Shout at the Devil by Wilbur Smith Page A

parchment of a snake’s skin. Groves of mopani, whose massed foliage glittered a shiny, metallic green in the sun; and in the jungle growth along the river banks, the lianas climbed up like long, grey worms and hung in loops and festoons among the wild fig and the buffalo-bean vines and the tree ferns.
    â€˜Why haven’t we seen any sign of elephant?’ Sebastian asked.
    â€˜Me and my boys worked this territory over about six months ago,’ Flynn explained. ‘I guess they just moved on a little – probably up north across the Rovuma.’
    In the late afternoon they descended a stony path into a valley, and for the first time Sebastian saw the permanent
habitations of man. In irregular shaped plots, the bottom land of the valley was cultivated, and the rich black soil threw up lush green stands of millet, while on the banks of the little stream stood Luti’s village; shaggy grass huts, shaped like beehives, each with a circular mud-walled granary standing on stilts beside it. The huts were arranged in a rough. circle around an open space where the earth was packed hard by the passage of bare feet.
    The entire population turned out to welcome Flynn: three hundred souls, from hobbling old white heads with grinning toothless gums, down to infants held on mothers’ naked hips, who did not interrupt their feeding but clung like fat black limpets with hands and mouth to the breast.
    Through the crowd that ululated and clapped hands in welcome, Flynn and Sebastian were carried to the chiefs hut and there they descended from the maschilles.
    Flynn and the old chief greeted each other affectionately; Flynn because of favours received and because of future favours yet to be asked for, and the chief because of Flynn’s reputation and the fact that wherever Flynn travelled, he usually left behind him large quantities of good, red meat.
    â€˜You come to hunt elephant?’ the chief asked, looking hopefully for Flynn’s rifle.
    â€˜No.’ Flynn shook his head. ‘I return from a journey to a far place.’
    â€˜From where?’
    In answer, Flynn looked significantly at the sky and repeated, ‘From a far place.’
    There was an awed murmur from the crowd and the chief nodded sagely. It was clear to all of them that ‘Fini’ must have been to visit and commune with his alter ego, Monomatapa.
    â€˜Will you stay long at our village?’ again hopefully.
    â€˜I will stay tonight only. I leave again in the dawn.’

    â€˜Ah!’ Disappointment. ‘We had hoped to welcome you with a dance. Since we heard of your coming, we have prepared.’
    â€˜No,’ Flynn repeated. He knew a dance could last three or four days.
    â€˜There is a great brewing of palm wine which is only now ready for drinking,’ the chief tried again, and this time his argument hit Flynn like a charging rhinoceros. Flynn had been many days without liquor.
    â€˜My friend,’ said Flynn, and he could feel the saliva spurting out from under his tongue in anticipation. ‘I cannot stay to dance with you but I will drink a small gourd of palm wine to show my love for you and your village.’ Then turning to Sebastian he warned, ‘I wouldn’t touch this stuff, Bassie, if I were you – it’s real poison.’
    â€˜Right,’ agreed Sebastian. ‘I’m going down to the river to wash.’
    â€˜You do that,’ and Flynn lifted the first gourd of palm wine lovingly to his lips.
    Sebastian’s progress to the river resembled a Roman triumph. The entire village lined the bank to watch his necessarily limited ablutions with avid interest, and a buzz of awe went up when he disrobed to his underpants.
    â€˜Bwana Manali,’ they chorused. ‘Lord of the Red Cloth,’ and the name stuck.
    As a farewell gift the headman presented Flynn with four gourds of palm wine, and begged him to return soon – bringing his rifle with him.
    They