just that we get no explanation for why they are there.”

“This isn’t one of your school debate teams, Lawrence,” the Colonel snapped.   “I assumed that by coming here you wanted to learn a great deal of what we have to offer in a very short time.    We hid nothing from you before you applied:  I think our prospectus is pretty clear.   We have just three weeks to shape some of you into men who can lead.   You boys have no experience, but we have it in spades.   By obeying rules and instructions you demonstrate that you acknowledge and respect our experience.”

“Permission to speak to the Colonel?”

“Briefly, Lawrence.   This is not a matter for discussion.”

“Colonel, see, that is just the point.   When I leave here I am not going to have the Colonel and the lieutenant and the sergeants with me.   And if all I’ve got is twenty — or a hundred — rules, they are no help to me unless I run into that very same situation.   But if I know why the rules exist and what is behind them, then I learn how to make my own rules for conditions I haven’t had before.”

The Colonel eyed David for a full half minute.   “Very well, Lawrence, for the time being you may remain in the class, but if there is one demerit on your sheet in the next seven days it will be XR.

_

“Dismissed!”

----------ooOoo----------

The sky was lightening above the tops of the trees when he awoke.   The ground where he lay was still dark and he pulled the sheet tightly around him to preserve what body heat he could as he planned his next moves.   As the falcon flies the highway was eighteen or twenty kilometres away, and even in ideal hiking conditions that would take most of a full day.    Weakened from the beating and then constantly having to work at avoiding the group following him, David reckoned it would take him two, maybe three times that.   His gut clenched at the realization, and for a moment he felt overwhelmed.   ‘Would,’ he asked himself, ‘giving up be any worse than how I am now?  I have made my point.’   His back was in bad shape — he could see, and smell, the evidence every time he pulled the T-shirt over his head.   There was a possibility that infection would set in and that he might die in the bush.

The realization of what he was thinking brought him up short.   What was the cardinal rule the Colonel had repeatedly told them?  “Any situation is how you view it.   Allow yourselves to get depressed and you’ll surely make mistakes, you’ll miss things, and in all likelihood you’ll die.”

The recollection rallied David.   He slowly stretched, wincing as his T-shirt pulled at the scabs on the welts.   He was, he admitted to himself, better off than he had been at The Reclaim Our Youth place:  no more getting electric shocks as he was forced to watch slides of male-on-male sex performed by men whose clothes and hairstyles dated to the days of hippies;  no longer would he have to listen to the repeated rogations for the devil to depart from him;  no more lectures on how he had erred in choosing to be homosexual — the word ‘gay’ being forbidden as it was viewed a euphemism for the depravity of the sin.   The people who had claimed to his father that they could cure David most often spoke of an angry God that despised and loathed him, and yet at other times they told of a loving God who waited only for him to repent to welcome him back into the fold.   ‘Thou wilt not with predestination round enmesh me and impute my fall to sin?’ David would reflect during these sermons.

He was now not only free of that church and all its dogma, but he was free of any ambiguity about who or what he was.   And within the last twenty four hours he had carried out a raid on his pursuers and hopefully weakened their efforts and their keenness for the chase.

He would not give up.

----------ooOoo----------

On the Saturday evening, the same day as David’s dressing down, three boys were assigned to cut down the rotting bush pig, and the sergeants instructed the class on the art of butchering game.   The pieces of meat, crawling with maggots, were boiled over a fire until, after what seemed an eternity, the Colonel cut a piece and announced that dinner was served.   The first sensation amongst the boys had been one of gagging as the stench of the hot meat eddied around, but after they saw the sergeants, the lieutenant and the Colonel tear at pieces and put them in their mouths, hunger had triumphed over repugnance and they began to tentatively pick at the meat.   Within fifteen minutes the carcass was bare and, amongst themselves, the group declared the dinner had indeed been passable.

_

“Bad meat can be eaten if you cook it thoroughly,” the Lieutenant told them.   “But never re-heat it again — you’ll shit yourself to death!  Better to go hungry.”

The eight days had seen steady attrition of the class.   Of the thirty four boys that had assembled in Ladysmith, three had VRed on the Wednesday — unable to stand the rigors of the course.   Four left on the Thursday, and another three — plus one who was experiencing shortness of breath and was MRed — were driven back to the town by the lieutenant on the Friday.

_

David put a big effort into holding himself in check, blindly following every order given, and day followed day without him getting into any more trouble than being yelled at.   To David the shouting seemed continuous, and it appeared that he and Sergeant Ferreira had an enormous personality clash.

----------ooOoo----------

As daylight made its way to the forest floor he began to scrounge around for food.   He carefully moved rotting branches that he found lying on the ground and collected the grubs and termites that wriggled and scampered in the light.   Using a piece of bark as a mortar, he crushed them into a paste which he licked off his fingers.   He had no matches, and trying to start a fire by friction would take too long — besides, the resulting smoke would betray his position.

From his pack he pulled the boots he had taken from the camp and examined them.   One of the pairs was way too large for him so, removing the laces, he flung each boot in a different direction into the dense undergrowth.   The other pair he could, if needed, wear and he returned them to his bag.   He spent about ten minutes carefully obscuring any evidence of his stay and, wrapping the pieces of towel over his sneakers, set out to the west.

An hour or so later he had gained seventy or eighty metres altitude and he moved to the edge of the trees to get an idea of his position.   In the distance, maybe three kilometres away, there seemed to be some buildings.   He was still unsure whether to seek aid from any area of civilization or to travel concealed until he reached the national road.   The staff from the Reclaim Our Youth church could have spread a tale around that he was mentally ill or dangerous, and the locals might then call them up to come and get him.   As he pondered this he turned his head looking in the direction from which he had come.   At first he saw nothing, but then a momentary glint of light caught his eye and he noticed, across the fields he had traversed in the night, a lone figure following the path he had taken.   His gut clenched:  it had to be one of the pursuers, and David dropped to his haunches and stayed close to the trunk of the tree.   His once-white T-shirt was so stained with sweat and muddy water that it was practically camo, and he doubted he had been spotted.   But his adversary was moving determinedly, and David estimated that he had three hours, at most four, before he would be overtaken.

----------ooOoo----------

The first half of the second week passed without incident.   The boys were worked hard.   With full packs they did a twenty kilometer hike.   The twenty kilometres were measured on a map and took no account of the rise and fall of the ground so the distance covered was much further.    The climbs took their toll on their stamina, and the downhills on their knees.

_

On the other hand, some luxuries had become available:  chocolate bars could be bought each evening after dinner from a supply in one of the Bedfords.   Moleskin and Elastoplast were other popular items, and many of the boys who did not already have one bought shemaghs.

David’s model behavior lasted until the Wednesday.   They had spent the morning at a rock cliff, climbing up and abseiling down.   Having spent his entire youth not far from uKhalamba — the Barrier of Spears as the Zulus named the Drakensberg Mountains — David was enjoying this.   He had been hiking and done some scrambling and climbing all through high school, so he knew much of what was being taught.   In the afternoon the staff had moved them to another krans about a kilometre away which was higher and the climbing harder.   It was about 4:30 when this training ended and, with one of the sergeants and the Colonel, most of the group had headed back to the camp.   One of the duos, Louis and Dirk, who felt they could do with more practice, had asked permission to go through one more exercise.   When this had been granted, four of the boys who had more experience had asked to hang back as well for the chance of an extra climb.   David had gone up first belayed by Mylo, now they had switched and he was at the foot, feeding out the belaying rope, watching Mylo carefully as he moved up the rock face, giving him enough slack to climb without dragging while keeping the fall distance to a minimum.   He had climbed with Mylo several times before and the two shared a common bond and approach to the hobby.

“Mylo, two metres from anchor,” David heard him call, warning him to be ready to give some slack.   “Mylo, clipping!”  David fed out a metre or two of rope.   “Mylo, climbing.”   And David resumed playing out the belay.

“Louis, climbing,” David heard the call from the climber some ten metres to Mylo’s left.   In the back of his mind David had been aware that Louis had taken a rest at the anchor — hangdogging as some say — but his attention had been focused on Mylo, wondering if he, too, might need a break.   Louis’s call was barely complete when there was a sudden “Ow!” followed almost instantly by a yell, “Take!”  Instinctively David began to crouch to absorb the load, but when he recognized that Mylo was still on the face he straightened up and swiveled his head to see Louis Burrell dropping.   He turned back to concentrate on Mylo who had stopped his climb at the shout.   Almost as he did so came a high cry:  “Aaaaghh!” and looking over again David saw Louis gyrating at the end of his rope, his hands tightly clasping his thigh.

“You OK, Louis?”  his belayer, Dirk, called up.

There was a pause then a hoarse reply “No…I think…I think I’ve broken my leg.”

“Get him down!  Now!” the sergeant snapped at Dirk.

“OK.   I’ve got the lead.   Lowering,” Dirk called.   David took a quick glance over at him to see if everything was OK and something caught his attention.   He looked to his side where Mylo’s rope was flaked out on the ground and then back at the other belayer.

“Dirk, stop!”  David said urgently but keeping his voice down.   “Don’t lower.   You haven’t got enough rope.”

There were a few seconds of silence.   “How the fuck did that happen?”  Sergeant Ferreira asked, striding over.   “Where did you get that rope from?”  he snapped at Dirk.

“From the Landy, Sergeant.”

David could hear the confidence ebbing from the voice.   Keeping his eyes on Mylo he said, “Doesn’t matter now, Sergeant.   Is there another rope here?”

The sergeant looked around.   “No.   I’ll have to get the Colonel to come back with the Land Rover.”

“No time,” said David.   “He’s headed for Ladysmith — he can’t get back in under twenty minutes or more.”

“What’s going on, David?”  Mylo called down.

“Not enough rope to lower the climber.”

David heard the muffled “Shit!”  from above him.   There was a pause then Mylo called out to the third climber, “Vhukeya, when you’re off belay at the top, set up a cordelette that’s bomber in case you have to abseil down with Louis.”

“OK, Roydon.   ’Bout another ten-twelve I think.”

“Dirk, get your lead up to the anchor and hold him there.   Make him use his good leg while he hangs,” Mylo called down and then, “Mylo, climbing.   Watch me, David.”

“On belay,” David called, his adrenaline rising.

“Stay on your route, Roydon,” the sergeant shouted.   “Do not leave your route!”

Mylo didn’t reply as, with hands and feet searching for grips, he edged across the face toward Louis’s belay.

“Roydon, get back on your route and complete your climb,” Ferreira yelled.   “I’m warning you, you’ll be XRed.   Vhukeya, when you’re at the top, drop your rope for me to use on the belay here.”

“Sergeant, will you please shut the fuck up.   Those ous don’t need any more distraction than they’ve got already.”   Without taking his eyes off his climber David spoke with a low voice that wouldn’t carry up to the climbers, but his tone left no doubt of his intensity.

Sergeant Ferreira moved up to David and stood between him and the rock face.   “Listen up, Lawrence.   I’ll decide how this rescue is to be done.   I’m the one in charge here, not you.   I’ve learned this the hard way:  on active duty in the bush.   This is how we survived:  the senior man makes the decision, the rest follow his directions.   That’s not only how we survived, but why we survived.”

“Then act like you’re in charge of this situation, not some mock-up classroom exercise.   There are five of us here really thinking hard, and we’re having to work against you.   Have you checked on Louis?  Is he conscious?”

Mylo had passed the half-way point of his traverse, David noticed.   The late afternoon air was cooling but he could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.   Mylo was way to the side of his route and if he fell now he would pendulum, swinging across and sustaining, at the very least, severe grazing.   But Louis was now the big concern:  his speech was becoming fainter and less coherent.   Most of the time all he said was “I’m hurt really bad.”   With the chill coming to the air David knew the guy would soon be getting to the hypothermia stage.

He couldn’t afford to take his eyes off Mylo, though, and he asked, “So, how’s our outjie doing, Sergeant?  Can you see with the binoculars?”

“Seems to be bleeding.   It’s seeping through his pants.   But he’s up at his anchor now.   He’s trying to tie himself on, but he’s fumbling.”   He raised his voice, “Burrell!  Don’t attach yourself.   Stay on the belay — Dirk can hold you OK.”

“Tell him to keep pushing at the wall with his good leg if he can,” David said.

“Burrell!  Keep your leg that’s not hurt moving.   Push against the wall.   Move your arms around.”

“Why must he do that?”  asked Dirk.

“Harness hang syndrome,” the sergeant explained.   “Too much blood stays in the legs and not enough’s left for the body and the brain.”

David noticed that Mylo was almost right up on Louis.   “Mylo, clipping!” came the call.   David fed some rope out.   He could see Mylo pulling a ’biner onto his rope and attaching it to the anchor Louis was on.   “Mylo, tension!”

“On belay!”  David shouted back, trying to keep a business-as-usual tone in his voice so as not to let his anxiety get up to his lead.

“How is Burrell?”  called the Sergeant.

“Conscious but confused.”

David heard the third climber call down to Rayne, his belayer, “Ntokoto, off belay.”   He had reached the top.

“OK, now drop your rope, Vhukeya,” the sergeant shouted up, then lowering his voice added, “we’ll tie it onto the end of your rope, Dirk, and lower Louis down.”

David was about to voice his opposition but before he could get a word out he heard Vhukeya call down, “Mylo, do you still want me to set up an abseil on the center route?”

“Drop the fucking rope,” yelled the Sergeant.   “Christ, you guys would never have lasted an hour in the Scouts.   Can’t any of you do one, fucking, simple thing right?”

“For shitsake stop with this talk,” David exploded.

“Mylo,” called Vhukeya, “you have the lead.   What do you need from me?”

“Set up the abseil just in case I need you here.”

“You boys are way over your heads in the shit,” the sergeant snapped.   “There’s a boy dying up there on the wall you want to try to be heroes.”

“Is someone coming up here with a Bedford or the Landy?”  David asked, ignoring the remark.

“Both of them are coming.”   He stopped talking and then added, “When the Colonel sees the mess you’ve got yourselves into you can bet it’s going to be XRs all round.”

No-one said anything.   David watched Mylo working fast to get some camalots into cracks to form another anchor for himself.   Eventually he heard, “David, can you give me about twelve metres slack?”

David looked down at the rope at his feet.   “Ja.   There’ll be a knot passing the first anchor.”

“OK.   Give me slack.”   David fed the rope out, quickly adding prusiks to the rope and his harness while he got the knot past his ATC — the small device that enabled him to put a brake on the belay and hold more than his body weight if needed.   Up above him he observed Milo hauling the rope in.   He prayed that his lead’s anchor held:  there was a lot of slack in his belay as it hung in a catenary across the face.   He saw Mylo rapidly grab a bight in the rope, form a knot, and attach it to Louis’s belay loop, then take a second bight and push it through what David guessed was an ATC and attach it to his own belay loop.

“David, take in all the slack.”

David pulled in a couple of metres.   “Mylo, slack is gone.   I’ve got tension.”

David saw Mylo take a ’biner and attach Louis to the anchor.   “Dirk, give me some slack!”

“What the fuck is he doing?”  the sergeant exploded as Dirk let out his belay.   David watched as Mylo pulled some of the other climber’s belay up and secured it to the camalot anchor he had just made.   He unscrewed the biner that held it to Louis’s harness and removed the belay.    “He’s going to let Burrell fall.”

“Louis, off belay,” came Mylo’s voice.

“Off belay,” called Dirk.

“Don’t put any tension on your rope, Dirk,” David cautioned, not taking his eyes off the pair above him.

“David, tension.   Watch Louis.”

“On belay!”  David called.   He saw Mylo unclip Louis from the anchor and begin to feed the excess belay rope, now supporting Louis, through his ATC.   Louis began to arc downwards and across the face.   David felt the load on his rope increasing as the rescued climber came more into the vertical line with the route.

_

Eventually Louis hung directly above him and he heard Mylo call out, “Mylo, off belay.   David you take the lead and get him down quickly.”

----------ooOoo----------

With added resolve David returned to the path, yet a mere hour later when he stumbled while crossing a brook that crossed the trail, he had to admit that his pace was continually slowing.   His injuries were taking their toll:  he desperately needed rest — a secure place where he could sleep for more than an hour or two.

He peeled his shirt off and rinsed it in the chilly water.   The cold was welcome as he donned it once more.   He briefly let his eyes follow the line of the water as it flowed ten metres or so before plunging over the rocky cliff-ledge to the valley below, then he began to rummage around the stones, coming up with more grubs which he crushed in the palm of a hand before scarfing them down.   He scanned his surroundings.   On the other side of the brook several large rocks had, eons ago, been tumbled together to form a small cave.   He could crawl in amongst them and be totally hidden from anyone on the trail — or anyone at all unless they actually crept in after him.   He moved toward it, waving his hand in front of his face to chase away some insects, no doubt attracted by his sweat-soaked hair.

And then he noticed it.   God, his exhaustion was taking its toll.   It was the first thing he should have observed when he came to the stream.   A few metres away hung the irregular spherical shape of a bee hive with the little insects busily moving in and out.   He sipped the water while he battled to focus his brain.   “Don’t look at things the way you want them to be.   See things the way they are!”  It wasn’t the cave and its promised shelter that was important, it was the hive.   He looked around.   It seemed that it would not be easy to get it off the tree.   If he had something to lever it then perhaps he could do it.   His eyes scanned the forest undergrowth but it was only when he looked higher that he spied a dead branch that was not too decayed.   Pulling it down, he tested its strength.   It would probably do.

