shaggy with shrubs and trees. The hills formed a natural paddock with only one exit. Mambo, Sirocco, and Red Mist were in there grazing with the cattle and sheep. Ngwenya was planning to return to Black Eagle for the night so that he could keep an eye on the retreat and take care of the other horses.
Apart from the rhythmic thud of the women crushing maize, the village was quiet, so quiet that any approaching police car would be heard for miles.
“Don’t be frightened for Sadie and Mrs. Thomas,” Ngwenya counseled Ben and Martine. “They’ve done nothing wrong and will be home very soon. Not even Mr. Ratcliffe can make the police lock away innocent people for more than one or two days. They are just going to question them and release them—maybe even by this afternoon.”
The thing that bothered Martine was what would happen if her grandmother and Sadie didn’t return to Black Eagle in a matter of days. She and Ben could hardly ride their horses through the streets of Bulawayo, like characters out of a cowboy film, and demand that the women were freed. An unfamiliar feeling of powerlessness had come over her as Gwyn Thomas was driven away.
Ever since she’d returned from the island, she and her grandmother had grown closer and closer. For the first six months after her parents died, a little part of Martine had kept expecting to wake up and find that the fire had been a hideous nightmare and they weren’t really dead after all. She’d kept thinking that at any second her mum would walk through the door, or her dad would grab her around the waist and tickle her until she cried with laughter. But at a certain point, a little over a month ago, she’d realized that it was never going to happen. She was never going to see her parents again. It was then that her grandmother, Jemmy, and Ben had become the center of her world. She depended on them utterly. And now two of those loved ones were far away and she didn’t know when, or if, they’d all be reunited.
She glanced over at Ben. Unusually for him, he was wearing a slight frown and seemed worried. That made Martine feel even worse, because she felt like it was her fault he’d been dragged into this. She knew that he too must be anxious about how long it would be before he saw his own parents again, and when he’d be able to get to a working telephone to let them know he was okay. And yet outwardly, he was obviously determined to be strong for her sake.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Ben said, “There’s no point in dwelling on what we can’t do. Let’s figure out what we can do.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Martine burst out. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Why don’t we start with the Lazy J?” Ben suggested.
13
T hat evening, the aroma of chicken sizzling over the coals and the nutty smell of bubbling sadza filled the air. Mouths watering, Martine and Ben warmed themselves beside the fire as the villagers buzzed around them, cooking, chopping, preparing. Martine could imagine that on most nights a relaxed, sociable atmosphere of community and friendship would prevail in the village, but tonight there was tension in the faces of the men, women, and even children. Mercy’s baby had a fever and was now desperately ill. Odilo had sent for the witch doctor.
When the baby finally fell asleep, Mercy joined them for the meal, although Martine noticed that she barely touched her food.
“How is Emelia?” inquired Ngwenya.
Mercy’s expression told him all he needed to know. “I would feel much better if I knew we didn’t have to depend on the witch doctor,” she said. “He is the best we have, but he has a weakness for . . .”
She trailed off in mid-sentence. “Let us hope that he has had a good day.”
Martine and Ben followed the lead of Ngwenya, who, like everyone else, ate with his hands, rolling the sadza into snowy balls that he used to scoop up chicken pieces and a spicy relish of spinach and tomato. He and Odilo were
Apart from the rhythmic thud of the women crushing maize, the village was quiet, so quiet that any approaching police car would be heard for miles.
“Don’t be frightened for Sadie and Mrs. Thomas,” Ngwenya counseled Ben and Martine. “They’ve done nothing wrong and will be home very soon. Not even Mr. Ratcliffe can make the police lock away innocent people for more than one or two days. They are just going to question them and release them—maybe even by this afternoon.”
The thing that bothered Martine was what would happen if her grandmother and Sadie didn’t return to Black Eagle in a matter of days. She and Ben could hardly ride their horses through the streets of Bulawayo, like characters out of a cowboy film, and demand that the women were freed. An unfamiliar feeling of powerlessness had come over her as Gwyn Thomas was driven away.
Ever since she’d returned from the island, she and her grandmother had grown closer and closer. For the first six months after her parents died, a little part of Martine had kept expecting to wake up and find that the fire had been a hideous nightmare and they weren’t really dead after all. She’d kept thinking that at any second her mum would walk through the door, or her dad would grab her around the waist and tickle her until she cried with laughter. But at a certain point, a little over a month ago, she’d realized that it was never going to happen. She was never going to see her parents again. It was then that her grandmother, Jemmy, and Ben had become the center of her world. She depended on them utterly. And now two of those loved ones were far away and she didn’t know when, or if, they’d all be reunited.
She glanced over at Ben. Unusually for him, he was wearing a slight frown and seemed worried. That made Martine feel even worse, because she felt like it was her fault he’d been dragged into this. She knew that he too must be anxious about how long it would be before he saw his own parents again, and when he’d be able to get to a working telephone to let them know he was okay. And yet outwardly, he was obviously determined to be strong for her sake.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Ben said, “There’s no point in dwelling on what we can’t do. Let’s figure out what we can do.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Martine burst out. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Why don’t we start with the Lazy J?” Ben suggested.
13
T hat evening, the aroma of chicken sizzling over the coals and the nutty smell of bubbling sadza filled the air. Mouths watering, Martine and Ben warmed themselves beside the fire as the villagers buzzed around them, cooking, chopping, preparing. Martine could imagine that on most nights a relaxed, sociable atmosphere of community and friendship would prevail in the village, but tonight there was tension in the faces of the men, women, and even children. Mercy’s baby had a fever and was now desperately ill. Odilo had sent for the witch doctor.
When the baby finally fell asleep, Mercy joined them for the meal, although Martine noticed that she barely touched her food.
“How is Emelia?” inquired Ngwenya.
Mercy’s expression told him all he needed to know. “I would feel much better if I knew we didn’t have to depend on the witch doctor,” she said. “He is the best we have, but he has a weakness for . . .”
She trailed off in mid-sentence. “Let us hope that he has had a good day.”
Martine and Ben followed the lead of Ngwenya, who, like everyone else, ate with his hands, rolling the sadza into snowy balls that he used to scoop up chicken pieces and a spicy relish of spinach and tomato. He and Odilo were
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