Geoffrey Jenkins - A Cleft Of Stars

Whatever the answer, the fact that I had heard him loading his rifle showed that he had been taken by surprise and meant business. It also added a more dangerous dimension to our contest: it became not merely Rankin (whom I felt sure it was) versus Guy Bowker; but a trigger-happy maniac ready to silence any unknown stranger who came to The Hill. I decided to end the impasse and make for the fig tree's root cage at the mouth of the secret entrance before the moon became much stronger. I was confident I could manage this without being seen. It was a short uphill climb through rubble; and several fissures at the foot of the cliff face would also afford cover. From behind the screen I would have a view of the camp fire.

I blackened my face, arms, clothes and gun with some unpleasant-smelling dust from the shelter floor. My sweat made it stick. I inched upwards towards my objective with long halts in the safe places. keeping the rifle clear of the rocks for fear of a tell-tale clink. The short distance was an eternity: every moment I expected a shot from below. Then I crawled through the lattice-work of roots, some as fine as grass, and peered down on my camp site.

There was no sign of anyone. It all seemed so peaceful: the friendly glow with an occasional spurt of typical leadwood sparks, my binoculars hanging from a nicked rock, my drink where I had put it down.

After an hour of tight vigilance a doubt crept into my mind. Had I indeed heard a rifle bolt — might it not have been a rock cracking? A cicada ground out a weary parody of his rain days. In the far distance a jackal complained; it was answered by a short jittery laugh from a hyena which broke off short as if the brute suspected my tense watch. From afar came the distant chuffer of a lion. The red glow of the blaze was gone from the sky and the moon was white.

Suddenly, as if by magic, a figure crouched by the fire, rifle at the ready, bush hat hard down over his eyes. It was so quick I did not see where he came from. As quickly, my rifle barrel was through the screen and my sights were trained on his head. He wasn't looking in my direction, though, but at the signs of my occupation. I could see from the set of his shoulders how tense he was. His back was half-turned, his face obscured. If I had any doubts about his purpose or qualms about gunning down an unsuspecting victim, his next action dispelled them. He took a handful of ash and rubbed it over his rifle barrel, breech, magazine and trigger guard — all the bright metal parts.

More than anything, I wanted to see his face. However, he moved swiftly across to kneel by the gunny-sack which stood out orange-yellow against the ground. He ignored it but his gaze went all round the compass, including the opening through which I had emerged. I watched his left hand, almost of its own independent will, finger the garish coloured mesh, while the wild animal it served kept tight watch. His other hand was curled round the rifle trigger. Those epicene hands were the hands of a craftsman and they frightened me as they touched and explored my things, passing on all there was to know to the spring-taut, unmoving body.

Then he turned towards me, cocking his head as if at some sound, and I had my answer. There was no mistaking Rankin's high forehead and slightly predatory look. The V of my sight stood clear against the middle of his forehead and I held his life in my trigger finger. But I 'dropped my aim past his head, along his back down to his leg. I wanted him winged, able to confess.

I fired.

The old gun exploded in my face.

There was a crash and stunning flash within inches of my eyes and at the same time I was hurled out of the root cage by a blow on the forehead by the back-firing bolt. As I crashed unconscious among the rocks I thought I heard the smack and ricochet of two rapid-fire shots from Rankin. I could not have been out for more than a few minutes; my fogged instincts on rising to consciousness told me that if I wanted to stay alive I must stay absolutely motionless despite the awful waves of nausea and flashes before my eyes. I lay sprawled half-in and half-out of a rocky cleft not more than eighteen inches deep and twice as long as a man. It had an upward incline; my head was downwards. The root cage was about ten feet above and to one side.

I eased myself into — a slightly better position and then cushioned my face in my arms biting down the nausea induced by pain and the smell of my own burnt hair and eyelashes. The head-down angle of my body didn't help either. Nor could I focus properly: the cordite seemed to have seared my eyes and blood dripped into them from the gash in my forehead which the bolt had made.

If I continued to lie where I was, I reasoned muzzily, Rankin might be persuaded that I was indeed dead and come to look for my body. Which wouldn't help me; he'd spot me as soon as he came near the root cage. If he chose to wait — and I had already had experience of his patience — I'd be bound to give myself away sooner or later and he would flush me out. It might be as late as next day, when I wouldn't even have the cover of darkness. Somehow or other I had to break out of the trap. I tried to look at the problem coolly, detachedly, but I was too tense and a solution eluded me. The higher the moon rose the slighter would my chances become. The only way out seemed to be the secret passageway but it would be impossible to reach its entrance in the root cage undetected. In any case, even should I gain the summit of The Hill, Rankin could starve me out without firing a shot.

I worried at the problem from every angle. I decided eventually that it might help if I knew more or less where Rankin was. I slid forward a few inches and lifted my eyes cautiously above my hiding-place. The camp was the same: utterly peaceful, nothing disturbed — and no Rankin: I presumed that he must have returned to his previous loophole. From it he commanded the fire, the cage and the approaches to the secret stairway. As I watched the fire gave a sudden flare but it was not bright enough to penetrate to where I felt sure Rankin lay hidden.

I explored every possibility of a solution again but nothing emerged. When the fire flared again I peered harder, hoping that in spite of my bad vision I would spot something. It was a bigger flare this time and the sparks reached high. The answer came as it subsided and I tried to project myself into Rankin's skin and think what I would do in his situation. The flare must have momentarily dazzled his night-sight and blotted out his picture of my cliff-side. Given one big burst of sparks again it might be possible for me to get clear unseen. The fire had been burning for hours, however, and how could I predict when a flare was coming? As if in reply, it sparked again: a miserable, tiny jet which was no cover at all. I was about to put the slim chance aside and rethink the whole problem from a new angle when it occurred to me that if I could make the fire flare I could pick my own moment to escape in the general direction of the wadi, away entirely from The Hill. Every possible method to achieve this, both practical and impractical, chased through my head. Somewhere, I-felt, there must be an answer. Now that I had almost decided on my course of action it was foolish to risk exposure again. I started to creep back quietly in order to offer the lowest profile possible. The clip of shells in my pocket dug into me. At once I knew the answer: tossed into the fire, the clip would explode and blow sparks and embers in every direction, blinding Rankin. It would also constitute a noisy diversion. Rankin would hardly expect a fusillade of shots within a few feet of his face.

I was excited at the prospect and fingered the clip but held myself back. The two critical factors would be when to toss the five shells into the fire and my aim, which would have to be perfect. There would be no second chance. I would also have to wait for one of the fire's periodic flares so that Rankin would remain unsuspecting when it landed and kicked up sparks. About the faint thud the clip would make in falling I could do nothing.