1
Now it was 6:00 a.m. and everyone was tired from weeks of travelling to this benighted spot the locals called Isandlwana and Lorne Novak was wincing before a small parade of his fellow soldiers, including Captain Wallass, whose pocket-watch Lorne had pocketed the night before.
Their superior’s sjambok split the sun in two before whistling through the air and striking Lorne’s hairy spine.
“It didn’t work, sir!” Lorne assured him, referring to the pocket watch.
“Be quiet, Novak!” the Officer replied, raising his sjambok again, cutting the sun, and adding another red bar to Lorne’s skin.
“Twenty-second of January,” Captain Wallass noted inwardly, enjoying the sight of Lorne’s penalty, but also thinking about what the damaged Lorne had in stall for him…
After he delivered the last blow, the Officer replaced his pith helmet, mirroring the submarine-like protuberance that shadowed the campsite. It seemed to have burst though the dry landscape like a modern submarine through arctic ice, and the British soldiers were afraid of the odd dark tower.
***
I was born in Tamworth, Staffordshire in 1854. And my family were dyers, so my father put me on his knee one day, and said, “My lad, you’re going to be a dyer.”
And I remember, as a toddler, thinking, “Oh, bugger…”
And he would read to me from Ballantyne’s The Coral Island, which I carried with me for a long time during my military service.
We worked in a big workhouse for a rich fellow called Blackheart.
And Mister Blackheart was very upset because when I was two years old, another fellow called Mister Perkins invented his own dye using coal tar. I can’t tell you about the mechanics behind it, and I don’t know the ins and outs of economics, but Mister Blackheart was dragging his feet wherever he went in that warehouse, and he often beat my father. Because when I was older, I learned how dyers used to use dyes from bugs, like Cochineal and kermes. And plant-based dyes like woad, madder and indigo. But Mister Perkins and others like him ruined that for everyone, and the industry collapsed.
So, I joined the Staffordshire Volunteers in 1874, and was posted a week later.
I was in Malaysia for the Perak Troubles. The governor got himself killed and we were there to keep the natives easygoing.
Then I went to Singapore, did some fighting, and was sent to Mauritius. I remember Captain Wallass got measles, but I didn’t, which made me happy.
And then I spent the longest time in South Africa. Where Chief Sekhukhune was causing trouble for the locals in the Transvaal.
My people annexed the Transvaal during my time there, which I thought was a good idea because the Boers were irritating. But apparently it was a terrible idea.
A Zulu friend of mine said by annexing the Transvaal, and already having another British state (Natal) next to it, it looked like Queen Victoria and Mister Disraeli were making themselves a bullhorn formation on Zululand.
And so Chief Cetshwayo thought the British were up to no good.
That was when I lost faith in what we were doing, in being British so-to-speak, and I put my faith in something better: Ballantyne’s The Coral Island. Because the lads in that book go about it the right way: they just want to live.
***
“Get dressed, Novak,” the Officer said. Lorne painfully replaced his red army coat and his pith helmet, staring dolefully at his feet as soldiers dispersed. “And prepare for a spot of war, men,” the Officer added, strutting away. He then addressed Lieutenant Scott, a man with a long face and ruddy cheeks. Several regiments departed to investigate the surrounding areas for Zulus.
Meanwhile Lorne teetered back to his tent quarters holding his burning back.
Captain Wallass was waiting for him: “No hard feelings, old chap?”
Lorne sighed and sat on his bunk, drinking gin from a flask.
“You should lay off that stuff, Lorne. Not good if we’re fighting.”
“You’re not angry that I nicked your watch? I’d be angry.”
“I know why you stole it.”
“Why?”
“It’s what the lads in that book of yours would have done,” Captain Wallass said, pointing to The Coral Island on Lorne’s bunk. “They just steal.”
“It’s for survival.”
“What, a pocket watch?” Wallass complained.
“They need hogs and fruit. I need pocket watches. What’s valuable depends on where you are.”
Captain Wallass snorted like one of Ballantyne’s hogs. Before he left the barracks, he added, “Play the game. Take advantage of it. You’ll be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I’m a thousand miles from this place,” Lorne said, staring through a tiny porthole at the towering submarine stack outside, looking so much like a God, but feeling so little like the sting of hope. “Wake me up when the bastards come,” he added, falling asleep on his bed.
