To hell with Cronjé. Ingrid Winterbach
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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