Читать книгу To hell with Cronjé - Ingrid Winterbach - Страница 5

They leave the farmer’s land early in the morning, travelling up the steep mountainside, leaving behind them the hollow where the farmhouse lies among the foothills. After a while they reach a narrow pass where they are able to cross the mountain. The narrow track is flanked on either side by a sheer cliff. Thick sedimentary layers of mudstone and sandstone are clearly visible, Reitz notices, with dolerite sills. A mountain range of the Karoo system, with the rock formations strikingly different from the dramatic undulations of the Cape fold mountains. The horses’ hooves echo noisily on the loose stones and from the narrow ledges birds fly up in alarm. In the caves there will be wild honey, baboons, leopards crouching and hiding. A chill runs down their spines even though it is broad daylight. Above them the sky is a thin strip of resonating blue.

Once they have passed through the mountain, a wide expanse opens at their feet. They follow a northeasterly course along the dry bed of a river. Whenever they stop to dismount and rest, Reitz’s practised eye scans the riverbank for evidence of fossils. They continue in this way for at least half a day.

At noon, their shadows hard upon their heels, they come across three black men on horseback. The men are wearing hats and blankets. One is clad in the threadbare tunic of a Khaki uniform. Another wears a feather in his hat.

“A motley crew,” Ben mutters.

The two groups come to a halt, facing each other.

“What do you want?” Willem demands. “I trust you’re not helping the Khakis.”

The men confer in Xhosa. The leader raises his hand in what appears to be a peace sign.

He and Willem bow to each other formally.

The group passes them without further greeting.

“Tonight they’ll be joining General Pettingale,” Ben says.

“At least they’re unarmed,” Willem says, “and rightly so.”

They meet no one else for the rest of the day. They travel through a landscape of low hills, tall grass and thorn trees. The flat, unbroken landscape gradually opens up even more. After a while they leave the Koueberg behind.

In the late afternoon they cross a fairly broad stream – possibly a tributary of the Seekoei River, they surmise, though they cannot be sure. They keep going in a northeasterly direction, heading towards the Orange River.

“O bring me back to the old Transvaal,” Ben sings softly.

“We’re still some distance away, Ben,” says Reitz, “thanks to Senekal’s tactical skills.”

“The hero of Skeurbuikhoogte,” Ben says.

“Of Allesverloren and Droogleegte,” Reitz says.

They find shelter on the slope of a rocky ridge strewn with large, loose boulders, where there is a shallow cave. They light a fire. They eat the food the farmer packed for them.

Young Abraham is incoherent again.

“Bandy botherings,” he says.

“What’s the matter, Abraham?” Willem inquires, distractedly.

“Crimmenings! Futterings! Foots!” says Abraham, his eyes rolling slightly.

“Bad night ahead,” Ben says to Reitz. “Abraham is distraught.”

It is mid-February, the worst heat of summer starting to subside.

“It gets very cold in these parts at night,” Ben says.

“There are kimberlite pipes under the soil,” Reitz says, “but whether they contain diamonds, I can’t be sure.”

“Whatever you do, don’t mention it out loud.”

They hollow out shallow sleeping places around the fire.

Willem tends to young Abraham.

“Uneasy tonight, Reitz?” Ben asks.

“Ah,” and “Oh Lord,” sighs Reitz, running his hand over his face.

For a long time he stares into the flames, for behind his back and in the shadows there is the intimation of a presence. A nagging something he has left behind, that will in time catch up with him.

*

The sun rises. They left the farm the day before, and it has been two days since they departed from Commandant Senekal’s wagon laager. Senekal’s commando has been based in the Beaufort West district for the past two or three weeks, having tried in vain since last October to join up with General Smuts during one of his incursions into the Cape Colony. In December, having missed him once again in the Vanrhynsdorp district, and soon after the skirmish with the English at Allesverloren, Senekal appeared to lose hope, and abandoned his search for Smuts.

Ben and Reitz could not decide which was worse: the fruitless roaming in search of Smuts, or the ensuing tedium of remaining in one place.

Now the four of them are taking young Abraham to a more beneficial environment – to his mother at Ladybrand – if she is still there.

Commandant Senekal (his eyes narrowed suspiciously, head wreathed in tobacco smoke) gave them leave, provided that on their way they deliver a letter to General Bergh. The general is hiding somewhere in the Cape Colony, near the Orange River, in the area west of the Skeurberg.

Upon leaving, Senekal handed them a sealed letter addressed to the general and a map with directions to his camp.

Willem Boshoff is in his fifties – the oldest of the four. He is tall of stature. Solemn, slow, dignified: a man of few words. His eyes are clear as water. Before the war he was postmaster in his home town. He took Abraham under his wing the day after Abraham’s older brother had fallen by his side during the battle of Droogleegte. Ever since that day young Abraham has been incapable of uttering an intelligible sentence.

Though Abraham Fouché cannot be much older than twenty, his youth is spent. Who knows what his life might have been in more favourable circumstances?

Reitz Steyn is tall, with a certain languor and hesitancy in his movements. His complexion is ruddy and freckled. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth sensual, somewhat petulant, suggestive of someone excessively attuned to the pleasures of the senses. But what then of the underlying nervousness, the reticence in his interaction with others?