Lorne woke up smelling of hay and sweat. He shook his face, drained his flask of gin and coughed violently for several seconds. He stood up and went outside.
Captain Wallass, surrounded by friends, played cards on a water cask. “There he is—Bloody Bill reporting for duty,” he referenced the half-decent pirate in The Coral Island.
Half-decent was all Lorne could manage, Captain Wallass thought.
“The lads were saying how funny it was you were flogged with a sjambok. One of the enemy’s toys.”
“Oh, don’t we like the Boers anymore?” Lorne replied.
“No comment.”
“Don’t you think it’s funny how they stole the land—and now we’re stealing it from them?”
The card game stopped.
Wallass said, “The British have a right to be out here. More than the Boer do. We look after our land. The Boer don’t, the Zulus don’t. And don’t get me started on those damned Swazis.”
The soldiers lamented the sorry minorities ruining the fun with laughter that echoed around the half-empty camp like so many mad, clapping oysters.
Lorne said, “You mean we’ll build factories and workhouses. Because that’s taking care of the land. The fish dead in the rivers. The birds dead in the air.”
Captain Wallass said, “You watch your tongue. You want more flogging.”
“No honour in flogging, old chap. You know the drill.”
“Right,” Wallass hissed, knocking over his stool as he rocketed up. He removed his helmet, coat and shirt. He stood naked to the waist, waiting.
Lorne did the same as watching soldiers formed a square around them.
Lorne and Wallass raised their fists and shuffled around the dry, dry earth.
Wallass threw his fist at Lorne’s face. He missed when Lorne jumped out of the way, threw his own back, and landed a punch square on Wallass’s jaw.
The captain staggered back, egged on by shouts from the perimeter.
“You’re dead, Novak! You’re not a dyer for nothing!” he said.
“Neither are you!” Lorne replied.
Wallass punched Lorne on the chin, sending the flogged man back. When Lorne hit the ground, Wallass straddled him, tossing punches down at him.
Next moment Lorne gripped Wallass’s fists and twisted them.
Wallass screamed as his wrists creaked with tension. Then Lorne was on top of him, and he headbutted the angry captain.
Silence.
When Lorne stood up, he spat reddish drool onto the dry, dry earth. He observed his comrades, as if to say, “Don’t take abuse from people like him…”
Except Lorne didn’t know the worst of it.
Beyond the camp and over the hill Lieutenant Scott overtook a blubbering bunch of British soldiers who had encountered a column of bloodthirsty Zulu warriors.
“You lot! Get back to camp!” Lieutenant Scott advised the obvious. “Get back immediately or you will all be killed!”
As he said these immortal words, he turned to his right to find another column of Zulu warriors—there must have been thousands—circling the other side of the camp.
“The Zulus are in immense strength!” Lieutenant Scott added as piles of British soldiers jostled and skipped past him. “Prepare to defend the camp!”
Private Smithers tapped on the Officer’s tent flap. The Officer’s head popped out, presumably because the rest of him was unclothed. “What is it, man?”
“Sir, our men appear to be returning to camp, sir.”
“Jolly good. They must have killed the enemy.”
“Sir, it don’t look like it, sir.”
“What? Insubordination?”
“Sir, no, sir. I’m just saying, like, they look worse for wear, sir.”
An obnoxious gust of wind blew the flap open. Articles of Punjabi pornography fluttered into the campsite, proliferating amongst the soldiers.
“There seems little point in pretending, Private Smithers.”
“As you like, sir.”
The Officer walked out of his tent holding his telescope. His naked body gleamed in the midday African sun. He lengthened his telescope, held the lens to his eye, and watched as British soldiers avoided a 22,000 strong army.
“Holy shittingtons,” the Officer said.
“Bad, is it?” Private Smithers enquired.
Next moment an A4 sheet of Punjabi pornography clapped against the Officer’s member, shielding it against the sun’s terrible radiation.
“It’s worse than bad. It’s impolite. Start shooting, Smithers.”
Around them British soldiers cocked their breech-loading rifles.
