TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
By
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living and dead are intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 16

TESSA’S BIG FIGHT


THE AFRICAN DAWN began with nothing more than a subtle change in the hue of the night stars. The landscape of hardscrabble rock, dongas, scrub brush and prickly plants was imperceptibly transformed by the intangible translucent shades of orange and purple before the great fiery orb of the morning sun first crept then burst forth over the sleepy horizon. December dawn in Zululand was filled with promise, hope and a sense of menace that far overshadowed any prospects of a new day.

I was utterly alone. Twenty-five miles west of the central column, out of contact with my unit, my one and only companion, a soldier in my section, a mutinous malcontent malingerer one Private Davy Burlingham. He had assaulted me, tried to rape me, and subsequently tried to kill me. Wounded, with a raging fever, he was worse than useless. I was trapped here at Hendricks’ station; we were like two scorpions in a bottle, Davy Burlingham and I, the Gingham dog and the Calico cat.

I watched over him all night. He slept fitfully, his fever worsened. I concluded that it was neither humane, nor practical to keep his hands bound behind his back. It was clear that the wound in his shoulder was swelling and it must have caused him great pain. I needed to find an alternative way to restrain him.

I searched the Hendricks’ barn for anything I could use. I located a ten-foot length of “dog chain,” an iron railroad spike and the most spectacular find of all, a working pad-lock. The key, to which I found, nailed to a beam in the barn. It seemed Mnr. Hendricks was if nothing else well organized. His penchant to keep things under lock and key solved at least one of my problems.

Davy Burlingham woke to the sound of me driving the iron railroad spike deep into the storehouse timber floor. He instantly realized that his hands were free. To that end, his brain feverishly went to work to find what mischief he could cause me with his new found freedom. His leg jerked at the end of the chain. Held fast, he was a prisoner, officially under arrest.

“Here, piss in this, next time you feel the urge.” I couldn’t resist a smirk, “You can shit in it too for all I care, just don’t call me.” I plunked down a battered enamelware bucket and some bog paper.

Burlingham jerked at the chain, rebelliously. “Oy, Claiborne, what’cha call this?”

“I call it―You are under arrest.” I gave him a fresh canteen, a plate of food and a steaming cup of tea.

Burlingham drank the tea. He shoved the food to one side. “I can’t eat this shit! Gimme a taste of dat whiskey.”

“No.” I shot him a glance, the last thing I need was a drunken soldier on my hands. “Quit being such a stroppy cow and eat your food.” His indolence was starting to get on my nerves. It was the very same chicken from last night. I don’t know what Davy Burlingham expected, but I am, if I do say so myself, a very good field cook. The chickens were scrawny, but nourishing. “Well then you choose to go hungry. There’s not likely to be anything more until suppertime. You have two choices, ship biscuits or the chicken. Quit your complaining all the time, things could be worse."

"How could things be bloody worse?" Burlingham scowled.

"We could not have the tea." I said wryly. "I’m going to go tend to the horses.”

In spite of being nearly continuously contrary, Burlingham was too weak to move. It appeared like we were stuck here for at least a couple of days. I took stock of my situation. Food was my biggest problem. We were provisioned with several pounds of ship biscuits and a few tins of meat and vegetables. I had not expected to be in the field more than a couple of days and we had already eaten most of the canned provisions. The farm unfortunately yielded very little in the way of useful provisions. Thoroughly pillaged by the Zulus, they carted off everything of any conceivable use. The barn remained stocked with an adequate supply of animal feed, the shear quantity alone proved more than the Zulus could carry. At least the horses wouldn’t go hungry. The Hendricks’ kraal was a well-built stone structure, the horses, Star and Duke seemed quite happy to graze and laze about. We had good clean fresh water. I had three rifles, a pistol, and some four hundred rounds of .455 ammunition, I depot the saddles, rucksack, the two extra rifles and the rest of my traps in the barn for safekeeping, well out of reach of Davy Burlingham.

I put on my straw hat to shield my fair skin from the fierce African sun. Burlingham stirred, he detected I was getting ready to depart.

“Oy, Claiborne, what ‘cha fix’n to do ya little blighter? You ain’t gonna go off’n leave me now are you?”