Ben Maritz is shorter than Reitz, of medium build, his curly hair dark and thinning. He has a broad, high forehead (remarkably deeply lined for a man his age). His ironic smile belies the expression in his eyes, which is surprisingly mild and sympathetic. His reaction to a situation is sometimes apparent from his unusually expressive nostrils. Not one for drawing attention to himself, but rather someone whose energy flows spontaneously to the world around him.

Ben is about forty-five, Reitz perhaps three years younger.

They share a passion for the natural world. This mutual passion formed the basis for their friendship – when they found themselves in the Lichtenburg commando under Commandant Celliers, each having joined a different commando at the outset of the war.

Both have been occupied since their youth with observing and recording nature. For as long as he can remember, Ben has been engaged in studying and collecting plants and insects, always searching for new species. He studied natural history at the South African College in Cape Town. Reitz studied geology in England and worked in Johannesburg as a mine geologist before settling in Pretoria, where he had been in the process of documenting the geological features of the Middelveld when war broke out.

*

In the early morning they shiver and pull their jackets closer around their shoulders as the chilly air settles on their necks, cheeks and ears. It is the second morning of their journey.

Initially they are talkative. They admire the seemingly endless landscape stretched out before them. The tall, waving grass, the few rocky outcrops ahead and the low mountains rising in the distance like molehills.

Ben points out a shrub here, a bird there.

It is still hot during the day.

At noon they rest in the shade of a tree.

Reitz looks closely at the ground, always on the lookout for a rare stone or fossil.

Ben makes a small sketch of a pod. Inspects another plant. “Carrion flower,” he says.

Young Abraham sits with his back against a tree. He sits woodenly, like a doll. Willem speaks to him in soothing but firm tones, trying to coax him into taking some food and water. The youngster seems to have lost his will to eat.

They consult the map. There are still no recognisable landmarks in the vicinity, though Willem’s compass shows that they are travelling in the right direction. Due northeast.

In the afternoon they are more subdued. Large clouds scud across the land.

In the distance they see a herd of buck. They notice dassies on the scattered boulders, and a few springhare.

At least they are certain of meat when they reach the end of the biltong and flour the farmer packed for them.

At dusk they dismount at the base of a small koppie. Like the night before they seek shelter under an overhanging rock. Again they hollow out sleeping places alongside the fire.

They cook some porridge. Eat in silence.

After supper Willem reads from the Bible. He reads from Proverbs, chapter three, and offers a prayer.

As on every other evening, Reitz makes a few notes in his journal. As opposed to the Cape system that came into being during the vacant, twilit prehistoric world of the Devonian, the Karoo system is younger, with an unimaginable abundance of water during the Permian and Triassic periods that supported a profusion of plants and animals, he writes. It was formed after a time of widespread glaciation, followed by a lengthy period of lakes, deltas and swamps, and ending in desertlike, volcanic conditions during the Triassic. It remains cause for wonderment, he writes, the many relics of our earliest and most primitive mammalian ancestors preserved in the soil beneath our feet – in the rock strata of the Beaufort, Ecca and Stormberg Series. So many secrets the earth has yet to surrender. So much still to learn about her unfathomable mysteries.

Because the overhanging rock and the koppie provide scant shelter, they do not sleep well. Until recently they enjoyed the safety of the numbers provided by the commando. Now they are on their own. By day in this unbroken landscape they are fair game for whoever may lie in wait to launch a stealthy attack on them.

Reitz is still mulling over the farmer’s tale of his deceased wife and his dream of the trickster woman. He does not know why these tales have struck a chord with him. He only knows they have left him unsettled.

*

The morning of the third day breaks gloriously on the horizon, its beauty constricting the throat.

There is a bite in the air. They consult the map. According to their calculations they should have come across at least one of the landmarks by now. There is the possibility that they are lost. Or that Senekal has played a trick on them.

As they travel on, they observe their surroundings even more keenly than the day before.

The landscape is still changing. Thorn trees and shrubs are diminishing; the waving grass making way for low bushes and smaller scrub.

They hear the call of a bird: weeet-weeet-weeet. A black-shouldered kite, Ben observes.

Another bird cries out: gug-gug-gug. Sand grouse, says Ben.

Now and then Ben questions Reitz about some aspect of the land; about the geological features of the area.

They dismount at regular intervals to give young Abraham a rest.

They sit him down in the meagre shade.

Willem speaks to him encouragingly. Take heart, Abraham, it won’t be long now. We’re on our way.

Then Willem looks up at the sky, his pale blue eyes clear as the surface of water ready to receive the reflection of clouds.

Abraham stares straight ahead, his dark eyes intense in his thin, pale face.

Ben scrutinises the activity of some ants at his feet.

“Are you any the wiser from their movements, Ben?” Reitz inquires.

“Not only am I wiser,” Ben replies, “but I’ve just had the most interesting insight regarding their endeavours.”

While they are resting, Ben points out the tiger beetle and the sand beetle, the bombardier and the tapping beetle.

*

According to Willem’s compass they are still travelling in a northeasterly direction.