It took him an hour to complete his task and, after taking the hoody and sheet out, he repacked his bag and stuffed it just a little way into the entry to the cave, but not far enough so that it would be hidden from the trail.   Pulling on the pair of purloined boots and holding his sneakers in one hand and a smooth round rock in the other as a potential weapon, he walked up the brook, careful not to splash the banks.   About sixty metres upstream he carefully left the water, pulled the hood over his head, carefully tunneled into a patch of denser undergrowth and, lying flat on his stomach, set down to wait.   Close at hand he laid the round rock — his only weapon of defense.

His pursuer was not concerned with stealth, and David was aware of his approach a full ten minutes before the man reached the stream.   With his chin pressed to the ground David could not see the adversary and had to rely on his ears to discern what he was doing.   The man stopped at the bank.   David suspected that he had noticed that there were no spoor on the other side of the water and was considering the implications.   Now was the gamble:  what would his follower do?  Walking in a river was a well-known way of obscuring a trail and the man might start to work his way along the water course studying the bank on each side for a sign of exit.   That would be bad.

His other option would be to see if he was being misled:  he could spend some time where he was and search for a refuge in the vicinity where his quarry could be holed up.   It took all David’s self-control to keep his head down and trust his ears.   The seconds passed and then David heard the sound of his long shot paying off:  the click of a buckle.   The waist belt of a pack had been undone.   The man had taken the bait.   He had probably seen David’s bag at the rocks and was going to investigate the cave.

Of all the scenarios that had traversed David’s mind of how this moment might play out, none had prepared him for what happened next.   At about one second intervals six shots blasted out, the sound echoing around the trees like thunder.   Instinctively David raised his head.   The man had taken his pistol and was shooting into the cave.   David shuddered and buried his chin back into the earth.   A bullet fired into a cave ricochets off the rocks, taking an unpredictable course as it zigs and zags while expending its energy.   Worse, splinters of sharp stone fly around unguided and with deadly speed.   If either the bullet or the rock fragments meet up with human or animal they tear through skin and flesh, their irregular shapes wreaking terrible damage.

David had not foreseen this.   He had totally underestimated his enemy.   If he had had laces in his sneakers he might have ignored the dangers and tried to bolt right then, but the stratagem he had taken had left little room for retreat.   The next move his pursuer made would be checkmate for one of them.

David heard nothing for a while, and he envisioned his hunter reloading the pistol for a close-range coup de grace in the cave.   His ears caught a slight rustle of undergrowth.   He imagined the man moving toward the rocks, and then the sound David had waited for, a muffled yell as the man stumbled.   There was a slight crack as the string he had tripped over pulled a small stick out of the notch in another that held the trap in place.   Immediately came the rustling of the dead branch swinging then a dull thud as its momentum knocked the hive to the ground.

Silence followed for a second or two as the hunter tried to determine what had happened, and then a panicked yell as a thousand angry bees began to emerge from their damaged home.   “No!  No!”  David heard him shout in dread as the bees swarmed in search of a quarry.   Three rapid shots followed, probably, David surmised, fired in fear and without logic into the hive in a desperate retaliation that could only serve to excite the bees further.   There was a crashing in the undergrowth as the man tried to move away from the insects which were swarming between him and the path.   The sound of a heavy grunt followed when the man apparently stumbled, and then the sounds of frantic slapping of skin against skin and the screamed, “Ahhh!  Ahhh!  Ahhh!”  as twenty or more stingers lanced into him in waves.

David kept his head down as he listened to the man thrashing around amongst the ferns and scrub looking for the way out of the clearing, but the path in was narrow and not easily seen.   The movements seemed erratic and the man was gasping for breath, each followed by a groaning sound as he exhaled.   The flailing stopped, giving way to splashing, and David speculated that his hunter was seeking refuge in the stream.   There was a grunt followed by a choking, thin, wail-like sound that faded away.   And silence.   Silence except for the frantic buzzing of bees.

David still did not move.   His body would not survive many stings, and he forced himself to wait for the insects to settle.   The total lack of any sound of human movement gave him some sense of comfort, but at some time his pursuer would regain consciousness and then who knew what might transpire?

He tried to remain alert, but lying flat in the snug confines of the branches and greenery without any sound of movement lulled him and, after a few jerks into wakefulness, David fell asleep.

----------ooOoo----------

The sound of the Land Rover’s engine faded into the twilight as the Colonel and the lieutenant took Louis, sedated and with his leg splinted, back to the hospital in Ladysmith.   The boys began to clear up the site, coiling ropes, clipping carabiners onto their loops.   The tension of the accident and the rescue had left them drained, and none of them spoke as they packed the gear into the back of the Bedford.

_

Dirk moved as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.   He had apologized to each of the group several times, as well as to Louis while he was being treated.   When he turned from handing up several coils of rope to Rayne, Mylo punched him gently on the chest.   “It’s OK, boet.    It was bad today, but you’ve learned a bunch:  there are a whole lot of mistakes you’ll never ever make again.   It’s happened to all of us.   Louis didn’t break his leg because of you:  he made the mistake that caused his fall — he tied onto his anchor by clipping a ’biner into two loops of a daisy chain.   Seems he forgot to twist it, so when he fell the stitching gave way and that meant there was nothing at all holding onto the ’biner.”

He shrugged.   “At least nobody died.”

“So that’s your take from all this, Roydon,” Sergeant Ferreira snapped.   “Nobody died so everything is OK?  Let me tell you, Banks fucked up royally by not checking his rope length.    But you were a very close second in screwing up.   I told you, you should have tied on to your anchor and we should’ve taken the second rope from your belay and joined it to Burrell’s and brought him down.   Then we could’ve re-attached it to your belay for you to finish your climb.

“But you boys have all done your little weekend hikes from your posh schools, and think you know it all.   You want to be heroes and run off and do your own little show.”   He jabbed Mylo’s chest with his fingers.   “We could have been scraping your skin off the rocks if you’d fallen.

“You boys have got to be more disciplined.   Follow orders.   If our guys out in the bush had carried on like you boys did they’d all have been dead within days.   The trouble is you boys are too soft.   You’ve never had to fight for anything.”

Mylo merely shrugged, turned and walked away, but David wasn’t going to take it.   “Ja, right.    Works great on the whiteboard, but has a bloody good chance of going tits-up in practice.    First off, Sergeant, there’s no way a belayer is going to let you make his rope too short to rescue his lead.   What would have happened if you’d taken our rope and tied it on to Louis’s?  Say the knot had then got jammed in an anchor.   Louis is so far out of it he can’t jug, and he can’t climb the rope to release it.   Now we’ve got two climbers stranded.   So how does your theory work that one out?

“And, yes, Banks fucked up a bit, but not so much as the rest of us.   The four of us, me, Mylo, Ntokoto and Vale have climbed in the Berg a whole lot;  we were all around and not one of us checked on Louis and Dirk.   They’re both sharp on gym wall-climbs, but this week is the first time they’ve done any serious climbing outdoors.   So it was our mistake and we fixed it.

“And, just so’s you know, a person doesn’t have to be in some long-forgotten bush war to have discipline.”

He turned away, picked up two bags of carabiners and other climbing gear and heaved them into the back of the Bedford.   “Spare me from fucking Whenwes,” he said under his breath.

The sergeant spun around and landed a punch in David’s gut that lifted him and sent him sprawling under the rear of the truck.   “XR, Lawrence!”

_

David rolled onto his hands and knees, his forehead pressed against the earth as he gasped for the breath that wouldn’t come.   Mylo and Ntokoto came over and helped him to his feet.   “Take it easy, mate,” said Mylo.   David turned and spat out the vomit that had caught in his throat.   The others helped him into the back of the Bedford and clambered in after him.

----------ooOoo----------

It was, he estimated from the position of the sun, about two hours later when he awoke.   There was still no sound other than the normal rustling and bird calls of the forest.   Gingerly he lifted his head and gently pulled apart some branches allowing a view of the clearing.   Of his pursuer the only sign of his presence was a backpack lying near the water’s edge.   Several bees still flew around but most of the activity was on the hive, and from this David surmised that whoever had been after him was no longer in the vicinity.   He needed to retrieve his bag from the rock cave but he was hesitant, recalling that bees can hold a grudge for a long time.   On the other hand the shots could well have attracted some attention and he wanted to be away from the clearing if any other human were to arrive.   Carefully and slowly he backed out of the thicket.   Pulling the still wet boots onto his feet he tucked the bottoms of his jeans into them.   The sheet he wound around his head, shoving the remainder down into the neck, folding the top so just the barest slit was open at the eyes.   A wry smile cracked on his lips as he recalled pictures of T. E. Lawrence in his Arab garb in the desert.   Cutting a wide arc, he carefully approached the cave from the back — the side furthest from the hive.   When he came to the entry he looked for his follower, but there was not a sign.   He sat back on his haunches to try to figure out where the man could be.   The banks of the stream were wet from splashing but clear of any footprints.   As his eyes followed the flowing water, he noticed the dislodged rocks and small clumps of mud on the ledge.   Gradually his brain accepted the notion that his pursuer had fallen over.

Gently and with a smooth motion he pulled his bag toward him.   He would have given a lot to get to the other man’s pack:  undoubtedly there was food inside, but it lay directly in front of the fallen hive and the buzzing bees were too close.   But what he could not abandon were his sneakers' laces which he had used, along with those of the boots, to form the trip cord to pull the branch onto the hive and dislodge it.   One end of the laces, which had been looped around the tip of the branch, was free on the ground, but the other end was still firmly tied to a tree stump.   Once more David had to swing around the back of the cave, down the trail several metres, and work his way slowly and carefully up to the tree to where he could untie the knot.

Pulling his sneakers back onto his feet, David tossed the wet boots into the deep brush, grabbed several handfuls of the brown pods from a couple of umThiba trees to eat, and set out on the trail as the late afternoon sun began to cast lengthening shadows into the forest.   About 500 metres further on, the escarpment bent outwards and he cautiously approached the rim.   Looking back to where the brook fell he could see his pursuer lying motionless in an unnatural heap as the waterfall splashed over him.

David shook his head.   “Why did you not just leave me alone?”  he asked in a whisper.   He stood for several minutes looking at the body.   There was no movement.   He was surprised that he felt nothing:  neither sorrow, nor joy, not even relief.   Just a sense of numbness.   He thought he needed to do something to mark the man’s passing, yet in his mind he kept hearing the sound of the six rounds shot blindly and without warning into the cave.   Barely audibly he began to recite the twenty-third Psalm, but he choked when he came to ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death’.   He felt the words pertained too closely to himself, and not to the man lying in the spray of water.   He stopped.   He half raised his right hand in something between farewell and plea and mumbled ‘Enter not into judgement with thy servant, O Lord’.

With a final look at the waterfall, he turned and walked on.

----------ooOoo----------

After a fifteen minute ride over a rough track, the Bedford came to a stop at the top of the cliff and the boys clambered down to retrieve the gear that Ntokoto had used to anchor his abseil.    David’s gut still ached and, unable to bend over, he leant against the opposite side of the truck, his eyes looking out over the grasslands.

_

“You OK?”  Sergeant Ferreira asked him.

“Fine, Sergeant.   Never felt better.”   David didn’t move his eyes off the distant vlakte.

“You know you’ve been asking for that since the night you arrived, don’t you?”

David nodded.   He kicked the ground with his sneaker then turned and hoisted himself into the back of the Bedford with the other boys.

The truck rocked and bumped over the rough road  — little more than a cattle track — on the way back to the camp, and the boys sat in silence holding on to whatever support they could get.    When they were about five minutes out, David spoke.   “Ous, this is how it is.   The sergeant never hit me.   If you feel you can’t lie, or don’t want to, just say you were looking the other way and didn’t see anything.”

“You can’t do that,” Ntokoto burst out.   “He’s supposed to be in charge.   He’s supposed to be in control of himself.   He should get fired.   He’s bigger than you…and older.”

David shook his head.   “I stepped over the line.   I don’t want anyone to lose their job.   I shouldn’t have laced into him like I did.”

The truck turned into the camp and came to a stop.   As the boys moved to the back Mylo put his hand on David’s shoulder.   “Noble gesture, boet, but you need to realize that if he didn’t hit you, you’re going down with an XR.”

_

“I know,” David said, looking at his friend.   “It bites majorly.”

----------ooOoo----------

As the forest became lighter in the morning and the birds began their chirping and whistling, David opened his eyes, amazed that he had spent the entire night under the trees without waking.   That was both bad and good.   Bad because he had obviously been in a deep sleep and could easily have been surprised by anyone looking for him; good because he felt mentally refreshed and could concentrate on the journey ahead of him.   He found a fallen trunk and dug around in it for insects and grubs, chasing them down with some water and mouthfuls of the fruit of the jujube tree.

It was time for him to leave the shelter of the forest and strike out across the open veld, the fields of thigh-high green grass and isolated trees.   He was bound to be seen by the locals, but he felt they no longer posed much of a threat.   The end of apartheid had not meant a big change in life for many of these folk and they still eked out an existence from the land.   Technically he was in a tribal area and should have the permission of the chief to be there, but since he was carrying no weapon he was unlikely to get anything worse than a slight dressing down if he were caught.

He walked for almost two hours without making any contact.   The first person he came across was a boy of about six or seven, but as David drew near and the child could see him more closely, he ran away to a nearby house and, within a minute, an old man came out of the door and peered at David.

“Sawubona,” David called out the greeting.

“Sawubona,” came a hesitating reply.

“Ukhuluma isiNgisi?”  David asked.   The man looked at him and shook his head.   He didn’t speak English.

“Uxolo,” David said hesitatingly as his Zulu was fragmentary, “Ngilambile.”   He pantomimed putting food into his mouth with his hand.

“Uphumaphi?”  the man asked as the child peeked from behind him.   Where a stranger came from was always a prime piece of information.

“Umgungundlovu,” said David, referring to his home town of Pietermaritzburg by its Zulu name.    He didn’t want to mention the church.   His ties with that were cut.

The man said something to the boy who scurried inside.   David stood in silence as the old man studied him.   “Igama lami ngu David,” he said eventually, introducing himself to ease the discomfort he felt at appearing so dirty and disheveled.   The man made no acknowledgment.    A person of his age had probably seen enough empirical data to feel that white people might not always be what they claimed.   He pointed to the side of the house where a galvanized iron bucket stood underneath a lever pump.   David walked over and lifted the handle and pushed it down.   A thin stream of brownish water came out and he cupped his hand and put his mouth down to drink.

“Cha!”  the old man called out, and David looked at him.   The man folded his hands together and David realized he was meant to wash his hands.   He pumped again and rinsed his hands in the water noting with some surprise how much soil had accumulated on them.   Shaking off the drips, he wiped his hands on his jeans, once more feeling ashamed that he was so dirty.

The boy reappeared at the door holding an enamel plate with a pile of mieliemeel on it.   David took it from his hands.   “Ngiyabonga,” David thanked him and then sat on the ground and practically shoveled the corn porridge into his mouth with his fingers.   He had never eaten so welcome a meal in his life.   Within a minute the plate was cleared and the boy returned with a cup made from a tin can and handed it to David.   As he took the can from the boy’s hands his nostrils caught the whiff of the fermented beer.   “Siyabonga kakhulu,” he said in true gratitude as he gulped the contents down.   He’d had it a few times before:  a little thick and not very alcoholic the brew was quite nutritious, although the taste was one that David had never really liked on the previous occasions.

David set the cup on the plate and returned them to the boy.   “Umusa kakhulu,” he said in appreciation of the kindness.

The man pointed at the plate, and David thought he was enquiring if he wanted more.   He could eat the same again easily, even three times more were it offered, but he looked around at the sparse crops in the fields near the house and felt it would be too big a gift to ask for — more so since he had nothing to give in exchange.   He shook his head and scrambled to his feet.   “Ngifanele ngihambe,” he said, explaining that he must be on his way.

The old man gave a nod then raised his hand a little.   “Hamba kahle!”  Go safely.

David walked over to him.   Covering his right elbow with his left hand in respect, he offered his hand to the old man.   “Salani kahle!”  David said as they shook hands briefly.   Stay in peace.

----------ooOoo----------

It was dark by the time the Colonel and the lieutenant returned, and the boys were clustered around the fire having cooked and eaten their dinner.   David noticed the two sergeants walking over to the Colonel’s tent, and once they had gone inside he felt pretty confident his fate was being decided.   With the adrenaline rush of the afternoon’s accident and rescue gone, he felt certain that in the morning he would be off the camp and on his way home.   That bit.    He was just getting the hang of things in the wilderness and was rather enjoying the challenges thrown at him.   He had learned a great deal in the two weeks:  he could light a fire without using matches or a ferro rod; he could navigate by the stars or the sun; trapping small game or fishing could provide him with food and, if he couldn’t get those, he knew enough to live off grubs and insects.   If he was given a map he could look around for salient landmarks and figure out his position;  and, possibly more important, he could create a sketch map of the terrain around him and he could follow a route on it.

_

Of course, he reflected, unless he was out backpacking in the wilderness, these skills were not going to help him get through his everyday problems.

