Free The Angels Weep by Wilbur Smith

giant spider that won us our first gold
sovereigns at the Kimberley spider-fights,’ Ralph
continued, and they chatted animatedly, recalling how they had
worked shoulder to shoulder in the great diamond pit, and the mad
diversions with which they had broken the dreadful monotony of
that brutal labour.
    Not understanding the language, Harry Mellow rolled in his
blanket and pulled the corner of it over his head. In the shadows
Tanase sat, still as a beautiful ebony carving, not smiling when
the men laughed but with her eyes fastened on their lips as they
spoke.
    Abruptly Ralph changed the subject again. ‘I have a son
also,’ he said. ‘He was born before the war, so he is
a year or two older than yours.’
    The laughter dried immediately, and although Bazo’s
expression was neutral, his eyes were wary.
    ‘They could be friends, as we are friends,’ Ralph
suggested, and Tanase looked protectively towards her son, but
Bazo did not reply.
    ‘You and I could work side by side once more,’
Ralph went on. ‘Soon I will have a rich gold mine in the
forests yonder, and I will need a senior induna in charge of the
hundreds of men who will come to work.’
    ‘I am a warrior,’ said Bazo, ‘no longer a
mine labourer.’
    ‘The world changes, Bazo,’ Ralph answered softly.
‘There are no longer any warriors in Matabeleland. The
shields are burned. The assegai blades are broken. The eyes are
no longer red, Bazo, for the wars are finished. The eyes are
white now, and there will be peace in this land for a thousand
years.’
    Bazo was silent.
    ‘Come with me, Bazo. Bring your son to learn the white
man’s skills. One day he will read and write, and be a man
of consequence, not merely a hunter of wild honey. Forget this
sad name you have given him, and find another. Call him a joyous
name and bring him to meet my own son. Together they will enjoy
this beautiful land, and be brothers as we once were
brothers.’
    Bazo sighed then. ‘Perhaps you are right, Henshaw. As
you say, the impis are disbanded. Those who were once warriors
now work on the roads that Lodzi is building.’ The Matabele
always had difficulty in pronouncing the sound of
‘R’, thus Rhodes was ‘Lodzi’, and Bazo
was referring to the system of conscripted labour which the Chief
Native Commissioner, General Mungo St John, had introduced in
Matabeleland. Bazo sighed again. ‘If a man must work, it is
better that he work in dignity at a task of importance with
somebody whom he respects. When will you begin to dig for your
gold, Henshaw?’
    ‘After the rains, Bazo. But come with me now. Bring your
woman and your son—’
    Bazo held up one hand to silence him. ‘After the rains,
after the great storms, we will talk again, Henshaw,’ Bazo
said quietly, and Tanase nodded her head and for the first time
she smiled, an odd little smile of approval. Bazo was right to
dissemble and to lull Henshaw with vague promises. With her
specially trained sense of awareness, Tanase recognized that
despite the direct gaze of his green eyes and his open, almost
childlike smile, this young white man was harder and more
dangerous than even Bakela, his father.
    ‘After the great storms,’ Bazo had promised him,
and that had a hidden meaning. The great storm was the secret
thing that they were planning.
    ‘First there are things that I must do, but once they
are done, I will seek you out,’ Bazo promised.
    B azo led up the
steep gradient of the narrow pathway through the deep gut of the
granite hills. Tanase followed a dozen paces behind him. The roll
of sleeping-mats and the iron cooking-pot were carried easily on
her head, and her spine was straight and her step fluid and
smooth to balance the load. The boy skipped at her side, singing
a childish nonsense in a high piping chant. He was the only one
unaffected by the brooding menace of this dark valley. The scrub
on each side of the path was dense and armed with