Verge of Darkness Page 2

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  It was well into the early hours of the morning when Pagan returned to his sparse quarters. Such evenings with Casca invariable ended with both men swapping tall tales and rambling philosophical discourse, as they put the world aright and solved ages old problems.

  Pagan lay back on his pallet, his mind drifting. The threads of fate were indeed unfathomable. As a boy growing up among his people in the never-ending grasslands of Amadou-Zongai, any other life had been unimaginable.

  Theirs was a violent land as the tribes of the grasslands warred incessantly for territory and control of the best hunting grounds. Enmities were long established, and blood-feuds spanned generations.

  Upon reaching ten summers, male children were trained in the use of the broad-leafed spear, short-hafted axe, and iron-shod club. Proficiency in weapons, and feats of strength and endurance were highly valued, and competition was harsh as the boys became youths, and sought to establish their standing and catch the eyes of adoring young women.

  But Pagan was different. He underwent the training as prescribed, but showed little proficiency. Smaller and weaker than his fellows, he derived no satisfaction or joy in physical pursuits. The thought of piercing another’s flesh with sharp objects or crunching their bones with clubs was abhorrent to him. A quiet, thoughtful boy, he was largely shunned. His lot would have been far worse, but for his father being the head of the tribe.

  His father, Assantewa, was a mighty and fearsome warrior. Enemies’ courage fled when faced with his almost elemental fury, and Pagan was always in awe of him. Though he must have secretly despaired that his son was a weakling, Assantewa always displayed a brusque love and understanding. Perhaps it was because he had two other sons; strapping young men who had inherited their sire’s strength, courage and leadership qualities. One of them would succeed him when his time came to an end, and he travelled through the halls of the dead to join his mighty ancestors.

  Seemingly out of place in his environment, Pagan resigned himself to a solitary life. Then a shaft of bright sunlight broke through the dark clouds of his loneliness. Amla came into his life. A gentle maiden with soft brown eyes and lithe limbs, she was different from the other young women. She didn’t mock the slender young man of eighteen summers, and went out of her way to seek his company.

  Naturally shy and awkward, Pagan usually found his tongue curiously unworkable when in the company of girls his age. Initially uncomfortable and suspicious of Amla’s attentions, it eventually dawned on him that he enjoyed her company immensely. His tongue became more pliable, and the two spent long dreamy days sitting in the shade of Baobab trees and walking arm in arm in the gently swaying long grass.

   One fine summer's evening, Amla led him to a secluded grove. She cupped his face in her hands, gazed into his eyes, pressed her lithe body against him and gently pulled him down onto the soft turf.

  As they lay together, Pagan for the first time in his short life, experienced the joys of a loving physical union between a man and woman. At first, their coupling was fumbling and frenzied. Then, their initial ardour sated, they were pleasantly surprised to discover there was more joy to be had, as they languidly explored each other with a delightful lack of urgency.

  Afterward they laid entwined pleasantly exhausted under the soft light of the full moon. To Pagan, it seemed the entire world had coalesced into an intimate bubble comprising only the two of them. All his doubts, fears and insecurities melted away. The gentle kiss of a cool breeze flowed over their sweat-sheened bodies bringing the scent of hibiscus flowers. For the first time in his life, he was truly content. He looked deep into Amla’s soft brown eyes and wished the moment would last forever.

  “Why me Amla? he asked, gently stroking her face. “You could have had your choice of any of the others.”

  She nuzzled his neck and smiled. “Your soul called to me, my love,” she said, her voice soft. “All the others, strutting about like peacocks hold no attraction for me. You are different; thoughtful, kind and caring. We are kindred spirits, soul mates. From this night, we are united forever.”

  A curious bat-eared vixen with two cubs in tow, rustled out of a nearby bush to investigate the two humans who had intruded into her territory. Amla extracted a strip of dried meat wrapped in a piece of linen-cloth and extended it. “Come little one,” she whispered. “An offering for our impertinence in invading your territory.” Eyes glowing in the moonlight and nostrils quivering, the vixen hesitantly approached before snatching the offering. Pagan and Amla laughed softly as it retreated to her cubs to share the repast with them.

  Their inquisitive visitors disappeared back into the bush. Amla sighed in contentment, snuggled closer to Pagan and the lovers drifted off into blissful slumber.

  Sometime later, Pagan’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment he forgot where he was. Then he felt the soft warm body lying next to him. Amla; beautiful gentle Amla. The memories of what had happened earlier, the most wonderful moments of his life came flooding back.

  Still sleep-fogged, he glanced around the moon-lit clearing. Everything seemed normal. He could hear the usual night-sounds of the grasslands – chirping of unseen insects, and small creatures rustling in the bush. He glanced up as a large owl flew overhead before alighting on the branch of a Whistling Thorn tree. With a flap of wings, the nocturnal bird took off from its perch, and Pagan realized the glade had gone silent. A feeling of foreboding hit him, making him sit up and shake Amla awake. “I think we should return,” he whispered, as she opened her eyes. “Something isn’t quite right.”

  Amla saw his unease and instantly understood. As they tugged on their clothing, the bush parted and six dark figures padded into the clearing. They were tall fierce looking men clad in animal-skin breech-clouts, and bearing long spears and short-hafted axes. Brutal faces marred with tribal markings, oiled lean muscular torsos, and long powerful legs, glistened in the moonlight.

  Fear washed over Pagan as his heart drummed in his chest. Their facial scars and crocodile-teeth necklaces, marked them as members of the Crocodile Head tribe who lived on the banks of the great river that flowed to the south. Their blood-feud with his people went back to the time of Pagan’s great-grandfather. These six were clearly scouts preceding a war party bringing death and destruction to his people.

  Bestial grunts reverberated in the previously peaceful glade as they threw themselves at the two young lovers. Pagan could do little, but push Amla behind him as he vainly tried to protect her. Ducking under a clutching hand, his fist cracked against the cheekbone of the lead scout. The scarred man barked with harsh laughter and contemptuously back-handed Pagan to the turf.

  Pagan scrambled to his feet and hurled himself at the beasts in human form, then everything went dark as the flat of an axe blade glanced off his temple.

  All was silent when Pagan regained consciousness. Head splitting with pain, and nausea threatening to overwhelm him, he got to his hands and knees. Amla. Where was she? Fear and anguish ran through him as he looked around. Then he spotted her crumpled form lying by the bush the vixen had padded from, in what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He crawled toward her, hoping against hope she was still alive. The dark mass of blood beneath her head told him she was gone.

  Cruel fickle fate, allied with the harsh realities of life in the grasslands, had taken a hand.