Vulture is a Patient Bird

At least the two incidents seemed to have made Fennel more human, he thought as he engaged gear. He had spoken to Themba and he had shown a spark of comradeship.

They now came to a series of steep hairpin bends. Using the four wheel drive, Ken continued the climb but at not much more than twelve kilometres an hour. The exertion of dragging the wheel around as he came into the bends and then straightening was making him sweat. The bends seemed to go on and on and they climbed higher and higher.

Fennel leaned forward.

"Want me to take a turn? I can handle this crate."

Ken shook his head.

"Thanks . . . I can cope." He spoke to Themba in Afrikaans and Themba replied.

Feeling out of it, Fennel demanded, "What are you talking about?"

"At the top is the bad place. Themba says this is where we could get stuck for good."

"That's fine! Bad place! What the hell does he call this?" Ken laughed.

"From what he says, this is like driving down Piccadilly to what we're coming to."

Then from nowhere grey sluggish clouds crossed the sun, shutting it out and it turned cold. As Ken left the last hairpin bend and started up a long narrow, rocky rise, the rain came down in solid warm sheets.

The three men were soaked to the skin in seconds and Ken, blinded, stopped the Land Rover. They all crouched forward, shielding their faces with their arms while the rain slammed down on their bowed backs. They remained like that for some minutes. Water was in the Land Rover and sloshing around. Fennel's shoes, and water lay inches deep on the tarpaulin covering their equipment.

Abruptly as it began, the rain ceased, the clouds moved away and the sun came out. In a very few minutes their clothes began to steam.

"This is one hell of a picnic," Fennel said. "My goddamn cigarettes are soaked!"

Ken took a pack from the glove compartment and offered it. "Take these."

"I'll take one . . . keep the rest in there. If the bitch is going to

start again, we don't want to run short."

They both lit up and then got back into the truck. Themba had walked on ahead. By now he was at the top of the rise and stood waiting.

As they reached him, he motioned Ken to stop. Both men looked beyond him at the road ahead. They appeared to be on the top of a mountain and the track abruptly narrowed. One side was a sloping bank of coarse grass and shrubs; the other side was a sheer drop into the valley.

Fennel stood up in the Land Rover and stared at the track. He was never sure of himself when in high places, and the sight of the distant valley far below and the narrowness of the rough track brought him out in a sweat.

"We're bitched!" he said, his voice unsteady. "We can't hope to get through there!"

Ken turned and looked sharply at him. Seeing his ashen face and how his hands were shaking, he realized this was a man with no head for heights and felt sorry for him.

"Look, Lew, you get out. I think I can get through. It'll be a tight squeeze, but it can be done."

"Don't be a fool! You'll kill your goddamn self!"

Ken shouted to Themba. "Can I do it?"

The Bantu stood in the middle of the track and regarded the Land Rover, then he nodded.

"Just," he said.

"What's he say?" Fennel demanded.

"He thinks it's all right."

"All right? Hell! You'll go over!"

"You get out."

Fennel hesitated, then picking up his tool bag, he got down on to the track.

"Wait a minute," he said, sweat pouring down his face, "If you're going to kill yourself, I'm goin to get all the equipment off first. If she goes over, we'll be stuck without food or drink."

"Maybe you have something there," Ken said with a wide grin. He climbed over the back and Themba realizing what they were doing joined them. The three men carefully lifted off the tarpaulin, draining the rain water on to the track, then they hastily unloaded all the equipment.

Fennel glanced at his watch. It was 10.55 hrs.

"We'll have a beer," he said. "In five minutes you have to contact Edwards. How much farther have we to go?"

Ken consulted Themba as he opened two beer bottles.

"About twenty kilometres. Then another ten kilometres to the big house," Themba told him.

Ken translated.

"Rough going?"

Themba said once over this bit the going was good.

They finished the beer and then Ken picked up the two-way radio.

"Ken to Garry . . . are you receiving me?"

Immediately: "Garry to Ken . . . loud and clear. How goes it?"

Briefly Ken explained the situation.

"Sounds dicey. Look, Ken, why not use the winch? Anchor ahead and wind yourself in. If the truck slips you have a chance to jump."

"Idea. Roger. Call you back. Out."

"I bet he feels smug," Fennel growled. "Did he say if he's laid that bitch yet?"

"Skip it, Lew," Ken said impatiently. He talked to Themba who nodded and taking the tarpaulin cover off the winch, he ran the cable out until he was beyond the narrowest part of the track. Ken gave Fennel the drag.

"You any good at splicing? It's got to be secure."

"I'll fix it."