Broken Wings

By Glory Keveme

Broken Wings is mainstream fiction. It is the extraordinary story of Daniel Surefire Lasky an Apache-raised tracker and lion-killing Big Game Hunter who is commissioned to find the grave of a missionary last seen in Northern Rhodesia, 30 years before. What starts out as a search for a missing priest, grows into a dangerous mission, evolving into a quest for existential meaning. What Surefire finds in Africas cursed Shinshika Mountains will change forever his cynical world view and cavalier lifestyle. This powerful and inspiring story, filled with drama, adventure, passion and love, is set to become another international bestseller for Keverne a natural story-teller whose talent is richly expressed in this unique book.

ACCLAIM FOR GLORY KEVERNES A MAN CANNOT CRY.

A PEOPLE magazines Top Ten Book of the Year in America. A BOOKSELLERS Most Promising Title in Britain.

A MAN CANNOT CRY is the finest first novel I have ever handled (including THE COLLECTOR by John Fowles, and THE WATER IS WIDE by Pat Conroy). Close to 50 years in publishing as a writer, editor and agent and I have never heard such a story of how a relatively uneducated girl of eighteen in a little copper mining town in Northern Rhodesia, married to a miner, began a powerful first novel of 500,000 words (before cutting), and spent years writing it under the most amazing circum- stances. I have never been as overwhelmed by a first novel. She is simply a born story teller. Julian Bach, New York Agent and a former editor of LIFE magazine.

Gloria, you have a wonderful novel here. It moved me to tears and its editing has been a labor of love for me. A Man Cannot Cry has given me great pleasure and I thank you for it. Eventually the world will too. Hillel Black, William Morrow, USA.

This excellent novel is an African answer to THE THORN BIRDS. With first rate characterization and an unusual and ingenious plot, the combination of Africa, the Quaker settlement and medicine, is exceptionally good. P Parkin, HarperCollins, UK.

A MAN CANNOT CRY pulses with the life of Northern Rhodesia and all Africa besides. The story begins in 1958 with the arrival of Dr Than Profane at a Quaker mission to see his dying father. He does not intend to stay but before long he is

taking Africa like a drug and thriving like cut grass growing wild He quickly

earns the affectionate name Bwana Cowboy. His methods and sometimes his

morals are characteristically American, rough-hewn, deaf to both danger and defeat

Inevitably he clashes with his conservative hosts. But he does much better with

the local tribes there is a wonderful passage where he is trained as a witchdoctor and some of the books finest characters, lovingly portrayed, are African The book is alive with people, places, and their interactions: births and deaths in squalid hut and shiny hospital, cruel savages and a tame leopard; the glory of a canoe trip on the Zambezi and a white man dressing as a witchdoctor to fight a smallpox epidemic; and in the background the murmuring voices of a changing Africa, Lumumba, Tshombe, Kasavubu, Kaunda. A MAN CANNOT CRY dramatizes all the conflicts and parallels between the white world and the black, the old Africa and the new, the familiar and the alien, the uncertain fears of the mind and the sure knowledge of the heart. Long, rich and detailed, it is a wonderful book.

Alan Ryan, THE WASHINGTON POST.

An enormous array of human emotion is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477118887

Book preview

Acknowledgements

To help in my work, God blessed me with a band of angels. Many are members of my own family, a special four being those eternal friends and essential confidantes, my sisters, who have so generously been present in my life in the following ways:

Beloved Brenda, irreplaceable editor, has been the wind beneath my wings with all my writing. After her dedicated support with my first novel, I was again honoured to have her wonderful insightful perspective on THE DIVINE DAWNING. Brilliant, hardworking and a highly-talented novel writer in her own right, she has been an inspiration with her cheerful courage in face of on-going illness, her unfailing family support, her generous spirit, and most of all her loving care of our ailing mother.

Darling Barbara, I value for her humbleness, her compassionate heart amid her own suffering, her unjudging belief in the goodness of others, her concern for all people, her medical acumen, her amazing memory of dates and the birthdays of even strangers, and most of all her wonderful inspiring faith in me and my abilities.

Dearest June, I appreciate for her lovable sense of humour even during grave illness, her wonderful ability to make me and others feel special, our searching spiritual discussions, her loving deed in so beautifully rescuing my neglected garden, her valuable input in copy editing this book, and most of all for her ever-cheerful companionship and unfailing support in so many areas of my life.

And my very dear Joan, serene through years of pain, who’s extraordinary practical support in so many wonderful ways included supplying me with countless uncannily-attracted books and musical tapes as well as beautiful Native American artefacts lovingly hand-crafted with incredible skill. Although she worked unseen behind the lines, her treasured contributions profoundly informed and inspired the writing of this trilogy.

******* MY GRATITUDE TO YOU ALL IS BOUNDLESS *******

For the graphics and art, special dreams led me to ‘The Keeper of the Forest’, Brigette Johnson. I was privileged to tap the genius of this shy friend of the Earth who, in the pursuit of perfection and my satisfaction, patiently produced many hundreds of trial pictures. I will be eternally grateful for Brigette’s painstaking collaboration to faithfully interpret my vision with rare insight and skill.

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God sent another earthly angel to act as my personal computer-repair man: I thank my son Jason for the wonderful computer and printer he gave me, and his unceasing assistance and support via their working, upgrading and repair. I am grateful to God for the precious gift of our grandson Connor, whose birth in the penultimate year of the book’s writing has been a great refreshing blessing to my husband and me.

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I could not have toiled for so many years on any of my novels without the help of my beloved husband, my earthly guardian angel, who so heroically took over many household and domestic chores as well as all official duties to allow me the freedom to work unhindered. I thank him for his special vegetarian sunday roasts, for chauf-feuring me wherever I needed to go, for taking care of my every need, for making my happiness paramount, for shielding me and my privacy, and, whilst I worked, for keeping me topped up with Tab, wine gums and short bread amongst other passing fads. In retrospect, ours truly was a marriage conceived in heaven … by, I believe, the same Authority who commissioned this work.

Many nuances of the unique Red Indian character were assimilated from my dear Sioux friend, Kwa-ta-haw, who came when my soul called, then ‘walked the snow’ when the task was finally accomplished. Although the death of Fast Running Deer (like those of others) sadly preceded the Trilogy’s completion, the role he played in it was vital and I know he will celebrate it with joy. I will be eternally grateful for the special insight and loving friendship shared by this great bear-like Native American elder who was a proud descendent of the historic Sioux Chief, Red Cloud.