Captain Wallass brandished his navy colt, waving men towards the perimeter of the campsite where they got on their knees and aimed outwards.
“Novak!” Wallass shouted amongst the up-kicked dust. “There you are! Get over here!”
“You can’t stop them. The cartridges will melt. You’re finished.”
“That’s what the bayonets are for, old chap. Now, get over here!”
“I will, sir. Just let me fetch my rifle.”
“Jolly good,” Captain Wallass said, watching Lorne scurry away into a hurricane of dust, ill-temper and body odour. “Wait a minute—”
The whinnying of a confused horse filled the air. When Captain Wallass turned around, he saw Lorne riding the Officer’s stallion, Buttered Crumpet.
“You bastard!” Wallass said, firing after the terrified horse. “Come back!”
Lorne, with his Coral Island and other belongings, left a trail of dust behind him as he galloped out of the campsite into the warriors of Zululand. Thousands of shield- and assegai-carrying soldiers volleyed projectiles at the fleeing Novak, shouting and cursing the glib coward and his sorry ancestors.
“Coward! Deserter!” the angry Wallass echoed his enemy’s sentiments.
2
On the days leading up to the 19th of January messengers around Zululand attended kraals where they told commanders their presence was required in Ondini. The commanders and their ibuthos mobilized quickly, literally running to the capital and undertaking war rituals. “His royal highness, Chief Cetshwayo, is praying for war,” Commander Ntshingwayo explained. “Britain has invaded our lands. They lecture Chief Cetshwayo on his own laws; laws that preserve his honour. Warriors of this land will not accept this. We win this war, or we die.”
***
I was born in Isandlwana in 1854 and I lived there until I joined an ibutho. When I was growing up, I herded calves with the other boys who bullied me because I was smaller than them. So I said I’d steal some sweet cane.
And they were impressed when I came back with enough for everyone.
We did this for a while until one of the boys told his family, and we were all thrashed. I swear to Cetshwayo I have still have the bruises on my back.
And I never forgave that boy for ratting on us. So I went back to herding calves and sheep.
But I was thinking, “My goodness, I can’t do this for the rest of my life.”
So I was grateful when I was admitted to an ibutho of men who lived on the kraal. This was where my training in fighting, tax collection, and administration started.
And the years ran like cattle.
I remember the day when Chief Cetshwayo brought us to his great capital: I had seen him once before, when he had formally welcomed me to the army. I never knew strength embodied so perfectly before I met Chief Cetshwayo. He was an elephant of a man with a huge stomach full of muscle, mountainous thighs, thick arms, and the only face in the world that spoke of true royalty. What a shame I didn’t start my own ibutho—that’s what should’ve happened. But I’m not the fighting type, even though I’m a Zulu warrior: I explain to westerners how Zulu warriors do so much more than fighting wars: we collected taxes, served as police in villages, analysed crimes, kept the peace. We didn’t spend all day disemboweling enemies and putting on their clothing. So when Ntshingwayo said “we win this war, or we die” and all of my brothers cheered, I thought, “What are they happy about?”
“PREPARE TO TASTE BLOOD,” someone shouted.
Well. This was getting out of hand.
But I didn’t want to get executed, so I said, “Yes! Let’s have blood, gentlemen!”
My friend, Umdeni, rolled his eyes. “Everyone can tell you’re not interested.”
“Then why do I have my hair like this? What’s with my shield and my blades?”
“You don’t want to get married, do you? Not a good idea for a warrior.”
“The married warriors—” I pointed to a lugubrious regiment of warriors holding white shields and wearing hemp crowns. “I mean, they look older than we do, but that’s expected.”
“Exactly. No one wants to be those guys.”
I shrugged. “We better get in line for the river.”
“I guess so,” Umdeni said, joining the thousand-strong column for washing in the holiest river, where shiny black bodies moistened themselves. We waited and waited until it was our turn.
Umdeni shouted and smiled and laughed. “Do you feel the amadlozi stirring your body? That’s what brings you victories. We’ll be feeling great when we eat that bull flesh tomorrow.”
“I just feel wet.”
“Let them sing for you,” Umdeni said, punching my chest. “Do you feel my masculinity?”
“Uh-huh.”