“I’m just going to scout around, that’s all. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Ain’t you afraid Claiborne? A wee lil’ blighter like yourself, all alone in the African bush, just crawl’n wit wild animals and dem blood-thirsty blacks?”

"I can take care of myself." I said bravely, deep down inside I was afraid, but I wasn’t going to give Burlingham the satisfaction. I ignored him and continued to pack.

“Well you should be . . . you will be, when the Zulus catch you! Do you know what Zulus call young girls like you?”

I knew he was going to tell me. I just waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Ripen at noon.” Burlingham could barely contain his prurience; he continued his misogynistic travails. “See the Zulus dey ain’t never seen a white woman before, let alone a sweet pea like you. When dey catch you, dey’ll strip you naked. Dem Zulu bucks, dey’s all horny as bloody ‘ell. Dey’ll ‘ave der way wit you fer sure, give you a bloody good what’s for.”

“Shut-up Burlingham! You’re trying to scare me!” I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but my face betrayed my terror.

Burlingham laughed, his face was full of profanation. “When your belly’s full of dem nigger babies, dat when dey ties you out to blister in the sun. Den duh ants and the scorpions come to eat you alive! If you scream, whatever you do don’t scream Claiborne. ‘Cuz if you do dem Zulus dey ‘ate scream'n. Dey takes a stake and pounds it straight up dat sweet hiney of yours.” He jabbed at me with a fork making a vicious twisting motion. He cracked a shit-eating-grin. “What do you say to that, Claiborne?”

“I say you’re a liar, and a bully. For the record, I don’t like you very much.” I hefted my rifle. “If I do run across any Zulus, they better watch out for me.” I sighted down the barrel, “I’m getting pretty good with this.”

Burlingham’s demeanor changed once the realization set in that no amount of scare tactics was going to dissuade me. I really did intend to leave him.

“Claiborne!” Burlingham balled, “Fer gawd sakes don’t leave me like dis! Be a mate, ‘ave a little pity. Don’t leave me chained ‘ere like a dog.” Burlingham jerked on the chain in a futile effort. “‘Ave a ‘eart, Claiborne, least anyways, leave me with a rifle. You can’t leave me ‘ere defenseless; dem blood-thirsty black will finish me for sure!”

“I’ll kill you myself if you don’t shut-up!”

I turned and left without remorse.

“CLAIBORNE! You gob-shite bitch! Come back ‘ere. Please! Please, don’t leave me ‘ere to die!” Burlingham’s plaintive wails trailed off in the distance.

I set off on my trek, my face burned hot with anger. Leave him with a rifle. I snickered at the very thought. How gullible did he think I was? There was to be no repeat of my earlier mistake. I was stupid to have trusted him once; I was not to be made a fool a second time. Burlingham had made his bed, and now he could lie in it. If the Zulus came again, they could tie him out for the ants to eat for all I cared.

The African bush was teaming in wildlife from the speedy springbok, the sleek antelope, warthog, wildebeest and the long horned onyx. South Africa abounded with dangerous animals as well, I had to keep a wary eye out for roving bands of hyenas and the fleet foot cheetahs and silent killers like the leopard. I was no hunter, I had never shot an animal in my life, but hunger necessitated the attempt. I set the sights on my rifle for fifty yards and set out to see what I could shoot for supper.

* * *

I SHOT A SPRINGBOK. In less than two hours of climbing over rocks and foraging dry riverbeds and ravines, the animal presented itself to me at less than fifty yards. I shot it clean through the heart. The animal fell instantly, I squealed with delight, barely able to contain my excitement.

When I was ten, I had watched Papa and my uncle butcher a hog at Christmas time. I set about the gruesome task of cutting up the animal into usable portions. It was sad to waste so much, but I only took the choices portions, as I was limited to what I could carry. I was thoroughly engrossed in my preparation; my anticipation of a delicious supper was palpable.

I was in a secluded donga, an eroded ravine, a sort of dry watercourse that was a raging torrent when the spring rains came. Now, at the height of the African summer, it was nothing but dust. I heard voices, not English voices, African voices, Bantu. I stopped what I was doing. I crept to the rise of the ravine; the sight that greeted me caused my blood to run cold. ZULUS!

