It worried him that there never was one. Then he would find the pool,

clear water, blue and strangely shiny. The pool frightened him but he

could not stop himself going to it.

He would kneel beside it and look into the water; the reflection of his

own face looked up at him, animal-snouted , shaggy-brown with wolf

teeth, white and long.

He would wake then and the horror of that face would last until morning.

Nearly desperate with his own utter helplessness, Sean tried to help

him. Because of the accord they had established over the years and

because they were so close to each other, Sean had to suffer with him.

He tried to shut himself off from it; sometimes he succeeded for an hour

or even half a morning but then it came back with a stomach-swooping

shock. Duff was going to die, Duff was going to die an unspeakable

death. Was it a mistake to let someone get too deep inside you, so that

you must share his agony in every excruciating detail? Didn't a men

have enough of his own that he must share the full measure of another's

suffering?

By then the October winds had started, the heralds of the rain: hot

winds fall of dust, winds that dried the sweat on a man,'s. body before

It had time to cool him, thirsty winds that during daylight brought the

game to the waterhole in full view of the camp.

Sean had half a case of wine hoarded under his cot. That last evening

he cooled four bottles, wrapping them in wet sacking. He took them up

to Duff's shelter just before supper and set them on the table. Duff

watched him. The scars on his face were almost completely healed now,

glassy red marks on his pale skin.

Chateau Olivier, said Sean and Duff nodded. It's a good wine, most

probably travel-sick. Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it away

again, said Sean. I'm sorry, laddie, Duff spoke quickly. I didn't mean

to he ungrateful. This wine suits my mood tonight. Did you know that

wine is a sad drink? Nonsense! Sean disagreed as he twisted the

corkscrew into the first cork Wine is gay. He poured a little into

Duff's glass and Duff picked it up and held it towards the fire so the

light shone through it. You see only the surface, Sean. A good wine

has the elements of tragedy within it. The better the wine the more sad

it is.

Sean snorted. Explain yourself, he invited.

Duff put his glass down on the table again and stared at it. How long

do you suppose this wine has taken to reach its present perfection? Ten

or fifteen years, I suppose, Sean answered.

Duff nodded. "And now all that remains is to drink it the work of years

destroyed in an instant. Don't you think that is sad? Duff asked

softly. My God, Duff, don't be so damned morbid But Duff wasn't

listening to him. Wine and mankind have this in common. They can find

perfection only in age, in a lifetime of seeking. Yet in the finding

they find also their own destruction. So you think that if a man lives

long enough he will reach perfection? Sean challenged him, and Duff

answered him still staring at the glass. Some grapes grew in the wrong

soil, some were diseased before they went to the press and some were

spoiled by a careless vintner, not all grapes make good wine Duff picked

up his glass and tasted from it, then he went on. A man takes longer

and he must find it not within the quiet confines of the cask but in the

cauldron of life; therefore his is the greater tragedy. Yes, but no one

can live for ever, Sean protested.

so you think that makes it less sad? Duff shook his head. You're wrong

of course. It does not detract from it, it enhances it. If only there

were some escape, some way of ensuring that what is good could endure

instead of this complete hopelessness. Duff lay back in his chair, his

face pale and gaunt-looking. Even that I could accept, if only they had

given me more time. I've had enough of this talk. Let's discuss

something else. I don't know what you're worrying about. You're not

fit to drink yet, you've got another twenty or thirty years to go, Sean

said gruffly and Duff looked up at him for the first time. Have 1,

Sean? Sean couldn't meet his eyes. He knew Duff was going to die. Duff

grinned his lopsided grin and looked down again at his glass. Slowly

the grin disappeared and he spoke again.

if only I had more time, I could have done it. I could have found the

weak places and fortified them. I could have seen the answers. His

voice rose higher. I could have! I know I could have! Oh God, I'm not

ready yet. I need more time. His voice was shrill and his eyes wild

and haunted. It's too soon, it's too soon!

Sean couldn't stand it, he jumped up and caught Duff's shoulders and

shook him.

Shut up, God damn you, shut up, he shouted at him.