“Lawrence!  Colonel’s tent!”  called one of the sergeants, as the two of them walked toward the fire.

“Good luck!  Good luck, mate!  Vasbyt, boet!”  the words spoken softly by the other boys eddied around as he stood up, wiped his hands down his pants, smoothed his shemagh down around his neck like a scarf and tucked it into his jacket, then began to trot across to the olive tent lit by a hurricane lamp.

“Colonel?  Lawrence here,” he said as he stopped outside the flap.

“Enter.”   The Colonel sat on a camp chair in front of a desk formed by an overturned supply crate.   Behind him the lieutenant stood casually but with no look of warmth on his face.   “How are you feeling?”  the Colonel asked brusquely.

“Fine, Colonel,” David said, standing at attention, his eyes looking a few centimetres above the man’s head.

There was a silence for maybe five or six seconds and David could hear the sergeants outside telling the boys to clean up their mess gear and get ready for the night’s exercises.

“Lift your shirt.”   David pulled his T-shirt out of the waistband of his pants and hefted it up, dragging the sweatshirt and army jacket up with it.   The Colonel reached over and pushed two fingers onto the area where Sergeant Ferreira’s blow had landed.   “That hurt?”

The prodding caused a feeling of quite some tenderness but David replied, “No Colonel.”

“Really?  A few hours after getting punched in the gut by Sergeant Ferreira and there’s no soreness?  I find that hard to believe!”

“The sergeant didn’t hit me, Colonel.”

“Don’t waste my time, Lawrence.   I know he punched you and why.   I may not condone the punishment but you have been testing everyone’s patience here for two weeks and it’s plain you haven’t got what it takes to complete the course.”

“I was not hit, Colonel.”

“You bloody little fool:  an MR from an injury will be a better story than an XR when you tell your parents that you’ve wasted over R25,000 of their money tomorrow.”

“Permission to speak to the Colonel?”

“Yes.”

“Colonel my parents have paid nothing for this course.   I don’t know about the other boys, but Mylo…er…Roydon and I have paid our own way.   We worked on the fishing charters all summer so we could come here.   My parents didn’t want me to sign up for this:  I have matric and A-Levels coming up at the end of the year, and they think I should be at home studying.”

The Colonel sat staring at David, flipping his ballpoint over and over between his fingers and tapping each end on his desk.

The lieutenant cleared his throat.   “What work did you do on the charters?”  he asked.

“Everything, lieutenant.   Started at 4 am:  refuel the boat I’m assigned to, check the batteries, check all the running lights, add the deodorizing fluid to the holding tank for the toilet and make sure the toilet is clean and has paper, check the lifejackets are all there and in place, same with fire extinguishers and all the other safety equipment, load the drinks and the ice, check the booking slip for what catering is required and load that.   Once we are out at sea we rig the fishing lines for the Valies who don’t know how, and bait their hooks.   If they catch anything, we help to get it on board and on ice.   When we get back, some of the customers will pay us extra to clean, fillet and pack their fish.   Then I’d take the boat over to the service area, get the toilet holding tank pumped out, wash down the boat, get rid of the rubbish, tidy up and it’s 9pm.”

Again there was silence in the tent except for the faint hiss from the hurricane lamp.

“You are trouble, Lawrence, with a capital T,” the Colonel sighed.   He shuffled through some papers in a manila folder, pulled out a sheet and studied it.   “You have a demerit for fighting during the first week.   What was that about?”

“Elocution lesson, Colonel,” he said, his eyes fixed above the man’s head.   “One of the boys couldn’t pronounce the word g-a-y.   He pronounced it ‘fairy’.   He can say ‘gay’ properly now, Colonel.”

The Colonel stared at him.   He pursed his lips and then asked, “Is there anything going on between you and Roydon?”

_

David dropped his eyes to meet the Colonel’s.   A bit of a personal question, but he supposed that, considering the Colonel’s position, it was a reasonable one.   “Does the Colonel want to know if I’m planning to make a move on Roydon’s girlfriend?”  He shook his head.   “Irene’s very nice, very pretty, but I’m not going to steal her.   And they’re both my friends so I won’t try to steal Mylo.”

----------ooOoo----------

Now that he was out of the trees David began to notice the heat of the morning sun, and after some thirty minutes of walking he took the sheet and fashioned a rough keffiyeh out of it.   The path he had been following led to a narrow dirt road and he was able to move at a faster pace.    About every half hour or so he would pass a kraal — a few huts, maybe a small house or two — and at a couple he was able to fill up his water canteen.   Around midday a woman gave him a thick slice of bread which he took, eagerly washing it down with the brackish water from the pump.

As he was rejoining the road he saw a small donkey cart about half a kilometre away, and he stood at the side of the road watching its approach.   As it came up to him he held out his right hand with the thumb raised.   The driver stopped and said something in Zulu that David could not understand.   He assumed he was being asked where he wanted to go, so he pointed down the road, and in response the driver pointed to the back of the cart where some twelve or fifteen hessian bags of corn lay between the roughly hewn tree branches which formed the cart’s sides.   David took off his bag and clambered in, nestling around between the sacks until he was relatively comfortable.   “Ngiyabonga!”  he called out his thanks, but the driver merely smacked the donkey and the cart started off again.

The lack of conversation did not bother David.   Lying back amongst the sacks, the scent of the hessian that reminded him of the big ropes at the docks where he had worked, the slightly irregular swaying of the cart, the sound of the donkey’s hooves mingling with the sigh of the tyres on the sand, David felt secure.   For the first time in his life he knew himself:  knew he could, and would, survive.   He no longer would have to hide his gayness, would no longer have to think he was less of a male;  there was now no doubt about his fortitude or independence.

He heard the motor before he saw the plane.   Turning toward the sound he saw, about two or three kilometres away, the Cessna flying low above the fields.   Hurriedly he wiggled tighter between the sacks, pulling one over his legs and feet then a second over his upper body, folding his arms over his face to provide some breathing room.   He heard the plane fly over, then circle and make one, two passes, the last one being so low he thought it was going to land, and the cart began to bounce and sway as the donkey shied.   The throttle was opened and the noise gradually disappeared in the direction from which David had come.

“Sihlama!” cursed the driver at the retreating Skyhawk as he regained control over the donkey.    He turned and looked at David who was moving the hessian sacks off his body.   Pointing at the distant plane the driver repeated “Sihlama!” and their journey resumed.

David sat up and pondered what all this — the posse, the shooting into the cave, the aircraft — meant.   It was becoming all ‘39-Steps-ish’, and for what?  A runaway schoolboy?  It was way overkill.   What were they so afraid that he might do?  The flogging he had taken had been pretty brutal, but that it had happened would have to come out eventually anyway.   Other boys had witnessed the punishment.   His parents would be home in two weeks, would come and get him, and he could tell them.   It might have been a bit embarrassing for the Reclaim Our Youth people, but when the Reverend gave their side of the story, he doubted whether his father would raise a ruckus.   And if he went to the police?  Hadn’t his father signed him over to the church putting them in loco parentis?

Bad as it might have looked for them, it would be nothing like explaining a dead boy!

David was no closer to fathoming the problem out when the cart turned off onto a narrower road leading to what appeared to be a bigger farm.   The driver stopped the donkey and spoke more words that David couldn’t grasp.

“Angizwa,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“I go there,” the driver said haltingly pointing to the farm.   David looked at the buildings.    They seemed to be reasonably modern and there were poles carrying wires to one of them.    Perhaps they had a phone.

David pointed to himself and then to the farm.   “I go there with you.”

The driver turned and whacked the donkey, which started off again.

At the farm, David slid off the cart and, thanking the driver in his broken Zulu, went in search of someone who might let him have access to a phone.   After being sent in one direction then another by the various workers he encountered, he turned into a doorway and came face to face with a tall black man.   “Sawubona,” David said, and after his greeting was returned he asked, “Ukhuluma isiNgisi na?  IsiZulu sami sibi.”

“Yes, I speak English,” the man replied and David noticed a twitch at the corners of his mouth.    He probably wants to add ‘And, yes, your Zulu is bad,’ he thought to himself.

“I’m from St. Anselm’s College,” David said.   “I’ve been on a hiking exercise and got lost.   I was wondering if you had a phone where I could call Maritzburg for a ride?  I don’t have any money on me, but when my friend gets here I can pay you for the call.”

The man looked David over.   ‘He knows I’m lying,’ thought David, ‘but the truth is just way too bizarre to tell him.’

“Come this way,” the man said, and led him across a yard to another house.   They walked down a passage to a room that contained filing cabinets, a desk and papers.   The man picked up a phone.   “What number do you need to call?”

“0331, 92, 840,…” David recited the numbers he knew by heart.

The man punched in the numbers.   “And your name is?”

“David Lawrence.   And the person I want to speak to is the son:  his name is Akash.”

“Hello, may I speak to Akash, please?”  the man spoke into the handset.   As he waited he held his gaze on David.   “Hello.   Akash?”  A brief pause.   “A man called David Lawrence is here and wants to talk to you.   Is that OK?”  Another brief pause, and he handed the phone to David.

“Hey, Akash?  Look…” The handset erupted into questions, questions whose answers David didn’t want aired in public.

“Hi.   No I’m fine.   I need…

“No, I’m not in Europe.   I’m here, somewhere south-west of the college, I reckon.   Look, Bru, I’ve been hiking in the tribal lands and got so, so lost.   Can you come and get me, please?”

He listened to the reply, cutting it off when the questions started again.   “Thanks, Bru, I so owe you.”

The one question that came back David could not answer.   “Um, I don’t really know.   Hang on, I’ll give the phone back to the owner here, and he can tell you how to get here.   But, Bru…I’m really dirty.   I mean bad.   Bring an old sheet or something to cover your seats.

“’K.   Thanks a bunch.   See you.”   David handed the phone back to the man.   “Could you tell my friend how to get here, please?  I have no idea exactly where I am.”

Once the directions had been given and the man set the phone down, David said, “Thank you, sir.   As soon as he gets here I’ll pay you for the call.”

“The crops aren’t that good this year, but I don’t think one phone call will break us,” the man replied.   “And also, I’m not the owner, just the farm manager.”

“Well, you’re very kind.   Thank you, sir.   If it’s all right I’ll just go wait at the front gate?”

“You can wait on the stoep if you want to.   It’ll be shadier and it’s going to take your friend a good two hours to get here.”

“If that’s not too much trouble, it does sound better.”

----------ooOoo----------

At the morning fall-in on the Thursday, the Colonel had laid out the format for the final half of the course.   “I want you to form into two teams, twelve boys in one, eleven in the other.   This way you can start to put the training you have taken over the past two weeks into practice with exercises against real people.”

_

As the boys began to form into groups, teaming up with friends from school or people they had come to like, David pulled Akash aside.   “Wait a minute.   Let’s wait to see how the teams are forming before we decide.”   Together they surveyed who went where and, after a minute, David said, “Okay.   Let’s go with those ous,” and they walked over to the group where Mylo and Ntokoto stood.

When the two teams had formed the Colonel walked over and looked each group over.   “Not too bad.   Maybe having Lawrence and Roydon on the same team is not a good idea though.    Lawrence and Tajar, change with Tatham and Benson.

“So much for your wait-and-see plan,” Akash said to David as they trudged to the other group.

“OK!”  said the Colonel.   “Now.   Each group is to elect a leader.   Within the group the leader will have absolute say as to what his group does.   He will make all the decisions as he deems fit.    He will decide how the group works together, and he will have disciplinary authority within his group.”

With Sergeant Mitchell observing them, the eleven boys in the group where David had ended up began to kibitz:  a couple of them spoke out about why they would make a good leader, others proposed boys whom they considered would be suitable.   Things weren’t getting far, and after some four minutes David began to get impatient.   “OK,” he said, “Let’s go about this the other way.   Who does not want to be a leader?  Ous, this isn’t a big deal — just because you don’t want to be the lead dog doesn’t mean you’re not going to pull your load.   Show of hands — who does not want to be considered?”

Once the hands had been raised, Liam said, “OK.   So it’s between the four of us:  Me, Tajar, Kotze and Lawrence.   How’re we going about it?  Simple majority?”

“Wag ’n bietjie.   Wait.”   Andre Kotze said.   “Does everybody here know that Lawrence is a …is gay?”

“Ja.   I’m gay,” David said at last when no-one spoke.   “So what?  Get a life, Kotze.”

“So maybe not everybody thinks a gay ou can make a good leader,” the other boy replied.

“Where d’you go to school?”  Akash Tajar spoke.   “Never heard of Alexander the Great?”

“Not a problem for me,” said Liam.

“Not for me, either,” said Jaco.   “I’m not so verkramp.”

None of the others said anything.   After a while, with all eyes on him, Kotze shrugged and turned away.

“OK,” said Liam.   He drew a square in the sand with a stick and divided it into four quadrants.    In each he carved a letter:  C, T, K, L.   “Everybody, pick up a stone.   You’ve seen us work out over the last week.   Remember, whoever you choose is going to rule your life for the next week, so decide.”   He picked up a pebble and put it in the C quadrant.

By the time it came for David to toss his marker it was obvious:  wherever he chose to put it he would be the leader.   He added his to the L square.

“I guess it’s Lawrence who we want, then,” Liam said, trying hard to hide his disappointment.    “David, it’s your game.”

“OK, outjies,” David said.   “We can do this.   But we do it as a team.   Andre?”

“Whatever.   I know who I am; you know who you are.   We’re oil and water, OK?”

“An emulsion.   I can work with that.

“OK, brahs, there are two rules:  The time for debate is over.   From now on what I say goes.    I’ll ask for your opinion, but when I say we do something, we do it.   The second rule is we are a team — there is no this is mine, that is yours.   We do everything together; we share what we’ve got so we can get through.   OK?”

There was no sign of a dissident uprising.

_

“OK.   Team:  let’s go!”

----------ooOoo----------

It was two and a half hours later when Akash’s Kia Sorento came up the road trailing a cloud of dust.   David got up when he saw it and walked around to the office to thank the farm manager.   “My friend’s here now.   Thanks a helluva lot for helping me.   And thanks for the food, too.   It saved my life.”   He grinned.

“It was no problem.   I’m glad to have been able to help.”   He shook David’s hand.   As David walked back out into the yard the man called out after him.   “And good luck with your Zulu.   It takes a lot of practice!”

David turned with a wry smile and waved.   “Sala kahle.”

“Hamba kahle.”

“Holy fuck, Bru,” Akash said, leaping out of the car as he saw David approach.   “What happened to you?”

“Hi, Akash,” David said, “Hi, Raveena,” he added as Akash’s girlfriend came around from the left.

“Hello, David.   Ewww!  You stink worse than when you come from a rugby match,” the girl said.

“I love you, too, Raveena,” David replied, hurriedly taking his hoody out of his pack and pulling it on to cover his T-shirt.   “Let’s get going.   I’ll tell you all about it on the way home.   Did you bring something for me to sit on?”

A little later as Akash steered down the dirt road he asked, “You OK back there, David?”

“Yes.   Couldn’t be better.   But, boet, I tell you, I’m knackered.”

“What’s been going on?  I thought you were on some skiing trip with your parents in Europe somewhere.”

“That was the plan.”   David looked out the window as the fields went by.

“So?  Why aren’t you there?”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s a long drive back to Maritzburg, David,” Raveena said, smiling, “and I’ve heard all the episodes of the Akash Life Serial, so hearing yours would be something of a change.”

“You wanna hitch home?”  Akash asked her lightly.

“Let’s hear it, David.   Lots of grimy details.”

David grimaced at her.   “Big storm, little teacup.   My parents got a hint that their only son is gay.   Went generally apeshit.   Tears, threats, bribes — the whole gamut.   Eventually they decided that all that was really required to fix the problem was someone who would help the kid get a new perspective and Christian outlook and then, magically, he’d be lusting after the girls in the choir.”

“You came out?”  Akash asked.

“In a discrete way.”   He laughed.   “My dad is pretty slow, but even he isn’t so obtuse that he could misconstrue what his boy giving Mike Jones a blowjob meant.

“Sorry, Raveena.”

“And they wouldn’t take you to Europe just because you’re gay?”  Akash said when the giggles had died down.

“It was a mutually agreed settlement.   I mean, can you imagine being on the slopes with them when they know I’m gay?  I’d be on such a tight leash I’d strangle.

“So the deal was I’d go to the church-place and let them try and lecture me into being straight.    If I went there for their course, my dad would pay for university.   If I didn’t go, I was out on my own.”

“And you agreed to that shit?  They can’t change gays into straights and straights into gays:   it’s how you’re born, how your brain sets.”

“I know.”   David sighed, looked out the window, and then turned toward the driver again.   “Face it, Akash, there is no way he’s ever going to accept me as gay.   Since he got into that born-again church his mind has gone totally ffdoff.”

“So you went to this church lecture and….   ?”

----------ooOoo----------

When the leader selection had been completed, David had walked across to the other group to find out who he would be up against.   His gut clenched when Mylo broke away and walked up to meet him.   “Just shows how fucked up these ous are to pick us to lead them,” he laughed as he took David’s hand.

_

“I know.   Fuckin’ amazing.”   He pulled Mylo towards him.   “Good luck, ou maat.   But whatever happens we’ll still be friends at the end.   It’s just another game.”