I couldn’t count how many, there were a lot, maybe twenty, maybe thirty. Why they didn’t hear my rifle shot, I can only figure it was the luck of the crazy-quilt geography of the landscape, it plays tricks on acoustics. These Zulus were the 33-year-old unmarried men, of the uNokenke kraal, young, eager to wash their spears. It was clear they were spoiling for a fight. The entire Zulu military hierarchy was based on age, and marriage. If were a young warrior, unsuccessful in battle, if you’ve never killed, an enemy “Washed your Spear,” as it were in the lexicon that is the warrior cult of the Zulu. You couldn’t get married. Therefore, there was enormous pressure in the kraals to prove ones prowess in battle. Virtually all young Zulu males were zealous to say the least; the incentive to kill, to kill a white man was all consuming, irresistible.

I was scared. Scared right down to my bootstraps, I think I might have wet my pants. I fled, leaving behind the springbok. I took flight; the Zulus spotted me and took chase. I was in big trouble. There was no fucking way I could out run them. I launched myself down the steep embankment of the donga, slipping and sliding in the gravelly dust. Scared or not, I made a stand behind the only cover I could find, a snaggly prickly pine.

I dropped two of them straight away. The massive .455 slugs tore into their naked bodies, virtually lifting them off the ground. I loaded and fired again. Disheartened by my firepower, the Zulus circled around. I took the opportunity to flee, the whole time I couldn’t shake the terrible specter of ants crawling in my knickers. I ran. I ran the two miles back to Hendricks’ station. I don’t think I ever ran so far so fast in all my life. I burst open the storehouse door, and veritably tumbled in ass-over-teakettle, wild-eyed, and in cold sweat. “Zu . . . !”

“GOT'CHA you little blighter!” I was yanked off my feet. I felt the cold coils of the dog chain loop around my neck and close tight against my throat. My terror was complete. Burlingham pressed the point of the bayonet, the bayonet; I had forgotten the bayonet, the very same bayonet I pushed into the mealie bag the night before. Now its razor-point pressed into my gut.

"You ain’t so smart, who’s in charge now? Leave me ‘ere to die will, ya?” His lecherous hand ravaged my duty-blouse. “Yeah―from here on in, you and me iz gonna be good friends.” Burlingham tightened his grip; he choked me until I thought I was going to pass out. Even with only one hand he was so much stronger that me.

I gasped, I choked, I clutched at the coils around my neck. “ZULUS!”

This one word fell on Burlingham’s ear like a thunder-stroke. His grip went slack. I squirmed and wriggled and finally found myself upside down, I kicked and kicked. I kicked him in the face and rolled free of his grasp.

“Let me go! Let me go goddamn you!”

I pulled the trigger. The report of the revolver within the confines of the storehouse was absolutely deafening.

“Oh, mama, don’t hurt me!”

I scrambled to my feet. “Burlingham, I will fucking shoot you down like a dog! Give me that bayonet!” The weapon clattered to the floor, faced to face with the barrel of the Webley, Burlingham was cowed. I wanted to fucking kill him. I wanted to shoot the sonofabitch more than I ever wanted to kill anyone in my life. I could still feel his filthy hands pawing at my body. Instead, I re-adjusted my disheveled uniform, and with deliberate and correct military decorum. I kicked him in the balls.

“Zulus! They’re here, they’re coming!” I said, breathless. Burlingham’s face went ashen. There was no further, need to impress on him the urgency of the situation. If there was anything Davy Burlingham understood, if he had one fear greater than the prospect of returning to Port Durban to stand court-martial. It was the fear of a Zulu attack. The full weight of our pathetic plight fell on him like a bag of hammers.

"What? What we gonna do now Claiborne?” Burlingham groaned the pain his bollocks was eclipsed by his terror.

"WE?" I scoffed. Since when did I ever figure so prominently in his parti pris? Believe me, there was never any WE in Burlingham's motive. It was always ALL about him. His proclivity for self-absorption was on some level farcical. Mere moments ago he was in the throes of trying to throttle me; this salient fact flew out of his addle brain. Now, beset by Zulus we were miraculously best mates. Just you’n me Claiborne. I found him a despicable avaricious coward; his narcissism was repellent.

“We’re trapped! Trapped like rats in a trap. We’re gonna die in dis bloody hole! Dis is all your fault Claiborne!”

I held up my hand, “Shhh . . .”