Stanley J Corwin was the USA paperback publisher of my first novel. Stan, my night-in-shining-armour agent, saved A MAN CANNOT CRY (Tudor’s lead first book) when he bravely bought the newly-formed publishing house after its founder died suddenly. I thank him for his inspiring faith in my work which, even when we lost contact, shone, as sustained as a star, leading me through the dark night of doubt during long and difficult years, to the Divine Dawning of this bright new day.

I salute my late Grandfather, Thomas Henry Keverne, whose courageous life became the model for Serenity’s adoptive grandparent. I thank my dear son Adam and daughter-in-law Julia for their loving long-distance encouragement (vital when I felt weary and overwhelmed) and dear brother-in-laws, David Alexander (for so patiently repairing my ancient Apple II e computer in the early years) and Mike Johnson (for his encouraging excitement about my book which drew him out of deep depress-sion, cementing him in the reading habit to this day!). I am grateful to every member of my family and extended family through whose every-day problems I learnt so much, and whose love and support have helped make my work possible. My nephew Glenn Alexander’s exceptional support of his parents during difficult times, eased my mind, and the charming melted freckles, corn-silk hair and blue eyes of my niece, Michelle Haldane, helped inspire the physical appearance of Serenity Haskell. The Trilogy was enriched by the nostalgic 40’s memories warmly shared by three dearly-loved ladies, all now passed on: my mother-in-law, Maggie; family friend, Peggy Johnson, and special aunt, Phyllis Keverne.

To allow me to concentrate fully on writing this complex novel, I’m sad to confess that my house, garden and pets went without adequate attention for long periods. Once finally finished, I felt as out-of-touch as Sleeping Beauty waking up after a long hibernation. Only then could I see how removed, in my deep preoccupation, I had become from my own life. My beloved sons had grown up like flashes before my disbelieving eyes. During the writing of my novels I forgot many material and physical concerns. I cut my own hair and my wardrobe suffered since I hardly noticed fashions come and go, and started writing A MAN CANNOT CRY wearing 60’s slacks which went out of fashion and came back in while I was still wearing the style during the early writing of this trilogy. While I worked, paint peeled from the increasingly-cluttered house and my social life became practically extinct. I gave family birthday gifts en masse each Christmas when I, increasingly reclusive, suffered severe stress evoked by crowded shopping sprees. Sadly, loved ones went unvisited and occasions unattended; also friendships were put on hold whilst I compulsively wrote this never-ending tome protectively surrounded by the inspiring silence and grandeur of my beautiful God-bequeathed forest at Heavenly Grace.

I am particularly thankful for the unsung heroes who so often work silently and unrecognized in the backgrounds of many homes: in my case the hard-working Zulu housekeepers (essential for writing time and peace of mind) who kept my house clean and tidy and my life comfortable and secure over the years, watching my children grow and enduring, while they worked, the endless replaying of the music that inspired me in my writing. These are Elizabeth Ndlovu (now moved on) Katrina Mkhize (now passed on) and ‘Katie’ Catherina Madlala and her children, Skumbuzo, Sifiso, Tina and Slindile-all dearly-loved extended family during years of service. Winnie Mkhize and her children Nkaniso, Xolo, Girl Girl and Lulu, also played a special part in my life. I recognize Ephraim Mutemba (my husband’s right hand man for so many years) Henry Maduna (with his compassion for animals) and workers who have since died, Anton Mkhize and Enoch-all of whose courage and stoicism during difficult lives inspired my creation of the character ‘Shaka’.

I apologize to the writers of many unanswered letters about A MAN CANNOT CRY, also overseas family and hopefully-forgiving friends like Colonel Mike Hoare who encouraged me during this intense time of my life when I promised myself I would answer everyone as soon as I had finished my ‘nearly-completed’ book whilst I worked on towards this elusive end, which always (to preserve my own sanity) seemed imminent, and which was anticipated and toasted every New Year’s Eve without fail. Unfortunately, this eternally-moving goal post (which confused many well-wishers) kept disappearing over the next horizon.

I thank all acquaintances and friends who lent books and gave advice, remaining faithful in the background over the long years of the book’s writing. The late Hazel Thompson’s religious legacy confirmed much I’d received inspirationally; Isolda Mellet gave generous practical help when I hardly knew her, and lawyer Russell Merton was a truly good neighbor with legal advice and moral support. Graphic artist Sandy Dixon made skilful adjustments to both editions with infinite patience; Sandy Wright was a great support when my husband got ill, Hazel Foster was always there and Ruth Mellin trusted me with sacred books, ‘loaning’ me her now-departed husband whenever I needed his special knowledge.

Legendary conservationist, Dr Ian Player has been an inspiration with his nature wisdom and a friendship shared with him and his dear wife Ann. Wilfred Theunis-sen earned special gratitude for truth-filled books, selflessly sent. Rosemary Collet is specially thanked for her vitally-remembered facts of colonial life; naturalist Tom Brown Jr for the example of his life, Lion Man Gareth Patterson for lion and nature-lore; big game hunters Gordon Cundill and Kelly Davis for hunting techniques; media-man Khaba Mkhize for ubuntu insights; Rev. Ian Cowley for religious protocol; Peggy Watts and Doreen Wissing for facets of priestly life; botanist Isabel Johnson for tree identification; David Cannon for auction information, Glenda Thompson for Mazabuka detail, Zori’s Mineral Kingdom for mineral advice, Shielagh Bamber for copy-editing, and Garth Kirton for practical advice. For generous hospitality over the years via rare week-end rests away, I thank family members, Joan and Quentin Lonmon and Cynthia and Dan Winslow. Heartfelt thanks go to dedicated printing staff Rekha Bharath and Marlen Naidoo for their extraordinary patience, kindness and support. Most of all I thank God for all that I needed, including magically-materialized books.

Lastly, I thank my supportive readers. Although I’ve loved writing this work, it proved no easier than A MAN CANNOT CRY, and because of its elevated theme, was even more all-consuming. In fact, these last two decades (when I again virtually dropped out of life) seemed particularly exhausting and trying to me and my neglected family and friends alike. Over time and several house moves I lost all touch with local and international literary and publishing worlds. Yet, even though my number was unlisted, many readers of my first novel somehow tracked me down, and unfailingly, whenever my self belief slipped, an uncannily-synchronized letter, a timely phone call out of the blue, and later, internet reviews, kept me keeping on. Encouraging me with inspiring feedback during my long lonely years writing this trilogy, these communications motivated me through many discouraging times. Aside from making my years of seclusion and apparently-endless writing seem worthwhile, they validated my purpose and life’s work.

