‘My dear fellow,’ said Tom with an attempt at lightness, ‘it becomes increasingly clear that you would not have benefited by a public school education—I’m happy to say.’
‘Darling,’ said Barbara. ‘Just come back, that’s all—
Just come back.’
Avery kissed her briefly, almost impersonally. ‘Look after Mary. And tell her that I’ve gone hunting….’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘That’s what it amounts to really, a glorified form of pest control.’
He took the loaded gun and an extra twelve rounds of ammunition. And he took a tomahawk and a knife. Barbara went with him as far as the trees; but he did not kiss her a second time. He merely held her for a moment. Already he had begun to hate himself, had begun to feel unclean because of the thoughts in his mind and the somehow grossly physical lust for vengeance.
He was actually eager to get at the golden people. The knowledge appalled him. As he walked, the gun in his pocket slapped against his leg rhythmically. It seemed to have a will of its own. At times, it seemed as if he was simply following the gun.
He knew now the direction to take, and he was in a hurry. He thought he would reach the enemy camp— how easy it was to think of them as enemies!—in less than a couple of hours.
But strange things began to happen. Things that did not augur well for the future. Twice he caught his foot in the exposed roots of trees, and fell down. Once he came across a small family of rhinotypes and had to make a wide detour. One rhinotype would have been no problem; but five invited respect.
Eventually, he struck the stream that supplied the golden people with water. Struck was an almost literal description, because he fell into it. He was walking too close to the edge, and the soft earth gave way, so that he fell spluttering into about five feet of water. As he got to his feet, he glimpsed a long shape on the opposite bank and heard a splash. He scrambled out quickly. The ‘crocodile’, floating in a kind of relaxed frustration, met his frightened gaze with an unwavering and baleful glare.
It was not until Avery had travelled another mile or so that he realized he had lost the gun. Letting out a string of profanities, he retraced his steps to the stream. The ‘crocodile’ was still in the water; but on the far bank— either he had not noticed it before or it had not been there before—was the part carcass of something un-identifiably animal.
He contented himself with searching along the water’s edge for a few minutes, but he did not find the gun. Then he tried to get the ‘crocodile’ away by throwing things at it, but the creature was not discouraged and even seemed to think it was some kind of game.
Presently, he gave the task up.
The gun was gone. Now he had nothing but a tomahawk and a knife. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to Camp Two. Enough had happened to convince any reasonable person that the project was hardly likely to have a satisfactory end after such a disastrous beginning. But Avery was no longer a reasonable person.
He was a man obsessed by the thought of killing.
He cursed the ‘crocodile’, he cursed the gun, he cursed the golden people—and he went on. Half an hour later, he had reached their camp.
He approached it cautiously, and observed it from a discreet distance for what seemed like hours but was, in reality, doubtless only a few minutes. There was no sign of life—not even a fire. Ergo no one was at home.
Avery waited a little longer, just to make sure. At last he could control himself no more, and went marching in.
The portable bridge lay conveniently across the moat and, filled with a sense of anticlimax, Avery walked boldly over it.
He saw the hut where he had flung his burning bundle. The doorway was charred, but otherwise its structure was sound. He looked around in bewilderment. Then suddenly he heard a noise, and knew that the place was not entirely deserted.
It came from the undamaged hut, and it was a long low moan. Avery tiptoed across to the side of the doorway, waited and listened. Presently, there was another moan. It was hard to tell whether it was made by a man or a woman.
Avery could not stand the suspense any longer. He began to think his mind was playing tricks. Suddenly, with tomahawk raised and knife in hand, he sprang through the doorway.
Then he froze, and his bloodlust died.
The woman who had saved his life, who had taken the javelin thrust that had been meant for him, was lying on a kind of bed. In her hand was a small, dark, dullish object shaped like an egg with a kind of handle. The small end of the egg was pointing at him. There seemed to be a shimmering at its centre. Perhaps it was an optical illusion.
Zleetri’s abdomen was heavily bandaged, but the stain of her wound showed through.
She and Avery stared intently at each other for a moment or two, then another moan forced its way through her lips. She was no longer the powerful, independent golden woman. She was only a drab heap of flesh, shrunken by pain and loneliness and loss of blood. She was dying.
Avery knew nothing about her, except that she was dying. He remembered only why he had come here and . was ashamed.
Slowly, he laid the tomahawk and the knife down. The egg-shaped mechanism in her hand followed his movements.
‘Zleetri,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry.’ He took a step towards her. The light at the end of the thing in her hand winked momentarily bright, and he felt a sharp burning on the skin of his stomach. But then the light faded, and the burning sensation with it. She laid the instrument down on her breast.
And she smiled at him.
He went to her side and knelt down.
‘Ree-char,’ she said. ‘Ree-char.’
Avery took the thing from her weak fingers and put it to one side. He held her hand.
Oh, God! he thought. Why can’t we talk to each other? Why can’t I give her some comfort? Why can’t I tell her even the inadequate things. There, but for her charity, lies Richard Avery. Oh, God! Why are there such barriers—such stupid, senseless barriers of language between us?
But there is no God, he thought angrily. There is no God—because a baby has died, because a woman is dying and because we who are left want to slaughter each other like animals. What has God to do with such predicaments? There is no other god but life. Life is the only holy thing. And when that goes that is the death of God.
She moaned again. ‘Ree-char!’ She gripped his hand tightly. Her voice was beseeching. She could say nothing but his name, yet her eyes were eloquent.
Remembering the sign she had made, he touched his fingers to her forehead and to his. ‘Dear Zleetri,’ he murmured. ‘Dear enemy, dear friend. Why—why in heaven’s name couldn’t we find out how to live with one another? But you aren’t concerned with that any more, are you?… Did you know that even to us of a different race you and your kind are beautiful? We hated you, and yet we admired you. You, I think, despised us and perhaps you underestimated us But no more of that. I
wish I could help you. You were such a proud and lovely being…. I wish I could help you….’
‘Ree-char/’ The word was a scream, a tired scream torn from a tired body. She writhed in pain, yet was hardly strong enough to move her limbs.
‘Ree-char!’ She pointed to the thing he had taken from her.
He understood. He thought he understood, and put it back in her hand.
She tried to hold it, turning the small end towards her breast. She tried twice, and each time it dropped out of her shaking fingers. Then she pleaded for his help.
It was not in words—not even in a look. It was something fundamental, something so deep as to be able to bridge the chasm between race and race.