Then we joined a larynx of thousands of warriors who stepped out of the river. We were all greeted by the people of Ondini, who patted our backs and laughed.
“They’re laughing at us,” I said, getting my friend’s attention.
“Because they’re happy! Because we’ll be victorious!”
“They’ve got sunstroke.”
“Stop moaning. You’re such a prophet of doom.”
“Charming,” I said, observing the trees and vegetation, knowing I would never see it again.
The next day we had doctored bull flesh. Female cooks sweated around a hundred barbecue pits, smoke misguided warriors with even the best eyesight, and servants ferried meals back and forth.
The piece they gave me was cooked all wrong.
I approached the chef who had prepared it. She was a fierce-looking woman with a bulbous lower lip and intense eyes like my reddish shield, and she was busy cooking and cursing over the pit.
I gave her my best winning smile. “Excuse me.”
“Don’t tell me—you’d rather have your enemy’s flesh?” She and her servants laughed and carried on cooking, oblivious to the fact that I had enjoyed my food about as much as a thrashing.
“Not really.” I cleared my throat. “The meat’s a little undercooked.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You couldn’t toss it back on for a second, could you?”
“What?”
“Put it—put it back on the—cook the meat some more. It’s red.”
A warrior from the married regiment came over. He towered over everyone, his forearms were like tree trunks, and his legs were the size of my entire body.
“What’s going on, honey?” he asked.
His wife said, “This young idiot doesn’t like my food.”
“What the hell?” he said, shaking his head.
“No, no, that’s not what I said,” I replied.
“Could you cook for 22,000 people?” the warrior said, itching the edge of his hemp crown.
“Come on, that’s not—she’s not cooking for everyone—”
“That’s not the point—”
“That’s literally what you just said—”
“No, no. Exactly. Because you don’t know what it’s like. You couldn’t cook a pangolin.”
“Oh, right. It’s my fault,” I complained.
“It’s your fault, cretin—she’s been preparing this food for days. She comes home, she’s tired. And she’s upset because she has to deal with cretins like you.”
“OKAY, FINE. I’LL EAT THE BULL MEAT.”
Next moment Umdeni appeared. He was flexing his muscles and laughing at the sky. “The amadlozi are pulsing through my veins. My good woman—great cook—come and feel my muscles!”
The red-eyed woman gripped his bicep. “Oh my goodness, he’s right.”
And her hemp-crowned husband nodded solemnly. “The bull flesh works every time.”
“Bullshit,” I said, and walked away.
The following day we were directed to a pit—we like pits—containing a thick uncoiled carpet that had been manufactured out of grass. This was the izinkatha, and it had been passed down from generation to generation, from king to king, and contained the effervescence of every warrior.
Well.
It was covered in vomit, if that’s what they meant.
And not liking vomit, I hid behind a bush, as warrior after warrior ritually vomited onto the izinkatha, receiving the approval of Chief Cetshwayo himself, who watched over the proceedings.
When I felt a bony hand on my shoulder, I knew my stomach would get rumbled. Commander Ntshingwayo stared down at me with his cold eyes. “The izinkatha is waiting for your contribution.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
He dragged me over to the pit and fetched one of Cetshwayo’s doctors. I was given an emetic, but all I could contribute were a few drops of green bile.
“That’s enough courage for today,” Ntshingwayo said.
To clarify: I was raised with these traditions. But learning about them from wise old warriors and actually doing them were two different things.
And Cetshwayo’s doctors didn’t stop there. They sprinkled us with a herbal mixture. Umdeni enjoyed it, and got the cookery women to feel his eyeball. But when I had it, it just stung my face.
When Umdeni, myself, and the other 21,998 warriors set out from Ondini, I started to have reservations about this whole thing. I was used to running great distances in my regiment. Men as old as seventy gave their very best. But I knew this was going to end badly.
The Brits wouldn’t know what hit them.
Neither would the seventy-year-old Zulus, by the look of them.
We moved across the dry scrubland like gazelle. And in my heart I knew I was coming home. The Zulu army marched for Isandlwana. I had grown up there, herding calves and stealing sweet cane and getting beaten. My mind was disturbed by strange memories in the morning sun as my regiment glided like a huge slug. And the large boy who had ratted me out was still with me, after all these years.
