David Gilman - The Devil's breath

“Come on!” Max was stronger than his friend and he yanked him firmly towards the edge-he could see a muddy, froth-flecked wave rising up, ready to strike.

“I can’t swim!”!Koga shouted.

Max did not hesitate. “You won’t have to!” he shouted and dragged!Koga with him. They were in midair for a few seconds, then splashed into what, a minute earlier, had been the dry riverbank but which was now chest-deep water. Max kept a tight grip on!Koga’s wrist, surprised by his own strength. As they splashed into the confused undercurrent, it snatched them this way and that, but Max pushed his knees against it, ignored the bruising boulders that banged his shins, and hauled!Koga with him. As they clawed their way up onto dry ground, the wave broke behind them across the flat rock and drenched them in a curtain of water. They were wet, but now they were safe. The surging water would dissipate its own energy, the further away it traveled.

Max did not stop pulling!Koga after him until they were beyond the heaving water. Breathless, they stood and watched the water as it rolled by, now a steady stream. The rain stopped, the grumbling clouds quietened and, other than the gurgle of the water, it was quiet.

“The Mountain God,”!Koga said quietly.

Max nodded. There was no point arguing the case.!Koga had his beliefs and, after what seemed to be an intrusion on their part that caused the storm, Max wasn’t so sure!Koga was wrong.

“Well, he’s quiet now. Maybe he doesn’t like visitors. If someone climbed over my back garden fence and trampled on the flower bed, I’d turn the hose on them as well.” Max smiled but!Koga still seemed cautious, glancing nervously towards the darkened summit.

“It was a flash flood. Look.” He pointed to the riverbed. The water was lower now; somewhere downstream the ground had swallowed the river. Mud and debris scarred its path. “And we’re not going up there, so don’t worry.” He put an arm on!Koga’s shoulder. “Let sleeping gods lie.”

Once they had skirted the mountain slopes, Max saw the place he instinctively knew to be their destination: a flattened area between the high grass and the tree line. The savannah grass was high enough to hide a man, but a narrow strip had been pummeled by generations of elephants as they shuffled on their endless journeys, foraging for food and water. Max scanned the area. Animals probably moved from this flash-flood area to the wetlands further north. Somewhere down there was the captured dove he had seen in his mind’s eye; he didn’t like to call it a vision, it was still something he could not explain to himself. What he did know for certain was that this was where those images in his head had brought him.

An eagle’s screech snatched him from his reverie. He looked up at the circling bird that had swooped from the mountain’s sheer face. Gazing up at the eagle, he felt a chill squirm from his chest to his stomach-it seemed the eagle was calling to him, like one eagle to another. Or perhaps it was a warning? The bird was lifted away by an updraft and a sudden flurry of wind swirled dust, forcing them to turn their faces, hands covering their eyes against the stinging sand. As the wind dropped, Max found himself facing away from the trampled grass. His peripheral vision gave him another angle, which allowed him to see a shape in the trees. It was a slightly different shade of green from the others, and a smaller shadow skirted the fringe of scrubland.

For a moment, Max thought he saw a jackal. What was it he failed to remember about one of the constant clues in this whole thing: that wraithlike figure of the jackal? His father’s Egyptian stories came back to him-as well as being the God of the Dead, the jackal was the guide between the two worlds. It would show the way. That made sense. Even in the cave drawings, it was the jackal’s figure that had led him to the images of himself and his father on the wall.

Eagle, dust swirls and a specter-all directed him to that one place.

The flattened grass felt like straw beneath their feet. With the high grass to one side and the low trees to the other, Max sensed a mixture of dread and expectation. The place was comforting, like a secret den he’d had when he was younger-a place where you could hide and not be seen; one of those special places no one knows about-but it also felt like a baited trap. The further they went along that elephant track, the higher the grass, the more dense the shrubs and trees.

Max stopped.!Koga had moved ahead and went down on one knee. Max looked around him. A small flock of chattering birds scattered across the treetops. Was that a warning, or were they simply irritated by Max and!Koga’s presence? Max joined!Koga and stared into the undergrowth-there was something in there-it brooded in the shadows. Something fluttered, rasping, like leaves on a beech tree.

“There are no tracks,”!Koga told him. But that didn’t mean an animal could not have pushed its way into the undergrowth from another place. What little breeze there was came from behind them, so there was no apparent scent of anything, but whatever was in there would catch their scent. There were no sounds of feeding; elephants would be ripping the branches apart. What else? Buffalo were not supposed to be in this part of the country, but they had already experienced a rogue herd, the night of the stampede. Farmers had tried and failed to domesticate this most dangerous of animals, so there were still small herds scattered around. And a buffalo could wait until an unsuspecting hunter was almost nose to nose before charging and killing.

!Koga put an arrow onto his bow string and Max followed suit. Such a flimsy defense would be useless against a big animal, but it gave them courage.

Walking a couple of meters apart, they stepped cautiously into the undergrowth. The shadow was ten meters in, at the end of a broken path of shrub and low branches.

The sunlight flickered through the tree canopy; they were upon it now. Max lowered his bow, reached out to the irregular shape in front of him and touched a dried branch. He gave a tug and it fell away. Another step forward, another cut branch. That too he pulled back. Someone had cut branches down to hide whatever it was in this glade. Now his hands touched what felt like coarse string and plastic. He yanked, but it would not give. It was a net, snared over thorn branches. A camouflage net. The small, dull plastic panels fluttered differing shades of green. Max had seen plenty of these on the army training ground; an armored vehicle’s outline could be disrupted to make it very difficult to see. But now the shape behind the net was obvious.

It was a small plane.

And on its tail fin was the drawing of a dove.

The plane had been manhandled into the trees, turned, and then camouflaged. It looked as though someone wanted to be able to take off in a hurry, and that would be achieved by pulling off the cut branches and lifting the front of the netting clear of the propeller. Within moments of starting the engine, the pilot would be able to taxi forward, turn the plane onto the trampled grass, and take off.

Max and!Koga edged their way around the aircraft. The air was cooler under the trees’ canopy and the netting added a lot of shade. Max felt a guilty sense of trespass; this was someone else’s secret. As far as he could see, the plane was undamaged and was about the same vintage as Kallie’s, so, although it was unsophisticated, with only bare rudiments for comfort, it looked perfectly serviceable. Tentatively he reached out for the cabin door latch. It was unlocked. The door creaked a little and cool air from the interior touched his face.

!Koga had moved back into the sunlight and the entrance to the trees which, from where Max now sat in the pilot’s seat, looked like the mouth of a cave, with the inside of the plane and the shadows being the cave itself. Max let his fingers touch the controls, holding them in his palms like a flight simulator joystick on his computer at home. The unmoving dials waited for electrical current to spur them into life. Fuel gauge, airspeed indicator-in knots, not miles per hour like Kallie’s-this plane was a slightly newer model. Vertical speed dial, altimeter, a row of flip switches for lights and fuel pump, warning notices to check contaminants in the fuel and to make sure the seat was locked into position before takeoff and landing. A red master switch was in the Off position, waiting for the ignition key to be inserted and the magnetos switched on. Without thinking, he flipped down the sun visor and found a well-worn key with brown cardboard tag attached. An almost illegible call-sign number, faded beneath years of handling and grime, was written on the tag.