see a stocky man in a khaki
shirt and knee-length shorts standing at his open doorway. He wore desert boots and a
wide-brimmed safari hat. His suntannedface
was rugged, furnished with a goatee beard, and deeply lined from a life spent
outdoors.
‘I’m Joseph Gunner,’ said
the man, entering the room and extending his hand in greeting. ‘But you can just
call me Gunner. I’m your park ranger.’
‘Hi, I’m Connor.’
‘You’re British!’ he
remarked, somewhat surprised and, judging by the extra squeeze in his handshake, pleased
at the discovery.
Connor nodded. ‘Where are you from?
You don’t sound or look like you’re from Burundi.’
‘South Africa, born and bred,’
he replied with a hint of pride. ‘Used to work in Kruger National Park until I was
offered this opportunity.’ He cast his eye over the gear spread across the bed.
‘You’re more prepared than most tourists. What are you, a boy
scout?’
‘Sort of,’ admitted Connor,
beginning to repack.
The ranger pointed to the knife. ‘Do
you mind?’ he asked, picking it up.
Connor shook his head. ‘It was my
father’s.’
Gunner examined it. ‘Well, he’s
a man who knows his knives. Solid wooden handle. Full tang.’ Eyeing the blade, he
carefully ran a finger along its edge before grunting in satisfaction.
‘There’s a saying in bushcraft:
You’re only as sharp as your
knife
. Glad to see you’ve kept this one well honed.’
Resheathing the blade, he handed it back to
Connor, who felt oddly gratified that his father’s heirloom was held in such high
regard.
‘Always
important to carry a good knife in the bush,’ Gunner explained, tapping an
impressively large hunter’s knife on his hip. The ranger picked up the SAS
handbook lying on the bed and leafed through the pages. ‘You interested in
survival skills then?’
Connor nodded. ‘More than you might
believe.’
Gunner smiled. ‘Well, you’ve
certainly come to the right place to test them out.’
No Mercy stood guard on an outcrop of rock
overlooking the hidden valley. Below, men worked like ants, digging at the earth with
shovels and their bare hands. Like layers of peeling skin, the green vegetation was
stripped back to expose rocks and mud and hopefully diamonds. Other press-ganged workers
panned the sediment of the dammed river for the precious stones. They toiled in grim
silence, their clothes mud-stained and drenched in sweat.
Keeping a watchful eye over their labours,
General Pascal’s army of child soldiers stood with their guns lazily trained on
the men who were all old enough to be their fathers. Not that any of them thought they
needed fathers now they were warriors of the ANL. No Mercy dimly recalled he’d
once had a father, but the general had shown him the weakness of such men. His father
had failed to protect his family – slaughtered at the hands of a rival rebel group. And
now they were all gone No Mercy only had himself to fend for and he wouldn’t be as
feeble as his father. The general had taught him the power of the gun. And led him on to
the righteous path of glory.
No Mercy heard a whoop
and saw one man stand up, his arm raised high.
General Pascal, reclining in a plastic
deckchair beneath the shade of a palm tree and sipping from a water bottle, beckoned the
worker over. The man handed the general his find. Closing one eye, General Pascal held
the rock up to the sparkling sunlight and inspected the stone. Even from where No Mercy
stood, he could see the reflected gleam and the grin spread across the general’s
pockmarked face.
Another diamond had been found.
General Pascal waved the worker away, no
longer interested, and the man trudged to the makeshift workers’ camp, little more
than some pieces of tarpaulin strung between the trees. For his valuable find,
he’d been rewarded with an hour’s extra rest and a double ration of
food.
No