There it was again, a sound like a freight train. Two dozen Zulus, moving in unison lock step, the rhythmic chant, the haft of their spears sounded a steady drumbeat against their buffalo-hide shields. Whatever military strategist ever dismissed the Zulus as a mob of undisciplined African savages was horribly misinformed. The Zulus were in fact a highly disciplined, methodical, well-trained military machine. With the exception of their lack of firearms, they were the undisputed masters of all of South Africa.

A fact Davy Burlingham and I were about to learn first hand.

* * *

I'VE NEVER LAID ANY HUBRIS to be a consummate military strategist. I am a simple Welsh girl, from the coalfields of Cardiff. Nothing more, no experience in my short thirteen, going on fourteen-year-old life prepared me for this situation. The potential for disaster was painfully obvious from the very second of our siege. We were holed up in a mud-brick thatched roof shack without windows. I had one rifle, one pistol and at best, forty rounds of ammunition in my two expense pouches. For alternate reasons, that had seemed completely sound at the time. I had depot my remaining weapons and the entire stock of ammunition in a barn some two-hundred yards away. Some fine fat fucking military commander I turned out to be.

I gave the horses up for loss. I barred the door, and set about in a frantic effort to carve loopholes in the side of the storehouse wall. The bayonet was inadequate to the task but it was all I had. In the midst of all my troubles, I had to listen to the constant insipid bellyaching of Davy Burlingham, he whined, moaned, and carried on something fierce. How we were both going to die, how it was all my fucking fault. It was my fault, I’ll give him that much, but his constant grumbles did little to change the situation.

There was no time to worry further the Zulus were upon us.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulus charged.

“HERE THEY COME!” I fired. I worked the loading lever, empty brass cartridge cases tinkled on the ground. I may have described before, the Martini-Henry was a single shot, breech-loading rifle. It fired an enormous forty-five calibre bullet and kicked like a newly shod mule. Ten rounds a minute that was considered a respectable rate of fire. One round every six seconds, in the first two minutes of the Zulu attack I should think I expended twenty-five rounds. The Zulu bodies stacked up like chord wood. My face was covered in smoke and smudge. There was a brief respite in the battle, while the Zulus regrouped. With their initial attack repulsed, already I could see their black bodies skillfully darting back and forth, circling around beyond rifle range.

“What’s going on, Claiborne? . . . I can’t see . . . Dis iz all your fault Claiborne! . . . We’re gonna die, you stupid Berkshire hunt! You got us into this mess! Do something! Burlingham’s constant moans of pessimism in the background did little to help me think clearly in what was already a desperate situation.

I counted six dead. “I KILLED SIX!” I shouted. I don’t know what I was so happy about, I had stung them good for sure, but all I had really succeed in doing was turn their fanaticism into caution. The Zulus it seems are not so easily discouraged. They would be back, and next time there were to be no more frontal assaults. There was no way; I a single rifleman could beat back a coordinated attack. If I didn’t find someway to alter the balance of power in the next two minutes, Davy Burlingham and I were doomed to be overrun.

Papa was always fond of telling the story of a livery stable owner a Mr. Hobson of London who, in order to rotate the use of his horses, offered his customers the choice of either taking the horse in the stall nearest the door—or taking none at all. “Hobson’s Choice.” I really had only one choice, well that’s not exactly true; but the specter of being eaten by ants was not one I was willing to entertain.

“MR. BURLINGHAM! On your feet soldier, that's an order!" Burlingham scoffed at me, the smirk on his contemptuous face was one of So what’cha gonna do now ya little blighter? I so much wanted to wipe the floor with him. I think he was thoroughly enjoying my personal Waterloo. I found myself enmeshed in an inscrutable dilemma. Against my better judgment, against all past precedent, my brain screamed at a feverish pitch, You are fucking crazy girl! I was out of options. I was going to live or die in the next ten minutes; it all depended on a loathsome Davy Burlingham. I was soon going to find out if he possessed even one scrap of moral fiber. I took out the key to the pad lock.

“Burlingham! Listen to me; I need your help. I need those rifles. I need the ammunition. The rifles are in the barn. I need you to cover me. If you can’t do this, we are both going to die.” I tossed him the loaded rifle, and dropped my webbing with the remaining precious cartridges. “Do you think you can be a soldier for ten minutes, can you at least do that much?”