They talk – about one thing and another – but not about what they recently left behind.

Namely the commando under leadership of Commandant Servaas Senekal.

The hero of Skeurbuikhoogte, Ben would sometimes call him – in muted tones, of course.

Hero’s backside, Reitz would say.

By day the commandant could mostly be found in front of his tent, smoking. Making his fruitless plans. Unless the commando happened to be on the run, of course.

He wore a black tailcoat and tophat (like General Maroela Erasmus, the men joked). His mood was seldom good. His eyes were unfocused from smoking and narrowed with suspicion. His talent for making the wrong tactical decisions seemed boundless.

Old flathead on the loose, Reitz would mutter.

Reitz, Ben would say, the man has a responsibility to the people to make his plans.

Like hell, Reitz would reply. Or: Oh heavens. Or sometimes in an unguarded moment: The downfall of the people has already been secured.

Careful, Ben would admonish, some things are better left unsaid.

When the commando moved from one encampment to another, Ben and Reitz used the opportunity to do field work in the area. They documented their findings in their journals. These journals they took with them everywhere they went – in the event of anything unforseen.

The other burghers spent their days sleeping in the shade, or playing cards, or gambling. Few of them still read, or wrote regular letters home to fill the dragging hours.

The past weeks have seen Ben and Reitz become increasingly disillusioned with the course of the war. (Neither had ever been a passionate believer in the cause – Ben even less so than Reitz.)

Is there still a leader worth his salt, Ben? Reitz asked. And Ben replied: You’re asking the wrong man. Or the wrong question.

Over which hill or low ridge, from which direction, Reitz wondered, would the harbinger of good news appear – to present them with an order, or the possibility of a way out?

Commandant Senekal’s judgment had not improved since they were obliged to join his commando in the early autumn of the previous year. In fact, it seemed clear he was losing what remained of it. Moreover, he had a weakness for female flesh and any accompanying form of intoxication: whether obtained from the bottle, from tobacco, or some other substance.

Accordingly the movements of the commando were determined by the availability of the above, rather than the whereabouts of the enemy.

At Norraspoort, with the commandant in hot pursuit of a certain widow, they narrowly escaped being lured into a fatal ambush. Fine examples of sills formed by intrusive rock, Reitz just had time to notice in passing.

At Skeurbuikhoogte and at Allesverloren shortly afterwards they had a quick brush with the enemy and did not come out of it well, but at Droogleegte – about three weeks ago – after two days of bloody battle they buried fifteen men in the late afternoon, including the able scout Faan Oosthuizen, and young Abraham’s older brother. The confrontation at Droogleegte could have been avoided – Faan himself had strongly advised Senekal against engaging with the Khakis in that specific spot.

That evening Reitz’s gaze swept across the graves, across the sandstone plains, and he thought: I’ve had my fill of bloodshed.

We’ve lost a good man here, Reitz, Ben spoke quietly beside him. One of the last good ones.

Willem stood facing them, his pale blue eyes grimly searching the sky. As if in anticipation of a vision or a sign.

At Droogleegte young Abraham’s brother fell by his side. His head and chest blown away. For hours Abraham sat with his dead brother in his arms – until Willem led him away, subsequently taking him under his wing. The fallen brother had been his friend.

After this, young Abraham’s condition deteriorated. He lay curled up in the tent next to Reitz and Ben’s. He never spoke coherently again – he uttered gibberish, unrelated phrases, confused cries; at night he suffered nightmares and delusions. He did not eat, he did not move. His body was rigid, like a corpse.

It was there – at Droogleegte, in the evenings beside the cooking fires – that Reitz and Ben began to confer with Willem in monosyllables and undertones.

A word here, a remark there. At first Willem said: The brother’s blood is calling for revenge. Forget revenge, Ben replied, this is neither the time nor the place for revenge.

Finally they decided: There was no other way. Willem had to get young Abraham away from Senekal’s laager and take him to his mother, where he could be cared for, and Reitz and Ben would accompany them, for Willem would not cope on his own with the debilitated, bewildered young man.

In the meantime Ben – more so than Reitz – had begun to consider laying down arms, signing the oath, going back to his wife and children. Reitz said: You know what the Boers do with traitors.

The plan was to take young Abraham back to his mother in Ladybrand. From there Ben would visit his wife and children in his home town Burgershoop, southwest of Ladybrand. (It has been more than a year since he last saw his family.) Then he and Reitz would perforce join another commando. They would not, however, be returning to Commandant Senekal’s laager. Time would tell, but they certainly weren’t going back to Senekal.

Reluctantly Senekal gave them leave to take Abraham home, and one morning seven days ago the four departed, carrying with them the letter and the map.

*

In the late afternoon they meet up with three men and a dog. They have been watching the group’s approach from a distance.

The men are clad in indigenous dress – mostly dressed skins: karosses worn like cloaks, the fur on the inside. Around their necks, hips, ankles and wrists are beads made of wood, seeds, shells and buttons, and necklaces made of teeth. They wear feathers, and thongs round their ankles, leather sandals, and earrings. They wear strange little hats made of skin. The hat of one has the ears of the dead animal pricked up on either side of his head so that they appear to be listening. Another carries something resembling a flyswatter – a wooden stick with a tuft of horsehair on the end. They have no rifles – their long spears are handcrafted. The leader has a broad, open face. They do not appear unfriendly or unreasonable.