“Ja, of course.”   He smiled, smacked David’s shoulder and turned back toward his group.    “Fifteen-Twelve!”  he called over his shoulder.

“Se gat!”  David called back without pausing his step.   Hilton, Mylo’s school, had beaten St. Anselm’s in their most recent rugby match and it smarted to have it rubbed in.   ‘Like shit are you going to win this time,’ David thought.

The first day of working as a team was different compared to how things had been done previously.   No longer were the sergeants continuously shouting at the boys:  it was left up to the leaders to get their charges to perform.   But one sergeant accompanied each team and kept tally of any test or task that was not completed, not done correctly, or not done within the allotted time, and every night in the camp the teams’ scores were announced.

Thursday’s exercise was a 30 kilometre endurance march — a combination of navigation and endurance, and it had to be completed in less than ten hours.   Each boy’s pack was weighed and if it was less than 16Kg, stones, painted neon yellow so they could not be swapped for lighter ones, were added to bring the load up.

Hiking in a group was not too bad:  the boys could zone out into their own private world and simply follow the leader.   David’s plan was to rotate each boy into the lead so that they got a chance to practice at choosing an appropriate route to their next landmark, learning that a longer route with a gentler gradient might be faster — and easier — than the shorter direct route.

From the start Andre Kotze had been acting up.   He lagged at the end of the group, took no part in the map reading or bearing taking, and generally kept to himself.   When David called a fifteen minute break at around 1pm he was close to losing his temper.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Jaco said to David quietly as they leaned back against their packs sipping water, “I think he’s trying to egg you into a showdown.”

This view was prophetic:  an hour later when David called Kotze up to take the lead, he replied that he was not good at map reading and did not want to take the responsibility.

“Team, stop!”  David yelled.   “Group up here.   Keep your packs on.”

When the ten boys had come together David looked them over.   “I don’t think you ous got what I said this morning.   We are a team.   We are one.   I told you we would share everything, and I mean everything.   If we win we all share the glory, and if we lose we’re all going to share the shame.   I don’t like shame, and you had better not like it either.

“Just to make sure you don’t, anytime we lose we are each going to show how much we hate it by doing twenty press-ups or ten laps around the camp, both in full gear.   Got it?”

There was a murmur of assent.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Lawrence.”

“Better.   Now Kotze tells me he is too inexperienced to take the lead, yet he doesn’t want to take the opportunity of learning and getting better.   That is not how it’s going to be for this team.   So that you really understand this, everyone down, give me twenty.   Now!”  And keeping an eye to make sure the others followed, David dropped and started calling out the count as he did the press-ups along with the rest of the team.

Once everyone was standing again, he called Andre over.   “Kotze, take this map, get the current landmark we’re aiming for from Quigg, and fucking lead the group on whatever you decide the best route will be.   If you screw up someone will tell you, and that’s how you learn.”

“Being a leader isn’t as easy as you fancied, is it Lawrence?”  Sergeant Ferreira said to him with a smirk on his face some time later when David had dropped back to the rear of the group to discourage straggling.

_

“If I wanted easy I wouldn’t have signed up for this Programme, would I?”  David replied, and lengthening his stride moved up amongst the others.

----------ooOoo----------

“It’s this place east of Estcourt a ways — out in the gramadoelas.   They run these three-week long courses, and they do all sorts of shit to mess with your mind.   There are lectures on how mankind was designed to reproduce itself, how animals aren’t gay, they show you naked girls in porn movies, and they do crap like make you watch gay porn while you’re holding a crouch so your whole body hurts.   Or they give you electric shocks while they flash pictures of naked men on the screen.    And there are endless, frikkin’ endless, prayer meetings when they read the Bible and people pray for you.

“Before you get there, there are all rules for what you can bring.   No T-shirts with writing or pictures, no muscle shirts or tank tops, no tight jeans, no skants, just plain white underpants, on and on and on.   Of course no electronics, no PCs, no iPods or iPhones.   They check all the books you bring in.   They don’t want anything ‘arty’.”

“You’re shitting us, right?”

“Nope.   They had lessons on how we should walk, and what we should do with our hands.”

“How many of you were there?”

“Eight.   Nine when we started, but one ou kept passing out whenever he got stressed, which was like twice a day, and they sent him home.”

“What happened to you?”

“Pretty much nothing.”   David laughed and leaning forward slapped Akash’s shoulder.   “Shit, compared to those days with the Leadership Programme this was a walk in the park.   I just zoned them out.   I mean, on one hand you’ve got five or six deacons and a reverend — that’s what everyone called him, I have no idea whether he was a real preacher or what, but he was the main manne what counts there.   Anyway, I have these people shouting at me that I’m worthless, and God hates me, and I’m going to burn in hell, and during all this they don’t swear at me once, they don’t really get in my face.   And I’m remembering standing naked out in the camp on a winter night, with a twenty-kilo pack on my back, and two sergeants in front of me yelling and cursing, their faces so close to mine that I could just about put my tongue out and lick their tonsils.   Compared to that the church people were just comedic.”

Akash laughed.   “You were always in some kind of shit or other.   So what has all this to do with you going all wilderness-wandering?”

David swallowed and looked out the window for a while before answering.

Raveena turned around in her seat and touched David’s arm.   “It’s OK, David.”

The genuine tenderness in her voice did more than any of the hardships had to affect David, and he felt a lump rise in his throat.   “Thanks,” he said after a while, and they drove in silence for the next six or seven kilometres.

“Most of the time we were all together, the catechumens —those were us fags — and the church people.   There were six deacons and a few young adolescent ous, and each of them was responsible for one of us.   They never left our sides.   They sat next to us at meals, and at lectures, and at prayers.   They were to stop us sliding back.   They talked about sport with us to make us manly.   They kicked a soccer ball around with us to make us sporty.   Being captain of the 2nd XV didn’t get me a free pass — they thought I played rugby so I could hold other boys in the scrum.   I tried to explain what the fly-half does, but they had this fixed idea.”

“Maybe you need to get Pienaar to go tell them how gay he is,” said Akash.

“They twist everything around.   They’d make up something stupid, say Ruan plays to stop a gay ou getting on the team, or whatever.   I tell you their brains are totally deurmekaar.   It is im-friggin-possible to debate or discuss anything with them.   They simply open their Bibles and go off into some Lala Land.

“Anyway, my shep was this outjie, Sarel.   He…”

“Your what?  Your Shep?”  asked Raveena.

“The ous that weren’t yet deacons are called shepherds.   They keep us safe in the kraal.”

“Hmmm,” she said.   “Seems a little moffie-like to me.   ‘Hi, I’m David and this cutie is my Shep.’”

“Ja,” David said, nodding.   “That’s exactly how the trouble started.   Sarel is not entirely sure how his hormones are settling.   He oh-so-badly wants them to point North-South and he tries real hard, but some of them really want to lie in an East-West direction, and sometimes they get almost too much for him to ignore.

“So at night in our dorm, he in one bed, me in another on the other side of the room, we would talk.   He’d start off vomiting out the party line and then gradually there’d be a question:  how did I feel at boarding school in the showers, what did I do with other boys, and so on.   By the beginning of the second week I was teaching him how to kiss.”

“Whoo-hoo,” laughed Akash.

“Ja.   It was the start of a long, slippery road for Sarel.   Things went on.   Comes to day thirteen, and he decides he’s been a virgin long enough.   And being the charitable person I am, I obliged.

“I had only forgotten to teach him one thing:  how to climax quietly.   The Reverend’s radar ears picked up on this and he walked in when we were just past being in flagrante delicto, but the evidence was all over us.”

“OK.   I see the problem,” Akash said seriously.   “You don’t understand the difference between rugby, which is a spectator sport, and sex, which is — or should be — a private one.”

“No shit!”  David said.   “Anyway, Sarel was jumping around the room trying to put his PJs back on and all the time wailing that it wasn’t him, that I had a devil inside of me that made him do it, that he had tried to make the sign of the cross but the devil had made me hold his arms so tightly he couldn’t, and on and frikkin’ on.”

----------ooOoo----------

“OK.   Now you have some basic skills,” the Colonel said at assembly on Sunday.   “Now you get a chance to play.”   The boys were sent over to the supply Bedford, and the sergeants issued AEG Rifles, goggles, chargers and other Airsoft gear.   From then on, every march and every exercise was done with the boys wearing their eye protection and carrying their weapon; the last hour of daylight each day was devoted to shooting practice; and each night the guns were dismantled and cleaned for inspection the following morning.

----------ooOoo----------

“So they threw you out?”  Raveena asked.

“Oh no.   If you’re a Christian you don’t not wrestle with the devil when you get the chance.    They got the whole school up, made them all gather in the courtyard and pray out loud for me while two deacons held me and the Reverend beat the shit out of my back with a stick at first, then that broke, and he used his belt.   They would have known when the devil left me because I would have cried out, but I didn’t.   Not even when he used the buckle end of his belt.”

“Oh, David!  I am so sorry for you,” the girl said, and David noticed the tears welling on her lower eyelids.

“Were you bleeding?”  asked Akash.

“Uh-huh.   Quite a lot.”

“Shit, David man, that’s not good.”   He looked at his friend in the rear view mirror.    David merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged, so Akash asked, “And then what happened?”

“I was locked in a small attic room.   I think if my parents hadn’t been overseas the church people would have sent me home.   All I got was water and mielie pap.   On the second day I was looking around the room and I found old bloodstains, older than mine, on the floor.    There was a pipe running across the room just below the ceiling.   On the floor, directly beneath that, I found some traces of shit.   There was a toilet down the passage and they would let me use it so there was really no need to crap on the floor.   But I figured that maybe, since it was right under the pipe, somebody could have hanged themselves there and, umm…you know, sometimes when people are hanging they, umm…like release their guts.”

“Holy shit!”  said Akash.

“Literally,” said David wryly.

“So what did you do?”

“I had a towel in the room and my PC bag which I was using as a book bag.   I had one of those spiral-bound notebooks in it.   I tore the cover off and used it to push the towel under the door — it was a very old door and all skeef so there was quite a big gap there.   I used the wire from the book spine to move the key around until I could poke it out.   It landed on the towel and I pulled it back into the room, and around midnight I locked the door behind me and just walked out the building.”

“So why didn’t you call me?”  Akash asked.

“I had no cell phone — we weren’t allowed to take them there, remember?  I just knew I had to put some distance between me and that place.   I thought they’d come after me with a truck or maybe a 4 X 4, so I got to the paths through the forests.   Later in the daylight I looked back and saw there were three men following my path.   But I was lucky:  they didn’t have a dog.”

David stopped talking as Akash navigated through Mooi River and turned south.   As he was coming up to the turn for the N3 on-ramp, David pointed to the right.   “Boet, can we stop over there at that Wimpy?  I am so hungry.   I’ll pay you back when we get to Maritzburg.”

Akash moved across the lane and put his indicator on.   “You must be hungry if you want a Wimpy’s burger,” he laughed.

“You have no idea,” David said.   “Will you go in and buy?  I can’t go around looking like this.”

Fifteen minutes later, the tolls behind them and the second double-bacon-and-cheese burger almost gone, David resumed his tale.   He spoke of trying to mask his spoor, of having poor control of his legs for a time, of trying to keep his back clean, of his raid on the pursuers’ camp.

“Shit, old man Ferreira would love you for that.   He was always the one wanting to take the fight to the enemy,” laughed Akash taking his eyes off the road ahead for a quick glance in the mirror at his friend.

“Ja.   He and the Colonel were in my mind a whole lot during this hike,” David said.   He took the last little chip from the red and white bag and crumpled it up.   “I’d have got the gold star for my next stunt.”   And he went through the encounter at the brook.

The other two listened in silence for most of the tale, Akash merely remarking “Nice!” when David described setting up the trip cord at the beehive.

“I think I am really going to have to get a lawyer,” David said when his tale was done.

“I think that’d be a good idea,” agreed Akash.   He thought for a few seconds and added, “Although, since that thug shot into the cave so many times would probably make a self-defense argument work.”

David had planned on going home, but when Akash swung over to the east when they came into Maritzburg and he tried to argue, his friend had dismissed the idea as being idiotic.   “Spend the night at our house.   Ma will have a good dinner, you can get cleaned up, and you can try sleeping in a bed again.   And you can ask Papa-ji about where to get a lawyer:  with his business he’s bound to have used them.”

David was too tired to put up much of an argument, but fifteen minutes later as the three emerged from the staircase that led from the garage to the entrance hall with its wide windows overlooking the lower lands and to the city lights to the south, he held back, self-conscious about his appearance and his smell.   But after Akash’s mother had expressed amazement at the state of his jeans, she merely laughed away his apologies:  “If I can stand Akash’s sports clothes I have a strong enough nose for anything.”

After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, Akash took David up to the guest room.    “You know where the shower is.   I’ll put some clobber on the bed for you to wear to dinner.”

“Thanks, Bru,” said David.   “I owe you.”

“No.   Not owing anything.   Like Bhai Kanhaiya, I just saw someone in need whom I could help.”

David grinned at him.   “You’re Sikh only when you want to be!”

“It’s what I learned from the Christians,” Akash said, making a feint backhand at David’s cheek.

David walked through to the shower and began to undress.   ‘I’ll have to get a rubbish-bin liner to wrap my clothes in,’ he thought as his filthy T-shirt landed on the floor.   He had just dropped his jeans and shorts when the door opened and Akash came in with a large towel and a bottle of shampoo.

“I thought this one is….   ,” he started, and then his voice dropped to a whisper, “Oh, shit.   Oh, shit.   Fuck, David, this is bad.”

“Akash?  What is bad?  What is happening?”  David heard Raveena ask as she rushed out of Akash’s room.   “And why are you using such language?”  She looked past Akash’s shoulder into the bathroom.   Akash pointed at the mirror in which his friend’s back could be seen.   “Oh my God.   David, what did they do to you?”

“I thought Sikh girls weren’t supposed to look at naked men,” David said, trying to hold his jeans in front of him as he attempted to lighten the tone that was beginning to scare him.

“Get your mother,” she prodded Akash who ran to the top of the stairs.

“Mum, can you come upstairs, please?  Now!”

Within seconds David heard the woman climbing the stairs quickly.   “What is wrong, Akash?  I know when you call me ‘Mum’ you are in trouble.”   She came to the bathroom door.    “What?”  She asked, perplexed as Akash pointed.

“David, turn around,” Akash said, gently touching his shoulder as though to help him.

“Haaaah!”  she drew her breath in.   “Oh!  Oh!”  She stepped closer to David.   “Akash, get my reading glasses from the sitting room.   They’re by my chair.   Raveena, go to the phone and call Dr. Malhotra.   His number is in the IDs.   Ask him, no, tell him, he needs to come over and bring his bag.”

“Auntie, I’m sorry,” David said, clasping his jeans in front of his manhood when he and the mother were alone.   “I should not have come here.   I should have gone home and cleaned myself first.”

“David, this is nothing to worry about.   It is just a very little graze.   Soon fixed with antibiotics.   But you have got so dirty on your hike that I do not think you should shower in case you make your back more infected.”   Akash appeared carrying the glasses, while behind him his father looked around the door.

“Why are we having such a commotion?  Why is Akash running up and down the stairs?  Why is Raveena shouting on the phone?”  His eyes looked from his wife to the back of the naked youth in front of her.

“Oh my!  David, what has happened to you?  Did you fall off your motorbike?”

“Dad, Dad.”   Akash said,  “David can tell you all about it at dinner.   Let Ma look at him now.”

Akash’s mother was examining David’s back intently.   Going over to the basin she washed her hands twice and then told him to lean forward.   He felt her fingers gently move across his skin.   Finally she stood back and washed her hands again.   “I think it best if you do not get your back wet, David.   I think what we do is this:  first you wash your hands and arms in the basin.   Then you wash your face and hair also over the basin.   Dry your hair with the towel.   Then stand in there and, with the hand shower only, wash your front and your legs and feet.”

“OK, Auntie.   Thank you.   I am sorry I am making your house dirty.”

“Do not worry, David.   We will get your back better again.”

----------ooOoo----------

“Kotze!  What the fuck are you doing?  I told you to go across on the rope.   Why are you down there on the rocks?”

_

Ever since the guns had been issued two days previously, Andre had appeared to undergo a change of attitude and David had been relaxing somewhat, but here, instead of following orders to cross the Sondagsrivier on the two-rope bridge they had just set up, the boy was clambering across the rocks below.

“This is way faster, Lawrence.   I don’t even have to get my feet wet.”

“That’s not the fuckin’ point.   This is for you to practice for a time when the water is too high for you to go across.   Now get your arse up here and go across the bridge.”

Kotze seemed not to hear, and took a step to the next rock.   David was just about to yell at him again when, with the next step, the rock moved and Kotze’s foot slid off dumping him onto the shale.   There was a quarter second of silence and then he let out a wail.   “Ow!  Ag, fok!   Eina!”  Sitting up and bending forward he grabbed his ankle.

“Are you all right?”  David called down.

Kotze shook his head.   “Dis my enkel.   Dit is so fokken seer.”

David scrambled down, followed by a couple of the other boys as Kotze tried to stand up.   “Just stay where you are.   Don’t move.”   David said.   He motioned for one of the boys to move behind Kotze.   “Sowards, hold his head steady while we check him.”

“It’s my foot, for fuck sake, Lawrence.   I’m OK everywhere else.”

