To hell with Cronjé. Ingrid Winterbach
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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