Reitz thinks: We trust in God that these people are well disposed towards us, for on this wide open plain there is neither shelter nor escape.

The leader turns to Willem, whose large frame is imposing, exuding authority.

The man gesticulates with great emphasis. His right hand performs a sweeping gesture in the air in front of him. His arm describes a circle past his ear and comes to a halt at eye level – four fingers held up together – before dropping to his side. This movement is repeated another four or five times.

Willem is clearly doing his best to understand what the man is trying to put across.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ben remarks quietly, excitedly, “if these people were descendants of the !Kora. They might even be Gonna Hottentots. Who could have known there were still some of them around here? I’d have thought they’d have been extinct for many years.”

Willem’s eyes keep shifting between the direction in which the man is pointing and the man himself.

A ringing silence surrounds them.

Slowly Willem shakes his head from side to side.

The leader gesticulates again. Then he draws his index finger across his throat in a cutting motion, and gestures again with his hand.

“Good grief,” Reitz exclaims. “Slit throats, Willem. Either ours or theirs.”

“Someone else’s,” Willem declares with conviction.

“These people don’t speak any language at all,” Reitz remarks. “Just a collection of gurgles and rattles.”

“Their language is a form of !Kora-Hottentot,” Ben explains, “all but extinct, I believe. No wonder we don’t understand a word of it.”

Ben is delighted, Willem deeply worried.

The men smell of meat. Their skins glisten as if they have rubbed themselves with animal fat. Reitz catches himself inhaling deeply, and realises how hungry he is.

From the layered depths of his clothing the leader produces a leather pouch.

He takes out a scrap of paper.

Squatting on his haunches, he slowly unfolds the paper: a map.

With an eloquent wave of the hand he summons Willem to approach.

Willem squats by his side.

The dog stands with ears pricked.

The others keep a respectful distance.

“Our fate is being sealed here, my friend,” Reitz speaks quietly, “and we aren’t even aware of it.”

“Astounding,” Ben remarks in awe. “Astounding that these people should be here.”

A low sound escapes from Reitz’s throat: a muffled exclamation or cry, for something has emerged from the folds in the clothing of the smallest and most likely the youngest of the three men – something live. The snout of a smallish animal. A meerkat, possibly. The man allows the small creature to crawl out and perch on his arm. Reitz tries to point it out to Ben surreptitiously.

The dog pricks up its ears more sharply.

Willem unfolds the map. “I can’t make much sense of this,” he says. He shows it to Ben and Reitz. It is indecipherable at first glance. Willem hands it back to the leader.

Keep the map, the man indicates.

Slowly Willem folds the map. Puts it into his jacket pocket.

The young man with the tame meerkat, who has kept his face averted the entire time, suddenly looks up archly. On the side of his face, halfway across the smooth cheek, Reitz sees for a moment the glint of a tuft of feathers. Deep purple and reddish green in the late afternoon glow.

They bid their farewells. Mount their horses. The men turn and trot off, fading swiftly into the distance.

“It can mean one of two things,” Willem says. “An ambush by the English or a deputation sent by General Bergh.”

“Willem,” Ben observes laconically, “for the sake of our peace of mind I propose we believe the latter. What interests me more is where these people have come from. I swear – I’d lay my head on a block. The clothes. The language. Everything points to it.”

In the late afternoon they once more seek shelter at the base of a low ridge, one of a few in the area. Though it can hardly be called a ridge – rather a cluster of loose boulders.

They make a fire. They study the map they have been given. It is thin and worn from repeated folding and unfolding. Some information has been pencilled in and is all but illegible. There is a word that appears to be Skeurberg and they distinguish a few other almost indiscernible landmarks: crosses, circles, arrows. They decide the map may mean anything, that they might as well accept it in good faith and see whether it becomes any clearer in time. But in truth they still have only Senekal’s map and Willem’s compass to rely on.

They realise that they have been moving too sharply northeast during the past two days.

“Inexplicable,” Willem muses. “Inexplicable where these people could have found this map.”

When they have crawled into their hollowed-out sleeping places, Reitz asks whether Ben also noticed the meerkat on the man’s arm.

That wasn’t a meerkat, Ben replies, it was a mongoose – a banded mongoose, to be precise.

They take it in turns to stay awake – someone has to be on guard at all times.

When it is Reitz’s turn, the moon is high and bright in the clear night sky. A jackal howls. The night veld seems limitless. The firmament is so lush and glorious, so boundless from one end to the other, that it appears as if the dome of the heavens has lifted. He sits beside the fire, trying to warm himself, his jacket and blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Reitz knows she is there. A presence: behind the rocks, behind the daily bustle, and at night behind the dreams and the night smells and the soft calls and scurrying of small animals. He thinks: They are separated by a membrane and she is pushing against it, pushing, trying to penetrate to where he is.

*

In the early morning they are stiff from the night’s sleep.

They huddle around the fire to dispel the morning chill. They cook some porridge, drink a mug of coffee. The farmer’s rations are being depleted.