Duff was panting, his lips were parted and quivering. He touched them

with the tips of his fingers as though to stop them. I'm sorry, laddie,

I didn't mean to let go like that. Sean dropped his hands from Duffs

shoulders, Both of us are too damned edgy, he said. It's going to be A

right, you wait and see. Yes, it will be all right. Duff ran his

fingers through his hair, combing it back from his eyes. Open another

bottle, laddie. That night after Sean had gone to bed, Duff had his

dream again. The wine he had drunk slowed him down and prevented him

from waking. He was trapped in his fancy, struggling to escape into

wakefulness but only reaching the surface before he sank back to dream

that dream again.

Sean went up to Duffs shelter the next morning early.

Although the night's coolness still lingered under the spreading

branches of the wild figs the rising day promised to blow dry and burn

hot. The animals could sense it. The trek oxen were clustered among

the trees and a small herd of eland was moving from the waterhole, The

bull, with his short thick horns and the dark tuft on his forehead, was

leading his cows away to find shAde. Sean stood in the doorway of the

hut and waited while his eyes adjusted themselves to its gloom. Duff

was awake. Get out of bed or you'll have bed sores to add to your

happiness.

Duff swung his feet off the litter and groaned.

What did you put in that wine last night? He massaged his temples

gently. I've got a hundred hobgoblins doing a Cossack dance around the

roof of my skull Sean felt the first twinge of alarm. He put his hand

on Duff's shoulder feeling for the heat of fever, but Duff was quite

cool. He relaxed. Breakfast's ready, said Sean. Duff played with his

porridge and barely tasted the grilled eland liver. He kept screwing

his eyes up against the glare of the sun and when they had finished

their coffee he pushed back his chair. I'm going to take my tender head

to bedAR right.

Sean stood up as well. We're a bit short of meat. I'll go and see if I

can get a buck. No, stay and talk to me, Duff said quickly. We can

have a few hands of cards. They hadn't played in days and Sean agreed

readily. He sat on the end of Duff's bed and within half an hour he had

won thirty-two pounds from him. You must let me teach you this game

sometime, he gloated.

Petulantly, Duff threw his hand in. I don't feel like playing any more.

He pressed his fingers to his closed eyelids. I can't concentrate with

this headache. Do you want to sleep? Sean gathered up the cards and

put them in their box. No. Why don't you read to me?

Duff picked up a leather-bound copy of Bleak House from the table beside

the bed and tossed it into Sean's lap.

Where shall I start! Sean asked. It doesn't matter, I know it almost

by heart. Duff lay back and closed his eyes. Start anywhere. Sean

read aloud. He stumbled on for half an hour with his tongue never quite

catching the rhythm of the words.

Once or twice he glanced up at Duff, but Duff lay still with a faint

sheen of sweat on his face and the scars very noticeable. He was

breathing easily. Dickens is a powerful sleeping-draught for a hot

morning and Sean's eyelids sagged down and his voice slowed and finally

stopped.

The book slid off his lap.

The small tinkle of Duff's chain disturbed him; he awoke and looked at

the bed. Duff crouched apelike. The madness was a fire in his eyes and

his cheeks twitched.

A yellowish froth coated his teeth and formed a thin line of scum along

his lips. Duff, Sean said, and Duff lunged at him with fingers hooked

and a noise in his throat that was not human nor yet animal. It was a

sound that jellied Sean's stomach and took the strength from his legs.

Don't! screamed Sean, and the chain caught on one of the posts of the

bed, jerking Duff back sprawling onto the bed before he could sink his

teeth into Sean's paralysed body.

Sean ran. He ran out of the hut and into the bush. He ran with terror

trembling in his legs and choking his breath. He ran with his heart

taking its beat from his racing feet and his lungs pumping in disordered

panic. A branch ripped across his cheek and the sting of it served to

steady him. His feet slowed, he stopped and stood gasping, staring back

towards the camp. He waited while his body settled and he forced his

terror down until it was only a sickening sensation in his stomach. Then

he circled through the Thorn bush and approached the laager from the

side farthest away from Duff's shelter. The camp was empty, the

servants had fled in the same terror that had driven Sean. He

remembered that his rifle was still in the hut beside Duff's bed. He

slipped into his wagon and quickly opened the case of unused rifles. His

hands were unsteady again as he fumbled with the locks, for the chain

might have parted and at every second he expected to hear that inhuman

sound behind him. He found his bandolier hanging on the end of his cot

and he took cartridges from it.