May the Broken Wings Trilogy be a blessing to all the kind souls who, in these many ways and often unknowingly, helped in its creation.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

THE DIVINE DAWNING is the first book of the BROKEN WINGS TRILOGY. Although based upon religious truths and spiritual laws, and authentic territories, tribes and circumstances in Northern Rhodesia in particular and Africa in general, it is a work of fiction. Except for historical celebrities its characters are creatures of my own creation. Otherwise any resemblance to persons living or dead, is coincidental.

Since I feel that some aspects of commonly-used grammar and punctuation are confusingly finicky, I’ve made simplifying adaptions to suit my personal style-which is based on British spellings interspersed with some preferred American variations. I’ve also kept some traditional forms: (for example, light hair is blond hair, a light-haired male is a blond, and a light-haired female is an e-added blonde.) For consistency, I like to hyphenate most compounds functioning as adjectives before nouns unless I feel there is good reason not to. Also I put no commas after brackets which themselves indicate pauses.

I took further licence to bring necessary ingredients together in time and place: most conspicuously, please note that the mysterious Shinshika Mountains, previewed in a beautiful dream, will not be found on any earthly landscape or map.

Suffering, which has permeated Africa’s history, was the psychological bed in which the trilogy was conceived and born. In my South African homeland the brutalizing apartheid inevitably left brutal people in its wake, and civil wars (between races and political parties) raged around me as I wrote. Then, just as dawn was breaking with the release of Nelson Mandela, the AIDS pandemic escalated to horrifying proportions: exacerbated by poverty, it has forced countless elderly folk to become sole family caregivers, leaving millions of starving orphans to survive alone in their ramshackle homes. How a loving God could allow such suffering is a question many religions seem unable to answer. Humanity’s casual destruction of fellow creatures and his own habitat, is another.

The Trilogy-particularly the last two books-examines such anomalies in a new way. THE DIVINE DAWNING, the first, details one man’s spiritual awakening-his nagging dissatisfaction with the status quo, and subconscious search for a purpose greater than what could be found in the lusty liaisons, worldly goals and material goods continually temping him in the visible universe. But there are no new truths in the world and the eternal verities unfolding in the three books (growing ever more profound as the story progresses) have been available to man since time immemorial. Long overlooked or misunderstood, potentially life-changing biblical revelations are dramatized in new ways which will hopefully help some to realize, emotionally, what may have been grasped only intellectually before.

In the Trilogy’s creation, countless aspects of the area and age were continually researched: besides three large files packed with facts, I accumulated around fifty hand-written notebooks filled with reminders, references, ideas and snippets of information gleaned from my own experiences and many other sources over the years. I also found wonderful books (some ancient and others relatively new) which confirmed and elaborated upon many of my own long-held beliefs, theories and predictions, some helpfully backed by concrete facts and figures. Two of these were old enough to earn cameo roles in the Trilogy. I also owe much to the shared knowledge and special friendship of South African garden columnist Jean Mitchell, and American seedsman JL Hudson who’s ethics, rare eyes for unconventional truth, and respect for nature’s wisdom have been an inspiration and support to me in my personal quest to unveil the many forms of ignorance and evil used to increasingly injure and exploit our beloved planet and all its beleaguered creatures and life forms.

Despite the Trilogy’s spiritual theme, I have not avoided life’s rude realities. Any who may be offended by irreverent swearing or by racist or sexual speech and behaviour should be warned that my aim as a writer is to portray life, not as I wish it to be, but as I know it to be. Especially since the Trilogy starts with Animal Man at his basest, I have tried to create a realistic replica of human life in the twentieth century, allowing the reader behind the scenes to grasp motives and the cause and consequence of human error. I believe we overcome evil by exposing its ignorant roots, not by ignoring it-and political correctness, when applied retrogressively, is as useless as painting clown-smiles onto crying faces which still weep beneath the false facade. Since this device (albeit well-meaning) can distort recorded history, I believe it has no place in literature striving to authentically convey time, place and era-mood.

Fundamentalist fervour, ever with us, is not always a credit to Christianity. Although I’ve used Moral Re-Armament (prominent in the forties) to illustrate this, readers should understand that religions are always at the mercy of individual interpretation. Fortunately, after a questionable start (according to reports at the time) ‘The Oxford Group’ has evolved, and in my opinion, is today a belief system based on worthy tenets. Herein lies hope for us all.

The crushing of cultures, as illustrated in the story, is, I believe, still practiced in some religious missions, churches and institutions today. Although this prejudiced practice is not as prevalent and noticeable as once it was, the now largely unconscious thinking behind it continues to warp perceptions in world society and will not be eliminated until universally recognized and corrected on a conscious level. Fortunately not all missionaries perpetuated it: in pioneering days, especially, many brought great upliftment to native peoples bedevilled by cruel customs and crippling superstitions. Indeed I believe our Dark Continent owes much to the selfless service of shining souls like Dr David Livingstone, Dr Albert Schweitzer, Bishop John Colenso, the Rev Arthur Shearly Cripps, Father Trevor Huddleston and Dr Helen Roseveare, to name but a famous few whose work in Africa has been a credit to this noble vocation.

Some may wonder why in this book, I’ve changed my professional name from ‘Gloria’ to ‘Glory’ Keverne. I was very close to my late beloved father who was a deeply-spiritual man. He always called me Glory and, to honour his memory, I’ve decided to use this pet version of my first name on all my spiritually-orientated works.

Glory Keverne.

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Light of the Lost Dream

When at last the storm had passed,

The day’s last rays lit vistas vast,

And ‘neath a shroud of radiant cloud,

A man in wonder saw the birth,

Of a heaven here on earth.

The ring of blue hills misted white,

Made the vale an altar site,

Each glowing pool a holy font,

Each sun-traced tree a sacred cross,

In a temple roofed with sky,

Carpeted with leaves and grass

In lustrous pews of earth and stone,

All creatures knew our Lord their own,

Each a perfect shard of Sod,

With shining eyes unskewed or scarred,

Ears lifted to a voice above,

Blessing them with endless love.