“How’s it feel to come home?” Umdeni said.
He used to make fun of me because I was the smallest boy. And then he turned me in. And everyone was thrashed that day because of him.
“I haven’t been here in a long time,” Umdeni added.
“We won’t be stealing any sweet cane,” I said.
“You won’t be!” He laughed and poked me. “Has your rear end recovered?”
“Nothing’s wrong with my rear end.”
“The old times. The best times.”
One of the elder Zulu warriors jogged ahead. He was unmarried, wore his hair naturally, and carried his reddish shield. “You boys need to catch up,” he laughed. “Queen Victoria’s a big bitch.”
“What does that even mean?” I said, watching the elder Zulu warrior shuffle rapidly towards another group of young men whom he insulted.
Umdeni asked, “You’ve heard the gossip?”
“What gossip?”
“About King Cetshwayo. People are moving against him.”
“Keep your voice down—who’s moving against him?”
“Couple of ministers in his court. Some generals. The Royal Zulu line’s all about innovation. And they don’t think Cetshwayo’s innovative enough.”
I dodged some animal dung, as well as my personal opinion, as the entire army slithered over a hill and down the other side, bounding like a great brown wave.
“They seemed happy enough in Ondini,” I said.
“That’s all performance.”
“You mean like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody here actually wants to fight.”
“Don’t demean your comrades. Don’t call them cowards.”
“There are plenty of cowards who fought in battles.”
“Like me, eh? That’s what you think.”
“Come on, Umdeni,” I complained between intakes of hot air, my feet whisking through high grass like pangolins. “I don’t want to be here! Do you?”
“You spend too much time with the cookery women.”
I looked behind us, at the hard-nosed band of women who cooked our meals. They ran as quickly as we did, if not faster, and had an air of hatred as their bodies shifted inexorably forward.
“Not out of choice,” I said.
“Excellent. You will fight then.”
“We’ll be finished if we don’t raid a village soon. I don’t think we have enough food to last the whole campaign. I mean—” I looked around at the sweating bodies. “I’m certain I’m going to die.”
Umdeni stared at me. Our running feet were synchronized in everything but destiny.
“Join the royal court. You’ll have plenty of like-minded company.”
Shouts from commanders at the front changed our direction. There was laughter and the occasional lewd joke among the ranks of sweating warriors.
“The amadlozi protects us,” Umdeni said. “What would your ancestors do in your place?”
“They died before I could ask them.”
Something silent infected the air. My home was silent in my presence.
The feet of thousands of warriors crushed the grass, and yet they floated here. There must have been magic behind this. And what powerful magic it was.
Next moment Commander Ntshingwayo was screaming at the heavens.
Gold in his voice: “The British! The British! They have come!”
I could barely see the puny lines of British soldiers.
A waif of a man, who appeared to be a lieutenant of some kind, scrambled onto his horse and bolted, shouting worried things in his strange-shaped language.
Assegais were launched. Some British soldiers were struck down. They were subsequently disemboweled by their killers and their clothing removed.
“There will be more,” Commander Ntshingwayo said.
“Commander!” a voice echoed from the far reaches of the ranks. “A campsite! More soldiers!”
“More British,” warriors echoed in their shield-boasting queues.
“IMPONDO ZANKOMO,” Commander Ntshingwayo ordered. His fellow commanders followed suit, instructing the men under their charge to do the same.
Their words made me sweat more than usual.
The Zulu army was going into battle formation. Umdeni and I joined several thousand to form a horn. Another several thousand formed another horn.
Senior warriors formed the loins in the middle.
“PRAISE BE TO CETSHWAYO,” Commander Ntshingwayo prayed.
“PRAISE BE TO CETSHWAYO,” the warriors chanted.
Then, like a beast out of our great songs, the galactic-sized taurine swooped down on what must have been the smallest military outpost I had ever seen.
Thighs jiggled madly as ankles adjusted over rocks and weeds.
Assegais were poised and shields held high. The jaws of warriors boasted white teeth.
“No, no, no!” I muttered under my assegai as Umdeni laughed like a demon, produced an antiquated Portuguese musket, and fired towards the campsite.
