Thokozani S.B. Maseko - Like a Lily on a Mountain, Love Grows on Rocky Terrains

“Damn you! Don’t you know better than to anger a gimp?” He pulled away from her and grabbed the horse’s reins.

“And I’ll be riding upright this time,” she told him with that slight Zimbabwean accent to her voice.

She left her hand on his arm; with the other, she cradled his child. He debated the idea in his head for a moment, and then he put his left foot into the stirrup and hauled his stiff right leg around with a soft curse.

“Hand me up the baby.” She moved closer to the horse and then she hesitated. She held his son protectively, as if she could shield him from the element with her arms, alone. “You can’t get up here with the baby in your arms, now can you?” He raised his eyebrows.

“And if I give you little Pat, what’s to say you won’t just ride off with him in your arms and leave me here?”

“Little Pat? I thought you said that his name was Mashwa,” Welcome responded, thoroughly confused.

“I couldn’t stand it either,” she admitted, a girlish giggle escaping with the admission.

“Well, if you don’t hurry up onto this horse, all three of our names will be followed by ‘rest in peace,’ honey. Darkness is falling, let’s go.”

***

The sound of angry horses’ hooves echoed against the mountains surrounding them. Welcome reached down, grabbed the baby, and tucked him back against his chest. The woman stared intently at him, daring him to go back on his word.

Reluctantly, his hand went down and clasped hers. In one second she was seated behind him.

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” she asked. “About it being 1973?”

He shook his head. The land bridge had been right near where he had lain in wait. What was it the traditional healers called it? The Bridge of Safety?

“It’s 1973, Sweet Hannah,” he said.

“My name is Hannah,” she corrected.

He liked Sweet Hannah better.

“Welcome,” he replied, as if they were introducing themselves at some church social. The clatter of hooves grew louder still, and darkness was falling.

“If we can hear them …” Hannah warned in Welcome’s ear.

“Shit,” he replied. “Will you be able to keep him quiet?” Welcome whispered in the darkness.

Hannah nodded, and then she realised that he couldn’t see her, and she made a tiny affirmative noise. Fear sent goose bumps up and down her arms, and if she didn’t have the baby to cling to, she might have hugged herself until she was squashed between her arms. She felt Welcome’s arm go around her, guiding her against his warmth.

“You’re shivering.” He ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to warm her. “Put your hand in here,” he said, taking one of her hands and putting it inside his shirt.

Tentatively, she unclenched her fist and rested the palm of her cold hand against the warmth of Welcome’s chest. The warmth of his body drove the chill away.

***

They could see nothing in the darkness of the tiny room, hidden in the bowels of an English farmer’s ruins, all dry and cold and empty. Hannah followed Welcome down the ladder at the last moment, not wanting to be hidden in the dark basement any longer than necessary. Hundreds of years ago this had been an English man’s storehouse and a sacred place, used for preserving grains and for ceremonies.

Hannah could swear that the spirits still inhabited the room as she huddled on the floor, listening for human sounds. She heard instead the scurrying of a small animal and flinched instinctively. Welcome patted her arm gently, pulling her still closer against him.

“God, you’re stiff, woman,” he said. “I’m just offering you the warmth of my body.”

He reached across her to scoop her into him, and she felt his hand touch her naked legs. At the contact, she jumped away like a jackrabbit, banging her head against the hard stones behind her and gasping loudly. “No wonder you’re cold! What are you doing with your damn skirts up?” he asked, tugging at them to no avail and tracing them until he learnt that they were wrapped snugly around his son.

“Have you suddenly gone dumb?” he said through clenched teeth, barely controlling his temper. “He’s my son, and I can see to his needs.” He took his arm off her shoulder. Even in the dark she could tell that he removed his shirt. He tried to pry the baby from her arms, but she refused to let go. The baby was nearly asleep. Jostling him now could make him cry. Besides, she needed to keep him pressed tightly against her to keep her heavily pounding heart from breaking out of her chest.

With a sigh, he put his shirt over her legs and leaned back against the cold stones.

“Thanks …” Hannah began, but Welcome quickly put his hand over her mouth.

It tasted fairly salty, as she quickly closed her lips and nodded that she understood. He moved his arm around her and pulled her tightly to him. His body felt remarkably warm despite the coolness of their hiding place. His other hand moved to his side. She heard the gun slip quietly out of his holster, metal against leather, as if it had made that trip a thousand times before.

Boots on rock and wood floors made a hard, cold sound that echoed off the stone walls around them. In the room above them, a piece of furniture scraped against the floor, and footsteps stopped above their heads. Hannah inhaled sharply. Welcome smelled of sweat, the baby’s pee, and something indefinable. It was a sharp pungent smell but not all that unpleasant. Hannah buried deeper against him, and his arm tightened against her protectively. The tension in his body was overwhelming, and Hannah knew from the feel of his taunt left leg beside her that if he had two good legs, he’d have been up on them. Now, it was suddenly too late.

“Themba, what the hell are you doing?” Thabani Dlamini hollered. The words reverberating in the clay basement in which Hannah and Welcome hid.

“Look here,” he answered, and they heard a second set of boots cross over their heads. Once before, she had huddled in the dark with a man’s arms around her, waiting for voices to pass and leave them alone again. This man sat rigidly as the other one had. This one’s hand had covered her mouth, touched her leg, just as the other one’s had. She took shallow little gulps of air, fighting the rising panic within her.

In her head, voices rang from beyond a closed door: Have you seen Father Darien? Is anyone in there?

“I found myself a lady’s petticoat, Thabani. Think what her name is?” the voice belonged to Themba.

“All that stuff looks the same to me. The only difference is the woman in it.”

“Look, Thabani, it’s ripped. Do you suppose Mandla’s right, and it could be, and he got up into her underwear? Suppose they did it right on this floor?” He stamped, and Hannah felt dizzy and sick to her core.

Welcome sat rigidly against her.

“Mandla will be mad if she’s getting poked.”

“Well, if it is Welcome who’s got her, I’d be surprised if he could do much with her; but if he’s still alive, he might be willing to poke anybody who wants what’s left of him. I’d guess between her looks and his remains; it wouldn’t be much to see.”

“You suppose she’s got those freckles even where the sun doesn’t shine?” Themba asked.

The baby stretched in Hannah’s arms and made a sucking sound. Welcome tensed, and she felt his hand move by his side. Was that a click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back? The baby smacked his lips again, and she pushed her thumb against his lips. Accepting the substitute, he rubbed his sore gums against her finger noisily. It was the best Hannah could do. She just had to hope that the Dlaminis couldn’t hear it against the echoes of their voices.

Another set of footsteps joined the others. Mandla Dlamini’s voice filled the ancient ruins and echoed in the mouldy basement around the hidden threesome.