In a moment lost in time,

In that living Church divine,

Man saw himself join the shrine.

Weighed with gun and ego,

Greed and lust, memory marred

By hates cold dust,

The only being bowed by shame,

He alone unlit by Sod.

Glory Keverne

This Book Is Dedicated With Gratitude and Love To

Mother Earth,

Our precious irreplaceable

Planet which has suffered so

Much at the hands of man.

And To

My Beloved Sons, Adam and Jason,

In whose compassion and ethics I see hope for the world.

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It is a Tribute To

The sweetness and fortitude of

My late Beloved Mother, Gwen Keverne,

Whose love lives ever in my heart.

And to

The long-suffering love and support of

My Beloved Husband John,

Best Friend, Valiant Provider,

And My Shield against the World.

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It is pledged in thanksgiving to the Great Light

Through whose grace all things are possible.

MAIN CHARACTER AND PLACE NAMES:

SUREFIRE-nickname of DANIEL LASKY-Apache-trained tracker, White Hunter & emissary.

LUCE LASKY-Daniel’s rodeo surname incorporating his mother’s maiden name.

THE WHITE INDIAN-Daniel’s rodeo status.

BROKEN WINGS and MANSHADOW-his Indian names, earned in that order.

LION-KILLER-epithet earned by his shooting and hunting skills.

TAMBWA TAMBWA-native-awarded name meaning ‘One Who Walks Vigorously’.

REVEREND DOCTOR JONAS BURNS CADENCE-referred to as Founding Father, mission patriarch. Reverend Doctor, Reverend or Dr Cadence.

VALANCY CADENCE-Jonas’ late wife.

JOSIAH MACKENZIE CADENCE-the lost Episcopalian priest who is Jonas’ identical twin brother. CHRISTABELL-Josiah’s late gypsy wife.

SERENITY CHARITY HASKELL-Mamalodi Mission’s trainee school teacher and ‘the mission foundling’. CLEMENTINE-nick name born when absent-minded Dr Cadence’s forgets her real name.

PARSON THADDEUS SANKEY-Holy Water Mission’s widowered Priest-in-Charge who resembles USA comedian Phil Silvers.

CORA RATHBONE-Sankey’s sister, a spinster who is governess to the missionaries’ children. She is Mission Matriarch and mother to her motherless niece, Bethany-Rose who calls her ‘Mammy’.

BETHANY-ROSE-parson’s daughter also called BETH-ANNIE, SHIRLEY TEMPLE and CURLY TOPS.

BENJAMIN ‘BURNING SKY’ SMITH-Surefire’s Indian blood-brother, often called ‘BENJY’ or ‘SKY’.

VIRGIL ‘TWILIGHT FOX’ SMITH-Surefire’s Indian mentor who was the tracker son of a medicine man As Burning Sky’s Grandfather he is also regarded as ‘GRANDFATHER TWILIGHT’ by Surefire.

INNOCENT SHOZI-Zulu prisoner called EIGHT-SIX-EIGHT, DEAD-EYE DICK, BAD MEAT or SHAKA.

TSEXHAU-Bushman servant at Mishardu. Also HOSEA-his Christian name.

AHAB-adult male parsonage house servant, referred to as ‘The house-boy’.

SHADRACK-adult male parsonage gardener, referred to as ‘The garden-boy’.

CLANCY-Doctor Dickens’ ten-year-old red-haired son.

EBOW-the Indian-type name given to Surefire’s adopted wire-haired fox terrier.

JERUSALEM-the mission donkey, also called JIP or JIPPY.

LASSIE-collie dog owned by the parsonage family.

HENRIETTA-the parsonage hen.

PICKWICK-the parsonage’s African Grey Parrot.

MAGPIE-parsonage captive chackma baboon.

PLACES

HOLYWATER MISSION-also MAMALODI (native name) fondly referred to as HOOT-OWL HOLLOW. SHINSHIKA MOUNTAINS-MOUNTAINS OF TOMORROW, Also forbidden, Cursed or bewitched mts. JOSIAH’S KINGDOM is also referred to as MISHARDU or the lost or heavenly vale.

CANTLE ONE

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WHATEVER HAPPENED TO OL’ JOSIAH?

Brother, 6rother, where are you?

Where Res your heart once true?

We started out to change the world,

Instead the word changed you.

Glory Keverne

CHAPTER 1

In Phoenix Arizona one unsuspecting night in August 1945, the strange odyssey began for Daniel ‘Surefire’ Lasky. Days after Japan’s surrender had ended World War II, most of America’s troops had yet to be disbanded, but soldiers, on passes from local training camps, jammed clubs or roamed the city’s colourful neon-lit streets. In Catto’s crowded cantina, Surefire sat at the bar, smoke in his eyes and trumpeted strains of ‘In the Mood’ in his ears, when fate finally found him. Antagonized by a form of revelry he could not imitate, he was one of the few men looking away from the packed dance-floor (where swirling skirts gave tantalizing glimpses of summer-tanned legs and well-filled panties) when he felt a tap on his back. Pushing off the huddle of two bourbon-breathed effusive friends, he spun on his stool and, amid the noisy bar-room banter, stared enquiringly at Benjamin ‘Burning Sky’ Smith. Bare chested in a black silk tuxedo vest, jeans and yellow headband, his black-haired Indian friend looked part of the mural of desert and saguaro cacti decorating the walls. The ridicule provoked by the ‘redskin’s’ arrival was torpedoed by Surefire’s swiveling head and challenging stare.

An old black robe’s tracking you down, Daniel. The young Indian’s face was aloof and inscrutable as he held out an envelope, narrowed black eyes unblinking in Surefire’s cigar smoke. Your brother Emmet asked me to pass this on.

Taking the cigarillo from his mouth, Surefire eyed the expensive paper sealed with a fancy crest stamped in red wax. Like truant-officers and wounded buffalo, track-sniffing strangers usually spelt trouble for him. Jesus, Benjy, what would a priest want with me?

But the proud Apache had left the smokey saloon just as silently as he’d arrived. Ripping open the envelope, Surefire felt the vague unease of a guilt-ridden past: at the rough reservation schools he’d been raised in, he’d won respect and overcome the mistrust and pity of his peers by defying cynical white teachers employed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Marking his rites of passage through a stormy childhood, the scars of schoolmasters’ canes had earned him symbolic eagle feathers among the Indians. Now, suppressing a shiver, he shook out a sheet of paper, unfolded it and started reading the elegant but quavering scrawl.

