Heart, as old Koba had always called it, was already high in the sky. A red streak of light was drawn across the dark just above the jagged heads of the hills to the east. As he realized the dawn was just about to break he became aware of another extraordinary fact. The five mongrel watch-dogs up to now had been completely silent and given no indication whatsoever that there was anything unusual going on in the bush.
Indeed, the moment he stepped down from the stoep, all five now came rushing up to François and started to nudge him in a friendly fashion, wagging their tails with pleasure at the thought that his coming showed their night’s work was over and that soon they would be having their food and the human company they so enjoyed. This discrepancy between their behaviour and that of Hintza, struck François as so extraordinary that for the first time in his life he was inclined to distrust Hintza’s judgement.
He stood there himself watching the streak of red widening over the dark hills and listening intently for any kind of unusual sign to explain Hintza’s summons. Hintza, more and more impatient and apparently mystified by François’s reluctance to come along with him, was beginning to give him a couple of highly suggestive, even painful nips just behind his ankles. Oddly at that dawn moment not any tell-tale sound but a strange silence had suddenly fallen over the bush.
At that hour, what François’s father called the ‘Dawn Symphony’ should already have reached its crescendo. The full chorus of baboons, monkeys, little bush apes, and a hundred or more different kinds of birds should be singing Hosanna to the day. The cynical jackals and hyenas, who loved the night and now were in full retreat from the light would normally be raising their voices too in derision until silenced by the authoritative bass of some great old lion soloist who ruled a whole wide valley in the hills nearby. All these should have joined in the dawn music by now. But for once they were all silent. Only down by the river some lesser birds, not renowned for voice, diction or ear, started a hysterical sort of tone-deaf twitter. That, François knew, was not the bush’s way of giving thanks for deliverance from the Bible-black night and uttering gratitude for the relief from fear brought about by the swift, invincible, bushveld day. Only something most unusual could have made so large a hole of silence.
His faith in Hintza completely restored, François bent down, patted him affectionately on the back and whispered: ‘Good Hin, lead on, please. Lead on!’
Hintza immediately went off at a trot and François had to follow suit, not without difficulty because of the weight of the gun he carried. None the less he kept it up until they had gone well beyond the great garden and orchard, past the cattle-kraal and milking sheds where for once cows and calves were as silent as the animals in the bush, and so on to the far side of the round, beehive huts, protected by an enormous high and thick stockade of wood interlaced with deadly branches of sharp white thorns forming the kraal in which !#grave;Bamuthi and the other herdsmen lived. So early was it still that as yet there was no sign of the women stirring to light the fires for the morning porridge with which the Matabele began their day. Even their dogs, no doubt tired from their long guard duty through the night, seemed to be taking a nap, for not a sound came from them as François and Hintza went by. This, François, intent on discovering what lay ahead, did not fail to notice and took as a compliment to Hintza’s bushcraft.
However, when they came to the end of the vast clearing which surrounded the homestead, and Hintza veered away sharply to the entrance of a narrow and complicated track leading through the densest bush at the foot of the hills, where a deep cleft opened up and led for many miles straight on to the great game reserve placed in Mopani Theron’s keeping,
Indeed, the moment he stepped down from the stoep, all five now came rushing up to François and started to nudge him in a friendly fashion, wagging their tails with pleasure at the thought that his coming showed their night’s work was over and that soon they would be having their food and the human company they so enjoyed. This discrepancy between their behaviour and that of Hintza, struck François as so extraordinary that for the first time in his life he was inclined to distrust Hintza’s judgement.
He stood there himself watching the streak of red widening over the dark hills and listening intently for any kind of unusual sign to explain Hintza’s summons. Hintza, more and more impatient and apparently mystified by François’s reluctance to come along with him, was beginning to give him a couple of highly suggestive, even painful nips just behind his ankles. Oddly at that dawn moment not any tell-tale sound but a strange silence had suddenly fallen over the bush.
At that hour, what François’s father called the ‘Dawn Symphony’ should already have reached its crescendo. The full chorus of baboons, monkeys, little bush apes, and a hundred or more different kinds of birds should be singing Hosanna to the day. The cynical jackals and hyenas, who loved the night and now were in full retreat from the light would normally be raising their voices too in derision until silenced by the authoritative bass of some great old lion soloist who ruled a whole wide valley in the hills nearby. All these should have joined in the dawn music by now. But for once they were all silent. Only down by the river some lesser birds, not renowned for voice, diction or ear, started a hysterical sort of tone-deaf twitter. That, François knew, was not the bush’s way of giving thanks for deliverance from the Bible-black night and uttering gratitude for the relief from fear brought about by the swift, invincible, bushveld day. Only something most unusual could have made so large a hole of silence.
His faith in Hintza completely restored, François bent down, patted him affectionately on the back and whispered: ‘Good Hin, lead on, please. Lead on!’
Hintza immediately went off at a trot and François had to follow suit, not without difficulty because of the weight of the gun he carried. None the less he kept it up until they had gone well beyond the great garden and orchard, past the cattle-kraal and milking sheds where for once cows and calves were as silent as the animals in the bush, and so on to the far side of the round, beehive huts, protected by an enormous high and thick stockade of wood interlaced with deadly branches of sharp white thorns forming the kraal in which !#grave;Bamuthi and the other herdsmen lived. So early was it still that as yet there was no sign of the women stirring to light the fires for the morning porridge with which the Matabele began their day. Even their dogs, no doubt tired from their long guard duty through the night, seemed to be taking a nap, for not a sound came from them as François and Hintza went by. This, François, intent on discovering what lay ahead, did not fail to notice and took as a compliment to Hintza’s bushcraft.
However, when they came to the end of the vast clearing which surrounded the homestead, and Hintza veered away sharply to the entrance of a narrow and complicated track leading through the densest bush at the foot of the hills, where a deep cleft opened up and led for many miles straight on to the great game reserve placed in Mopani Theron’s keeping,
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