Shooting Butterflies (6 page)

She loved that face and knew every crease in it. There were times still when she would sit on his lap while he was in his armchair, and wrap her hands around his shoulders and listen as he read her the paper or talked to her mum. She'd watch his Adam's apple bob up and down in his throat and put her hand on it, feeling the vibration of his laugh. She grinned at the thought.

‘Can you hang in there,
Imbodla
? Apache's looking after you, not hurting your hands?'

‘Aw Dad, don't call me that. I get into trouble at school when the staff call me that. Matron Jones says if the staff have given me that name, it means I'm not being a proper lady, and I shouldn't be so friendly with them.'

‘Ignore the old biddy, you should be proud that you have earned a Ndebele name. It's a sign of respect. Besides, a wildcat is a beautiful animal. You've seen them. Intelligent, sleek, supple, natural and affectionate, but always holding their own, and they walk a little on the wild side. That's my girl, an African wildcat, an
imbodla
.'

‘I know. But you named me that, it wasn't given to me by any of the workers.'

‘So you're saying I'm not a worker? I wonder who provides the food on the table, and pays the school fees and the gymnastic lessons for you then? You know, any Ndebele man or woman who belongs on this land would have called you that eventually. I remember the day I first called you
Imbodla
, your mother freaked. She said it sounded like a maid's name. Took quite some convincing that I was saying it with pride. You're my spirited daughter, my wildcat.'

A shot rang out loud, the sound foreign in the evening bush.

‘Dad?' Tara said. She swung around in her saddle in time to see her uncle Jacob slump forward onto his horse's neck. Ziona pranced sideways but held her ground, her head up and nose flaring, uncertain. In slow motion, he slid down her side and hung from one stirrup, his head and arms on the road.

‘Uncle Jacob!' she screamed.

A second shot cracked through the air. She heard a dull thud as it hit a target next to her and she turned back to look at her father. The breath caught in her throat as she saw him clutch at his chest, his big hands crossed over one another. Elliana shuddered but she too stood her ground, ears flicked back, the whites of her eyes showing.

Time stood still.

‘Dad!' Tara screamed, starting to dismount, one foot out of the stirrup leathers.

‘Run, Tara. Apache
ándale
!' she heard her father command. ‘Home!'

Apache's ears pinned back flat against his head and he bolted into a full gallop up the road. He'd obeyed his master's command, the perfectly trained bush war horse. Tara clung to his neck as she looked over her shoulder. Her father was lying on the road and someone big dressed in camo clothes was leaning over him. Then her view was obscured by horses. The five lead-rein horses raced after her, joined by Elliana and Ziona. Their reins trailed as they snorted, flicked their heads and galloped in blind fear a few strides behind her.

‘No! Dad!' she screamed and tugged on Apache's rein, trying to turn back and run down the person who had hurt her father. Apache snorted and ran on, his head held low, pulling the leather through her fingers. He listened to only one master.

‘Dad! Uncle Jacob!' she screamed. She flattened her body against Apache's neck, clinging to his mane for extra stability, knowing that she had to be as small a target as possible. All the survival training from years before rushed through her head.

Small target.

Get away.

Only fight if in a corner.

Hide.

Be invisible.

Growing up on a farm during a bush war, staying for months at a time with only her mum, sister and the workers on the farm while her dad was away fighting in the Grey Scouts, her dad had made sure she could always fight for herself. Defend herself. Defend her family. Survive if it became necessary. And today all that training was being tested. Someone had shot her uncle and her dad, and she needed to get help.

Her heart ached. She tried to pull on the reins to make the stallion slow a little as a bug hit her face and blinded her. She could feel him as he tossed his head, opened his mouth and pulled the slack from the leather reins out of her hands, still listening to the man who had trained him and spent years in the bush with him. He wasn't slowing.

Too scared to let go of the reins, she wiped her face on her arm and pressed her eyes into her sleeve. The bug cleared out and her vision returned.

She looked around her to find where they were.

