The Sun Is God Read Free Page B

you know how easily scandalized these Germans are,” he added through the window—or rather through the space where a window might someday be.
    The horse came slowly along what the authorities had optimistically called Wilhelm II Strasse and when it reached the foot of the hill Kessler nudged it into a canter. It was a sin to even make a horse trot in this heat but Brunhilde was as strong as any Yorkshire Dray and she had outlasted equine arrivals from Arabia, Europe, and Australia who had died by the score along this coast, some only a few hours after disembarkation.
    Will tied the cotton sarong about his waist and went inside, admiring the feel of the newly laid floor on his bare feet. It was so much better than the shabeen-like pounded earth he’d put up with here for the first year; if he had known that Lee and Sons took credit he would have had it in ages ago, certainly before the rainy season.
    Will hastily tidied the room, sat in the window seat, and stared thoughtfully at the one piece of art in his house, a reproduction of Alphonse de Neuville’s Defence of Rorke’s Drift that he’d won from Tommy Hanson at piquet the previous Saturday. He hated the picture, not least because it reminded him of South Africa, and only took it because Hanson had nothing else in his house worth a damn.
    He got up, walked into the kitchen, removed the cork from one of the storage jars, and carefully inspected the good black tea. No mold or weevils and it smelled like tea.
    â€œCould you make enough for both of us, Siwa? Although I suspect Klaus will prefer something a bit stronger,” Will said.
    â€œWhisky?” Siwa asked, reaching for the bottle of Johnnie Walker.
    â€œChrist no, he’ll drink the whole thing. Get the arak.”
    â€œI will hide the whisky bottle,” she said. It had been the missionaries on Ulu who had taught her to speak English and (rather less usefully) to sing hymns in Welsh. Apparently she’d even showed promise in the reading and writing department, or so Pastor Jones claimed in his reference note.
    â€œYes,” Will said, admiring her long black hair and those slim athletic legs that she had soon freed from the thick cotton baptismal dresses the Methodists had kept her in. “And put something on or Klaus will think you are a fallen woman,” he added.
    â€œIf I am it is you that has made me so,” she said.
    Will smiled. He had never been one for servants, and relations between himself and Siwa had quickly devolved—or evolved if you preferred—into a scandalous equality.
    â€œIf you came off with that kind of talk in a German household they would have you whipped,” Will said.
    â€œAnd that would be the last thing that they would do in this life,” Siwa replied, her dark brown eyes flashing.
    â€œI believe you,” he said, crossed the floor, and took another peep through the window. Brunhilde was giddily trotting up the muddy track, swishing her tail to and fro. She obviously remembered this house. He opened a jar of New Zealand porridge oats, grabbed a handful, softened them in his left palm with a pour from the water jug, and walked out onto the veranda. He opened a copy of Tennyson and pretended to read it until the horse drew up.
    â€œGuten Tag, Herr Prior,” Kessler said, halting the mare in front of the bungalow and tipping his hat.
    â€œOh, good morning captain,” Will replied, appearing to be startled from his deep contemplation of a poem with the unlikely name of “Tit Honies.”
    â€œI see that you are reading,” Kessler said, his odd pale eyes already bleary and red, and his mustache twitching uncomfortably.
    â€œNothing escapes you, Klaus,” Will replied with a grin.
    Kessler returned the smile and both men looked at one another for a moment before their gaze sought sanctuary elsewhere. The dense tropical jungle began ten feet behind Will’s little bungalow, so naturally they