War Cry. Wilbur Smith

become a son to her too.

      Leon had no knowledge of Lusima’s exact age, but she could not be less than seventy and was probably a good many years older than that. Twenty years ago she had seemed entirely impervious to the passing of time, but not even her wizardry could keep it at bay forever. Her hair was white now, her bare breasts a little saggier and less full than they had once been and her tattooed belly was just a fraction softer, the skin like crepe paper. But she held herself as tall and straight as ever, her walk still possessed a feline grace, and though there were lines around her dark eyes, their gaze could still look right through Leon, into the very depths of his soul.

      A sense of great peace and security came over him, as it always did when he met Lusima. Being with her felt like stepping into a sanctuary, a place where he was always safe and cared for and he returned her smile with a warm and open heart. He held out his arms to hug her.

      And then he saw something flicker in Lusima’s eye and she halted in her approach towards him. Everything about her posture and expression tightened, as if she were suddenly aware of danger: as if the devil had crossed her path and something evil was prowling through the trees, waiting to attack.

      ‘What is it?’ asked Leon, alarmed by the change that had come over Lusima and conscious that it had happened while her eyes were focused on him.

      ‘It … it is nothing, child.’ Lusima forced a wan smile. ‘Here, come and let me hold you.’

      Leon held back. ‘Something happened. You saw something. I know you did.’ He paused, summoning up his courage as if he were still a boy, rather than a grown man at the height of his powers. ‘You have never been false with me, Lusima Mama. Never. But I fear you are being false with me now.’

      Lusima dropped her hands to her side, her shoulders sagged and when she looked at him again the years seemed suddenly written upon her face. ‘Oh my child,’ she said softly, gently shaking her head. ‘You will be sorely tested. You will know pain such as you have never endured before. There will be times when you will not believe that you can survive it, times when you will pray for the release of death. But you must believe me …’ She reached out, took Leon’s hands and looked at him with feverish, imploring eyes, ‘You will find peace and happiness and joy one day.’

      ‘But I have those things already!’ Leon cried. ‘Are you telling me that they will be taken from me? How? Tell me, for God’s sake … what is going to happen?’

      ‘I cannot tell you. It is not in my power. My visions come to me in riddles and half-formed images. I see a storm coming for you. I see a dagger in your heart. But you will survive, I promise you that.’

      ‘But Eva … and Saffron … and the baby. What about them?’

      ‘Truly, I do not know. I see blood. I feel a great emptiness in you. I wish I did not. I wish I could have lied to you. But I cannot deceive you M’Bogo, and I cannot deny it. I see blood.’

      Leon spent the next few days with his stomach in knots and a permanent sense of suppressed anxiety dragging on his mind like a dog on a lead as he tried his best not to dwell on Lusima’s intimations of disaster. He did not doubt that she was absolutely serious nor that there was truth in her words, for she had been right too often in the past for him to doubt her powers now. Yet experience had also taught him that there was nothing he could do to alter what fate had in store. So there was no point fretting over matters that he could not control. Even so, when Eva reported feeling dizzy he insisted on driving her to see Doc Thompson.

      Before the war, Dr Hector Thompson (to give him his proper title) and his wife had provided the expatriate community’s medical care virtually single-handed. Since then, however, a European Hospital had been set up to care for the white community and the Thompsons had moved into semi-retirement, running a small general practice up-country. The Doc, a genial, reassuring Scotsman with a full head of white hair and a neatly clipped beard to match, took Eva’s blood pressure and murmured, ‘Hmm, one-thirty-five over eighty-five, a little on the high side. Tell me, my dear, have you had any other symptoms apart from dizziness? Headaches, for example, or blurred vision?’

      ‘No,’ Eva replied.

      ‘Not felt sick or vomited?’

      ‘Not since the morning sickness passed, but that was a couple of months ago.’

      The doctor thought for a moment. ‘You have had trouble in the past carrying a baby to term and we don’t want to lose this one. On the other hand, we live at a much higher altitude than our British bodies were designed for and in a tropical climate, so there are all sorts of reasons why you might feel off-colour. I advise plenty of rest and no great exertions of any kind. I’ll also give you some aspirin. Take two if you feel either a headache or nausea and if symptoms persist for more than an hour or two, get in touch. Don’t worry about calling me out in the middle of the night. That’s what I’m here for.’

      The wager with de Lancey that Leon had thought so important now seemed entirely irrelevant. ‘I’m going to call him to say that the whole thing’s off,’ he told Eva when they got home from their visit to Doc Thompson. ‘If he makes me forfeit the money, so be it. What matters is staying here with you and making sure you’re all right.’

      ‘But I am all right,’ she insisted. ‘I felt a little dizzy, that’s all, and you heard what Doctor Thompson said, it was probably just a spot of altitude sickness. I want you to win your wager. And I want to be there to see you win.’

      ‘Absolutely not!’ Leon insisted. ‘You’re not supposed to have any great exertions, those were the doc’s own words.’

      She laughed, ‘Being a passenger on the drive down to the polo club is hardly an exertion, and nor is sitting in a comfortable chair in the shade when I get there. In any case, where do you think the Thompsons will be on the great day? Watching the race, just the same as everyone else for miles around. So if I do happen to feel a bit poorly, that will be the best place to be. Won’t it?’

      Leon could not dispute his wife’s logic. And so, on the seventh morning after the dinner at Slains, he, Eva and Saffron, who was bouncing up and down with excitement at the thought of the event, set off before dawn and drove through the cool morning mist to the Wanjohi Valley Polo Club. Loikot came behind them, driving one of the estate’s trucks, filled with everything the family would need to get them through the day and as many of the domestic and estate staff who could cram into the cabin and cargo area, or simply cling on to the outside of the vehicle.

      The whole country seemed on the move. Farms and businesses stood deserted by their managers and workers alike. Shops and restaurants had put ‘Closed’ signs in their windows. Many of the chefs and shopkeepers, however, had simply shifted their operations to the polo club where an impromptu market had mushroomed, with stalls selling parasols, folding chairs and bottles of pop, alongside pits where fires were being stoked as whole sheep and great sides of beef were rotating on spits, while chops and sausages sizzled on griddles.

      It was not just the colonists who had come to witness the spectacle. Once word had reached the native Kenyan population that one of their number was taking on their white masters, tribal antagonisms had been set aside, for the time being at least, and half the country seemed to be on the move – men and women of the Masai, Kikuyu, Luhya and Meru peoples – coming by foot, ox-cart, bus, or any other means they could find to join the carnival.

      The settlers were all arrayed along one side of the polo field around which the race would be held, in front of the clubhouse, with native Kenyans massed opposite them on the far side. The actual field itself had been kept empty, so that the competitors could be seen at all times, to prevent any possibility of cheating. The team principals would remain in the centre of the field, with those of the white runners who were still awaiting their turn to compete. Major Brett was serving as umpire while a dozen African police constables, arrayed around the course and supervised by a single white sergeant, would have the dual tasks of reporting any breaches of fair play, and also keeping the crowd in order.

      ‘I’ll be frank, Courtney, I’m not entirely happy about this whole palaver that your damned wager has sparked,’