He stood, his eye still shut; words existed elsewhere. She slanted over the table and gazed across herself. Some previous part of her being wanted to adjust the splutter that moved over her body, twist the focus back into detail and rewind the clock. She watched as he returned to the moment; he began to make small, pinching movements with his finger and thumb, trying to capture the Lilliputian figures that bustled in the streets, to pluck them up. She assumed he was jesting, but discerned no trace of amusement in his stern and twisted expression.
When they left the tower, they found light and the scent of woodsmoke in the attic. Mutter had found a window and opened it onto the rooftops. He had long since gone, driven away by their animal sounds, which had slid down from above to tantalise the recumbent wires.
They returned to the third floor. At the door of his dwelling, Ishmael held his hand out towards her. She reciprocated, touched by his gesture of affection. The instant their hands met, she knew she had made a mistake. His rigid fingers were eloquent in their distance.
‘No,’ he said, ‘the keys.’
Thus, the cyclops changed his status in the quiet house on Kühler Brunnen; the next episode of their life together had begun.
By the time the young Tsungali had returned from his trip abroad, the rumours about Oneofthewilliams had sped well beyond the borders of the True People and reached the coast. He had been horrified to learn, upon entering the village, that the chosen one was the same officer who had given him Uculipsa. The Englishman had shown him kindness and taught him to shoot well, had separated himself from the other whites and shown alliance to the True People almost from the moment he had arrived; he had risked the displeasure of his superiors and made himself an outcast by saving the great prize, the blessed young shaman, Irrinipeste, from the church, and from the abominations that the priest of crossed sticks had subjected her to. But still Tsungali had wondered if this man could be trusted, if he would arise against his own kind when it mattered most and help banish these lying intruders forever.
His deliberations had been short-lived. Minutes into his return, his homecoming was interrupted by the news that his brother and two of their friends were being held by one of the sea tribes, who demanded the return of the long-awaited Oneofthewilliams to the coast, where his own people eagerly awaited their messiah.
Tsungali had gone immediately to explain the situation to Williams. He told him of the kidnap and the meeting with the Sea People, and asked him to come with the rescue party, for his help in the parley; what he did not mention was that the Englishman was the prize, the desired barter that would ensure the safe release of his fellow tribesmen.
They met on the sands – jungle on one side, sea on the other; six of the Sea People holding the three hostages. Tsungali had brought five men to represent his tribe: three warriors, a policeman and, of course, Williams, who stood slightly to the side, motionless and cradling a small rucksack in his arms. He had taken off his boots and they hung around his neck by their laces, leaving his white feet bare in the wet, sucking sand. The hostages were tied together and knelt before their captors, each of whom were armed with spears and blades. The Enfield was not present. Instead, Tsungali carried a ceremonial spear with the colours of authority tied on: he was speaking for his people.
The leader of the Sea People barked out his terms, eloquently concluding by tapping the staff of his spear on the back of Tsungali’s brother’s head; the crouching man’s eyes darted back and forth between his bonds, his brother and the foreigner.
They were finalising the niceties of the exchange when Williams raised his hand and took a step forward. From inside his rucksack, he withdrew a small bundle and threw it between the two parties. He spoke ten words in the language of the True People, before pulling the monstrous pistol from his bag, stepping forwards and shooting Tsungali’s brother and the Sea People’s leader at point blank range. The wounds plumed in the dazzling fresh light, and the force threw the bodies back into the sand. Nobody moved. Williams picked up the barbed spear of the dead leader and walked over to Tsungali, taking the bound spear from his tight grip. He uttered two more words, then turned and paced back towards the camp, the sound of his feet matching the heartbeat of the stationary warriors.
The prisoners were untied from the dead man, who had thrashed against them and tightened their bonds as his blood darkened the beach. Nobody spoke, they just dispersed, going their own way towards jungle and seashore.
The bundle thrown between them had been a shamanistic truce of great potency; no man would argue with it. The fact that it was his proved the truth of what he said, as well as his purpose. His words had confirmed that he was indeed Oneofthewilliams: he had returned. But their betrayal and wrong actions meant that, from then on, he would belong to no one. Sacrifices would have to be made, to appease his anger and hold the tribes in constant balance.
Tsungali had guessed where the bundle had come from; who had made it, and given him the words. The whole incident had been overseen by a shaman; she had warned Williams and given him the power to triumph.
The tide had begun to turn inwards, water filling the impressions in the sand where he stood. He thought about her opal eyes watching him at that moment, thought of her astonishing eminence. She would be the key to the uprising; a key Williams had just turned.
Tsungali did not have anger or sadness. The bundle had smoothed it away; rightness had been performed. He picked up the pieces of his brother and returned home, where the wrath of his tribe was already boiling over.
In his wake, the sea came in and removed the blood. The brilliant red swirled with the yellow sand beneath the crystal green water. The bundle was lifted and carried out, far beyond the land, where it dissolved in the pulsing waves. When the sea retreated, and the endless sun turned the mud back into glittering powder, there would be no trace of the men, or the consequences of their actions.
The atmosphere in the camp was taut to snapping point. De Trafford was scarlet as he spat abuse into Williams’ face in front of the entire company. They were standing in uniform, a small, tidy, geometric rank, before the fidgeting avalanche of True People, a momentum seething with rage and betrayal. They had been thinking and sleeping on all the wrongs Tsungali had described to them, the duplicity and the evil of all these whites. All except one.
The commanding officer tightened their insistence with each pompous word. Just before the snapping point, a quiet movement slid from the centre of the clutching warriors, slipping softly between the stiff uniforms as they secretly revelled in Williams’ humiliation.
She drifted next to the accused like a vapour and touched his hand. He looked down at the beloved shaman and into her impossible eyes. De Trafford raged above them, and then saw their indifference. He stumbled down from his small pedestal and snatched at the girl. Grabbing at her throat, he tried to pull her aside, but it was like yanking on a granite column: nothing moved, and his fingers screamed. He snatched at her but fell to the floor, still barking his orders, with only her torn amulet and part of her dress in his hands. His raging never ceased. He barked orders from the dirt; he barked orders as he scrambled to his feet. He was still barking orders when the .303 round from the Enfield burned through his ribcage and skewered his loud, bulging heart. Chaos ensued.