“Consider this,” Ben says suddenly, staring into the fire. “Two and a half years ago we were called up in the name of the president. We joined our commandos because it was our patriotic duty.”

He remains silent for a while. Willem and Reitz look at him expectantly.

“At Boskop Frederik Botha was shot in the head,” Ben says. “Our fathers knew each other well. At Elandslaagte my cousin Johannes was struck in the side by shrapnel; he died three days later. At Nicholson’s Nek Frans Bothma and Kleinjan Beukes fell side by side. Wounded in the liver and the stomach respectively. I knew them both well. At Leerlaagte, Vleesfontein and Skulpkraal we lost two hundred men altogether – my brother-in-law Jurie Botes was one of them. In January this year Sakkie Ehlers and six others signed the oath. All seven were executed. Sakkie and I played together as children. At Paardeberg four thousand men surrendered and were captured. Prisoners of war. Sent away. At least three of those men were known to me. At Skeurbuikhoogte some of our best men were taken prisoner, and at Droogleegte,” he looks at where young Abraham is sitting. “What can one say?”

He is quiet for a while.

“I have no idea how matters stand with my two brothers. I haven’t heard from them in a long time.” Ben stares into the flames. “Yes,” he says softly, “so it goes.” He blinks without taking his eyes off the flames. “I knew right from the start,” he says, “that no good would come of this war.”

They are all quiet. What’s most important has remained unsaid, Reitz thinks. Ben makes no mention of the welfare of his wife and children; he does not know for certain where they are. Neither does Willem know whether his wife is still in town with her two married daughters and their children.

Willem’s hands dangle helplessly between his knees. His eyes are pale as pebbles in a stream.

“I still believe in the honour of our cause,” he says. He rises and walks over to where young Abraham sits bundled up against a rock. Scrawny and undernourished.

Reitz turns away from the fire. “Ben,” he says after a while, “one of those men yesterday. One of the men we met. The one with the tame mongoose. Could it perhaps have been a woman?”

*

As they ride deeper into the country, armed with Senekal’s map as well as the indecipherable map given to them by the three men dressed in skins, with the days almost imperceptibly becoming shorter and the nights longer, proceeding more directly northwest according to the compass, they behold sunrises of exceptional beauty and sunsets of exceptional glory in purple, rose and gold – more impressive, more majestic, more dramatic than any they have encountered during all of their meanderings of the past months.

In the mornings they speak little. They are stiff after sleeping uncomfortably in the cold. Uncertain of what the day may have in store – friend or foe coming to meet them from wherever. They are uncertain whether they are on the right track, nervously on the lookout for an ambush or obstacle, for a suspicious cloud of dust on the vast, ringing horizon encircling them.

During the day they are also becoming less inclined to talk. Willem keeps a constant eye on young Abraham. At night he watches over him carefully. The young man seldom spends a peaceful night. He mutters and groans and calls out unintelligible phrases. Then Willem’s voice is comforting, and it breaks through their restless dreams. In this way they allow themselves to be comforted as well – Reitz and Ben. They sleep with ears pricked up like dogs, turned in any direction whence comes the slightest hint of a sound – other than the usual nocturnal sounds, the scurrying of small animals, the distant call of a jackal and sometimes an owl, the swishing of bats, the low, restless snorting of the horses.

She is there by day for Reitz, transparent as the moon’s disc, and at night, becoming steadily more urgent, the hint of her presence behind dreams, in sounds, and in the glittering paths of shooting stars.

On the fourth morning they come across a wagon with the skeletal remains of three people underneath. Two adults and a child. Among the ant hills in the barren veld scattered with sparse tufts of grass. Oxen and horses missing, and no sign of their remains. Someone must have got away with them. Only the bare wagon, apparently plundered, for nothing has remained, even the wheels have been removed.

“These must have been the people whose …” Ben makes certain Abraham is out of earshot, “throats were slit according to those men.”

Abraham gazes at them with wide, stricken eyes. He gives no indication that he has heard what is being said.

“Everything looted,” Willem says.

“And the vultures and scavengers cleaning up afterwards,” says Reitz.

“Vulture eats the flesh, jackal eats the flesh and bones, crow waits for vulture to open up the carcass, bearded vulture eats the marrow in the bones, bluebottle lays her eggs in the flesh, and ant eats the scraps that have remained,” says Ben, pensively.

They dismount.

Willem leads Abraham away to rest in the meagre shade of a few stunted trees.

“This is where their fire was extinguished,” Ben says, kicking at a big blackened stone.

“Uncanny,” says Reitz, and feels a shiver run down his spine.

Young Abraham looks as if he is about to have a fit. As a precaution Willem gives him a small sip of brandy – still part of the farmer’s contribution. During the past few days Reitz has increasingly avoided looking at Abraham. Their water is running low – they are constantly on the lookout for a stream. Their flour is all but depleted. Fortunately Ben has knowledge of edible bulbs in these parts.

*

They feel as though they are no longer making progress. They are moving through a barren region dotted with small shrubs, with low hills in the distance. No trees or streams. Only ant hills and an occasional rock lizard.

