CHAPTER THIRTY - THE SCENT OF BLOOD
The three men woke early too, before the sun had risen. They took their time, knowing that the white couple would not be moving for a little while yet. They ate a quick breakfast of some dry biltong and then climbed back into the cab of the bakkie. Mthoko turned the key in the ignition, but the motor just turned over without firing.
‘It has got damp during the night.’ He cursed as he tried again to get the old engine to fire up. It showed some signs of drying out, coughing and spluttering before at last it turned over and started. Just as it did, though, it backfired with an enormous bang, making all three of them jump in their seats and then crack the faintest of smiles in recognition of their nerves.
‘You must be careful that they do not see you.’ Gatsheni again issued the order to Mthoko, who took a deep breath, trying to curb his temper at the continued arrogance of this old man, who assumed that anyone younger than him must also be stupid.
‘Yes Nkosi.’ he replied with more than a trace of sarcasm.
Gatsheni chose to ignore the impertinence of this youngster, satisfied that before the week was out, he would stand over his body too and watch his blood drain away into the earth.
They moved forward slowly, following the tracks left by the other car. After a while, they reached the spot where the couple had spent the night and halted for a while as Gatsheni scouted around, looking for any signs that may help them. There was nothing here though, so he started back towards the truck. As he did, he looked to the northwest and saw a faint dust trail far up ahead. He pointed it out to his two companions, asking their opinion.
‘They must be moving quickly to throw up so much.’ The witchdoctor said. ‘Perhaps they have seen us and are hoping to escape.’
Gatsheni knew instantly what had caused their flight.
‘It was this stupid truck of yours.’ He spat the words at Mthoko, the noise it made this morning was loud enough to wake the spirits.’
Mthoko said nothing, just stared at the old man with a cold look in his eyes that made even the brave old warrior blanch for a moment. He quickly recovered though and ordered them to continue.
‘They are leaving us a perfect trail,’ he said, ‘it makes no difference how quickly they travel; we shall be able to follow until the end.’
The double meaning of these words was not lost on anyone as they once again followed the tracks further into the bush. Gatsheni fancied that he could now smell the blood of his prey, feel the nerves that had driven them on at such speed. This was going to be so easy, he thought to himself, they are terrified of the shadows. The amadoda will track them down and lure them to their deaths and at last, Mboku’s legacy will be delivered.
He thought about the warriors, who by now would be close by, led by the indunas of the Matabele nation. He could see them in his mind, running through the bush, the tirikeza, the double march, would move them swiftly into position. He could see their spears and shields, held aloft as they ran, the blades of their assegais glinting in the sunlight. Those that see them, he thought, will know that the Matabele nation has risen once again; that our enslavement is over and the dogs that dared rule over us will soon pay dearly for their impertinence. The rivers will run red with their blood, the streets will be piled high with their rotting corpses until there is not one of them left and then we will rule once more.