Dear Mr Lasky, it stated. In an old copy of the Arizona Star, I read of your two-year adventure in Africa and believe you might be interested in a profitable proposition I wish to make you. If you put in an early appearance at the above address, you shall find me waiting. Yours truly, Reverend Doctor Jonas Burns Cadence.

Scrawled abbreviations after the man’s name meant nothing to Surefire. But eager to return to Africa now the war was over, he was hooked by the hint of money since the savings he’d earned entertaining troops with the United Services Organization were rapidly deserting his pockets. During two grueling tours of the ‘Foxhole Circuit’, he’d shared billings with stage and movie stars in France, Italy, North Africa and Britain, cheering homesick GIs with hunting anecdotes, cowboy songs, and his rifle, knife, tomahawk and roping skills. Upholding troop morale amid bombing raids had mollified his craving to fight in the war. He’d also performed in numerous benefits to sell war bonds at home, where televised rodeos in Madison Square Gardens made him and Buckwheat (his skewbald Indian pony) something of an American institution.

While his colleague Roy Rogers was adored by millions of child fans, Surefire was the Cowboy King’s Indian-style equivalent, a ‘heart-throb’ ignorantly idolized by teenage girls all over America. And despite all he could do to discourage the attentions of ‘bobbysoxers’-the modern breed of flippant females who wore socks and sneakers with their skirts-his star was still rising: he’d long given up on the fan mail his sisters had relinquished to Melissa Hobart, the self-appointed president of a Los Angeles fan club devoted to keeping his image and exploits alive in the national press. Fortunately, war news had over-shadowed her efforts for a while, but since the Allied victory in May-when the Japs were routed in the Pacific-even ex-soldiers, back on civvy street in cheaply-suited increasing numbers, hailed Surefire by his Indian name, asking after his pony wherever he went. Still revved up by Europe’s brutal battles, these boys were eager to exorcize untold torments via any stranger with guts enough to listen. Usually they ended up swapping drinks and horror stories in bars. Generous to a fault and hungry for the camaraderie such encounters evoked, Surefire generally footed the liquor bills. Now, with his savings low, this eleventh-hour, mysterious proposition was irresistible.

As the Glenn Miller music ended, the current love of Surefire’s life left the undressing eyes and straying paws of a big crew-cut marine, weaving through the smokey throng back to her long-suffering intended. Adept at the female art of teasing men, the tall tanned honey-blonde, tormentingly well stacked in a yellow blouse and matching polka-dot skirt with bobby socks and sneakers, knew that although he’d been too proud to protest, her gyrating around with sex-starved soldiers, made him feel particularly threatened. Since dancing was a mode of celebration he wasn’t able to join her in, he couldn’t object, but that didn’t stop his jealous seething.

The delectable Miss Mitty was a tourist guide at the Grand Canyon where the war-time shortage of men had made her one of the first women to conduct parties of donkey riders into the canyon from the precarious south rim. One of the few young men conspicuously left out of the war, Surefire particularly shared the typical male resentment of females doing what had formerly been male-only work. Yet he was privately proud of the cool-headed girl. Unfortunately, although she looked twenty-five and exhibited more common-sense than the stereotypical busty blonde, she was self-centred, vain and superficial for her nineteen years. Although they were presently rapturously enjoying one another’s bodies during her vacation away, he was grateful her work kept her from trailing after him, cramping his style as he travelled the rodeo circuits criss-crossing America’s Western States. It also gave him some respite from the continual pressure to get hitched. In a weak moment, minutes before he’d finally made out with the marry-me-first woman, he’d rashly sworn to surrender his long-cherished bachelorhood when the war ended. Consequently he’d developed mixed feelings about the successive Allied victories: when the Germans surrendered, her smug smiles were hard to bear, and when President Truman pulverized the Japanese with devastating atom bombs, her wheedling reminders became practically intolerable.

Surefire doubted he’d ever be ready to settle down. He certainly wasn’t ready to even contemplate life with a gum-chewing bobbysoxer whose world-view and life philosophy were gleaned from Emily Post, Corey Wahlburg’s ‘America is Great, I am Great’ and the avidly-read solution columns of Abigail van Buren, America’s premier Agony Aunt. While he sought wisdom through sweat lodges and contemplative isolation, Charlotte increased her acumen through tabloid scandals, celebrity speculation, local gossip and True Confession magazines and dime novels swapped during hop sessions. If he was ever forced to settle for such an uneven mental union, he knew his life would become one of the sad scenarios typical of the Dear Abby letters-depressing indictments of dysfunctional humanity. Unfortunately, although he didn’t particularly crave Charlotte’s life-long companionship, he was worshipfully addicted to her luscious body. And since dozens of more amenable males were already lining up to try their luck with the sensational teen, he was damned if he’d leave such beauty for some more able-bodied man to enjoy. Now, incensed by the sideways seductive smiles his sweetheart tossed countless leering men as she passed, he stood up, grateful to the letter-writer for an incentive to leave the cantina early. Peeling a dollar from his billfold for the last round of drinks, he threw it on the cigarette-scarred counter, standing aloof on his crutch while, sensuous as a cat, she sidled up, rubbing her breasts against his back.

Go on back, he murmured with customary head-high Indian hubris. Don’t let me spoil your fun. I’m leaving anyhow.

And just as he’d figured, Charlotte was immediately concerned. Hands hastily smoothing her ruffled Virginia Mayo mane, she hurried after his crutch-swinging strides. Daniel, you don’t imagine there were sparks between me and that GI back there! We were just jitter-bugging! After all, a girl needs a little fun!

She sure does, and she’s free to have it, Surefire condescended airily. He’d always been good at walking away with dignity and nary a backward glance.

As they stepped outside, the cool air fanned their flushed faces, the flashing neon sign bleaching them blue, red and green by turns. Her blond hair and curvaceous figure evoked wolf-whistles from lamp-lit soldiers loitering on the sidewalks, and inside the cantina the band started up again, the singer growling the emotive song of the hour: ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again!’ But as the crowd erupted into a hand-clapping, foot-stomping roar of HOORAHS, Surefire’s good-time gal didn’t look back. Evidently fearing she’d finally pushed her man too far, she batted her lashes, promising demurely to wait for him in their hotel room. Summoning a taxi cab, he had her dropped off outside the modest establishment before directing the driver to the letter-writer’s fancy address.