As they move further north, deeper into the unknown, they speak even less, or they speak in a different manner. Immediately after leaving the commando it was different, but after their visit to the farmer they seem gradually to have quietened down. And so every day, as they move deeper into the land, they become less inclined to share their thoughts. Perhaps their thoughts, like the vegetation, have become sparser too.

The landscape gradually opens up and becomes flatter. The distance from horizon to horizon appears greater. Their thoughts simply waft away, become wispy and as light as tumbleweed. They see the horizon. They see the changing cloud formations. They see the shadows of clouds moving across the landscape. They see bushes, rocks and ant hills. What is there to add to this?

Taaibos, Ben sometimes remarks. Hard pear and kriedoring, he says pensively, preoccupied. Aloe and bitter aloe. Bitter buchu. Cancer bush. Bitter root and cancer leaf. They no longer know whether he is pointing out anything specific or merely reminding himself of the names.

By day they allow themselves no more than a mouthful of water, and in the evening they moisten their lips with brandy. They chew on leaves. Veld bulbs and tubers. By day it is hot. The nights are cold. Where possible they take shelter against a rock, or a slope, anything in the flat expanse providing the least bit of cover so that they may light a fire without being seen.

They have left the farmer behind, with his veiled sorrow, as though he never told them about his dream. Earlier they left the commando behind, as if they had never during all those months been subjected to its dragging daily routine. They are becoming disconnected, detaching from where they came, and from where they are heading. Their earlier lives are dissolving. How soon it has happened, Reitz thinks. How soon they have left everything behind. They no longer have any discernible roots.

Willem’s solicitude towards young Abraham forms a solid web, a firm but invisible net in which they are caught when they threaten to disappear, to disintegrate like little swirlings of dust.

Their language was more robust before, their reactions sharper; they were more attuned to one another. Now Willem is their keeper, their mother, no less than he is young Abraham’s. It is Willem who speaks encouragingly by day: Well done, Abraham, take courage. There now, Abraham, be strong. Calm down, Abraham, calm down. We’re on our way.

To freedom, Ben once says, laughing softly.

The sun hangs low towards sunset. Soulful, says Reitz. Soul’s affliction, says Ben, and: Not a soul in sight.

Abraham’s silence deepens by day; towards evening they sometimes find him shivering; at night his feverish mutterings become increasingly urgent. Presently, Willem murmurs in his sleep. There now, he murmurs. It will soon be over, Abraham, he murmurs, his tongue thick with dazed but wakeful sleep. When Willem comforts Abraham, they find comfort too: a rampart against the weight of evil dreams and suppressed longings, and the painful memories of a fragile order.

One morning Willem’s eyes are clear as pebbles in a stream and his cheeks are awash with tears. Reitz looks away startled and sees that Ben’s face, when he notices it, turns a deep crimson.

*

When the plain lies outstretched in every direction, providing no more than the scantest cover and shelter, the silence between them is deepest. Then the land takes over, removing all thoughts from their minds and all words from their mouths. They note the sun’s trajectory; they see the place where the earth meets the sky; they hear the sound of the horses’ hooves.

While their days go by in wordless silence, their nights are haunted by chaotic dreams and terrifying visions. They hollow out their sleeping places deeper each night to protect them from the vicious early morning cold. Like Hottentots, Reitz remarks. He has become more and more afraid of sleep, no matter how badly he needs it. For in the hour before dawn, during the phase of deepest sleep, he is often jolted awake by repugnant dreams. Dead eyes. Dead teeth. Bloodied hair. These leave him half dazed, but too petrified to sleep again.

The earth around here was once an enormous swamp, he says one morning, his voice filled with awe.

When they reach a place a few days later where it is so barren and desolate around them, so devoid of God and man and history, so quiet that the silence by day is an onslaught on the inner ear, they see in the distance the scant curve of a low mountain range.

“That must be the Skeurberg,” Ben says.

“Boon,” Abraham interjects without warning. Everyone laughs, surprised at the recognisable word. Even Abraham gives a brief, lopsided grin. They take it as a sign, if ever there has been one, that they have survived so far.

*

The landscape that has constantly been changing is taking on more solid contours. There are small shrubs, some undergrowth, a few rocky ridges in the distance, more birds, more insects, even buck far off, and dassies on a rock.

On the fifth morning after they have left the farm, there are vultures in the sky. There must be a cliff nearby, Ben remarks, watching the birds.

“Buzzard,” Reitz says, “predatory bird.”

“Bird of prey, that hunts animals for food,” says Ben.

“Bone,” says Reitz, “the remains after death.”

“Botfly,” says Ben, “dipterous fly with stout body.”

“Carrion,” says Reitz, “dead, putrefying flesh.”

“Carrion crow,” says Ben, “bird feeding mainly on carrion.”

“Devonian,” says Reitz, “geological period.”

“Devil,” says Willem, “lord of the kingdom of evil.”

“Devil’s coach horse,” says Ben, “large rove beetle.”

“Eland piss,” says Reitz, “the piss of an eland.”

“Everlasting,” says Ben, “plant used as remedy for a cold.”

“Goldfield,” says Reitz, “district where gold is found.”

“Gold,” says Willem, “streets of jasper and gold.”

