Men of Men by Wilbur Smith Page A

pathway.
    ‘Jordie-dear,’ called one twin.
    ‘Jordie-girl,’ echoed the other, and they closed from each side, slowly, tantalizing themselves, so that Henry giggled almost breathlessly.
    ‘Little girls shouldn’t tell tales.’
    ‘I’m not a girl,’ whispered Jordan, backing away from him.
    ‘Then you shouldn’t have curls; only girls have curls.’ Douglas groped in his pocket and brought out a bone-handled clasp knife. He opened the blade with his teeth.
    ‘We are going to turn you into a boy, Jordie-girl.’
    ‘Then we are going to teach you not to tell tales.’ Henry brought out his hand from behind his back. He had cut a camel-thorn branch, and stripped the bunches of lacy leaves, but not
the thorns. ‘We are going to do the same to you as old Goosey-Gander did to us. Fifteen cuts each. That’s thirty for you, Jordie-girl.’
    Jordan’s gaze fastened on the branch with sickened fascination. It was twice as thick as a man’s thumb, more a club than a cane, and the thorns were half an inch long, each on a
little raised knob of rough black bark. Henry swung it in an experimental cut and it hissed like an adder.
    The sound galvanized Jordan, he whirled and flew at the high bank of gravel beside him; it slid treacherously under his feet so that he had to use his hands to claw his way towards the
summit.
    Behind him the twins yipped with excitement, like the hunting call of a pack of wild dogs, and they raced after him, scrambling up the soft collapsing bank.
    Their weight buried them at each pace above the ankles, so that Jordan, lighter and buoyant with terror, reached the top of the bank ahead of them, and he raced silent and white-faced across the
flattened table of the summit, opening the gap further.
    Henry snatched up a stone as he ran, a lump of quartz as big as his own fist, and he used his own momentum to hurl it. It flew an inch past Jordan’s ear, and he flinched and whimpered,
losing his balance, stumbled at the far edge of the dump, and went tumbling down the steep slope.
    ‘Stop him,’ yipped Douglas, and launched himself over the edge.
    At the bottom Jordan rolled to his feet, dusty and wildly dishevelled, his curls bushed out and dangling in his eyes. He wasted a second, glancing about desperately, and then darted away along
the narrow footpath through the gut of the pass between the gravel dumps.
    ‘Catch him. Don’t let him get away.’ The twins yelled at each other, panting with laughter, like two cats with a mouse, and here on the flat their longer legs quickly narrowed
Jordan’s lead.
    He heard their bare feet slapping on hard earth in a broken rhythm close behind him, and he twisted his head back over his shoulder, almost blinded with his own sweat and dancing curls, his
breath sobbing, his skin white as bone china and his huge brimming eyes seeming to fill his whole face.
    Henry steadied himself, poised with his right arm held back at full stretch and then he threw the thorn stick, cartwheeling it low over the ground so that it slammed into the back of
Jordan’s knees, the thorns ripping the soft bare skin, raising deep parallel scratches as though from the slash of a cat’s claws.
    Jordan’s legs folded under him and he went down, sliding on his belly, the wind driven from his lungs as he hit the baked earth of the pathway. Before he could raise himself, Douglas
landed with all his weight between Jordan’s shoulder blades and shoved his face, cheek down, against the ground, while Henry snatched up the thorn branch and danced about them, looking for an
opening, the branch held in both hands above his head.
    ‘His hair first,’ gasped Douglas, choking with laughter and his own excitement. ‘Hold his head.’
    Henry dropped the cane and stooped over Jordan, grabbing a double handful of the fine curls and leaning back against it with all his weight so that Jordan’s neck was stretched out. Douglas
was still perched between Jordan’s shoulder blades. Pinning him