The main-street gutters were still littered with the papery dregs of another ticker-tape Victory parade, and with his insecurity fanned by the giant WELCOME HOME, BOYS! posters all over town, Surefire brooded jealously as the cabbie left the city, driving through interminable suburban streets before reaching a housing estate overlooking the desert. As they slowed to cruise Scimitar Ridge, an affluent Phoenix neighborhood, he finally put the contrite Charlotte’s kiss-blowing face out of his mind, taking stock of the omens. The stranger had picked a particularly momentous time to find him: if winning the war wasn’t auspicious enough, today, August 18th, was his birthday. Well Mama, it’s been a tough twenty-seven years, he reflected wryly. Living at the expense of the woman who’d died birthing him, he couldn’t celebrate his own advancing age without feeling unworthy. Condemned to carry his mother’s maiden name as his middle title through life, his professional billing became a passing salute, his own signature a never-ending rebuke. He’d inherited her family’s fine fair-haired Luce features and once he began filling out with the husky Lasky stature, his father had measured him in fascinated disgust. ‘Don’t be too proud of your size, boy: that’s the bulk killed your blessed mother.’ Old Jared’s guilt-provoking chides never failed to erase whatever arrogance had since settled in Surefire’s eyes, removing all cockiness from his crippled swagger and peace from his wounded heart.

Now, as the driver braked outside a two-storied colonial Salt Box, he shook himself out of his reverie. Even through the darkness and his inebriation, he judged his destination to be a grandly-imposing abode. Asking the cabbie to wait, he limped up the stone path on his crutch, guided by the light shining from the porch and big shuttered windows. In the crisp Arizona air, he shook his head to clear it, priming himself to exude his usual cocksure composure and cagey conversation. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, he was glad the evening hadn’t ended in another booze-hazed brawl with Charlotte’s eager admirers. After the savagery of the war, the American male’s traditional gentlemanly restraint towards handicapped opponents was wearing thin. And besides the pain and damage these trained combatants were capable of inflicting, Surefire’s white friends and his own idle disenchantment with the superficial values of a fast-paced city life were turning him into a typical town drunk. This despite his own good intentions, Burning Sky’s wounded silences, and the admonitions of his married sisters, who had to deal with disgruntled husbands and demanding kids while babying their prodigal kid brother at whatever outrageous hours he descended upon them, somewhat the worse for tequila and Tennessee whiskey.

But if Surefire was growing tired of his rootless life following rodeos around America in a horse-trailing truck, the idea of changing his mobile home and country-wide tomcatting and carousing for a stationary house with a lawn that needed mowing, plus the domestic strait-jackets of a wife and conventional job, seemed a death sentence to his free spirit. Thus, if this turned out to be a hunting commission, he felt inclined to take it whatever the terms. A paid hunting sojourn would be a legitimate excuse to put a breathing space between him and the marriage-hungry Miss Mitty. It would also enable him to make a clean break from Burning Sky, his long-time Indian anchor, whose grandfather-the tracker son of a medicine man-had helped Surefire overcome the debilitating effects of his childhood accident, restoring his sense of worth and self-confidence by teaching him Indian ethics and skills during the seven formative years he’d spent among them. Virgil ‘Twilight Fox’ Smith had replaced Surefire’s father, while Benjamin was like a brother to him. At the Fort Apache reservation, under the jaundiced eye of Surefire’s uncle (the reservation agent) the two boys had learned to track, hunt and fish together, before a distinguished official of the circuit court had ‘rescued’ Surefire from life among the ‘Godless’ Indians.

For a fourteen-year-old white savage it had been foster care or Juvenile Hall. Judge St James’ grand home at Flagstaff had been more tempting than reform school, and it had seemed an adventure at first. But the Judge’s benevolence (half-motivated by the hope that a companion might stabilize his own delinquent son) had been tempered with attempts to beat the red tar out of Surefire’s system. That got Surefire’s dander up, and instead of stabilizing Beauford, he’d joined forces with the rebellious boy. But peer pressure, the confusion of adolescence and Surefire’s own awakening hormones ultimately worked in the Judge’s favor: at high school white kids ridiculed the Indian culture and values, seducing him back to white ways with gambling, girls, loco-weed and cheap liquor. But eventually, sated by a restless diet of experimental sin and sex on the one hand, and suffocated by the rigid rules of the Judge’s strict Christian household on the other, Surefire began pining for the simple structure and meaning of life at Fort Apache.

He mailed Twilight Fox a stilted note before running away to live among the nearest Indians he could find. Taken in by the family of Shares-His-Saddle and Coyote, cousins who befriended him on the Navaho reservation, he was idyllically happy riding horses and herding sheep among the buttes and canyons of Arizona’s lonely red-rock country. Months later, when the law finally tracked him down, State Troopers had to drag him back in handcuffs, and after subjecting him to a vicious beating, his guardian permanently withheld his allowance, forcing him through school with deprivation and threats of Juvenile Hall. But once he turned eighteen, the elderly autocrat could no longer hold him. Defying the Judge’s grand plans for his future, Surefire dropped out of college and learned to fly a plane with secretly-saved funds before returning to Fort Apache to be ritually inducted into the tribe at White Mountain. There, among his chosen people, feeling finally fully at home as the blood-brother of Burning Sky (affectionately called Benjy or Sky) he lived out the halcyon days of his youth. By this time, old age and ignominy had forced the resignation of his whiskey-swigging uncle, but the man’s cynical successor, Agent Slattery, was another exploitative white man ruling rigidly from the old Agency house: nothing but Surefire’s perspective had changed much. He joined the young men who’d begun turning to rodeos to test their manhood in place of the outlawed rituals embodied in traditional Indian religion. But without spiritual significance, the substitute did little to lift community morale. While government cattle intended for the Indian people were secretly sold to nearby army bases, malnourished families struggled to survive, the limited landscape ruined by the desperate subsistence hunting of once-proud braves emasculated by cultural disintegration, reservation restrictions and raging alcoholism.