He loaded the rifle and cocked it. The weight of steel and wood in his

hands gave him comfort.

It made him a man again.

He jumped down out of the wagon and with the rifle held ready he went

cautiously out of the circle of wagons.

The chain had held. Duff stood in the shade of the wild fig plucking at

it. He was making a sound like a new-born puppy. His back was turned

to Sean and he was naked, his torn clothing scattered about him. Sean

walked slowly

towards him. He stopped outside the reach of the chain.

Duffi Sean called uncertainly. Duff spun and crouched, the froth was

thick in his golden beard; he looked at Sean and his teeth bared. Then

he charged screaming until the chain caught him and threw him onto his

back once more. He scrambled to his feet and fought the chain, his eyes

fastened hungrily on Sean. Sean backed away. He brought up the rifle

and aimed between Duff's eyes.

Swear to me. Swear to me you won't bring the rifle to me.

Sean's aim wavered. He kept moving backwards. Duff was bleeding now.

The steel links had smeared the skin off his hips, but still he pulled

against them fighting to get at Sean, and Sean was shackled just as

effectively by his promise. He could not end it. He lowered the rifle

and watched in impotent pity.

Mbejane came to him at last.

Come away, Nkosi. If you will not end it, come away.

He no longer has need of you. The sight of you inflames him.

Duff still struggled and screamed against his chain.

From his torn waist the blood trickled down and clung in the hair of his

legs with the stickiness of molten chocolate. With each jerk of his

head the froth sprayed from his mouth and splattered his chest and arms.

Mbejane led Sean back into the laager. The other servants were there

and Sean roused himself to give orders. I want everyone away from here.

Take blankets and food, go camp on the far side of the water. I will

send for you when it is over. He waited until they had gathered their

belongings and as they were leaving he called Mbejane back. What must I

do? he asked. If a horse breaks a leg? Mbejane answered him with a

question. I gave him my word, Sean shook his head desperately, still

facing towards the sound of Duff's raving. Only a rogue and a brave man

can break an oath, Mbejane answered simply. We will wait for you. He

turned and followed the others. When they were gone Sean hid in one of

the wagons and through a tear in the canvas he watched Duff. He saw the

idiotic shaking of his head, the curious shambling gait as he moved

around the circle of the chain. He watched when the pain made him roll

on the ground and claw at his head, tearing out tufts of hair and

leaving long scratches down his face. He listened to the sounds of

insanity: the bewildered bellows of pain, the senseless giggling and

that growl, that terrible growl.

A dozen times he sighted along the rifle barrel, holding his aim until

the sweat ran into his eyes and blurred them and he had to take the butt

from his shoulder and turn away.

Out there on the end of the chain, its exposed flesh reddening in the

sun a piece of Sean was dying. Some of his youth, some of his laughter,

some of his carefree love of life, so he had to creep back to the hole

in the canvas and watch.

The sun reached its peak and started down again and the thing on the

chain grew weaker. It fell and was a long time crawling on its hands

and knees before it regained its feet again.

An hour before sunset Duff had his first convulsion. He was standing

facing Sean's wagon, swinging his head from side to side, his mouth

working silently. The convulsion took him and he stiffened; his lips

pulled up grinning, showing his teeth, his eyes rolled back and

disappeared leaving only the whites, and his body started to bend

backwards. That beautiful body, still slim as a boy's with the long

moulded legs, bending tighter and tighter until with a brittle crack the

spine snapped and he fell. He lay wriggling, moaning softly and his

trunk was twisted at an impossible angle from the broken spine.

Sean jumped from the wagon and ran to him: standing over him he shot

Duff in the head and turned away. He flung his rifle from him and heard