“Good heavens, Willem!” Ben exclaims. “Goldcrest, with its heavenly warbling.”

“Heavenly body,” says Reitz, “celestial object.”

“Hay,” says Willem, “to feed the horses.”

“Helpful,” says Ben, “more helpful than Peternella one could not hope for.”

Even Willem smiles.

They carry on in that vein, but keep their eyes on the distant low mountain range, steadily acquiring more substance. Taking courage?

They are forced to dismount when a violent dust storm overtakes them. They failed to notice its approach in the distance. They sit huddled against the horses’ flanks, moisten their lips with the last of the tepid water, and chew on some leaves that Ben carries with him.

Once they have saddled the horses and resumed their journey, Willem declares: “Kaffir-melon preserve – mouth-watering, to say the least.”

“Kaffir thorn,” Ben says, “a kind of tree.”

“Kaffir cow,” Willem says, “cow belonging to a Kaffir.”

“Kaffir sheeting,” says Reitz, “a thick, soft cotton.”

“Kaffir cherry,” says Ben, “a raisin bush.”

“Kaffir beer,” says Reitz, “beverage drunk by Kaffirs.”

“Kaffir work,” says Willem, “work not fit for white people.”

“Kaffir copper,” says Ben, “a large russet butterfly.”

“Kaffir hangman,” says Reitz, “an executor or oppressor of Kaffirs.”

“Kaffir chief,” says Ben, “bird with extremely long tail.”

“Kaffir captain,” says Willem, “chief of a Kaffir tribe.”

“Kaffir pebble,” says Reitz, “pebble found in gravel to indicate the presence of diamonds.”

“Kaffirboom leaf miner,” says Ben, “insect found on the kaffirboom.”

“Kaffir grave,” says Reitz, “hump across a road to prevent water erosion.”

“Kaffir kraal,” says Willem, “dwelling place of Kaffirs.”

“Kaffir swallow,” says Ben, “a kind of swift.”

“Kaffir pound,” says Reitz, “nickname for a penny.”

“Kaffir war,” says Willem, “war between white people and Kaffirs.”

“Kaffir-corn midge,” says Ben, “small gallfly with bright wings.”

“Kaffir corn,” says Reitz, “fine, diamond-bearing gravel.”

“Kaffir missionary,” says Willem, “missionary that works among Kaffirs.”

“Kaffir crane,” says Ben, “large bird with long legs and neck.”

“Kaffir half-crown,” says Reitz, “another name for a penny.”

“Kaffir nation,” says Willem, “nation consisting of Kaffirs.”

And so they amuse themselves until by late afternoon they reach a greenish area with plenty of thorn trees and aloes and – to their great relief – a small, sandy stream. (A tributary of the Orange?) They drink. They fill all receptacles. The horses drink. At dusk they come across a rocky outcrop with a convenient overhanging ledge. They will be able to make a proper fire, without fear of being seen. They cook a little porridge. Brew some weak coffee. As on every other evening, Willem says grace before they partake of the frugal meal. After he has read from the Bible, he offers up a deep, grateful prayer, thanking the Lord for His mercy, and for today’s water to quench their thirst.

They lie in their hollowed-out sleeping places, close to the fire. (Willem and Abraham some distance away, up against the rock face.) As usual, Ben and Reitz lie with their heads on their journals for support as well as safekeeping, should something happen to the horses.

They speak in undertones, as is their habit, so as not to disturb Willem and Abraham.

“Have you ever wondered, Reitz,” Ben asks, “what it would be like if some or other heavenly body collided with the earth?”

Reitz gives it some thought. Wipes his hand across his face.

“I imagine,” he says, “that at first an enormous glow would appear on the horizon, like a fire – an inconceivably large fire. Then the shock of the impact, followed by a colossal reverberation, and then the heat – wave upon wave, scorching and shrivelling everything in its path. Heat waves that would lay waste to the earth.”

“Ah,” says Ben, “goodness.”

“Leaving it much more desolate,” says Reitz, “than anything we can imagine.”

“Worse than the devastation of war,” says Ben with a smile.

“Much, much worse,” says Reitz. “Much worse than any devastation we have beheld.”

“Ah,” says Ben. “Inconceivable.”

“Yes,” Reitz agrees, “inconceivable.”

*

In the late afternoon of the sixth day since their departure from the farm they reach a rise – a slight plateau – from where they can make out a farmhouse in the distance.

They study the map. There is a faint marking that might indicate a homestead. They approach cautiously, but the closer they come, the more apparent it is that the place is deserted. There are no barking dogs to herald their approach, no smoke, no movement in the yard.

At sunset they dismount near the homestead. They investigate cautiously. The house is large and sturdy, built of stone, with wide, flagged verandas at the front and at the back. The windows and doors are boarded up. A gigantic vine clings to the back wall, trailing over a trellis. Ben thinks it could easily be more than a hundred years old. The front garden is overgrown with weeds, but the rose bushes are still visible. The windows of the outbuildings have likewise been boarded up. The chicken coop is empty. The dam nearby is half full, with a green film on top, and there is the rank smell of decay. The orchard is choked with weeds, the late summer harvest rotting under the trees. They search desperately for something to eat. To their delight they find the occasional overripe or half-shrivelled fruit, which they devour, worms and all.