After the early demise of the bison, grizzly bears had been shot out of Arizona by 1935. When the few remaining animals became too tame for Surefire, the open spaces of his homeland too few and far between, he’d raised his rifle sights and began looking toward the continent which had consumed his childhood dreams. In darkest Africa, ferocious lions still roamed vast tracts of unspoilt wilderness. A year after his return to the reservation, he and Burning Sky flew to England, from there embarking on a Trans-Africa flying boat which reached East Africa in just over a week. As his hunting companion, the stalwart brave made life more secure for a young cripple continually dicing with danger and engaged in self-imposed tests to prove himself capable of doing, with great effort, what normal men did with effortless ease.

But all that had to end now that Sky’s only brother had been killed fighting the Japanese at Okinawa. An inconsolable Twilight Fox had subsequently written his death song, and if Benjy accompanied him to Africa again, Surefire feared the grief-stricken old Indian, deprived of both grandsons, might take it into his head to walk the snow, going home to the Great Spirit before his ageing body made him a burden to the rest of his family. Thus Benjamin was needed to protect the women and children and support his ageing grandfather. Troubled by his own long-standing dependence on this loyal childhood friend and remorseful at having lured the conscientious brave from his people in the first place, Surefire figured it was time he made his way alone in the world.

Now he was greeted by the savory scent of stewing mutton. His knock brought barking dogs and a stout Mexican matron to the stately ivory-coloured colonial door. Wearing a spotless white apron over her black dress, the surly-faced woman’s vacant expression solidified into shock when she saw Surefire. Hushing the pair of Scottish terriers, she looked him over incredulously, her eye-narrowed disapproval reinforced by the growling of the small black pooches.

"You the gringo Luce Lasky?"

Snatching off his black stetson, Surefire snapped a flippant salute. Luce Lasky at your service, ma’am.

He knew his Aryan features and light colouring were the only things still gringo-looking about him. But these days, since his cultural perversion was actually encouraged by whites willing to pay him to perform shooting and horse-riding stunts at county fairs and rodeos, he dressed more Indian than the Indians. So much so that a facetious press report likened his white-haired image to a photographic negative of the universal red man. Now he smiled to soften the shock of his flowing white-blond hair, sun-darkened skin and ethnic regalia. But the sullen senora seemed unmoved by his friendliness, the crutch under his arm, or his proudest possession: the hair-dangling eagle feather proclaiming him a brave.

After scrutinizing his lion-claw medicine necklace-carved segments of a lightning-struck twig and a buck-antler bracketing its central crystal-her disgusted eyes took in the blue Jicarilla beadwork decorating the fringed leather jerkin straddling his naked bronze torso. They skimmed his Sioux breastplate, the red-and-blue quill-work bands emphasizing his bulging biceps, his silver-buckled Navaho belt, and the linked lion collarbones which, with his silver-and-turquoise bracelet and elephant-hair bangle, encircled his left wrist, while the wampum bow-guard enclosed his right. Finally, moving down his long blue-jeaned legs, they digested the fringed-and-beaded moccasin boots whose knee-high leather folds hid the steel callipers supporting his lame right leg.

Frowning dubiously, the woman beckoned. Resuming their yapping, the dogs scampered around Surefire as, with buckskin streamers rippling over his sheathed knife and tied tomahawk waggling against one hip, he followed the woman down a red-carpeted passage to a large livingroom fancy with tasselled lampshades, ornately-framed paintings, scarlet brocade drapes and old-fashioned furniture. Amid cream sateen cushions on a plush burgundy sofa, sat a gaunt elderly man wearing a clerical collar atop his grey pin-striped suit. A pair of rimless bifocals perched on his long nose and fine silver hair fanned out around his balding pate, giving him a dishevelled air of absent-mindedness at odds with the keen and calculating measure of his narrowed grey eyes and clenched jaw. Be quiet, Pinkerton! Hush-up, Mr Wogs! This is an invited guest! the little minister silenced the two Scotties which ran to sit obediently on either side of him. He seemed prepared for the Indian dress and the blond mane temple-tied with a red calico headband, but there was a shocked silence when Surefire swung into the room on a crutch. Then, recovering, the imperious priest amended his expression to appear merely peeved. Waving a gnarled hand, he peered at Surefire with quizzical reproach.

Take a seat, Mr Lasky, he invited, fiddling with a hearing-aid plugging one large pale ear. "I am the Reverend Doctor Jonas Cadence of the Episcopal Church. You may address me as Dr Cadence, and I must say at the outset that you, young sir, are a good deal younger than that article in the Star led me to expect! I’m afraid there’s been a mistake."

Mistake? Surefire propped his crutch against the wall. Seating his muscular six-foot-four-inch frame on a spindly little stickbacked chair, he crossed the ankle of his good leg on the knee of his lame one-whose complicated injuries made the callipers and crutch necessary for easier ambulation. While it didn’t surprise him that the infuriating innocence of his clear blue eyes, freckled nose and loose white-blond hair framing a clean-shaven wholesome face, compromised his age and ability, he knew it was more than that. Although President Roosevelt’s wheelchair governance had inspired new respect for the disabled, the man’s recent in-office death had devalued the defiant will of weaklings. Wary of pity, Surefire allowed no mention of his handicap or pictures featuring his crutch in written accounts of his adventures, and no one expected Big Game Hunters to be crippled.

Dr Cadence, Surefire growled quietly. when I was a kid, they said I’d never walk again. But they couldn’t keep me in a cot; no wheelchair could hold me. And today, if you think this little ol’ lame leg makes me helpless-then you’re damn right: there has been a mistake.

Mr Lasky! The old man fidgeted in haughty embarrassment. Although he glanced at the leather-booted limb, he could not bring himself to speak of it. I was referring to your youth.

Well Jeepers Creepers, what were you expecting, sir? Last time I looked baby-faced boys were defending America with live ammunition in real guns. Surefire squared his broad bronzed shoulders, frowning to affect the cynical toughness inherent in Great White Hunters of the Hemingwayesque mould. As it happens, I’m damn near pushing thirty and in case you’re wondering, I can do most anything any able-bodied man can do ‘cept play baseball, roller-skate or dance the jitterbug. Believe I have the aptitude to think as clear, shoot as straight, and lay as many wimmen-if you’ll pardon my terminology, sir!

