Those who had brought her to the camp led her to a hut built of bark and leaves, at the door of which a woman, seemingly of greater importance than the others, was seated on the ground with a child of three or four years in her lap. Not anticipating favours, the prisoner passively resigned herself to inspection, but thought she detected a sympathetic tremor, as though the personage recognized one who had suffered a tragedy.
Whether it was no more than what Mrs Roxburgh would have wished, or whether harmony was in fact established, it but lasted until she noticed the child’s snouted face and tumid body covered with pustular sores. From time to time the little girl moaned fretfully, wriggling, and showing the whites of her eyes.
The women held a conference, as an outcome of which the oldest and skinniest among them approached Mrs Roxburgh and without ceremony squeezed her breasts. These were hanging slack, shapeless, fuller than was normal in preparation for her own child, which she should by rights have been feeding. Relieved of the necessity for making milk by the dead baby’s premature birth, she was pretty sure her breasts were dry; nor was the hag satisfied by her investigations.
The assembly of women, and more than anyone the mother, were none the less determined to transfer the sick child to the captive’s arms. The child herself left Mrs Roxburgh in no doubt that she was to become the nurse, for a mouth was plunged upon her right nipple, and the yawed hands straightway began working on her breast. Compassion inspired by the memory of her own attempts at motherhood was flickering to life, when her foster-child doused it beyond re-kindling. On discovering that she had been deceived, the little girl bit the unresponsive teat, and spat it out, and screamed and writhed in the nurse’s arms. Pain alone would have driven Mrs Roxburgh to drop its cause, but the mother’s looks dared her to, and the blows she received on her head and shoulders from the attendant women, persuaded her to keep hold of the wretch.
Presently, when she had quieted it, she seated herself on the ground beside a fire burning near the entrance to the hut, and hoped she might be, if not forgotten, at least ignored. She sat mechanically stroking the diseased arms, the greasy hair. An automaton was what she must become in order to survive.
Round her the blacks were proceeding with their various duties, beneath a splendid sky, beside a lake the colour of raw cobalt shot with bronze. Despite her misery and the child in her arms, Mrs Roxburgh could not remain unmoved by the natural beauty surrounding her. Evening light coaxed nobler forms out of black bodies and introduced a visual design into what had been a dusty hugger-mugger camp. What she longed to sense in the behaviour of these human beings was evidence of a spiritual design, but that she could not, any more than she could believe in a merciful power shaping her own destiny.
For lack of a better occupation, and to keep her dangerous thoughts at bay, she continued rocking her disgusting charge. Once she caught herself saying aloud, ‘Sleep, sleep,’ and by grace of some mechanism, ‘sleep — my darling,’ more for her own comfort than the child’s; the sound of her voice, she realized, was a consolation.
She could feel quickening in her, not only that abstract hunger for absent faces and familiar voices, but desire for food to fill the hole which actual hunger had gnawed in her belly. The air was alive with distracting scents as the women tended the embers where they had laid fish, varieties of root or tuber, and a brace of small furred animals, their muzzles and almost human hands still testifying to the agony in which they had died.
Mrs Roxburgh could have fallen upon these agonized creatures, torn them apart, stuffed her mouth, even before the fur was singed, the flesh seared, before the blood had ceased bubbling in them. But when the feast was ready she was not invited. As superior beings the men set about gorging themselves with appropriate solemnity. Without a doubt the physical splendour, both of the mature males and more slender youths, was worthy of celebration. Occasional morsels were thrown to the wretched females, who grovelled in keeping with their humble station, and scooped up the scraps, and shook off the dust before devouring them.
The captive was free to listen to the noise of sucking, bones being cracked, and to watch the contortions of black throats. Food had at least sent her charge scuttling back to the mother, but this left the nurse with nothing to distract her from her own hunger.
Towards the end of the meal, somebody (it could have been the child’s mother) flung her a fish-tail and a dorsal fin. She snatched them up from out of the dirt and started sucking at the glutinous membrane, risked her mouth on the barbed fin for the sake of a shred of flesh she imagined she saw adhering to the base, ran her tongue round her lips and teeth, licked her deliciously rank fingers — and whimpered once or twice to herself.
(Could she perhaps crawl out after dark and scavenge for the bones of those small furred animals? But dogs carried off any remains their masters had failed to swallow. One partially bald cur bit her as she tried to seduce him into sharing his booty.)
While dusk crept amongst them, and shadows became increasingly entwined with tree and smoke, an elder rose and led the tribe in a kind of lament. The prisoner concluded that the natives were at their prayers, for their wails sounded formal rather than spontaneously emotional. She considered adding at least an unspoken prayer of her own, but found she lacked the impulse; her soul was as dry as her hanging breasts. If she had ever worshipped a supreme being, it was by rote, and the Roxburgh’s Lord God of Hosts, to whom her mother also had paid no more than lip service. Her father was of a different persuasion: as a young man he had belted out the hymns, but fell silent later on. A silent girl, she had inherited his brooding temper. As she now recognized, rocks had been her altars and springwater her sacrament, a realization which did but increase heartache in a country designed for human torment, where even beauty flaunted a hostile radiance, and the spirits of place were not hers to conjure up.
Under the pressure of darkness and common desires her captors were sorting themselves into families and the huts allotted to them. Darkness might have encouraged her to disappear had she known which direction to take. An aching body and numb mind persuaded her instead to crawl inside the hut to which the mother of her charge had retired, together with other women and children and the elder who had led their prayers. By good fortune the mother elected to keep her child for the night, allowing the nurse to enjoy the freedom of her own dreams.
She had lain down on the edge of a somnolent fire which increased the airlessness of the hut and added to the warmth given off by the bodies crowded there. As cold encroached from out of the forest and off the lake, she edged closer to the buried coals, and turned to roast her other side. What she might be suffering physically she barely felt, for she was soon absorbed into tribal dreams broken by soft cries of children together with other more mature grunts and moans.
During the night she returned to her body from being the human wheelbarrow one of the muscular male blacks was pushing against the dark. There was no evidence that her dream had been inspired by any such experience, but she fell back upon the dust, amongst intimations of the nightmare which threatened to re-shape itself around her. Her trembling only gradually subsided as she lay fingering the ring threaded into her fringe of leaves and she became once more part of the suffocating airlessness and moans of sleeping blacks, her own sleep so deep and dreamless she might have died.
She awoke by a colourless light in which human forms were already moving, fanning half-dead fires to life, airing their grumbles, urinating. By the time the surrounding trees had risen through a mist, the tribe appeared to have re-assembled, and the lamentations of the evening before were repeated in a cold dawn. Whether the wailing was intended to exorcize malign spirits, the captive felt that some of her more persistent ghosts might have been laid by this now familiar rite. She was, moreover, comforted to find herself still in possession of her body, even though aching, and frozen where it had not been seared; the life was flickering back inside her like the first hesitant tongues of fire the blacks were coaxing out of buried embers.