“OK, ou, then the check will be quick.   So tell me what day it is.”

“Tuesday.   Fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“And you can stop tuning me grief otherwise I’ll give you a much worse injury.   Look into my eyes.   OK.   Close your eyes, tell me where you feel my finger touch you.”

With the full-body check over and nothing more amiss than the ankle having been detected, David squatted next to the other boy.   “OK.   Let me have a look.”   He pulled up Kotze’s pants leg.   The foot was not in any strange position which was a promising sign.   “Is the pain any less now?”

“I don’t know.   It’s still really sore.

“OK.   Well, we have to know.   It may be only a sprain.   Alden, Sowards:  Lift him up to standing.”   With Kotze’s arms around their shoulders they picked him up until he was standing on one foot.   “Good.   Now put your hurt foot down and put some weight on it,” David instructed while the other two held Kotze steady.

“It hurts badly, Lawrence,” Kotze said in a strained voice, quickly lifting his foot up again.

“And now, with your foot up, is it the same soreness?”

“No.   It’s sore, but not so bad.”

“OK, ous.   Put him down again.   It looks like a sprain.   Get your boot and sock off.   Undo the laces as far as they can first.”   David unbuckled his waist belt and lifted his Bergen off his shoulders.   Opening one of the side pockets he pulled out his first-aid kit then, rummaging around in the bottom of the pack, took out a Tupper box from which he removed a blue and white plastic pouch.   Kotze’s ankle was reddish purple and he flinched as David ran his finger over the outer ankle bone.   “Wiggle your toes,” David said, and after they had all moved up and down he palmed the pouch and gave it a sharp punch with his other hand.

“What’s that?”  asked Kotze.

_

“Instant ice.   Going to get some of that swelling down,” David said as he placed the already-chilling plastic over the ankle bone.   “Hold that there while I get a bandage.”

----------ooOoo----------

“I do not think this is very good,” the doctor said, sitting on a chair next to David who lay face down on Akash’s bed.   “I think perhaps it would be much, much better if you’d go to the emergency room at Grey’s.”

“Can’t you put some dressing on it for tonight, doctor, and I’ll go to Grey’s tomorrow?  I’ve had a lousy couple of days and I really want to have a night of rest with no worries.”

“Well, yes, I could do that if that is what you wish.   But you must not wait any longer than tomorrow.   I will write a note of what I have seen here and what antibiotics I have given you.”

“Do you have to tell the police about me?”  David asked propping himself up on one elbow.

“Lie down flat, please, Mr. David.   No, I am not required to tell anyone unless a judge tells me to.   But I would be thinking that you should be doing that:  people who do these things must be stopped before they are doing the same thing to someone else.”

“It’s not that simple,” David said.

The doctor gave a small sigh as he stood up.   “Nothing is ever simple, Mr. David.   Just like you cannot drop a stone into a pond without making ripples.”

“What are you doing?”  asked David.

“I am taking pictures of your back for my case notes.”

“Oh.”   David lay still, feeling relieved that he was, at last, amongst friends.   “Can I get copies of your photos if I need to?”

“Of course.   Any time you can call me and I will give them to you.”   Dr. Malhotra put his camera back in his bag, went to the bathroom and washed his hands, then pulling on surgical gloves sat down again next to the bed.   “I am now going to give you two injections on your back.   They will burn a little bit at first, but then immediately they will be getting to work stopping the infection.”

As the burning sensation was receding and the doctor had placed the syringe and little bottles back in his bag he said, “That is all very good.   Now I think that for tonight and tomorrow morning I will be putting on some sheets of calcium alginate.   You will need help with these in the morning;  do you want me to show Mrs. Tajar how to do it, or would you prefer Akash to help you?”

“I think Akash will do just fine,” David said.   He looked up at the doctor with his neatly trimmed moustache and beard, their dark hair complementing the black turban.   “Before you call him I need to ask a question.”

“Surely, yes,” said the Doctor, his forehead wrinkling as he raised his eyebrows.

“About five days ago I got kicked …umm… in the testicles.   The next day I had blood in my pee.    There doesn’t seem to be any blood any more, and the pain is gone.   Should I be worried about anything?”

“Hmmm.   If the pain is gone I think you will be OK.   Stand up, please, and let me see.”

David swung his legs off the bed and stood up.   Automatically he wanted to hold his hands in front of himself, but left them clenching and unclenching at his side as the doctor gently touched his private parts.

“No, I am thinking everything is OK.   The testes are very tough,” he raised his head, the skin next to his dark eyes creasing as he smiled at David, “otherwise there would be very few humans around.”   He straightened up and pulled his latex gloves off.   “If there should be blood in the urine again, or swelling or any pain, then come and see me or your own doctor.

“Let me call Akash to come and learn how to help with your dressings.”

----------ooOoo----------

David was in a deep sleep when he became aware of his name being spoken.   The words didn’t mesh with the dream that was in his head, and his subconscious was trying desperately to untangle the irritating confusion.   Thus, when he finally woke up, he was unsure of where he was or what was going on.   He felt his sleeping-bag shake and again he heard his name.   He pulled his hand from the bag to see his watch and his fingers touched skin.

_

“What the f…”

“Shhh,” the voice said.   “It’s me.   Akash.”

“Bru?  What’s going on?”

“Kotze left his tent about half an hour ago and hasn’t come back.   I thought maybe his foot had got hurt again, but I’ve been along the path to the latrine and he’s not there.”

“Good.   Maybe a hyena has eaten him.”   David struggled out of his sleeping-bag and sat up, his forehead feeling the light condensation from his breath as it brushed the roof of his one-man tent.   He looked at his watch:  02:15 — shit, he’d been asleep less than two hours.   “OK.   Let me get my boots on.”

After a quick check into Kotze’s tent the two stumbled across the campsite in silence, shielding their LED torches with their fingers to give just sufficient light to see the ground.   Once they were on the track that led to the latrine trench David asked, “You sure he went this way?”

“Ja.   Pretty sure.   I woke up when he was putting his boots on and I heard him groan a bit, sort of like he was in pain.   I was going to ask him if he was OK, but then I heard him walking away, so I thought he was mos needing a piss.”

“I’m going to donner this oke before we leave this place.   I’m gatvol with him and his attitude.”    The words had hardly left his lips when there was a crash as though a tree had fallen, followed by muted groaning.

Akash pointed to where the sound had come from and the pair moved off the path into the thicker bush, neither making a sound as they strained to hear the slightest noise.   About thirty metres on, David put out his hand and they stopped.   From their right came the sound of stifled sobbing.   “Andre!”  David called softly, “You OK?”

“Just leave me alone,” came the reply as they stumbled into a small space amongst the trees.    The cause of the noise they had heard was obvious as they swept the beams from their torches across:  a tree branch, dry and dead, had come off its trunk and lay on the ground.   The long bandage David had used to strap the sprained ankle was looped around it, and in the darkness Kotze was frantically trying to untie the other end from around his neck.

“Outjie, what the fuck are you doing?”  David asked as he pulled his Bowie knife out of its sheath.   “Come.   Stay still or I’ll cut you.”   He slit the bandage and pulled it away from the other boy’s neck.

“You stupid potter-marie, why are you doing this?  You’ve only sprained your ankle,” Akash admonished.   “It is not all that bad.”

Kotze merely shook his head and turned away.

David put his knife on the broken branch, turned half away and then came back fast, landing a punch on Kotze’s shoulder that, even though he was sitting, sent him sprawling on the ground.    “Jou fokken poes!  I am up to here with you and your shit.   You are nowhere near pulling your weight around here, and now you do this.   I need to know where your mind is.   Right now.    I’m not taking your kak one more second.”

Kotze pushed himself up to a sitting position.   Again the shake of the head.   “Forget it.   You wouldn’t understand.”   He massaged his arm with his other hand.

“Try me,” David replied, picking up his knife and sliding it back into the sheath on his belt.

Kotze looked down at the ground and didn’t say anything for about half a minute.   He looked up at David.   “OK, Soutie, tell me why you think I’m here.”

“Don’t push me,” warned David responding to the insult.   Then, “Maybe to test yourself, see what you can do, how far you can go without breaking.   Maybe take a holiday from matric and A-levels.   I dunno:  do stuff you don’t get to do other places.   Maybe learn a little bit about yourself.

“Did I get any hits?”

Kotze looked at him.   “You didn’t say ‘Get away so you don’t have to spend the holiday with your family.’”

David mulled the answer over for a few seconds.   “Things that bad at home?”  he asked, his voice taking on a gentler tone.   He’d seen a few boys go through this over the years at boarding school.

Kotze nodded but said nothing for about a quarter minute.   Looking at the ground he said, “My ma died about three years ago — just before I went into standard 10.   Less than a year later, Pa married this other woman from Port Elizabeth.   She was divorced and had this 13 year old kid who is a big cry-baby.   Life has been kak ever since.”

“Kak how?”  asked Akash.

Kotze looked up at the sky from under his eyebrows.   “It’s like I don’t even exist.   Everything revolves around the laaitie.   My new ‘klein boetie’ as they call him.”   He made air-quotes with his fingers.   “It’s fuckin’ mal.   Everything he wants he gets because his ma thinks he is suffering from her divorce from his dad.   For me — fokken niks!

“The laaitie got a new BMX last year and he rode it maybe for a month.   Then he said he wanted a road bike, so they got him one for R8,500.   He plays tennis in the summer and so Pa takes him to the shops and he gets all expensive kit — just like a pro.   When I ask for a new pair of cross-country running shoes for races they say I have my training pair and if I want another pair I have to work for them.

“I’m so happy that I’m away at Bishops the whole time.   They never come up there and that is hundreds by me.   Hundreds.”

There was silence except for the occasional rustle of the trees in little eddies of wind.   David sniffed the cold air and looked around into the darkness.   After a while he cleared his throat and said, “That’s shitty, ou.   I’m sorry.”

“Does this kid go to Bishops with you?”  Akash asked.

“Fok!”  Andre snorted.   “He’d last a week and then run home crying.   He goes to some snotty school in Western Cape Town near home so they can wipe his gat for him each evening.”

David clamped his lips together and looked up at the night sky through the tree tops.   ‘Why do so many adults strive for the bronze when they hold the gold in their hands?’ he wondered.

“Can we get back to the camp now?”  Akash asked as the silence lingered.   “I’m fucking freezing.    There’s probably some embers left in the fire.   We can make some tea.   Or do you want to crash?”

David undid the tokkel tou from his webbing belt.   “What you want to do?”  he asked Kotze.    “You going to come back with us or do we leave you here with some rope?”  and he tossed the cord towards the other boy.

“Loop naai,” came the retort as he threw it back.

_

“Believe me, Andre, if I could fuck myself I’d be the happiest oke in the world.   Come, let me re-strap your ankle.”

----------ooOoo----------

“Hi, Dad, hi Ma,” Akash called as he and David came into the house.

“Hello, Akash, David.   How was it at the police station?”  Mr. Tajar asked, coming out of the living room.

“Not too bad.   Your lawyer was pretty good, so nobody gave me too hard a time.   I had to make a written statement and they asked me a whole lot of questions.   They had thought that the Reverend — the chap that fell over the edge — had shot into the bee hive and that was what had made it fall off the tree, but now they will go back and check the little cave for evidence of the bullets fired there.   They couldn’t figure out why he had been walking in boots that had the toes cut off because they were too small for him, so I told them about my raid.   They asked me three of four times to tell them what I had heard after he shot into the cave.   Later they told me that the Reverend was allergic to bee stings, and when I heard him gasping he was probably going into anaphylaxis — that’s also they think how he lost his direction and fell over.

“Did you show them your back, David?  Did they see what he did to you?”  demanded Akash’s mother.

David nodded.   “I already had the dressings on from the hospital, Auntie, but they looked at them and Mr. Nandlah showed them photographs that Dr. Malhotra took last night, and he also gave them my patient reference number from the hospital.”

“But they don’t think the DPP will bring any charges against me.   They are going to have another look at the attic-place to see if maybe somebody did hang themselves there.   Last year a boy who had been sent to one of those Reclaim Our Youth classes disappeared:   he ran away — at least that's what the Reclaim Our Youth people told the police.   But the boy never turned up anywhere else, so when I told the warrant officer what I had found on the floor under where the pipe was, and what I thought it was and how it could have got there, he got all excited and called in another policeman who said they would go out to the church and look for DNA.”

“But it is not enough that you are not charged,” Mr. Tajar said.   “They must be making a move against that place, that very, very bad church.   We cannot be having people doing these beatings and torture.   We do not get anywhere if we only stop the government doing bad things but let other people take over.”

“Ja,” David shrugged his shoulders, “but I don’t know.   Mr. Nandlah said I should ask for at least R400,000 for assault and pain and suffering.   But I signed a form when I went in saying I was subject to their rules and discipline.   So maybe I’ll go through a whole lot of legal expenses and end up with nothing.”

“You listen to Mr. Nandlah,” Mr. Tajar wagged his finger at David.   “I have always found him to be very conservative in his decisions, and if he says that is what you should do then I think that is the course you should follow.”   David thought the eyes that stared so earnestly at him looked sad.   “When they made you sign the form it would be, I think, very normal to expect that the punishments would be of appropriate severity — maybe sweep the floor or wash dishes, or even read the Bible.   But beating you until the bone of your spine can be seen in places is not reasonable.   Not for a human being, not even for an animal.   What do you think, that a man can beat a horse so badly that it is bleeding all over?  No, he will go to jail and get a big fine.   So with these men.   They should go to jail, and they should give you just compensation.   That is what I am saying.”

----------ooOoo----------

“So, if you really wanted to be here instead of at home, what’s up with this shit you pulled tonight?”  David asked Andre as he poured boiling water from his dixie onto Nescafe powder in three enamel mugs.

_

“Man, it’s just going to be another thing my pa is going to throw in my face to prove I’m not a real man.   A real Afrikaner.   He and my uncle think I’m soft, so when they read about this Programme they said I should sign up.   Make a man of myself.   And I thought ‘Hey, three weeks with no family shit?  No klein boetie?  Lekker!’ So I come up here and I do everything right.   But when we go to teams I get in one where my leader is a soutie and gay.   So, see, they’ll say I can’t even be better that a gat…a gay ou.   And now I can’t even make it to the end of the course because I’m MRed.

“And all the time Klein Boetie will be watching and laughing at me.”

“Newsflash, Bru:  the Boer war — uh, sorry, the Second War of Independence — has ended more than a century ago:  we're all one country now.   And you really have got to get over the gay thing.   Also, your injury is a sprain, Andre, not a broken bone.”   He handed a mug of coffee over.   “You’re not going to be MRed.”

“They are.   I heard the Loot talking to the Colonel.   Tomorrow.   They’re going to give you some ou from Roydon’s group and both teams will be eleven then.”

“That’s bullshit.   There’s only one person I’d take from that group and they won’t let me take him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mylo.”   He handed over a small Dettol bottle.   “Here, put some of this in your coffee, it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not drinking disinfectant.   The water boiled.”

“Smell it,” Akash said.   “Just don’t take the whole lot.”

“You brought Klippies?”  Andre asked as he held the bottle to his nose.   “They’ll XR you if they find out.”

“So, don’t let them find out.   Anyway brandy is medicinal.”

When the bottle was back in his Bergen David lifted his mug and took a sip of the hot liquid as the steam whirled around his nose and eyes.   He looked across at Kotze.   “So if you don’t want to go into the family business, what do you want to do, Andre?”

“I want to build and race yachts.”   The dim light of the fire caught the eyes that lay in the shadows of the high cheekbones, and David saw them meet his gaze as if to say, ‘Want to make something of it?’   He pursed his lips and nodded.   Kotze sipped at his coffee.   “I’ve been grafting in the holidays at this boatyard up in Knysna and last summer I designed a skiff.   A Kiwi bought the plans and asked the yard to build it for him.   He’s done one race in it and came in first.   But Pa says it’s a soutie job, not a proper job for a man, so he won’t pay for me to study for it.”

“That’s swak.   Sounds like you have some talent,” Akash said.   Andre shrugged, and the three drank their coffee in silence.

Again David sniffed the night air and looked around the camp, but there was no movement.    “So, if I keep you off MR you’ll promise to stop fucking with me and do what I tell you — and for fuckin’ sure no more rope-around-the-neck tricks?”  he asked.

Kotze shook his head.   “Ja, I can do that.   Thanks, Lawrence.”   He stared into his mug.   “But it won’t work:  even with the strapping I’m not going to be able to do the hike and training tomorrow.   My ankle won’t take it.”

“No prob,” David replied.   “I have a plan for you ous for tomorrow that doesn’t require hiking.”

“What?”  asked Akash.   “We are going to rack up a whole lot of demerits if we don’t go out for the exercises.   We got five for coming in late tonight because of Kotze’s ankle.   We’re one behind the Red Team now.”

“I’m sorry,” Andre said.

“Fuck the rankings,” David said.   “Four weeks’ time nobody will remember or care what they are.   I want the war-game.”

“Do you know what it’s going to be?”  Akash asked, draining his cup.

“No.   But I know I need a sniper, and I get a hard-on watching Kotze on the range:  every shot is right on target.   So tomorrow, you two are going to stay in camp and practice shooting, and camo, and hiding, and shooting, and cleaning your AEGs real quickly, and more shooting.”

