"At least the joints are watertight," he told them when he surfaced again. "And I'm getting oxygen. There is a lot of water leaking in around the edges of the mask, but I can purge that in the usual way." He demonstrated the trick of holding the mask at the top and forcing the accumulated water out of the bottom with a sharp exhalation of breath.
"When are you going to go for the wall?"
"I guess I'm as ready now as I'll ever be," Craig admitted reluctantly.
"V* ou must understand that I wish to be as a father to you," Peter Fungabera smiled gently. "I look upon you as my children."
"I
can understand this Shana chattering as little as I can the barking of baboons from the hilltops Vusamanzi replied courteously, and Peter Fungabera made a gesture of irritation as he turned to his sergeant.
"Where is that translator?"
"He will be here very soon, mambo." Tapping his swagger-stick against his thigh, Peter Fungabera walked slowly down the ragged rank of villagers that his troopers had gathered in from their hoeing on the maize fields and had flushed from the huts.
Apart from the old man, they were all women and children. Some of the women were as ancient as the witch-doctor, with white woolly pates and wizened dugs hanging to their waists, others were still capable of child-bearing with fat infants strapped to their backs, or standing naked at their knees; snot had dried white around the toddlers" nostrils and flies crawled unnoticed on their lips and at the corners of their eyes, and they stared up at Peter as he passed with fathomless eyes. There were still younger women with firm full breasts and glossy skin, pre-pubescent girls and uncircumcised boys. Peter Fungabera smiled kindly at them, but they stared back at him without expression.
"My Matabele puppies, we will hear you yap a little before this day is done," he promised softly, and turned at the end of the line. He walked back slowly to where the Russian waited in the shade of one of the huts.
"You will get nothing qut of the old one." Bukharin took the ebony cigarette-holder from between his teeth and coughed softly, covering his mouth with his hand. "He is dried up, beyond pain, beyond suffering. Look at his eyes.
Fanatic."
"I agree, these sangoma are capable of self-hypnosis, he will be impervious to pairWPeter Fungabera shot back the cuff of his battle-sino and glanced impatiently at his watch. "Where is that translator?" It was another hour before the Matabele trusty from the rehabilitation centre was hustled up the path from the valley. He fell on his knees before Peter Fungabera, blubbering and holding up his manacled hands.
"Get up!" Then, to the sergeant, "Remove his manacles.
Bring the old man here." Vusamanzi was led into the centre of the village square.
"Tell him I am his father," Fungabera ordered.
"Mambo, he replies that his father was a man, not a hyena."
"Tell him that although I cherish him and all his people, I am displeased with him."
"Mambo, he replies that if he has made Your Honour unhappy, then he is well content."
"Tell him he has tied to my men."
"Mambo, he hopes for the opportunity to do so again."
"Tell him that I know he is protecting and feeding four enemies of the state."
"Mambo, he suggests that Your Honour is demented.
There are no hidden enemies of the state."
"Very well. Now address all these people. Repeat that I wish to know where the traitors are hidden. Tell them that if they lead me to them, then nobody in the village will come to any harm." The translator stood before the silent rank of women and children, and made a long and passionate plea, but when he ended, they stared back at him stolidly. One of the infants began to scream petulantly, and its mother swung it under her arm and pressed her swollen nipple into its tiny mouth. There was silence again.
"Sergeant!" Peter Fungabera gave terse orders, and Vusamanzi's hands were snatched behind his back and bound at the wrists. One of the troopers fashioned a hangman's noose in a length of nylon rope and tossed the free end of 0, the rope over one of the main supports of an elevated maize bin at the edge of the square. They stood Vusamanzi under the maize bin and dropped the noose over his head.
"Now tell his people that when any one of them agrees to lead us to the traitors, this punishment will end immediately." The translator raised his voice, but he had not finished "my before Vusamanzi called over him in a firm voice, UI curse upon any of you who speak to this Shana pig. I command silence upon you, no matter what is done he who breaks it will be visited by me from beyond the grave.
1, Vusamanzi, master of the waters, command this thing!"
"Do it!" Peter Fungabera ordered, and the sergeant inched in the slack of the rope. The noose closed around the old man's neck, and gradually he was forced up onto his tiptoes.
"Enough!" Peter Fungabera ordered and d-icy secured the free end of the rope.
Now, let them come forward and speak." The translator moved down the rank of women, urging them and finally pleading unashamedly, but Vusamanzi glared at his women fiercely, unable to speak but still commanding them with all his will.
"Break one of his feet," ordered Peter Fungabera, and the sergeant faced the old man and, with a dozen blows, using the butt of his rifle likea maize stamp, he crushed Vusamanzi's left foot. As the women heard the brittle old bones snap like kindling for the hearth, they began to wail and ululate.