Burlingham took the rifle, grinning from ear to ear like a cat that had just choked on too much cream. I was immediately sorry for my decision. I was certain I had just made yet another stupid mistake, but it was too late now, I was commited. I drew my revolver, and made a break for the barn. Rifle fire crackled behind me. A Zulu body dropped. Burlingham made his boast he was the best shot in “F” Company.

* * *

I RAN A ZIGZAG PATTERN. Growing up in Glamorganshire Wales, we never had any toys as such, not even so much as a game ball. Tag or “dobby” as we called it was a free-for-all chase game. My brothers and I used to play this game for hours on Saturday afternoons. I've always been very fast; I was seldom “It.” Ever since I was very young, I've always been what you might call a rough-and-tumble girl. Dispite being a girl and all, I always kept up with my brothers and gave them a good what's for. I think some people might even have disparagingly called me a "Tomboy," but with eight brothers and no sisters, what choice did I have?

I now found myself in a game of dobby where the stakes were life or death. I made a brake for the barn. Three Zulus spotted me at once, they hurled their light javelin assegais. These are the traditional weapons of the Bantu people. For centuries, traditional warfare among the Bantu peoples involved a great deal of posturing, some spear flinging and very little in the way of actual casualties. The great Zulu King Shaka changed all of that. He took away what he perceived as a weak flimsy weapon, and replaced it with the utterly lethal short-hafted stabbing spear. The Zulu iKiwa, was named, allegedly, for the sucking sound it made when it was withdrawn from the victim. The iKiwa had more in common with the Roman gladius of legionaries fame than a spear. Overnight, Shaka transformed traditional Bantu warfare from spear flinging and posturing, to utter and complete slaughter.

Outmoded or not, I found myself assailed with a rain of throwing assegais. One pierced the heel of my boot. I quickly realized why Shaka had banned them, they were not particularly deadly. Lethal or not, it is mightily disconcerting to have a hail of sharp pointy things swishing all about you. This was in concert with the steady CRACK of the lone Martini-Henry. I counted his shots. I knew exactly how many cartridges he had. To my surprise, I was still alive. Somehow, I fully expected Burlingham to off me, shoot me in the back at his first opportunity. Burlingham laid down a withering fire from the storehouse, he actually provided me with decent cover and I made it to the barn unscathed.

The confines of the barn represented a measure of safety, the smells were earthy and of animals. There were the haymows and the stacks of animal feed, the cattle stalls, now deserted, were a lonely reminder that up until two days ago this had been a bustling farm. A loose goose crossed my path, terrified; she sought refuge in the confines of the shadows. I retrieved the two rifles and fixed the bayonet. I stuffed my pockets with cartridge packets, and picked up the haversack with the bulk of the ammunition. Each rifle weighed nine pounds; the haversack weighed a good forty. It seemed, getting here was the easy part. Getting back in one piece now that was a challenge.

I launched from the barn at a full tilt. The storehouse seemed very small and represented a pathetic shelter from the Zulu onslaught. “HUZZAH!” I shouted, more to buoy my own spirits, than to scare off the Zulus. Weighed down as I was, I was a lumbering target. The safety of the storehouse seemed even farther away than before. Burlingham’s fire had slowed to a trickle, reduced to single isolated shots, and then nothing at all. In all the pother of the past few minutes, I knew he was out of ammunition. With no steady suppression fire to protect me, the Zulus rose up and attacked me at once. I dropped one rifle, along with the the haversack. At this point, I had shifted into pure survival mode. I pulled the trigger on the rifle without even bringing it up to my shoulder, so close was the Zulu to me the muzzle blast seared his flesh; a second warrior instantly beset me. I now had nothing but an empty rifle with which to defend myself. Fortunately, it was the one with the lunger.

The Zulu crashed into me, battering me with his buffalo shield. He delivered a classic Zulu underhand thrust with his stabbing iKiwa; the killing blow aimed at my loins came up only inches short. I whirled and bashed him with the butt of the rifle. The blow glanced harmlessly off his shield, I succeeded in driving him back just enough to give me maneuvering room to bring the bayonet into a textbook rifleman defensive posture.

“HA!” I lunged at him with the bayonet. I now had the advantage of reach, but his hand-to-hand combat skills were well honed. The warrior expertly parried with the shield, I found myself locked in a deadly ballet of death.