“Shit, I don’t have too many BBs,” Kotze said.

“No worries.   I bought one and a half K this evening.   Better not have any left when I get back to camp tomorrow evening.   Single shots.”

“Do you think the Colonel will go along with that?”  Kotze asked.

“I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue if he doesn’t.

_

“But don’t do anything when Roydon’s group is in camp.   When they come in pretend it’s ballas bak.”   He shook the last drops of coffee over the coals.   “And if there’s one unused BB over when we come back I’ll bake you ous’ balls myself.”

----------ooOoo----------

Ash Wednesday had passed four days previously and the family had just finished dinner.   The conversation had been even more strained than usual.   Ever since his parents had returned from their skiing holiday in France at the end of January to discover that their son had run away from the Reclaim Our Youth church, the atmosphere had been steadily deteriorating.   Sarah, his mother, had showed some alarm at the state of his back but his father had not displayed the slightest sign of sympathy or pity.   “You were in a religious institution and you tried to spread your vile and sickening sexual urges on the very people trying to help you,” he had said.   “You deserved the punishment.”   And when David had tried to point out the enormity of the assault his father had taken him by the arm and shouted, “Do you think you are better than Our Lord?   He was scourged — worse than you were — and he was perfect.   You were being held in the clutches of the devil, and the Reverend Nienaber was trying his best to free you from that terror.   You think of pain of one night:  what about the rest of your immortal life?  Burning in the fires of Hell, screaming for release?”

The arguments continued.   No amount of reasoning was permitted.   No matter what literature David produced to show he was who he was by reason of his genetics, his parents refused to consider them.   His grandparents, although not as vociferous, backed his parents’ stand and tried to persuade David to go looking for a nice girlfriend.   “You could get hormone injections, David,” his grandfather had suggested — the only tone of gentleness that he would get.

As David began to collect the plates to carry through to the kitchen his father spoke.   “Put them down, David.   Your mother and I have something to say to you.”

“Dad, please, let’s not go through this all again.   Nothing is going to change.   I am gay, it is what it is.   In a few months I’ll be away at university in Canada, and you won’t have to put up with me here anymore.”

“There’s not going to be any university, David.   At least none paid for by us.   And…”

David was aghast.   “But Dad, you promised.   You said if I got my first-class and my A-levels I could go.   I worked my arse off, and now you are schnaaiing me on what we’d agreed on.”

“Don’t use foul language in front of your mother.   Yes we had an agreement, but you had not been honest with us.   You had not said that you were wanting to be a homosexual.   You hid that from us.”

“Not wanting, Dad.   Any more than you want to have fair hair:  I am made that way.   It’s in my genes.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, David.   Nobody believes that nonsense.   If you really want to, if you pray for God’s help, if you would let well-meaning people help you, you could be normal.”

“Dad, it’s not…”

“David, shut up.   The time for talking is over.   By the end of next weekend you will be out of this house.   You can take your stuff and that is the end between you and me.   If you ever come to your senses and give up this fad, you can come and talk to me.   If you can show me you truly have repented I might say I am your father again.   Otherwise you are nothing to me.”

“Dad…?  Mum…?  This is my home.”

“Yes, exactly.   And what did you do in ‘your home’?  You brought boys here and did such things that it is surprising to us that God did not let lightning strike it and burn it down.   That he did not shows that even in the face of such obdurate wickedness he could show us some mercy.    Seven days, David, and after that we want nothing more to do with you.

David looked from one to the other.   “Look at me, Mum,” he said.   “Look into my eyes and tell me you go along with this.”

“Your father is the head of the house,” she said, not raising her eyes as she gathered the dirty dishes.

David turned and walked out of the room.   Grabbing his motorcycle jacket and helmet he ran down the stairs to the garage.

----------ooOoo----------

David felt frustrated.   The sun was about to set, and his Blue Team was no closer to capturing the Red Team’s flag than it had been when the war-game started at 09:00 that morning.   He was back in the main-camp, waiting out his ten-minute respawning penalty for getting hit by a BB from the Red Team.   No ‘military’ action, such as recharging guns or reloading magazines, was permitted during the respawn so he wandered off to the latrine trench.   “Better keep your pants up otherwise those skants are going to make you a target,” he joked as he noticed the scarlet briefs that Beck Harvey was pulling up as he got up from the log ‘seat’.

_

“Ja” the other replied.   “It’d be just my luck to be shot by my own team!”

The respawning would not be complete until they reached the Blue Team camp and removed the yellow “dead-rags” from their heads.   As he and Harvey jogged down the road together he tried to figure out what Mylo’s plan could be.   Coming up to the camp he moved into the bush, pulled the dead-rag off his head and stuffed it deep into a pocket on his pants’ leg.   In a crouch, he moved through the bush to where their HQ were, pulling his blue bandana up so it showed prominently:  no use being shot by friendly fire.   “Lippe lees, Lippe lees,” he called their password out quietly to alert the team that he was not one of the foe.

“How’ve things been?”  David asked Liam whom he had left in command of the HQ and its defense.

“We’ve survived.   There is continual sniping that’s not too accurate.   We’ve had two men hit.    There have been three attacks that were more coordinated.   But we’ve held them — they came more-or-less as expected:  twin thrusts, one from there,” he pointed and then swinging his arm to the right he continued, “the other from there.”

David turned and nodded toward the rear of the camp.   “What about from over there?”

“We’re OK there.   It’s a twenty-metre cliff.   It’d be too risky for them and, even if they did, we’d nail them going back down.”

David mulled this over.   “Tell me about those three attacks they mounted.”

“Lots of shooting, but they didn’t show too much of themselves.   We took a few hits, they took a few hits.”

“Did they try and move in on the flag?”  David asked.

“A bit.   We pushed them back easily, though.”

“No derring-do?  Any sign of Roydon or Vhukeya?”

“No.   Never saw them.”   He paused and then added, “You know I thought that was strange.   I thought Mylo would be in the thick of things.”

“He is, bru.   He is.   What’s our biggest advantage here?  That cliff.   What’s the Red Team’s big asset?  Mylo and Vhukeya can climb like monkeys.”

“But we’d nail them as soon as they came over the edge.”

“If you saw them.   What if you were concentrating on an attack from the other side?”

“Shit!  So you think they’ll come from there?”

“Ja.   Mylo’s a bloody good fly-half:  he’s agile, he’s got speed and acceleration.   Plus he can think real fast.   I think Mylo’ll do one of three things.   I think you’re going to have to give Sowards up as a backup plan, though.   Can you afford that?”

_

“Depends what you think Mylo’s going to do.”

-------ooOoo----------

“There is no question, David,” Akash’s voice came over through the earpiece, “I’ll call my father and you can stay at our house.   I’m going to be in Cape Town until after the mid-year exams in June.”

“No, I can’t do that, Akash.   I mean it’s helluva nice of you, but I can’t.   I’d be too ashamed to let your parents see me right now.   I’ll get a small flat or rent something in somebody’s house.”

“And what are you going to do for money?  And what about Toronto University?”

“I’ve got about R40,000 saved up.   I’ll get a job.   I’m not sure Toronto is going to work out now.   I’ll get a job and earn some cash and try to get into UCT with you.   Their engineering is pretty good.”

“They don’t have aeronautical, though,” Akash said.

“I skeem I’ll have to decide on some other engineering then.”

The two talked for another half hour before David got back on his Honda and headed home to begin the search for a place to live and a job to support himself.

----------ooOoo----------

“Harvey!  I need you to give Nzwana your skants.”

_

“What?”

“I am not wearing Beck’s underwear,” Nzwana said.

“No worries, Thomas.   I’m not giving them to you,” Harvey said.   “They’re almost new.”

“It’s not voluntary,” David said.   “I’m telling you to do it.   Stop the chat and hand your skants over.   You don’t have to put them on, Thomas.   Put them in your pocket.”

David walked over to one of the other boys.   “Hey, Gardener, the other night in camp you were wearing a pair of blue jeans.   I’ll give you R200 for them.”

“What you want them for?  They won’t fit you.”

“Just give them to me.   We need them now.”

As Gardener rummaged in his pack he said, “By the way, the other team’s password is ‘High Beam’ or ‘I-Beam’.   I heard one of them calling it as he came in to their camp.   Kotze’s sniping has them staying well under cover and they have to dash in and out pretty smartly if they don’t want to get nailed.”

“High Beam?”  asked David.   “You sure?”

“Sounded like it.   It wasn’t ‘Ice Cream’.”

David mulled this news over in his mind for a few seconds.   “It couldn’t have been ‘Irene’, could it?”

“I suppose.   Who’s Irene?”

_

“Mylo’s girlfriend.”

----------ooOoo----------

His parents were out when he came in from the garage.   He took a beer from the fridge and headed up to his room.   An hour later he was sitting on his bed, his possessions in piles as he sorted through them.   His phone rang and seeing the caller ID ‘Akash’, he picked it up.   “Eita, Bru.   ’Sup?”

“David?”  Came the voice, “is that you?”  David pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen.   It showed Akash’s home phone number.

“Uh…Mr. Tajar?  Uh…yes.   Sorry, I thought it was Akash.”

“David, you are not to be looking for a place to stay.   You will be staying right here with my wife and me.   It…”

“Mr. Tajar, thanks a bunch.   I really appreciate it, but I can’t do that.   This is not your or Akash’s problem.   I’ll be OK.   I’ve been looking on the Internet:  there are one room places to rent in Prestbury that aren’t expensive.”

“Prestbury?  Why would you want to live there?  It is unthinkable.   David, you would be doing me a very big favor if you were to be living here, because in that way there will be always someone else in the house if I am away on a business trip, and I wouldn’t have to worry so much about Mrs. Tajar being here alone.”

----------ooOoo----------

Sergeant Mitchell leaned against a tree and surveyed the Blue Team camp.   The tension had been rising steadily since the sunset and now, just over three hours later, there was a sense that something had to break soon.   It was the silence that was getting under everyone’s skin.   On most nights at this time there would be a symphony of insect sounds and their absence now was evidence of unseen activity in the bush:  the presence of some unknown creature.   The time was an issue, too:  the Blue Team had expected something to happen at 21:00 and when the hour came and passed with no action it added to everyone’s stress.

_

“Anything going on at Red Camp?”  the sergeant asked softly into his radio mic.

“Nothing,” crackled the reply.   “Blue Team have a sniper who keeps the Reds from moving too freely around their camp.   They’re pretty edgy.    What about you?”

“Volcano waiting to blow.   Combs is obviously expecting something and his men are amped.”

There was no moon, and the starlight showed only the barest outlines.   Mitchell raised his night scope to his eyes.   Nothing moved in the camp, but neither side was using infrared to illuminate anything either:  no-one wanted to expose their position.   Letting the scope fall on its lanyard he ran his hands up his sleeves to make sure the yellow reflective tape bands that identified him as an umpire were in the open.

From somewhere on the far side of the camp came the plaintive hoot of an owl.   Barely had the sound dissipated amongst the high branches than the night around him erupted into the clatter of AEGs and the yells of the Red Team as they poured shots into the vicinity of the Blue HQ.   From the camp the defenders responded, firing at where the tracer streams appeared to be coming from.   Mitchell brought the scope up to his eye and scanned the bush.   The Red Team was shooting and moving, shooting and moving, making difficult targets for the Blues but also reducing the accuracy of their own fire.   He swung across the camp to where the Blue HQ was situated and, as he did so, a movement caught his eye.   From the far edge where the cliff dropped to the river, someone was climbing over the rim.   The figure was hidden from the Blue Team by a slight rise in the ground and he quickly undid his climbing belt, rolled over and got into a sprinter’s start-crouch.   As Mitchell watched, the figure leaped forward and sprinted toward the Blue Team’s flag pole.   As he ran a single stream of tracer spat out from the side of the Blue HQ, dancing around the runner’s feet as he zigged and zagged while the fire from the Red Team intensified, concentrating on the source of these latest shots.

“Safe!”  The sprinter called as he reached the pole.   Mitchell focused his night scope on him and watched intently in case his umpire role was called for.   As long as the Red Team man stayed within a circle a metre from the pole he could not be fired upon — but in like manner he could not use the neutral zone to fire on anyone else.

As he began to untie the blue flag from the pole, the sprinter’s comrades from the Red Team yelled encouragement as they shot at anything that moved or looked as though it might move.    The boy turned his torch on to its brightest, rolled the flag around it, secured the package with what appeared to Mitchell to be some cord, and then crouched down, ready to sprint towards the tree line from where his team mates were shooting.   Mitchell heard Combs yelling out orders to the Blue defenders, but the words were lost amongst the shouting of the attackers.   The sprinter took one step toward the scrub and his comrades, then, as tracers poured out towards his route, spun around to make a 180° turn, ran out of the circle toward the cliff, and threw the flag in the manner of an overhead pass.   As the little bundle of blue light fell from sight over the edge, several tracer streams converged on the him.   He stopped, raised his hands, and called out, “Hit!”

_

“Blue Team’s flag has been taken from their HQ,” Mitchell spoke into his radio mic.

----------ooOoo----------

“I’ve decided I’m going to go to Canada,” David stated one night over dinner.

“So you are really wanting to do that aeronautical degree?”  Mr. Tajar asked.

“Yes, Maama ji,” David said.   “It’ll be hard for a while, but I think now’s the time I need to bite the bullet.   I really want to be a pilot with one of the big airlines, and for that I need the university degree, too.   It’ll be tough, but in the long run it will take less time and be less expensive than doing the two separately.”

“Have you got the money for the university?”  Akash’s father asked a little bashfully.

David nodded.   “I have about seventy percent of what I need, and my matric and A-levels were good so it looks as though I can probably get a grant.”

“Because if you are short, I can give you a loan until you graduate and get a job.”

David shook his head, his emotions threatening to choke him.   “Maama ji, you folk have done so much more than I could ever have asked for.   More than my own family.   I can swing this one.   I’m going to sell the Honda and some of my stuff so I should be OK.”

“It would be with no interest,” Mr. Tajar persisted.

“I know.   And I really appreciate it, Maama ji.   Honest.   But I think I can swing this.”

“First Akash goes to Cape Town and now you go to Canada,” Mrs. Tajar protested.   “How will I know when to get the dinner going if I don’t hear your motorbike coming into the driveway in the evening?”

David laughed and reached out his hand to hers.   “You’ll manage, Auntie.   And maybe some time, when it is cold here and summer in Canada, you will come and visit me and I can show you so many things.   You can see Niagara Falls, and Quebec City, and Fundy where they have those huge tides, and Banff.”

----------ooOoo----------

Even had he not received the message about the snatch of the Blue Team’s flag, Sergeant Ferreira would have known that there had been a change in the battle.   From the south continual bursts of AEG fire were drawing nearer.   Probably the Red Team protecting their trophy, he thought — and the Blue Team trying to recapture it.   In the Red Team HQ the defenders had also become aware of the approaching noise and Ferreira watched as they moved about stealthily to take up positions to drive off an attack.

_

All of a sudden there was a nearer flurry of shots and then he heard a voice calling, “It’s Ntokoto.   Irene!  Irene!  I’ve got their flag.”

Scanning the far side of the camp he could make out a crouching figure moving across the edge of the scrub.

“Watch out for the bloody sniper,” someone called out urgently and the figure crouched lower but kept moving forward.

There was a brief crackle from his earpiece and Mitchell’s voice began to speak, but right at that moment a short stream of tracer flew past Ferreira’s shoulder and hit the ground just behind the new arrival’s feet.   Ferreira jumped:  he had not been aware of the sniper being anywhere near him.   But the shots surprised the flag carrier even more, and he made a sudden zig-zag move toward the Red HQ.   He barely paused there before he changed direction and headed to the flag pole.   Another short burst of tracer hit the ground just short of his feet.   The shots had come from nowhere close to Sergeant Ferreira and subconsciously he felt an admiration for the stealth with which the sniper moved.

“Safe!”  the figure called as he came up and touched the flag pole.   Almost immediately the Red defenders turned a torch on him and the sergeant saw the black skin of the arms that protruded from the rolled up sleeves.

“Looks like Vhukeya brought the flag,” he said into his mic.

The boy pulled the blue rectangle from his pocket and, shaking it out, reached up and began to tie it to the top of the pole.   Taking a step back, he held his right hand out pointing to the flag and yelled, “Game is over!  Red Team wins!  Let’s hear it for the Red Team!”

There were perhaps five seconds of silence and then the Red defenders came trudging out from their HQ looking left and right cautiously as though not sure whether they were finally safe from the Blue Team’s sniper.   Their comrades coming up from their raid on the Blue HQ, however, displayed no such caution and bounded out from the bush, cheering loudly.

At first there was no evidence of the existence of any Blue Team members in the area, but then Ferreira heard a voice to his right say quietly, “Oh, shit!”  and then call out, “OK, Blue Team, it’s over.”   From out of the bush five metres away he saw Lawrence stand up, his hands raised above his head, and walk slowly towards the camp.   “Where’s Mylo?”  he called out.

From the scrub three other Blue Team attackers stood up and began to walk toward the camp, their hands raised.   As Lawrence crossed into the clearing, Ferreira heard him ask once more where Roydon was.