She saw the cattle gate ahead at the end of the strip road. The wire concertina-style gate was higher than a normal gate, marking the boundary fence between the properties. She knew this place. They were almost on their farm.

She could hear the other horses as they thundered behind her, the sound clear over the beating of the blood rushing through her heart. Their hooves kicked up chunks of dirt as they followed their stallion.

She was in trouble.

‘Stop, Apache! Stop, we can't jump that, it's too high,' she told him. He tossed his head again, but his ears twitched as he listened to her. She stroked his neck, thick with creamy lather. The skin shuddered and twitched under her hand. Alive and responsive.

‘Come on, Apache, stop boy. You and I, we can't jump that. I need to open that gate so all the other horses can get through as well.'

She felt his neck twitch as he slowed and came to a stop at the gate with a jolt. The other horses stopped too, pressing in to him from behind. He held his ground, avoiding the barbed wire. ‘Good boy,' she soothed as she looked at her uncle's horse, Ziona. One stirrup leather was missing from his saddle. Her uncle hadn't been dragged the whole way.

Another shot sounded. Loud and in the distance, but she could tell it was still close to her.

She shivered and Apache's ears flattened again. The other horses jostled in, grouped into a bunch, the whites of their eyes flashing. She could smell the fear from the horses as they pressed close around her. Looking for safety with their stallion.

A year ago she'd have been armed with her trusty .38mm she'd inherited from her granny on her father's side. But her dad had insisted that the Bush War of Rhodesia was over now that they had had an independence celebration and renamed the country.

But he'd been wrong.

The war wasn't over.

He'd been shot.

And she wasn't armed.

A weak target if the shooter pursued her. A lame duck caught up against a fence line. It was like the bad dreams she used to have at boarding school, but this one she knew she wasn't waking up from.

It was real.

Cold sweat ran from her body. She urged Apache to step closer to the gate. He pranced sideways, his ears pricked, listening for her commands.

She tried to open the gate while sitting on his back. It didn't move.

She wasn't strong enough to pull the closure wire off the concertina fence with her hands alone. Reluctantly she dismounted, jumping to the ground from her saddle. She wrapped Apache's reins around her arm and across her palm. ‘Just don't leave me here, boy. Dad said to go home. We need to do that. We can get Mum and she can come and see what happened to Dad. We just need to get this gate open first and then you need to let me get up on your back again.'

She pushed her shoulder into the upright and pulled against the huge fence post with everything she had. But she couldn't budge the wire. So she stood on the wire at the bottom, jumping on it to get it to slide down the wood and loop off the bottom of the post, but it was so tight it didn't budge.

‘No!' she muttered at the gate. ‘Open! Come on, open!'

She knew she had to keep her voice low. Her voice would carry in the bush above the natural sound that the horses made. She couldn't attract attention to herself and as much as she wanted to scream at the gate in frustration, she would spook the horses and whoever her pursuer was might hear her and know she was in distress, know she couldn't get the gate open. Know she was defenceless and trapped.

She had to get away.

She kicked at the gate and shook it, and tried again to open it. Ramming her shoulder into the wood, she dug her feet into the
sand and heaved, grunting as she strained against it. But the wire remained taut.

Apache's eyes rolled white and he pulled back on her arm.

‘Shhhoooooo. No, boy, no. Come back. Sorry. It's okay, we can get through. Come on.' She quietened her voice even more, using a soothing tone as she'd been taught years before when she'd ridden for the first time – drop the tone in your voice and speak slower to calm the animal. Apache pushed his nose into her shoulder and breathed heavily. She patted his head. The pressure on her arm from the reins eased.

But the gate still remained shut.

She tried the top strand of wire again, pushing on it with her shoulder, trying to force it to shinny up and over. ‘Oh, come on! Come on gate,' she hissed.

But the wire remained strained and tight.

Apache snorted and stamped his foot. The other horses snorted too.

Apache moved closer to her and whinnied. As if to protect her, his big body shuddered as he snorted and tossed his head.

Someone or something was close.