He was a handsome specimen, powerfully built with strong features and a shiny black face. His broad white teeth gleamed in the morning sunlight. I must have struck a pathetic figure, all 94 lbs. of me soaking wet, a girl with a boy’s dirty face. We circled there for the next five seconds, each sizing up the other, looking for an opening, a moment of opportunity. I caught myself wishing I had paid closer attention to bayonet combat in basic training.

The Zulu shouted some incomprehensible gibberish.

“COME ON! You black bastard, tie me out with the ants will you!”

The Zulu charged, expertly deflecting the point of the bayonet, using his shield as a battering ram, he crashed into me with the force of a on rushing freight train. I went sprawling in one direction, my rifle went another. I landed prostrate in the dust. The Zulu seized upon me for the kill. He stabbed at my gut in a skillful killing stroke.

I closed my eyes, and waited for the spear point to slash my flesh. I didn't know for certain what it must feel like to be disemboweled, (unpleasant to say the least), I was soon to find out. My only real experience with death as such was the day poor Lilly got chopped in the remorseless clockworks of the no. 64. I imagined lots of gushing blood and a wretched display of pink bits that should normally stay inside. The blow from the iKiwa, knocked the wind out of my chest, but miraculously I remained stubbornly alive. All those cartridge packets I so greedily stuffed in my pockets deflected the blow.

God bless Color Sargent Bourne. I read a quote in one of my Western novels “God made all men, Samuel Colt made them equal.” I guess the same could be said for Webley and Scott. The bullet from the Webley exploded in my enemy’s face, smashed his teeth, and took the top of his head clean off. I’m sure in the traditions of the warrior cult of the Zulu; I was considered a reprhensible dishonorable opponent. To shoot a man like that—this gave me no pleasure. I didn’t have time to contemplate such niceties as honor in combat. It may not have been the honorable thing to do, I found myself outclassed, out matched. Cowardly or not, I was still alive. I scrambled to my feet, snatched my rifle by the bandolier, clawed the haversack out of the dirt and made a final desperate dash for the storehouse door.

“SARGENT CLAIBORNE, I’M COMING IN!” I shouted. I was breathless parched and utterly exhausted.

Burlingham swung open the door. A totally bedraggled Burlingham greeted me; he appeared wild-eyed, sweaty, exhausted from his exertions. I could see blood spotting his bandages. This was not what you might call a "Happy reunion." He scowled as he snatched the rifle; I let the haversack fall heavy to the floor.

"That's only one rifle! Where the bloody 'ell is the other rifle?"

Whatever remaining strength I had drained from my body. My face filled with tears as I realized the magnitude of my blunder. Stupid! I am so stupid! I don't suppose being nearly skewered at the point of a Zulu spear offered up much of an excuse. The other carbine lay in the yard, exactly where I dropped it along side the body of the dead Zulu.

Burlingham, he had no sympathy for me; instead he thoroughly delighted in my carelessness. He pressed home his advantage. "What! You gonna cry now? Aw, looksee, the wittle girly-sargent is gonna cry!”

“I’m sorry . . . I dropped it.” I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my dirty sleeve and tried to regain my composure.

“You dropped it!” Burlingham scoffed, “Well dats just fucking great! I always knew you wuz noth’n but a little blighter! You took your fine fat fuck'n time gitt’n back ‘ere too, wit just one rifle! Where wuz you? Pick’n posies in the park."

"You call that cover!" I shot back, now he was making me mad. I found myself unable to deal with all his bullshit. I just needed to sit down, catch my breath. I felt faint. The Zulus were gone for the moment, but they would be back.

I was so thirsty, I reached for the canteen. Burlingham cut me off with the tip of the bayonet. "Tut-tut, what's the password?"

"WHAT? I don't have time to play games with you." My exertions of the past fifteen minutes left me feeling physically ill. I found myself in desperate need of a drink. I unscrewed the cap. Burlingham cracked his contemptuous shit-eating-grin. Before I even brought the canteen to my lips, he planted his boot squarely in my chest, and shoved. I watched the storehouse door slam shut—dust spewed in my face. I landed without grace on my arse in the dirt.

"PISS OFF YA LEETLE BLIGHTER!"

Did I ever tell you how much I fuck'n hated him?