“He got hit right after taking the flag,” the boy who had brought the flag in called over his shoulder.   He had moved a little way out of the safety circle after tying the blue cloth to the pole, and was standing in the shadows observing his handiwork.

“Pity,” said Lawrence.   “He should have been here to see this.   Hey, Ntokoto, it’s been a long battle.   I think you ous need to have your own flag flying at the top of that pole rather than ours,” Lawrence called.   Sergeant Ferreira shook his head and picked up his mic to call in the game end.

“No radio.”   The sergeant sprung back as the barrel of an AEG touched his neck.   He looked around at the shadowy figure of the sniper, the face and shoulders covered by a cape of netting which had twigs and pieces of grass and foliage stuck through its loops.   Only when Ferreira looked closely could he discern the blue ID bandana around his neck.

“I’m an umpire.   You can’t threaten me.”

“Just stopping you making an error of judgement,” the voice said, and the sniper maintained his stance with the muzzle of the AEG inches from the sergeant’s chin.

Ferreira took a step aside but then hesitated, his mic still in his hand by his side.   Turning his gaze back to the camp he watched the Red Team mulling around chatting excitedly amongst themselves while their Blue counterparts stood in subdued silence looking at the scene in the camp.   The boy who had run in with the flag moved back to the pole and untied the Red Team’s flag.   “At the top, Lawrence?”  he asked, as all the boys stood watching him.

“Ja.   Go for it.”

The boy put his hand to his neck and tugged at the red ID band which came away, exposing a blue bandana underneath.   Looking at the figure lit by a couple of torches, Ferreira thought the scarlet cloth in his hands had all the appearances of a pair of briefs.   The boy pulled each sleeve down, covering his arms and exposing the blue team bands and, as he did so, Lawrence and two others of the Blue Team swung their AEGs from their backs and, at point blank range, deliberately sprayed BBs at the groups of stunned Red Team boys staring dumbstruck at the flag pole.   The boy with the red flag leaped from the pole and, with large strides, ran across the clearing and disappeared into the bush while Lawrence and the other members of the Blue Team backed away from the camp towards the trees.   Speaking no word they moved slowly and deliberately, their gaze intent and menacing, their AEGs swaying from side to side covering the Reds.

At once the Red Team began yelling.   “Hey!  Umpire!  Foul.   It was ‘Game over’.”

Ferreira picked up his mic.   “I think we’ve had an assault here,” he said slowly and quietly, almost as though he couldn’t fathom out what he had just witnessed.   “Blue Team have the Red Team’s flag and are headed south.   But they’ve left their own flag on the pole here.”

There was a moment’s silence.   Mitchell’s voice came through the headphones.   “I told you a few minutes ago:  Blue Team’s flag was recaptured and returned to their pole about fifteen minutes after it was taken.   It’s flying on their pole now.”

_

Ferreira walked across to the flag pole, ignoring the protests of the Red team over the recent action.   He shone his torch up at the blue rectangle and picked up his mic.   “The flag here is just a piece of blue jeans,” he said.

----------ooOoo----------

David sat despondently as the number 506 streetcar made its way down Gerrard Street.   From the time his parents had pulled their financial support, it had been obvious to him that he would need to supplement his savings with a grant or bursary.   In all his email correspondence with the university this had been discussed, and with his A-level passes being with high grades, no problem had been foreseen.   His meeting with the folk in the administration buildings that morning, however, had made him aware of one major hurdle.   The Canadian Immigration authorities required that all foreign students arriving in Canada have adequate funds to sustain them throughout their stay.   His current trip to that country had been mainly for setting things up, so he had flown in on a tourist visa and, since he had had a return air ticket, the issue had not arisen.   As soon as he got his student visa, however, he would be afoul of the law since he would not have sufficient money to complete his stay without the grant — which he did not yet have and could not apply for until he began his first semester.   His finances were precarious.    He was doing web-page design and some programming for a small company whose owner was a friend of Akash’s father.   He got paid in cash and the money covered the rent for his bachelor flat on Audley Avenue and his food, but it did not leave much over for luxuries — and certainly would not provide enough to replace a grant.

He needed something to lift his spirits, and he wondered if there was somewhere where he could get beer at an affordable price and simply sit and listen to a band for a while.   Pulling out his iPhone he began to browse the NowToronto site.   The streetcar lurched as it turned a corner, its wheel flanges shrieking as they rubbed on the steel rails.   With this unexpected motion, David’s finger jerked from the Live Music tab to another part of the screen.   Looking at the iPhone he read, ‘Adult Classified.   Toronto’s most comprehensive adult advertising resource’.

----------ooOoo----------

The Outdoor Leadership Programme, having driven the boys to their limits every day for three weeks, certainly made up for it on the final night.   In the early evening the Bedfords had pulled up outside the Royal Hotel.   The boys, four to a room, had been given an hour to clean up and told to present themselves in the hotel’s dining room.   Now, each wearing a black T-shirt with the OLP logo on the front, and the phrase “I was tested and not found wanting!”  on the back, they sat at tables shoveling in food that someone else had prepared.

_

“I’m still thinking that it was a bad idea of mine to persuade you to sign up with me for this,” Mylo said to David sitting next to him.

David laughed.   “Fifteen-Twelve, Bru.”

“You are no ways getting off that easily,” Mylo said as he skewered a piece of steak with his fork.   “I think the very least it’s going to cost you is you taking Irene and me out for a slap-up dinner and night out at Franki’s some Saturday night before I’ll call you my friend again.”

“What about me?”  asked Ntokoto.   “I think you should make Sowards take me out for dinner.    He blasted about twenty BBs into me as I came away from you ou’s camp with the flag.”

“Once we’re home, Ntokoto, you’re on.   Send me an email and we’ll head up to Sandton some Saturday night,” Sowards said.   He laughed, pointing his fork at the other boy.   “It was worth it just to see your face:  you so thought you were fat, dumb and happy running up by the river.”

“I was.”   Ntokoto chewed at his food for a few seconds.   “I thought I had a clear run for half a kilometre.”   He turned his attention to the food for a few seconds, and then lifted his eyes to Sowards.   “Tell me, were you just there by chance?”  he asked.

Sowards shook his head.   He pointed at David.   “He knows the way Roydon’s mind works.”

_

“Shit!  The Colonel should have let Lawrence stay on our team.”

----------ooOoo----------

There were few people in Yonge Street at that hour of night, and those that were seemed intent on getting to somewhere else.   With determined steps, and looking neither left nor right, they headed toward their destinations.    And this suited David just fine:  the knowledge that he had $200 in his pocket that had not been there ninety minutes previously made him want to turn cartwheels down the sidewalk, and yet he felt that there was something about him, his tight jeans, the black T-shirt and motorcycle jacket, that somehow shouted out the manner in which he had earned the bucks.   He hurried down the canyon formed by the glass-and-stone skyscrapers, away from One King West and towards his streetcar stop.

----------ooOoo----------

David made his way back to the dining room from the toilets shortly before they were to wend their way to the station for their trains.   Zig-zagging past the groups of boys chatting over beers, he made his way to where Sergeant Ferreira stood.

_

“Got a minute, Sergeant?”

“Of course, Mr. Lawrence.”

“I just wanted to apologize for my remark the other day.   That ‘Whenwes’ thing.   It was a stupid thing to say and I was way out of line.   I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mention it.”   The older man put his hand on David’s shoulder.   “It was a stressful evening for all of us.   Things can easily be said in times like that.”

David nodded.

“Besides,” the sergeant continued, “I suspect you’ll be saying much the same thing yourself in the future.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“There will be times, Mr. Lawrence, when you will be driven to the extremes, to what you believe are beyond your limits, and yet you will know you have to move forward.   It will be at those times when you look back to these three weeks.

“Since you arrived here we have pulled you men apart, brought you to nothing and forced you to rebuild yourselves.   And at those times, times when you need a reserve of strength, you’ll be able to say ‘When I was there…’ and remind yourself that when you were here you endured harsher, worse and much more difficult times and you survived.   And so you will be able to move forward.”

David looked at the older man who returned his gaze.   Slowly David nodded his head, beginning to comprehend at last that he had, indeed, endured a rite of passage.

The sergeant turned and moved to the chair he had been sitting in.   “I’ve got something for you, Mr. Lawrence.”   David paused and raised his eyebrows as the other reached into a small, olive-green bag and pulled out a package wrapped in greyish paper and handed it to him.    David gently pulled the paper away to reveal a stainless steel hip flask.   Its surface bore scratches and there was a small dent on the front.   A single word, Johann, was engraved on it.

“Wow!”  he said, holding the flask reverently.   “Who is Johann?”  he asked, running his fingers lightly over the engraving.

Ferreira shook his head.   “Belonged to a guy in the RLI.   A guy just like you:  never ever did one thing by the book and yet, somehow, he always landed on his feet.”

David gave a short laugh and then asked, “Is he still around?”

Ferreira looked down at the table and shook his head.   “No.   His G-Car got shot down.   He was providing cover to the medic and his patient when he took a shot to the head.”

“I’m sorry.”   Again David let his fingers run over the steel.   “And you’re going to let me have this?”

“It’ll do better than a Dettol bottle for carrying brandy.”

David’s head jerked up.   “So you were out there that night?  I thought I’d heard something.    And I caught your scent.”

“My scent?  I smell?”

David felt a bit embarrassed.   “The webbing.   Somehow your clothes seem to have a kind of Blanco and Dubbin smell.”   He paused and reflected.   “Why didn’t you show yourself?  I was scared shitless that Andre would try and off himself again.”

“If you wanted easy you wouldn’t have signed up for this Programme, would you?”  the sergeant replied.   David gave a slight smile and Ferreira continued, “You did OK.   I would have had no better idea of what to do with Kotze.”

David nodded.   He looked at the flask in his hands.   “I’ll treasure this,” he said.   “Thank you for giving it to me.”

_

“It’s been looking for a home for a while.   You have his spirit.”   He stood up.   “Come, Mr.  Lawrence, no time for being maudlin.   Let’s circulate.”

----------ooOoo----------

As Rafe led the way past the concierge and across the polished marble floor of the foyer towards the lifts, David suddenly felt a pang of guilt.   The evening had been great:   Grossman’s had been packed with people wanting to listen to that evening’s jazz band, and David had had to wait before finally finding a seat, squeezing in at one of the big tables.   He had exchanged the customary small talk with the guy sitting next to him and, as the evening progressed, their conversation had deepened.   Rafe, as David learned his name was, was about three years older than he.    Just out of university with a math major, he was happily employed with one of the larger insurance companies, putting his skills to use in detecting frauds.   He was easy to talk to, and David felt a sense of comfort as they exchanged facts about their lives.   When the band had packed up for the night and the pair had pushed out the door onto Spadina at 11:30, Rafe had, with a slight shyness, asked, “Would you care to come back to my apartment for a nightcap?  Or an espresso?  It’s just a couple of stops on the 510.”

The almost universal gambit for picking someone up.   David felt his chest tighten.   “That sounds great.   If I wouldn’t be keeping you up?”

“Who cares:  as long as I’m in the office before lunch time I probably won’t be missed.”   He paused.   “How about you?  Got to be at work at 8?”

“Nope.   I work from home.   Get paid by the project.”

But now, twenty minutes later, as the stainless steel doors of the lift closed behind them and it began its rapid trip up to the 19th floor, David felt a compulsion to be honest.   “Rafe, I need to tell you something.”

“What?”  the other asked as the doors slid open onto a carpeted vestibule.   “You’re married?”   He led the way towards one of the room doors.

“No.   Not that.”   He stopped as Rafe unlocked the door and opened it.   “It’s just that, you know I do web-page design?”  He held back from entering.

“Right.   Come on in.   That’s no problem for us, is it?”

David’s guts clinched at the ‘us’ and he stopped just inside the entrance as Rafe closed the door.   They were centimetres apart.   “It…it doesn’t pay too much money and I’m saving to go to university.”   He swallowed and then let the words out in a rush.   “My other job is a male escort.”

“Oh!”  Rafe seemed taken aback, then he shrugged, nodded and said, “That’s OK.”

David hesitated, and Rafe’s eyebrows rose.   “Oh!  You mean I have to pay to be with you tonight?  How much?”

David grabbed him and pulled him close.   “No!  No!  I don’t want money.   Oh, God, no!  It’s not that at all!  I just wanted you to know who I really was.”

Rafe rubbed his cheek against David’s neck.   “Someone who smells rather nice.”

----------ooOoo----------

“Cheers, ous,” David called into one of the compartments filled with boys from the Programme as he made his way toward the carriage door and Pietermaritzburg station.   “It was fun.”

_

As he stepped onto the platform he heard someone call his name and he turned to see Andre Kotze jump down.   “It was good to be on your team, Lawrence.   I’m sorry I said many things I should not have.   You were a good leader.”

“Thanks, Andre.   You did OK, too.”   The two stood awkwardly facing each other, not sure what the next move should be.   David put down his bag, reached out and pulled the other boy into a hug.   “Take care of yourself.   You heard the Colonel:  we’re men now.   Don’t let your family tell you anything different.”

Andre nodded and turned back toward the train.

“Andre!”  David called as he heaved his Bergen onto his back.   The other turned.   “You did more than OK.   Your shooting was insane:  you totally stopped the other team from fully using their camp.   When you get back to Cape Town tell your father that your gay, soutie team leader said you were better than Pieter Krueler.”

“Who’s Pieter Krueler?”

_

“Look it up.   I bet your father doesn’t know either.   You’re never going to be a true Afrikaner if you don’t know your history.”

----------ooOoo----------

“So you think your escort job will cover your university costs?”  Rafe asked as he poured a cup of coffee.

David nodded, and looked out the window over the early morning city.   “With some left over, probably.”   He gave his friend a sly smile.

The other guy smiled.   “If last night was a sample of your talents…”   He let the sentence hang.

“Have you ever thought of trying for a university in The States?”  he continued, sitting down at the table and reaching for a slice of toast.   “I hear they can be a bit freer with grants and loans.”

David grimaced.   “I can’t get a visa.   I’ve got an uncle who’s in jail for drug smuggling or drug use or something.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was a total show-stopper.   I mean the Yanks might ask you about it, but shit, an uncle isn’t like a brother or a parent.”   He spread butter over the toast.    “And you don’t know anyone else in The States who could vouch for you?”

“There’s some distant kind of relative out on the West Coast.   But they’ve been there a long time:  they don’t know me.

“When did you say you had to be at work?”  He asked, changing the subject.

“About 11:30 or so.   Why?”

David jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom.   “Seems a shame to waste an unmade bed.”

Two hours later, freshly showered, the two rode down in the lift.   “Did you ever try to get in touch with your people on the West Coast?”

David shook his head.   “I don’t know their name.   Cilla, that’s the woman’s name, is our relative, but she got hitched so I don’t know her married name.   All I know about her husband is that his name is Cal, but people call him Tim.”

They walked into the foyer.   “And West Coast is as near as you can get to where they live?”

David shrugged.   “Ja.   Somewhere with real tall trees.   Saw a photo in an album.”

As they reached the sidewalk Rafe turned to David.   “I had a good time last night.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you think some night when you aren’t…er…going out with someone…we could do something together?”

“I think we definitely could do something.   What did you have in mind?”

----------ooOoo----------

Colonel Harris stood up from the big armchair and looked out of the windows of the old farmhouse that served as the headquarters of the Outdoor Leadership Programme.   To his right lay the more exclusive area of Chase Valley Heights, but his eyes swung to the north where the open country lay, the morning mists slowly rising from the trees.   It was odd, he thought, how good and decent character traits were so easily formed when the people were surrounded by nature and what it could throw at one, and how easily bad traits were formed in communities insulated from the wild.

_

The outside door opened and the two sergeants came in.   “Morning, Colonel!”

“Morning, Art.   Morning, John.   Have a good weekend?”

Art Mitchell nodded as he placed his helmet on a table and began unzipping his leathers.   “Uh-huh.   Took the Water Buffalo over to Underberg and Himeville.   The Club’s got a rally time trial next month, and we were setting up the course.”

“You’re getting too old to ride motorbikes!”

Mitchell laughed.   “Never.”   He turned to his colleague, “What’d you do this weekend, John?   You were off Thursday and Friday.   Go sailing on the dam?”

The other man pushed a mug under the coffee machine and hit the brew button.   “Went up to Joeys to see my brother in law.   Spent some time with him.   I tell you, it’s a hell-hole there in Gauteng — couldn’t wait to get back.   But he’s got some lung problems so he needs the dry air.”

The Colonel picked up the newspaper he had been reading.   “Remember about a week or so ago we were debating on whether our courses really made any impact on the people who took them?”  He folded the newspaper so that the lower half of one of the pages was visible.   “What do you make of this in this morning’s Natal Mercury?”

Ferreira took the paper and held it in one hand so that Mitchell could read it as well.

_

Gay Correction Camp Raided

Arron Soderberg.

The “Reclaim Our Youth” camp run by the Apostolate of Christ Church in the Nqutu area was attacked on Saturday by a gang of eleven men, and two members of staff assaulted.   The staff of the camp had been expecting a visit from a group from the Staroobryadtsy church, a traditionalist Christian Orthodox sect based in the Moldovan Republic.   A member of the Apostolate of Christ Church’s conclave, Benjamin Backes, said that the Staroobryadtsy had been in contact with them expressing interest in their treatment of homosexuals and, through a lengthy email correspondence, a visit had been arranged.   However, when the van with the eleven visitors arrived at the camp the “clergy” of the Staroobryadtsy pulled semi-automatic guns from under their vestments and herded most of the Apostolate of Christ Church’s staff into the dining room where they held them at gunpoint.   Two of the senior members of the camp’s staff were then taken outside, tied to a tree and sjambokked severely.

