Vulture is a Patient Bird

She had been right about him. It had been even better than it had been with the other two Americans, and also, she did know his surname. The tensions that had been building up inside her for the past year had been released by the explosive coupling, and now she felt as if she had had a shot of some hard drug. She didn't wish to be disturbed, but to be allowed to remain still and to do nothing. She drifted off int0 semi-sleep which was all the more relaxing and pleasant in the heat of the tent.

She was startled awake by Garry coming to the opening of the tent and calling her name sharply.

She half sat up and immediately became fully alert at the sight of his worried expression.

"What is it?"

"Those three are in trouble. Put your things on and come out. It's too damn hot in here."

There was a hard note in his voice and she could see he was impatient with her lying there like a cat before a fire. She slipped into her clothes and came out to join him in the shade.

The road collapsed, and they've lost the Land Rover," Garry told her. "Ken was nearly killed."

"Is he hurt?"

"No . . . shaken, but all right, now they'll have to walk and it's a hell of a walk."

"But they'll get there?"

"They think so. They'll be contacting me again in two hours."

"And the equipment?"

"That's all right. They unloaded before attempting to get over the worst part of the track."

"How will they get back?"

"We'll all have to fly out . . . nothing else for it. It'll be a load, but it can be done."

She relaxed, resting her back against the tree.

"So it really isn't so bad . . . they'll just have to walk."

"In this heat, it won't be so good."

"Oh, well . . . get some of that ape's fat off. Do you know how to pluck and draw a bird, Garry?"

"No . . . do you?"

"No. So we won't bother to hunt guinea-fowl. We'll have beans and bacon for lunch." She got to her feet. "I'm going to have another swim . . . coming?"

He hesitated. "Those three are worrying me, Gaye."

"Then a swim with me will put them out of your mind. There's nothing we can do for them . . . so come on and swim."

She went into the tent for the towels and then together they walked in the burning sun towards the pool.

Fennel wished now he hadn't drunk so much beer in the past. The rough, stony track, the hot sun and the pace that Ken was setting all reminded him of how out of condition he was. The strap of his tool bag was rubbing his shoulder raw. Sweat streamed down his face and blackened his shirt. He was breathing heavily.

At a guess, he thought, they had covered only six kilometres. Ken had talked of thirty kilometres before they reached Kahlenberg's place. Twenty-four kilometres! Fennel gritted his teeth. He was certain he couldn't do it with this tool kit: it got heavier and heavier with every step he took. Apart from his tool kit, he was also carrying his rucksack.

Before setting off, they had decided to leave the sleeping bags and the shotgun. Ken carried the Springfield and his own rucksack, Themba was carrying a rucksack stuffed with provisions and a five litre jerrycan of water.

Fennel plodded on, dragging one foot after the other. He longed for some shade, but there was none on this narrow track. He badly wanted a drink and thought regretfully of the beer they had left behind them. He had wanted it along with them, but when Ken said it was okay with him if Fennel would carry it, Fennel decided against the idea.

He paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and was stung with mortification to see the other two walking and chatting together, well ahead of him.

Ken glanced back and then stopped. Themba continued on for a few steps and then he stopped.

Fennel felt a spurt of rage go through him. He came plodding up to them. One look at his exhausted face told Ken that he was going to be a liability. Themba thought so too, and putting down the jerrycan he said something to Fennel who didn't understand.

"He says he'll carry your tool bag if you'll carry the jerrycan," Ken translated.

Fennel hesitated, but he knew the bag now was too much for him.

"What makes him think he can carry it?" he demanded, lowering the bag thankfully to the ground.

"He wouldn't make the offer if he didn't," Ken pointed out as Themba hoisted up the bag and slung it on his shoulder.

Fennel hesitated, then said, "Well, tell him . . . thanks. It's a bitch of a thing to carry." He caught hold of the jerrycan and the three men continued on their way: the other two slowing down to keep pace with Fennel.

The next hour was a hellish up-hill grind for Fennel, but he kept plodding on, breathing heavily, furious with himself to see how easily the other two were taking the ordeal.

"How about a drink?" he gasped, coming to a halt.

But the drink gave him no satisfaction as the water was warm and anyway, Fennel loathed drinking water.

Ken looked at his watch.

"In another ten minutes, we'll call Garry. Then we'll have a rest."