Leopard Hunts in Darkness - Smith Wilbur (книга бесплатный формат .TXT) 📗
"Sergeant!" Peter Fungabera gave terse orders, and Vusamanzi's hands were snatched behind his back and bound at the wrists. One of the troopers fashioned a hangman's noose in a length of nylon rope and tossed the free end of 0, the rope over one of the main supports of an elevated maize bin at the edge of the square. They stood Vusamanzi under the maize bin and dropped the noose over his head.
"Now tell his people that when any one of them agrees to lead us to the traitors, this punishment will end immediately." The translator raised his voice, but he had not finished "my before Vusamanzi called over him in a firm voice, UI curse upon any of you who speak to this Shana pig. I command silence upon you, no matter what is done he who breaks it will be visited by me from beyond the grave.
1, Vusamanzi, master of the waters, command this thing!"
"Do it!" Peter Fungabera ordered, and the sergeant inched in the slack of the rope. The noose closed around the old man's neck, and gradually he was forced up onto his tiptoes.
"Enough!" Peter Fungabera ordered and d-icy secured the free end of the rope.
Now, let them come forward and speak." The translator moved down the rank of women, urging them and finally pleading unashamedly, but Vusamanzi glared at his women fiercely, unable to speak but still commanding them with all his will.
"Break one of his feet," ordered Peter Fungabera, and the sergeant faced the old man and, with a dozen blows, using the butt of his rifle likea maize stamp, he crushed Vusamanzi's left foot. As the women heard the brittle old bones snap like kindling for the hearth, they began to wail and ululate.
"Speak!" Peter Fungal5era commanded.
Vusamanzi stood on one leg, his neck twisted to one side at the pull of the rope. His damaged foot began to swell, likea balloon being inflated, to three times its natural size, the skin stretched black and shiny as an overripe fruit on the point of splitting open.
"Speak!" Peter Fungabera ordered the second time, and the mournin cries of die women drowned him out.
"Break his other food" he nodded to the sergeant.
As the rifle-butt shattered the complex of small bones in Vusamanzi's right foot, he fell sideways against the rope, and the sergeant stepped back, grinning at the contortions of the old man as he tried frantically to relieve the pressure of the rope by taking his weight on his mutilated flet.
All the women were screaming now, and the children's cries swelled the anguished chorus. One of the old women, the senior wife, broke the line and ran forward with both thin arms outstretched towards her husband of fifty years.
"Leave her! Peter Fungabera ordered the guards who would have restrained her. They stepped aside.
The frail old woman reached her husband and tried to lift him, crying out her love and her compassion, but she did not have d -te strength even for Vusamanzi's emaciated body. She succeeded only in relieving the pressure on his L I larynx enough to prolong the agonies of his strangulation.
The old man's mouth was open, hunting for air, and white froth coated his lips. He was making a harsh, cawing sound, and the old wife's antics were ludicrous.
"Listen to the Matabele rooster crow, and his ancient hen cackle! Peter Fungabera smiled, and his troopers guffawed delightedly.
It took a long time, but when at last Vusamanzi hung still and silent with his face twisted up to the sky, his wife sank to the earth at his feet and rocked her body rhythmically as she began the keen of mourning.
Peter Fungabera. walked back to the Russian, and Bukharin lit another cigarette and murmured, "Crude and ineffective."
"There was never any chance with the old fool. We had to get him out of the way, and set the mood." Peter dabbed at his chin and forehead with the tail of his scarf. "It was effective, Colonel, just look at the faces of the women He tucked the scarf back into the neck of his smock and strolled back to the women.
"Ask them where the enemies of the state are hidden." But as the translator began to speak, the old woman sprang to her feet and rushed back to face them.
"You saw your lord die without speaking," she screeched.
"You heard his command. You know that he will return!" Peter Fungabera. altered the grip on his swagger, stick and with little apparent effort drove the point of it up under the old woman's ribs. She screamed and collapsed.
Her spleen, enlarged by endemic malarial infection, had ruptured at the blow.
"Get rid of her," Peter ordered, and one of the troopers seized her ankles and dragged her away behind the huts.
"Ask them where the enemies of the state are hidden." Peter walked slowly along the rank, looking into their faces, evaluating the degree of terror that he saw in each pair of black Matabele eyes. He took his time over the selection, coming back at last to the youngest mother, barely more than a child herself, her infant strapped upon her back with a strip of patterned blue cloth.
He stood in front of her and stared her down, then, when he judged the moment, he reached out and took her wrist. He led her gently to the centre of the open square, where the remains of the watch-fire still burned.
He kicked the smouldering ends of the logs together, and, still holding the girl, waited until they burst into flames again. Then he twisted the girl's arm, forcing her to her knees. Slowly silence fell over the other women, and they watched with deadly fascination.
Peter Fungabera loosened the blue cloth and lifted the infant off the girl's back. It was a boy. A chubby infant, with skin the colour of wild honey, his little pot-belly was gorged with his mother's milk, and there were creases of fat like bracelets, at his wrists and ankles.