The attackers had apparently cut the telephone wires to the camp and had activated cell-phone jammers, so that by the time the police could be notified the retreating gang had gained a 45 minute head start.

Sarel Leavell, one of the few staff members who had had any interaction with the gang, told The Mercury’s reporter that the attackers wore black balaclavas over their faces and long, black cassocks.   Nonetheless he was of the opinion that the attackers were young men in their twenties.   But the two senior staff who were sjambokked had the impression that the person who whipped them was a white man in his fifties or sixties.

The Apostolate of Christ Church was convicted two months ago of severely abusing one of the men attending its courses and ordered to pay compensation of R750,000.   The church has appealed the verdict and the award on the grounds that it violates their freedom of religion.   No evidence connects the attack with the abused man, however, as he is currently in Canada, according to a member of his family.

A police spokesman said that they have not had any success in identifying the perpetrators nor have they found the van, a white Toyota Sesfikile with an Eastern Cape number plate.   The only evidence left by the attackers was a square of blue denim material attached to a pole planted in the ground like a flag.   The web-site and email server of the Staroobryadtsy, through which the visit had been arranged, had disappeared, and when The Mercury investigated further it was found that that church has never had any representation in Southern Africa.   The police believe the entire arrangement made with the Apostolate of Christ Church was a ruse and had nothing to do with this Moldovan church.

_

“Well I’ll be damned,” Mitchell said.   He looked over at the Colonel.   “Seems like the boy formed a pretty tight team after all.   Who would have thunk it?”

“So we did OK with that batch then,” the Colonel said.   Lifting his eyes to the third man who was still looking at the article he asked, “What d’you think, John?”

Ferreira laid the paper down on the arm of the chair.   “He was an OK kid.   Could tell that right from the start.”   He tapped the newspaper with his knuckles.   “Nothing here surprises me:  he moulded those men into a pretty tight team.”   He coughed and cleared his throat.   “Well, standing around talking doesn’t get the work done.   I’ve got all the equipment for next week’s course to inventory and check.”   He walked to the door and went outside.

Art Mitchell looked at the Colonel in stunned silence.   Pointing his index finger at the door he said, “What the fuck was all that about?  ‘OK Kid?’  Wasn’t he the one who was always yelling at the guy?  Didn’t he punch him and try to get him XRed?”

The Colonel gave a slight shrug.   “Some people have difficulty showing affection.   That kid — what was his name…Lawrence, was it?”  Mitchell nodded, his finger still pointing to where the other man had left.   “Anyway, he drove everyone crazy, but anytime you tried to take him to task he would turn on the charm and give you a plausible reason for whatever he had done.

“And John had a son who was just like that.”

Mitchell let his hand drop slowly.   “Oh.   I didn’t know he’d ever been married.”   He mulled things over in his mind.   “You said ‘Had’?”

The Colonel grimaced.   “Johann was in the infantry.   He was part of a stick that went out to handle a bus that had hit a land-mine.   Quite a few dead.   Survivors — all civilians — were in a bad state.   The G-Car was going back and forth ferrying the injured to Umtali.   On the final run the chopper was coming in to pick up the last patient, the medic and Johann.   But the terrs had had time to regroup by then.   They fired on the chopper and got its tail rotor.    Johann had got the medic and the patient behind some cover and was returning fire when he got shot in the head.”

“Oh shit!”

The two stood by the window without speaking, looking toward the distant hills for three full minutes.   “So what did you think of the Mercury article?”  the Colonel asked at last.

“I’d read the original story when the guys went on trial.   Seemed as though Lawrence had taken a bad beating.   You know what they say, ‘The closer to church the further from God’?  I think Lawrence’s team got tired of all the legal crap and took things into their own hands.   And, to be honest, I think they did a damn fine job of things.”   He locked eyes with the Colonel.    “If you must know, after reading that article, I admit I feel pretty darned good having had something to do with their training.”

They resumed their study of the horizon.

“How many were on Lawrence’s team?  Do you remember?”  The Colonel mused.

“Hmmm.   It’s almost a year ago.   They were the smaller team — one fewer.”   He thought a while, mentally going through the names.   “Eleven, I think.”

“How many were in the gang that hit the church camp did the article say?”

Mitchell turned, picked up the paper and scanned it.   “Eleven.   Yes — that ties in.   Eleven.”

“But Lawrence is in Canada, so that would make it ten.   So who would you say the eleventh man was?”

Mitchell shrugged.   “Who knows?  Another friend.   That Roydon boy perhaps?”  He returned the newspaper to the arm of the chair, but as he straightened up he paused.   “Wait…you’re not saying…” and he pointed at the door.

_

“I guess we’ll never know.   He certainly won’t admit it, although I wouldn’t make book on it not being him,” the Colonel said.

----------ooOoo----------

David lifted his head off the pillow to look at the clock on the range in the kitchen.   16:30 — time to get showered.   He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, careful to bow his head so it did not bump the ceiling.   He had never fully resolved the architectural conundrum as to why the ceiling at this end of the room was six centimetres closer to the floor than it was four metres away at the other end.   The floor seemed to have no slope, and one should be able to assume that the ceiling would lie parallel to the floor of the room above.   So was his landlady’s living room somewhat askew?  He had never been inside that part of the house:   when he had rented the flat all the documents had been signed on the counter in his kitchen.    The deposit and first month’s rent, just under twelve hundred Canadian dollars, had taken a bite out of his cash:  he had known then that he was going to have to find a second job somewhere to replenish the fund.

The hot water splashed over his shoulders and back as he soaped himself.   ‘What is Rafe up to?’  he wondered.   Every instinct had told him to turn down the invitation.   He found parties exhausting:  the banal chit-chat, the effort of being the urbane and attentive partner to whomever he was out with on that particular evening, the feigned knowledge of what they did at work.   But Rafe was different.   Shy and smart, quiet yet funny, so well-traveled and yet so inexperienced, and somehow seeming to be so in tune with David.   And yesterday Rafe’s voice over the phone had sounded so excited about this particular party that David had had relented and promised him he wouldn’t work but go out with him instead.

Friend.   One friend.   The largest city in Canada, and in two months he had met dozens of people and yet had made only one friend.

He turned the water off and began to towel himself dry.   Forty minutes later, face shaved baby-bum smooth, hair gelled and blown into a faux-mess, and dressed in a dark suit with open-neck shirt, he climbed up the steps from his front door onto the path that led to the street and the 503 tram.

David had felt quite overwhelmed by the city when he had first arrived:  big and sprawled out, traffic and people everywhere.   He had naively thought that he would easily find somewhere inexpensive to live close to the university, but classes were still in session and nothing that was anywhere near to his budget was available.   After two days of frantic Internet searching he had finally come across the small flat in a quiet suburb east of the city center.

As he walked from the streetcar stop, past the taxis waiting outside the hotel, David felt a sudden urge to turn and run.   It was stupid, he knew.   He had walked through those doors probably fifteen, sixteen times in the last two months.   Yet now he felt as though he was suddenly getting out of his depth.   He stopped, then squaring his shoulders passed into the lobby of the Hyatt Regency.   He paused, scanning the room.   Almost immediately he spotted Rafe getting up from one of the curved-back settees and walking toward him, grinning widely.

“For a while I thought I might have been stood up,” he said, pulling David into a hug.

“You know I charge a thou for a whole night, don’t you?”  David whispered into his ear.

“Not this night,” Rafe said, the grin rapidly returning to his face.   “You might even pay me.    Come, the party is upstairs,” he said, steering David past the glass waterfalls and toward the escalators.

“What’s the occasion?” David asked as they ascended from the lobby.

Rafe leant across and kissed him on the cheek.   “It’s my surprise.   Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing to the right as they reached the top.   David felt Rafe take his hand and he glanced at his friend, smiling as they walked down the carpeted vestibule.   At the end a set of double doors led into a room where tables covered with light yellow cloths were set for a meal.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” a man in his thirties standing at the door greeted them.   “May I see your invitations, please?”  He had addressed them both, but his eyes were fixed on David with that puzzled look as though he somehow recognized his face and was struggling to recall from where they knew each other.   David began to feel his chest tightening.   Had this guy been one of his dates?  He felt sure he would have remembered so suave a man, but on the other hand many a guy goes through a transformation when he’s paying for their time together.   $200 for an hour and a half gives some people a sense of entitlement.

“We won’t be on the list,” David heard Rafe explaining, “But if you ask Mrs. Burr, she will explain.   I spoke with her on the phone yesterday.”

The man at the door turned his face toward Rafe, but his eyes stayed on David for a second before following.   “Sure.   No problem.   Can you wait here a second?  She’s just over there.    I’ll go get her.”

“What’s going on?”  David asked.   “This rather looks like a gay party.”

“I think it will probably tend that way.”   He put on a fake French accent.   “Attendez, mon ami, and soon all will be made clear.”

The man from the door returned, escorting a tall woman who, David estimated, was in her forties.

“Mrs. Burr?”  asked Rafe.   “Hi, I’m Rafe Bernier.   We spoke on the phone.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Rafe.   Please call me Drusilla.”   She shook his hand and then turned to David.   “And of course, you are David Lawrence,” she said, and reaching out both arms embraced him in a tight hug.

“Nice to meet you, Drusilla,” said David as she stepped back.   “Should I know you or are you just a very friendly person by nature?”

She threw her head back and gave a melodious laugh.   David smiled at her, wondering if every time she laughed like that an angel earned its wings.   She glanced at Rafe, who shook his head slightly.

“David, I am a little bit older than you, but you and I are cousins of a sort.   My mother and your great-grandmother were sisters.”

“Oh,” said David, suddenly making the mental connection.   “Not Cilla with a C but Silla with an S.   I think I’ve heard my parents talk about you.”

“I’m not sure whether I should consider that flattering or not!” and she gave another of her laughs.   “Well, I’m glad we meet at last, David.”   She looked up and began beckoning with her hand.   David turned to follow her gaze and saw two men who had just come into the room talking with the man at the door.   The pair looked toward Drusilla and, in response to her waving, began walking toward her.   Once again, David was aware of one of them staring at him with a strange intenseness.

“Hello, Drusilla,” said the other as they came up, “Long time no see.   Glad you could make it.”   He half turned to his companion who was still staring at David.   “May I introduce to you Mike Jorgensen, my fiancé.   Mike, this is Drusilla Burr who very kindly sold me our house several years ago.”

“Welcome to the family, Mike,” she said, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“Thank you, Drusilla.   It has certainly seemed like a nice family to join,” he said.   Then smiling at his companion he added, “Although the sample I’ve had to judge by has been small.”

“Well, perhaps I can fix that,” she responded.   David felt her take his hand.   “Christian,” she said, “May I introduce to you Mr. David Lawrence, your nephew?”

GLOSSARY

Abseil:

Rappel

AEG:

Airsoft Electric Gun.   Electrically-powered air-guns used for sport.    They shoot (typically) .2 gm 6mm spherical BBs at around 350 feet/sec.

Amped:

Excited.   Waiting for something imminent.

Auntie:

A familiar yet respectful term for a female older that the speaker.    Typically used with Indians.   The Afrikaans "Tannie" is used in like manner for Afrikaners.

Ballas Bak:

Literally "baking one's balls", i.e. lying against the kraal walls in the sun in winter mornings to warm up.

Bedford:

Very tough British truck used extensively by the military in the UK and much of the Commonwealth back in the 60s and 70s (and before).   Now many are available as "used" and are sought after vehicles for rough terrain.

Belay:

A rope supporting a climber.   Verb: Holding that rope to support the climber.

Berg:

Drakensberg.   A mountain range in Natal.

Bergen:

Military style backpack -- the term used by some British Military - notably Special Forces.

Bergie:

A hobo/bum often found on the lower slopes of the mountains around Cape Town.

'Biner:

Carabiner.

Boet:

Literally "Brother", but in use more synonymous with "Mate".

Bomber:

Rock-Climbing lingo meaning very safe.

Bosbefok:

PTSD - Especially from extended periods in the bush on constant alert for landmines and ambushes.

Bru, Bro, Brah:

Brother, but used more colloquially as "mate".

Bundu:

Bush.   In the middle of nowhere.

Camalot:

A spring-loaded, multi-lobe device that can be compressed so it can be pushed into the crack of a rock.   When a load is placed on it, its cam-like design causes it to expand, making it a very firm anchor.

Carabiner:

Metal loop with spring-loaded (and often locked with a screw) gate.   Used in climbing for attaching ropes to anchors or harness.

Clobber:

Clothes.

Cordelette:

A loop of cord or webbing attached to three anchors to spread a load (of a climber) evenly amongst them.

Crash:

Sleep.

Dead Rag:

A cloth or bandana of a highly visible color that indicates the player is "dead" i.e. has been hit and is in some stage of respawning.   When wearing the dead rag the player may not be fired on, but neither can he take part in any "military" action such as cleaning his weapon, shooting, or even discussing tactics.

Deurmekaar:

No good English translation.   Befuddled is closest.

Dixie:

A small pan with folding handles used by the army and backpackers.    Two dixies, one slightly smaller than the other, fit together forming a compact, aluminum box.

Donner:

Literally thunder.   Figuratively to beat someone up.

DPP:

Director of Public Prosecutions.

Durbs:

Durban (City on the Natal Coast of South Africa (East Coast)).

Elastoplast:

Band Aid.

G-Car:

Aérospatiale Alouette III Helicopter.   It was armed with two Browning .303 or a single 7.62mm machine guns.

Gramadoelas:

Boon docks.   Boonies.

Gat vol:

Fed up.   (Literally "my hole is full").

Graft:

Slang for work.

Grey's:

Public hospital in Pietermaritzburg.

Hessian:

Burlap.

Hundreds:

Just fine.   Totally OK.

Joeys:

Johannesburg.

Jug:

Climbing hold.

Kak:

Shit

Keffiyeh:

Big square scarf.   See shemagh.

Klippies:

Klipdrift brandy.

Krans:

Cliff, Rock Face.

Laaitie:

A young child (often seen incorrectly as the English "lighty").

Landy:

Land Rover.

Lippe lees:

Literally lip reading.   Colloquially it means oral sex.

Lekker:

Sweet, cool, nice.

Loop Naai:

Go fuck yourself.

Main manne what counts:

Person in charge.

Mal:

Mad.   Crazy.

Mielie:

Corn

Mieliemeel:

Corn meal.   Kinda like a finer form of grits.

Moffie:

Gay guy.

Moleskin:

First Aid dressing for blisters.

Mos:

Only or just.   "I thought you were mos taking a piss" = "I thought you were just taking a leak.".

Ou, Oke, Outjie:

South African Slang - Guy [plural Ous and Ouens] Pronounced "Oh" and very close to "Oak" but a shorter vowel.   Outjie is the diminutive.

Pap:

Porridge

Poes:

Cunt

Pongoes:

SA military (and perhaps UK military) term for army guys (as opposed to Navy or Air Force).

Prusik:

A knot of cord put around a rope to add friction.

R Rand:

$0.092 US.   0.056 UK Pound.

Respawn:

In the Airsoft game, the fight/action wouldn't last long if a player were to be permanently "dead" (i.e. removed from the game) after being hit.   To make the game last longer there can be a means of respawning, or re-creation of the character, so that they can resume playing after some criteria are met.

Rock up:

Arrive.   Turn up.

Rubbish bin:

Trash can.

Schnaai:

To cheat someone.

Scrompie:

Bum / Hobo.

Se gat:

Literally "his/its hole".   Negates or puts down the last thing said.

Shemagh:

Large square scarf that can be used as a scarf, a face cover, or a full-head cover as in the Middle East.   Pronounced "Shmog".

Sjambok:

A whip, about 40-52 inches long, made from tough animal-hide.

Skants:

Briefs (underwear - bikini briefs).

Skeef:

skew

Skeem:

Think

Skuz 'apo!:

Reference to the Selous Scouts of Rhodesia.   Kinda means "Excuse me! Don't mind me" in a sly way, like,   "Don't mind me while I steal your wallet".

Soutie:

Short for "Sout Piel" = salty-foreskin.   Insulting Afrikaner term for English-speaking South Africans whom, they say, have one foot in SA and the other in England, thus leaving their foreskin dangling in the sea.

Swak:

nasty.   Literally "weak".

Tokkel Tou:

A cord about six feet long with a toggle at one end and a loop (or eye) at the other.   Thus the cord can be quickly formed into a loop by pushing the toggle through the loop, or made into a longer rope by joining several together.

Torch:

Flashlight.

Tune someone grief:

Give someone a hard time.

Valie:

Insulting reference to someone from the Transvaal (Johannesburg etc.    Now Gauteng).

Vasbyt:

Literally "bite hard" - kinda like "bite the bullet".   A wish for good luck.

Verkramp:

narrow minded, bigoted.

Vlakte:

Flatlands.   Plains with little or no undulation.

Whenwes:

Ex-Pats.   Most of their sentences begin "When we were in Rhodesia/Kenya...etc.

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