Tara stood dead still, holding her breath, straining to listen better above the natural noise of the restless horses.

‘
Inkosazana
Tara …
Imbodla
.'

Sweat broke out on her forehead and she could taste it on her top lip.

The voice was soft, but it was definitely that of a black man.

‘
Ngubani igama lakho
?' she asked.

‘My name is Shilo. You need to get on your horse,
Imbodla.
I will open the gate.'

She didn't know this voice, but whoever it belonged to knew her name.

‘How do you know me?'

‘I work for
Baas
Potgieter. I served you tea when you and your little mother came to his house a few weeks ago when his cattle broke your fence and were in your velvet beans. Do you remember me?' He moved to stand a little further in the open on the road,
closer to the horses. She looked under Apache's belly and through the legs of the other horses. She could see the man's legs covered in blue overalls, his white
takkies
glaring against the yellow sand. But he stayed at a respectful distance, as if afraid of the horses.

He crouched down and she could see he carried no weapon in his hands, which he held in front of him in what seemed to be a ‘trust me' gesture. Her eyes scoured the ground for a gun, but there wasn't one.

‘You wore a green skirt,' he said, and then he held up one finger at her as if to remind her of something, ‘but you had your shorts sticking out from underneath and your riding boots on. Your mother told
Baas
Potgieter that you weren't disrespectful for not wearing a dress to visit him this first time to his home. That you were just strong willed and spirited, like your dad's horses. Do you remember that?'

She did. And she remembered the house boy serving them on the veranda. He had a big grin when he'd served her from the tray, and put the delicate porcelain teacup in front of her, then filled it with fresh hot brewed tea. But that grin had turned into a frown when he was ordered to take the tray away again and had to lift her tea away before she'd had a chance to drink it. He'd slipped a Marie biscuit into her lap from beneath his tea tray when they visited their weird neighbour, just as Buffel Potgieter had suddenly deemed their visit was over. She'd hidden it in her hand until they were back in the
bakkie.
Afraid to eat it near Buffel in case he took that from her too.

She studied him.

The richness of his skin was the same as most of the other Ndebeles on the farm and had a shine to it, as if he was sweating excessively. His nose was broad, his eyes were chocolate brown, and he looked her directly in the eye. Not downcast as if he needed to show her respect. Eyes that pleaded with her to trust him. Big lips that attempted to smile at her, his straight white teeth flashed underneath. She recognised his face. He was the same man. Only he wasn't dressed in a white house boy's uniform, but in full blue
overalls, as if he was working on the farm in the dairy or in the sheds. His hair was cut in the normal short shave most of the farm-boys wore.

‘I know you,' she said. ‘Why are you here, Shilo? At this gate?'

‘That is a story for another time,
inkosazana.
Right now I need to help you back on your horse and you need to ride home. Fast as you can. It is dangerous out here alone.'

Tara knew that without him, she couldn't open the gate. If he wanted to kill or hurt her, he could have already done so easily.

‘Come, you must get back onto your horse.' He looked down at the ground, a sign of respect, and she believed him.

‘Okay,' Tara said. ‘But he's too big. I need help. Come here and kneel down, I can stand on your back to climb up.'

‘I can lift you up but you will need to bring the horses away from the gate so I can open it.'

‘Are you scared of horses, Shilo?'

‘No, but I don't trust so many together not to crush me. They don't know me. Hurry, Miss Tara.' She saw him look over his shoulder and move a little closer to the horses. There was urgency in his movement.

‘Okay,' she said again, a waver in her voice as she swallowed the panic at the thought of the big man in camo coming after her. Leading Apache out the herd of horses, she stood next to Shilo. She lifted her arms up to allow him to slide his hands around her waist. Helping her on like this was not something that even Bomani had done. Only her dad, her uncle and Gabe lifted her onto a horse.

He gently lifted her upwards. His hands were warm, not something she'd expected. Tara grabbed the horn on the saddle and scrambled up, and put her feet back into the leathers. She released a breath and Shilo stepped away.