Читать книгу The Bird of Heaven - Peter Dunseith - Страница 16

The boys had expected Mandla to turn tail and run when challenged to fight on the log across the sinkhole. They hadn’t reckoned on his determination to do whatever was necessary to win the sikhwama of Lunwabu, and when he untied his pouch and laid it down on the rock bridge, the older boy began to look uncomfortable. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “If I knock you into the Gap, you will drown. No one has ever fallen into that pipe and come out the other end alive. Go home and forget about your quest.”

Mandla spoke loudly to stop his voice from shaking. “I am the best stick fighter in my village. It may not be me that falls into the pipe and drowns. Why not just let me pass? What harm can it do if my quest is a waste of time, as you say?”

“Go on, Zwide, fight him,” the stout boy said. “You’re always challenging us to fight you over the Gap, now you’ve found someone stupid enough to do it. Unless you’re scared?”

“Of course I’m not scared,” Zwide replied. “I just thought you might not want to lose your stick. It’s your best one, isn’t it?”

“It will be worth it to see you beat this mountain boy. Mind he doesn’t put a spell on you though, he must be a sangoma with that mud in his hair. Hey, muddy locks,” he said, turning to Mandla, “when you fall down the hole, please make a spell to send my stick back to me.”

His thin friend giggled at his wit, but Zwide was looking serious. There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip. “You go first,” he called to Mandla as they made their way towards the Gap. “You get onto the log first.”

Mandla set down his fighting stick, then he sat on the rock ledge at the edge of the bridge and lowered himself down until he felt the spray splashing onto his lower legs and his toes touched the surface of the log. Gingerly he put his weight onto it, still holding on to the rock ledge, ready to pull himself back if there was any sign of the log breaking. However, it seemed to be firmly wedged across the Gap, and although the surface was damp and mossy the wood of the trunk itself felt solid. Mandla concentrated on balancing and tried not to look down into the swirling maelstrom below. When he was sure of himself he held up his hand for his stick, and the chubby boy, who had scampered around the sinkhole, passed it down to him.

On the other side of the Gap Zwide hesitated, then lowered himself on to the log. It was easier for him because his legs were much longer than Mandla’s and he was able to keep his stick in his hand. Once he was sure of his footing he took up a position on the log facing Mandla. They sized each other up. Both boys were used to traditional stick fighting but were unaccustomed to having to fight with their feet planted in one position. The battle would be fought mainly with the upper body. The wind knocks down the tall tree while the small shrub keeps standing, Mandla thought. His size is no advantage to him on this log.

“Ready?” asked Zwide.

Mandla nodded.

Zwide feinted as if to strike overhead, then he swung at Mandla from the side. Mandla easily blocked the blow, holding his stick at both ends. Zwide followed up with a jab directed at Mandla’s face. Mandla deflected the jab upwards, and hit out at Zwide’s upper body. The blow struck home, connecting hard with Zwide’s ribcage, knocking the older boy off balance. He swayed to the side, arms flailing to correct his balance.

Mandla waited for Zwide to regain his position, then made two quick strikes in succession, driving forward and forcing Zwide to retreat. The older boy snatched at his stick, but Mandla danced back out of reach. He did not want to get too close to Zwide, where the other boy’s superior strength could overpower him.

The boys continued to parry and strike, each fending off the other’s blows and waiting for an opening. Zwide’s companions on the bridge shouted encouragement to him and cheered and whistled every time he aimed a blow at Mandla, whether or not it struck home.

It wasn’t long, however, before both boys began to get tired, their bodies shining with perspiration. Zwide summoned all his energy for one final attack. He swung sideways at Mandla’s shoulder, and when this strike was deflected he raised his stick over his head and brought it down with all his might towards the crown of Mandla’s head. Mandla stepped back and raised his stick to fend off the strike, but, somehow, Zwide twisted his swing and brought his stick round in a great sweeping arc aimed at Mandla’s ankles. Mandla realised too late that he would not be able to parry the blow in time. In less than a second his legs would be swept out from under him and he would tumble headlong into the hungry mouth of the Gap.

There was only one thing to do and he didn’t hesitate. With his arms still held above his head he leapt into the air, raising his knees as high as he could. He heard the whistle of Zwide’s stick as it swept towards his legs and he felt the sting of the air as it passed harmlessly under the soles of his feet.

Landing on the log Mandla looked up quickly at Zwide to see what his adversary would do next, but Zwide was empty-handed. He had lost his stick. Instead of connecting with Mandla’s legs as he had anticipated, the stick had carried on in an unchecked arc, pulling him off balance so that he was forced to let go to avoid following it off the log. As Mandla’s eyes met those of Zwide, the older boy slowly began to applaud, but it was at that moment that Mandla slipped off the log.

When he had landed after his jump, his front foot had alighted on a patch of moss, the roots of which had a very tentative hold on the unyielding surface of the log. Now, as Mandla pressed down with his foot to reposition himself, the moss slid off the trunk and took Mandla’s foot with it. The boy’s left leg slipped over the side and there was nothing he could do to stop himself falling. He desperately tried to hook his other leg over the log as he fell and threw up his arm, snatching at the log, scrabbling hopelessly with his fingers at its smooth surface. There was a roaring in his ears, whether the rushing of water or the sound of his own fear, he couldn’t tell. Then he felt his wrist seized in a strong grip and he looked up to see Zwide’s face.

The older boy pulled him up until he sat astride the log, breathing out his fear in short gasping sobs. Zwide stood above him, panting. “You mountain people fight like monkeys,” he said. “That jump of yours … I have never seen anything like that before. Since I was the first to lose my stick, I think we can say that you won the fight. Now let’s get off this log. We must have been crazy to agree to fight here.”

They clambered back up onto the bridge. The chubby boy grinned at Mandla. “You were lucky, muddy locks. If it had been me, I would have let you fall. Especially after you dropped my best stick.”

Mandla slowly tied his pouch back on to his belt. “I need to go now,” he said warily. “Will you let me cross the bridge, or do I have to fight someone else?”

Zwide put his arm around Mandla’s shoulders. “The Ndwandwe keep their promises,” he said. “You won the fight and we will allow you to cross. In fact, my brother, we shall do more than that. We shall walk with you and show you the path to the home of Lunwabu. But don’t expect us to go with you all the way to the homestead. We don’t want to meet a wizard riding a baboon.”