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they crowded round the old hunter, a protective ring supporting Peta, and listened to the detail that only a tracker of Mzee’s consummate skill could relate. Every facet vivid and clear to the astute old mind and keen eye that saw everything, missed nothing. And as the story unfolded, their eyes had drifted from Mzee to Peta to my unused rifle now casually propped against the front door jamb. But Peta saw only the shadows flickering across Mzee’s earnest, expressive face, heard only the words of death that numbed her mind as her heart died little by little, and her body ached for the comfort of her husband’s arms. Shuddering, she lived again and again the light, phantom touch of Matt’s hand on her shoulder; his familiar, intimate gesture to the mother he loved. Her pain all the more intense from the so recent yet now forever final parting. Mercifully, when that pain reached full throttle, it had numbed her senses and, later, Peta would remember little of that lonely, empty and unending night.

Chapter 7

    Rosalind, or ‘Roz’ as she preferred, leaned towards me, her brow creased with concern. Those who had carried me to the bed had left me lying on my side, upper arm extended across the bare mattress on which they had hastily positioned me. For now I was out cold, with my broken leg held immobile in a temporary splint formed from boards snatched from the very bed on which I lay. Mercifully, the pain would be dulled over the next few hours, but Roz could see there was more troubling me than a mangled leg, bad as that was. They told me later that despite the morphine-fuelled sleep, my head, which in those days was framed in short, dark, almost Romanesque curls, kept rocking left and right while low, feverish mutterings escaped my slack lips.
    Even in my obvious vulnerability, Roz later told me she couldn’t help but notice how lean and fit I seemed. How strikingly young I looked, despite the ravages of pain and morphine. Well, young women can be relied upon to respond to those in trouble. So it was hardly surprising that her heart beat a little faster as she stared down at me. It was the first time she had been able to linger beside me and no doubt her eyes had wandered down the length of my body, half naked as I recall, because the rough blanket had slipped from my bare torso. Later she told me her cheeks had flushed a sudden pink as her thoughts caught her unaware and she hastily withdrew the hand that had wandered out to caress my bare forearm, trailed carelessly towards her. Catching herself, she had shaken her head, bringing to an abrupt end the disconcerting thoughts which had so surprised her.
    Raised voices transported her back to reality and a renewed awareness that she couldn’t actually hear what was going on out on the veranda. But she could sense the mood had changed. There was a new tone to their distant voices as they plied Mzee with sharp questions. What was going on? For a moment she was torn between staying with me as I lay helpless in front of her and joining her father outside, but she had promised to stand watch. Moreover, she found she couldn’t actually bring herself to leave, despite developments. Particularly as I had begun to jerk roughly from side to side, making her afraid I would damage myself even more. Even so, impatience gripped her as she strained to listen, only to discover it was hopeless. She would just have to wait. And when finally she did hear, she wished she hadn’t.

    * * *

    The funeral had been harrowing for everyone. Matt, or what little there was left of him, had been buried in the community graveyard beside the tiny church that was so much a part of ‘expat’ life, redolent in every line and fixture of its English country counterpart. The design, even down to the grey stone from which it had been built, spoke of a never quite extinguished longing for the ‘old’ country. Standing foursquare, it sat on the side of a hill