In the shocked silence the preacher’s narrowing eyes scrutinized the healing cuts on Surefire’s face and fists-blatant testimony to regular bar-room brawls. Nodding frostily, he conceded: Perhaps you are older and more able than you appear, Mr Lasky, but as a Christian minister, I do not approve of your heathen Indian get-out or the sinful activities of which you speak! Furthermore, I believe my summons has brought you from uncouth company in a bar on the bad side of town! By the reek of your breath, I’d say that dubious establishment has enjoyed your considerable patronage. And since this is a decent house and lest your indulgence has left you fuddle-headed, I ask you to keep your thoughts and words pure!

Surefire blinked, nonplussed. Had he squandered the price of a cab ride, leaving his girl on a side street seething with ravenous returned troops, to be subjected to a hellfire lecture on the ruinous effects of booze and fast women? He felt inclined to beat a hasty retreat. But the icy intensity in the priest’s pale eyes, made him hesitate to hear the man out.

Well, it’s a long story. The censorious Christian eyed Surefire grimly. "My brother and I grew up in Hickory, Missouri. Our father was a struggling subsistence farmer working a few acres until a new road was placed through our land. With the government compensation, Papa converted his now road-side barn into a general dealer store. Which was fortunate since the motorcar was taking off and folks enjoyed taking their roadsters for weekend runs. Once Uncle Henry started practicing magician tricks outside, city folk crowded up to be entertained inbetween shopping. When ol’ Henry ran off with a counter assistant, Papa kept customers coming with barbershop quartets, more magicians, a pianist or two, acrobats, and even a snake charmer once. Dimples Barn Emporium with its rustic setting, old fashioned wood front, milk fresh from Flossie and Blossom round the back, and a check-curtained tearoom replete with Mama’s preserves and home-baked pies, became popular with folk on week-end motor excursions. As the coins rolled in Father had rooms added to stock fashionable clothing and just about every necessity of nineteenth-century living!

"After that he enlisted his brothers to open identical country emporiums outside a dozen other towns, and once these took off, Dimple Barns became something of an institution in Missouri. We loved the convivial childhood the chain provided, but my twin brother and I, like mother, had deeper callings: in New York we trained as ministers of the Episcopal Church, finally getting married and selling our father’s legacy in order to save heathen souls in darkest Africa. But my sweet Valancy was only half my age, and at seventeen, raised in luxury by an old-moneyed family, was apprehensive of the alien wilderness, insisting she at least be allowed the basic comfort of a decent home. What’s more the little darlin’ insisted Josiah buy his wife the same. Thus we took the plans of a gracious colonial house plus furniture to fill them, out to Africa with us. We bought fruit-and-vegetable seed and livestock in South Africa where the tsetse fly had receded after the rinderpest epidemic in 1896.

"Finally we set off in a great party of hooded ox-wagons. Our load made the train cumbersome and slow, and we were bedevilled by tsetse fly, rife in Rhodesia at the time. Since these pests transmit the dreaded sleeping sickness to man, and the deadly nganga to farm animals, we plotted special routes, often outspanning during the day and trekking through the nights when the fly was inactive. By then a bridge had been built over the Victoria Falls and we crossed into North Western Rhodesia. In bush swarming with snakes and dangerous game, we dismantled our wagons, using logs to float them across crocodile-infested rivers. Despite Livingstone’s efforts slave-trading and Cecil Rhodes’ colonizing had badly demoralized the natives: labor was unreliable and the chiefs, sullen and suspicious. Before it became part of the British Crown in 1924, powerful native chiefs controlled territories not ruled by the British South Africa Company. Just as we neared our intended destination, we were summoned to Barotseland, forced to detour hundreds of miles through difficult sand-logged country to get the Lozi king’s permission to serve his subject tribes."

Pausing to sip at a glass of water, the Reverend Doctor’s eyes were bleak.

"Disillusioned by Trappist monks who’d abandoned a mission in the district we’d chosen, old Lewanika was reluctant to give his blessing to more missionaries who might prove just as untrustworthy. Finally, vowing to demonstrate the fidelity of true Christians, we convinced the king, whereupon Valancy’s father bought, as his contribution to the missionary effort, the very station deserted by the fickle Catholics. After about three years in ox-wagons, we finally arrived at St Benedict’s Mission-exhausted, relieved and with far fewer livestock than we’d started with. We built a new church rather than restore the impractically large, fire-scarred monastery. The natives called the river, Mamalodi, which originally meant ‘musical water’, but after the priests began baptizing converts in it, it became synonymous with ‘holy water’ in local parlance. Well, the holy part was enough for Valancy. Eager to cast off the Catholic stigma, she promptly re-named the station ‘Holy Water’-or ‘Mamalodi’ in indigenous company.

A Lusaka firm cut termite-resistant indigenous teak for the frames and clapboards of our American houses. We imported roof shingles, and to reduce the risk of malaria, had fly-screens fitted. But that hardly helped: my wife, continually drained by malarial fevers, thrice miscarried babies while Christabell suffered weak kidneys. And after eight years together, my brother, unbalanced by the treacherous African sun and his wife’s restless Romany blood, decided to move on.

Surefire sat back, surprised. He married a Gypsy?

What if he did, Mr Lasky? the pious paleface bristled defensively. In those days men bent on penetrating Africa were forced to find adventurous consorts! That cruel continent was called ‘The White Man’s Grave’ with good reason: fifty-nine of the two-hundred missionaries sent out by the Universities Mission, died in service. There’s greater safety in numbers, which was partly why my Valancy was so upset when the heedless pair moved further north to reach greater numbers of un-Christianized natives. Since the battle for Africa was as much between religious denominations as colonial powers, church authorities back home eagerly sanctioned a two-pronged offensive. But the split deeply affected me and my little spouse, and shortly after Josiah’s party left, Valancy’s health deteriorated so dramatically I had to close the station and rush her home for civilized medical care.

The two Scottie dogs watched alertly as the little clergyman paused to drain his glass of water. Dabbing at his pursed mouth with a handkerchief, he continued gravely: "Well, back in the Land of the Brave and Free, Americans were apprehensively watching Britain and her allies fight the German Alliance in the early stages of the first world war. My wife and I felt like strangers to civilization, and even with the attentions of her doting family and the best physicians money could buy, she worsened, and on my birthday, the last day of 1913, passed to her heavenly reward. Months afterwards, I learned that Christabell too had died, her family informed of her death in the last word any of us was to receive from Josiah. Unfortunately the envelope’s postal franking was illegible and we never learnt where he’d settled. I blamed him for the deaths of both our wives and was so anguished over losing my Valancy that I hardly cared about him or