David Gilman - The Devil's breath

He shook his head. “It’s OK. Honest. My dad’s the same.”

She smiled. “It’s a reminder. A whatchamacallit. When the words trigger things …”

“A mnemonic.”

“That’s it.” She pointed at the capital letter for every word, each a stab at a pilot’s memory. “R-Radios on. Rudder check movement; T-Trim elevator to takeoff position, throttle tension and set for start; M-Mixture rich, magnetos on; P-Pitot heat-that’s in case there are icy conditions, not much chance of that today; F-Fuel select for tanks, flaps set for takeoff; H-Harness secure, hatches closed; I–Instruments, check temperatures; G-Gyros set to the compass heading, gear selected down and three green lights.”

Max knew he would have trouble remembering the reminder, let alone what it stood for. Before he could think of anything sensible to say, Kallie’s voice changed to a monotone, concentrated answer as she responded to the instructions from the air traffic controller’s voice in her headphones. The old Cessna 185 rattled like a supermarket cart full of empty tin cans. Kallie eased in the throttle, gave Max a reassuring smile-which did little to help his nerves-and then the plane lurched forward, centered on the runway’s white strip. Suddenly they were rumbling towards the horizon. Max watched the airspeed indicator climb from 60 to 65 miles per hour-the plane was ancient enough for its dial not to show aeronautical knots. The rev-counter touched 2550 revs and Kallie pulled the plane up into the sky, straight at the high hills that were far too close to the end of the runway for Max’s liking. The long, gradual climb took forever, and the plane rocked a little. She smiled at him. “This kind of heat can make things tricky in the air.”

She seemed confident enough that they were going to clear those fast-approaching hills.

“Would you keep your eyes on the road,” he muttered.

After half an hour he could barely hear himself think. The plane’s engine was deafening, and there was only one pair of headphones, which were clamped over her ears. They were cruising at 130 miles per hour, the vast expanse of the country below them etched with the occasional never-ending line of a road. Max tried to take an interest in the mountains to the east, their slopes furthest from the westering sun now cloaked in shadows and dust haze. But he was feeling rotten.

“Not long!” she shouted. “Only a couple of hours!”

He was uncomfortable. His backside ached. The old seats were like the old-fashioned tubular chairs they used to have in the school’s assembly hall, and he could not see above the instrument panel. How could you land when you couldn’t see the ground?

The plane wavered gently, its nose and blurring propeller pointing slightly above the horizon, as it seemed to balance precariously. The altimeter was marked in feet, and the needle nudged marginally past the 2 mark. Two thousand and a bit feet. Then the plane dropped into some sort of hole in the sky. The engine surged, Max’s stomach almost came up into his throat. “Turbulence!” she yelled again. “Happens all the time!”

He felt grubby from not having showered since he left Dartmoor; the long-haul flight’s food sat somewhere in his stomach like a ball of clay, and the noise and heat from the engine were scrambling his brains. And the attack at the airport had left him decidedly shaky. Airsickness started to coil around his throat like a clammy hand.

She glanced at him. “You going to puke?”

Embarrassed beyond belief, he nodded.

“Stick your head out the window!”

He pushed out the Perspex side window the fifteen centimeters its hinge allowed, and thrust his head out into the cold slipstream that buffeted his face. And then he vomited. The airline’s prepacked dinner disappeared beyond the tail-plane, free from the confines of his stomach. He wished he could be free of this plane. But it was a long way down-as the dinner showed him.

He decided to keep his head outside the cockpit. With any luck he might freeze to death. That would save him the embarrassment of facing Kallie again.

What a way to make a first impression.

Brandt’s Kraal Wilderness Farm was a jewel in the scorched landscape. A small, underground spring-fed water hole, about a quarter the size of a football pitch, and surrounded by palm and willow trees which created a cool haven. The ramshackle house was a huge, original Victorian bungalow with a deep veranda running all the way round it. Tired white paint covered the decorative finials running along the veranda’s lintel. Rust, time and the desert had taken their toll on everything he could see.

Kallie swooped the plane once across the farm, fifty meters above the battered galvanized roof, and then sideslipped expertly and landed close to the house. Max was thankful to get his feet back on terra firma. The heat sucked his energy from him. A couple of cross-bred dogs eased out from the dark beneath the house, which he could now see was built on low brick piers, and their deep-throated growls warned Max.

She soothed them. “Easy, boys. Come on.” They went happily to her, tails wagging lazily. Now confident that Max was no threat, the dogs sniffed his hand as he looked around him. The water obviously provided a vegetable garden, and drinking for livestock. These people were as self-sufficient as they could be. And where there’s water there’s wildlife, and that in turn brought hunters. A raptor circled lazily, high above the water. Ominous. Vulture-like.

“It’s an African Hawk Eagle,” Kallie told him as he shielded his eyes. “Plenty of birds here for it, and some small game as well. I hate to see the songbirds get taken but … well, that’s how it is. Getting killed out here is a daily occurrence. For animals, at least.”

“Are your parents here?” he asked, expecting the formality of introductions and preparing for long explanations as to how he was feeling, why he was there, and how hopeless his task might be.

“Divorced. Dad’s got a newer plane than the old Cessna. He’s taken clients up west and north. Lot of birders come out here. It pays OK.”

“So you stay here alone?”

“I do the bookings, keep the place going. Got a few helpers for the heavy stuff; and there’s a town about an hour away. It’s pretty convenient,” she said.

“I thought this was a wildlife farm. I don’t see any,” Max said as they reached the shade of the veranda.

“Used to be. It went bust thirty years ago. We kept the name.”

“And where’s Mr. Brandt?”

“He died a hundred years ago. This used to be a watering hole for cattle drovers, and Brandt had this place then. We kept that name, too. There didn’t seem much point in changing it. People round here don’t like change.”

People? Max could scarcely believe anyone lived within a thousand kilometers of this place.

It was a blessed relief to lie in the cool water that slopped nearly over the edge of the old cast-iron bath. The discolored water came from the same source as the watering hole, the underground spring, but it was tepid, not icy as it would have been at home.

Kallie knocked on the bathroom door. “When you’re ready!”

A simple bed, covered with a mosquito net, stood in the middle of what was a room obviously belonging to a sportsman. Pictures and trophies were everywhere: swimming, rugby, shooting, hockey, football. It was Kallie’s brother’s room.

“Johan’s away at boarding school. Look, you’re going to need better clothes than what you’ve got. You’re about the same size, so I’ve dug out some of his stuff.” Lightweight khaki shirts and shorts were on the bed, well worn but still serviceable.

“How old is Johan?”

“Seventeen, same as me. And you?”

“Sixteen, nearly seventeen,” he lied. He was big enough, he decided, to get away with it, and he wanted to impress her. She looked at him and turned away.