“Where’d you get that from?” I asked over the screams and war cries and grunts of the entire Zulu army. “Never mind! I’ve got absolutely no idea what’s happening!”
“You’re the prophet of blood!” Umdeni cheered.
Next moment warriors directly in front of us were blown apart. The British, I had been told, had artillery. And they were using it very effectively.
An arm bounced off of my thigh. Which was an odd sensation.
“OH NO! I’M STILL HERE!” I shouted, watching armless warriors gunned down by puffs of smoke a hundred yards away. Perhaps they had more powerful magic.
When I reached the campsite I stepped over several hundred Zulu bodies, ducked to avoid a headless British corpse staggering towards me, and narrowly avoided being run through by a British bayonet, which landed in someone’s eye.
Bullets crackled through the air.
Ikilwas entered chests and exited spines.
Hands were cut off, stomped into the ground, and mourned by the handless. “These men are brave,” Umdeni said, having stabbed two men in the face. “They don’t burrow so they can hide.”
“Yea, yea, that’s nice,” I stammered, avoiding a flying human tongue.
But the world had grown darker during this fascinating conversation. Umdeni and I subsequently noted the perfect circle swallowing the vivid sun.
A great eyeball was watching the battle.
The bright blue sky had turned to a soft black. It cast shadows across my childhood and my violent career and here I was standing at the intersection.
The tax collection had been easy-going. Maybe there was violence in that.
Violence: martial, bureaucratic, religious, spiritual, superhuman.
Cetshwayo’s eyeball knew about violence. It was all it could see.
Umdeni gripped the right arm of a British soldier, stabbed him with his ikilwa, held the weapon up to the sky, and shouted, “USUTU!”
“USUTU!” another warrior said, holding up a severed hand.
“USUTU!”
“USUTU!”
“USUTU!”
The British fired their rifles. Zulu warriors fell as comrades replaced them, slaughtered the soldiers, and shook their assegais, shouting, “USUTU!”
Their words filled my ears. The battleground grew shrouded. Memories, tributes, and punishments replaced the carnage around me with authenticity.
The amadlozi communed with me.
Memories and the past were more authentic than the present.
I remember herding sheep with my friends and pretending to own them. We would show the sheep to passers-by and say, “These are our cattle!” And we would laugh and kick dirt at them.
My friend’s father, Matuta, was the real owner of the sheep. He gathered up a stick and chased us away. “You’re dead!” he shouted after us, the people in the village laughing at him. “You’re dead! Come here—” He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me down. “Come here, you sheep-faced rascal!”
Humiliation and shame and affliction beat me down.
When I stood up, Umdeni was slapping my face. “We need to chase after the British!”
And I grabbed a white man’s horse, climbed onto it, kicked its sides, and rode out of the smoking campsite cursing myself.
“You’re no man,” Umdeni said as he gored a spluttering British soldier through the heart. “You’re just a woman. You’re a cookery woman. And you wouldn’t touch my eyeball if I paid you!”
3
The antique-white dust floated around Buttered Crumpet’s furry ankles. Letting the reins go slack for the first time in an hour, Lorne Novak wiped the sweat out of his unimpressive moustache, looked around the bisque-coloured landscape dotted with blast-off-bronze and bud-green plant-life, and sighed. He emptied his flask into his mouth, wiped his lips, and surveyed the beast. Buttered Crumpet needed water. Otherwise the heavy beast would crumble.
Next moment he heard familiar trotting behind him.
He quickly unshouldered his breech-loading rifle and forced Buttered Crumpet to turn. “Halt! Don’t come any further,” he said, aiming the weapon at the newcomer.
It was Thando on horseback, brandishing his assegai.
“I said, stay there!” Lorne shouted.
Thando tugged on the reins and the horse halted, sniffing the ground.
“I’m a bit chewy, old chap, so I wouldn’t think about cooking me.”
“If you’re looking for water, the river is behind you,” Thando replied in IsiZulu, pointing his assegai several degrees to the right of Buttered Crumpet.
“You can’t eat the horse either,” Lorne said.
Thando mimed drinking. He rubbed his stomach.
“Drunk too, eh?” Lorne laughed. “You’re not bad…for a Zulu.”