They inhale deeply the putrid smell of the orchard. Everything is suddenly so cool and aromatic, so fruitfully rotten, so shady, so sweet, so inexpressible, after the harsh, barren, unbounded landscape which they have traversed during the past days.

The kraal at a distance from the house is also deserted.

There is no sound in the yard. A sombre mood engulfs them – a desolation that grips and holds on to the heart.

“Where could the inhabitants have gone?” asks Reitz.

“Who knows,” says Ben, “who knows what calamity befell them here?”

“Khakis in pursuit of rebels,” Willem declares with conviction.

“It’s entirely possible,” says Reitz, “that the occupants have gone into hiding somewhere in the ridges.”

Entirely possible indeed, for the rocky ridges would afford excellent shelter. In the half-light they stand surveying the surrounding landscape, but not much is visible in the gloom.

They sit on the stoep at the south side of the house, at a loss as to what to do, overcome by fatigue and dejection, thoroughly disheartened.

“I have a feeling,” says Willem, and he holds up his hand, as if listening for voices, “that there are people close by.”

Reitz groans under his breath.

“Goodness, Willem,” Ben inquires, “friend or foe?”

“Friend,” Willem counters without hesitation.

The moon rises, almost in her first quarter. The cold sets in, and reluctantly they build their fire beside the orchard, away from the house.

“Patience,” says Willem. “We must keep good faith.”

“What faith is he talking about, Reitz?” Ben asks softly.

They sit close to the fire, warming their hands.

“Now that we’re in the vicinity of people,” Reitz says, “I’m suddenly nervous.”

“The true believer has nothing to fear,” Ben teases.

Willem gives him a reproachful look.

They cook a meagre pot of porridge. Though the heat gives some comfort, the quantity is hopelessly inadequate. Willem reads from the Bible. He reads from the book of Daniel, chapters three and four: Daniel’s friends in the fiery furnace; Nebuchadnezzar’s madness. In his prayer he thanks God for keeping them under His protection, so that they have nothing to fear. (Reitz shoots a sidelong glance at Ben.)

During the prayer they become aware of movement near the kraal. Ben and Reitz instantly reach for their rifles. Careful, Willem warns, as two persons step out of the darkness into the glow of the fire. A white man and a black man. Both have their rifles trained on them.

“What are you men doing here?” the white man demands brusquely. He looks at them mistrustfully. He is short. Sturdy. A broad face, wide across the cheekbones. Curly hair. The face of a thug: head thrust forward challengingly – belligerent, brutal. His frayed jacket is fastened at the front with spike-thorns.

Willem explains why they are there.

“Aha!” says the man. He is swaying slightly and his speech is somewhat slurred. “On some or other mission. You want to see the general. You look like deserters to me.”

“A touch inebriated?” Reitz murmurs to Ben.

The black man hovers in the shadows behind the white man. He is tall, strongly built, with a well-shaped head, broad cheekbones and a dark, prominently arched mouth.

Kaffir hangman, Reitz thinks involuntarily.

The man turns suddenly to the black man behind him.

“Ezekiel,” he says, with a sweeping gesture, “is a Kaffir to be reckoned with. You can ask him anything. Ask him something!”

They stare, dumbfounded.

“Go on!” the man urges impatiently. “Ask him something from the Bible!” With the butt of his rifle he strikes the ground impatiently. “Or don’t you deserters have any questions?”

Ben and Reitz glance at Willem, the only one with a sound knowledge of the Bible. Willem is offended, does not like the insinuation, colours slightly.

“Who,” Willem asks solemnly, after a moment’s thought, “who were the twin sons of Tamar, the daughter-in-law of Judah?”

The black man raises his head. He takes a step forward. The whites of his eyes gleam for a few moments in the glow of the flames.

“The sons of Tamar,” says Ezekiel, “were Pharez and Zarah.”

“Right?” the white man cries.

“Right,” Willem declares solemnly.

“What did I tell you!” the man cries and stamps triumphantly on the ground with his rifle butt.

“Something else,” he says. “Ask him something else. Ask something from history. Our own history. Not Kaffir history or Khaki history.”

“Who was the commander of the Boers,” Ben asks, “at the battle of Nooitgedacht in the Transvaal?”

Willem looks at him reproachfully, as if he has gone too far.

Is Ben being wilful? Reitz wonders.

Again the man steps forward, rolls his eyes so that the whites gleam in the firelight, and thinks for a moment.

“The Boers,” he says, “were under the command of General De la Rey, General Smuts and General Beyers.”

“Right?” the white man insists.

“Right,” says Ben.

“What the hell did I tell you!” cries the man.

The minute Ezekiel has given his answer, he steps back into the shadows and his face becomes expressionless again.

“Come,” says the man suddenly. “My name is Gert Smal. I’ve no time to waste. Get your things. Bring the horses. Come along.”

They walk along a footpath that leads past the kraal, through a hollow and up a fair-sized koppie, following in the footsteps of Gert Smal, with Ezekiel, the clever Kaffir, bringing up the rear.