Thando rolled his eyes and kicked the horse’s sides. He trotted for five minutes to the right of Lorne, parked his horse, dismounted, and kneeled.
Lorne could hear slurping noises. And the horse had joined Thando.
“That’s what he meant,” Lorne whispered. Then he cheered, “You bloody champion!”
And Buttered Crumpet quickly joined Thando and his horse. The two men enjoyed the water rushing through the mud-caked channel. Thando looked at Lorne and smiled, and the two men laughed, and drank.
“Did you run like me?” Thando asked in IsiZulu.
“Now, I can’t understand you,” Lorne replied in English. “Maybe, uh…drawing?” He picked up a stick and drew in the dirt. He drew an army and a small man on horseback, and then pointed to himself and shrugged proudly.
“Me too,” Thando said, making the same gestures.
“You cheeky bugger,” Lorne laughed. “You did the same bloody thing.” Then he pointed to Thando’s horse, slapped his palms together, and nodded.
Thando pointed to Buttered Crumpet and made the same gesture.
“Yes, yes,” Lorne chuckled. “So, there we are. The two of us.”
Thando’s smile dimmed. He exhaled and stared dolefully at the ground.
“Don’t be sad, old chap.” Lorne thought for a moment. Then he took The Coral Island out of his bag, showed the book to Thando, and drew in the dirt.
He drew a small city. Then, next to that, he drew two figures in the wilderness. Then, next to that, he drew an island.
Thando looked at the picture and grinned. “Want to find an island?” he said, flicking his finger between himself and Lorne. “How will we get there?”
Irritated by the lack of verbal language, Lorne stewed. Then he pointed to his chest and said, “Lorne,” and gestured at Thando to say something similar.
Thando said his name.
“Don’t have a last name, do you?” Lorne asked.
Lorne made a shape with his hands. He said, “Thando,” and moved his hands to the right, hopefully showing that there was another place for another name.
“Khumalo,” Thando replied.
“Thando Khumalo.” Lorne pointed at himself, saying, “Lorne Novak.”
Thando looked at The Coral Island. He opened the book and stared through its battered pages, trying to understand its significance for Lorne.
“Are these stories of your amadlozi?”
“It is a bit battered, isn’t it? I must find another edition when I get home.”
The word “home” plastered his chest with fiery ants. He shuddered, adding, “There’s nothing you can’t learn about life from reading that thick volume.”
Thando handed the book back.
“But…thank you…you said amadlozi. Is that your word for book?”
“Amadlozi?”
“Yes, amadlozi. What is that?” And Lorne made a funny face that was meant to look quizzical, although it just made him look like he was having a stroke.
Thando nodded in understanding. He looked around for learning aids, but decided to mime getting stabbed, falling over, and dying on the ground.
“The dead,” Lorne said dimly.
“Dead?”
“Yes, it’s what happens when you…when you die.” He chuckled. Then he mimed something similar: getting shot in the upper chest and dying quickly.
“I’ll be able to understand you within a year,” Thando sighed.
“Not good, is it?” Lorne agreed symbiotically. “Bloody tricky.”
Thando picked up The Coral Island, saying, “We can use this.”
“There’s a thought. You don’t have any Zulu books, do you?” he asked, pointing between the book in Thando’s hands and the horse he had stolen.
“I don’t have any books with me. But I know one by heart,” Thando said, pointing to his head.
“You’ll have to draw some pictures for me,” Lorne added, pointing to the pictures in the dirt.
Thando nodded enthusiastically. Then he watched the darkening skies. Thunder clouds. Grey rumbles stretching across the heavens.
Thando whistled and hopped onto his horse. Lorne knew well enough to do the same, and said, “Durban. We can find some naval postings in Durban.”
Thando knew this place. The great Zulu chief, Shaka, had signed treaties with the British, which had enabled the creation of Port Natal—now called Durban.
“They won’t like you there. We’ll have to disguise you,” Lorne said.
“They won’t like you there. The British hate deserters,” Thando replied.
The two men shrugged off the language barrier, picked up the pace when the rain started falling, and galloped towards Durban.
The battleship-grey billows slithered across the land, like whales in search of their calves.
