Scores were presented from lowest to highest, with the judges leaving the final three alone in the rink.
“She’s made it to the top three!” Drina, who was seated behind Mina. squeezed her shoulders and squealed.
Everyone held their breaths, and only the swish of horse tails and snorts could be heard as the judges called out second place—the dappled mare and her rider.
“And the national colours are awarded to…” the announcer paused and the entire arena held their breaths, “Mina Van Der Westhuizen! With third place going to…”
The crowd erupted in more applause.
Lullu jumped up, standing on Boesman’s back and bowed, then hopped off and bowed as the judges presented her with her ribbon and her colours.
Their family rose in unison, clapping and proffering wolf whistles. The rest of the crowd joined in. Tears streamed down Ray’s eyes and the family laughed and celebrated. Mina closed her eyes, wanting to imprint this day on to her heart forever.
Lullu stood on her tippy-toes and whispered something to the lead judge, who nodded and smiled brightly.
Her daughter mounted Boesman and cantered smartly over to where they all sat in the front row. The horse stopped, and Lullu jumped up, standing once again on her horse’s back.
“What the heck is she up to?” Mina asked as Ray stood, leaned over and took a box from his daughter, then turned to face Mina as he kneeled.
The entire crowed “aaahed” as Boesman followed suit and kneeled, and Ray opened the small black box.
“He will admit he was afraid,” Lullu said out loud.
“But love returned and it did hold,” Ray recited.
“His heart will play no games, I made him swear,” Lullu continued.
“For it knows my name.” Ray popped open the box.
Lullu finished, “And his true desire.”
“I wrote this poem Mom.” Lullu added, eliciting soft laughter form those who could hear.
Ray shook his head and returned his attention to Mina. “I loved you once; I love you still. I honestly hope that you might too?”
A heavy silence enveloped them as the arena awaited a reaction from Mina, whose world was spinning off its axis.
“This was my ma’s.” His eyes shone like sapphires in the night sky. “And I would love for it to belong to you now. Mina van der Westhuizen, will you marry me?”
Mina glanced over his shoulder to where Boesman now stood up with Lullu sitting on his back. Her daughter smiled broadly as she nodded.
Mina looked to her ma and then to Derek, who both nodded and smiled, then back to Ray, who turned the colour of sour milk.
“Of course I will. I just wanted to make you poop your pants first.”
They all burst out laughing.
She allowed Ray to slip the onyx and diamond white-gold, princess-cut ring on her finger before he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
The entire crowd applauded with quite a few wolf whistles and whoop-whoops in addition.
It was dark and late by the time Ray pulled up to the stables at Redemption. He cut off the engine but kept the headlights on. Mina and Lullu both sat sleeping in their seats.
Ray reached back and brushed a loose strands of hair that fell across his daughter’s face. A year ago, he’d never have believed he’d be here. Back in the arms of his only love with his daughter. He’d never have believed that forgiveness was possible or that he’d ever deserve it. But here he was, on the verge of getting married, and a part of this gorgeous girl’s life.
“You’re my everything,” he whispered as a hand touched his arm.
He looked back to Mina, who looked at him with so much love and acceptance his heart burst. “And so are you, baby. So are you.”
He turned and leaned forward, kissing her like he’d never kiss her again.
Author’s Note
I’m sure if you’ve read Simple Truths, you’d have been super surprised that Ray gets to feature in his own love story. But Raymond Le Roux spoke to me early on in the process of creating his sister’s story. I always knew there was more to him than his arsehole racist persona. I saw a damaged man. A young boy scared out of his wits and coping with a situation the only way he knew how. A situation no kid or human should ever have to find themselves in—and how that trauma followed him in to adulthood.
Again, I’ve shown you little bits of South Africa’s truths, such as the poaching, human trafficking and the ever rampant farm attacks.
I also used a lot of artistic licence when describing the abalone farm because I wanted it to look a certain way. I also wanted to show how lucrative and sought-after abalone is.
Then I mentioned a man who re-created genuine seawater. He is someone I know from South Africa. He has a passion for sea life and discovered that all sea water had to be pumped in and refreshed from the ocean, so he spent millions of Rands and hours on developing fake seawater that had the same genetic make-up of real seawater. Unfortunately, for legal reasons, I can’t mention names.
Tatensrope is an anagram for the town of Paternoster on the west coast of South Africa. I wanted a town that already existed, but also was my own.
Load shedding happens all the time in South Africa as the corrupt government have bankrupted municipalities and the electricity provider—therefore, not enough infrastructure upgrading has been able to take place and so not enough electricity is generated for a growing population.
A desert rose is a sand rose. It is found mainly in the Namib desert but is found on the west coast too. From the way the sand shifts and the morning dew soaks in to the sand, it freezes into a pattern looking almost exactly like a rose in full bloom. This story is written from a lot of life experience, chatting with people who’ve dealt with similar issues and because – SOUTH AFRICA!
To every human who’s made good on their second chance—good on you. To those who have received one—it’s worth the hard work. To those who’ve abused theirs—shame on you.
And last but most certainly not least – to a very special young lady who inspired Lullu’s love for and brilliant accomplishment in the vaulting arena’s of South Africa, Chamonix Lombard – always follow your dreams my girl, always!
Simple Truths
Lost & Found - Book One
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Prelude
The clinic at the far north end of the Koinadugu District in Sierra Leone is busy, sticky, zooms with flies, and reeks of death. Another outbreak of Cholera in the small, poverty-stricken village has all the staff of our deployment of Doctors Without Borders at their wits end.
The canvas walls of the tent billow as hot wind slaps them to and fro, bringing little relief but only adding to the misery of life. My guide and self-proclaimed protector, Max, holds back the flap of the door for me to step out and stand beneath a threadbare tarp tied between two dead stumps. It provides little relief as a makeshift shield from the sun. In the distance, a herd of goats bleat when a lone bull dares to drink from the same trough that they do. The shade, distributed to them by trees I’ve never bothered to learn about, is sparse and practically nonexistent; here leaves, like people, wither as soon as they bloom.
“Dokta!” a rickety, parched voice calls out.
I look to my left as I duck and step out into the scorching African morning.
A woman, small in stature but strong in presence, walks toward me. Her grey hair is plaited in a way that pulls the skin of her face in tight lines around her eyes. Around her neck, wrists, and ankles hang leather straps decorated with feathers, stones, and beads. Her tan-colored three quarter pants and blue button-up top are well worn, but clean. Over her shoulder hangs a handmade leather bag decorated in beads and more: small bones. A bag I know from experience holds specially engraved bones, teeth, and other paraphernalia used by her kind.
“Be gon wit ya, woman!”
Max the ever loyal, steps forward and puts himself between the woman and me.
I tuck a wayward strand of my thick blon
d mop behind my ear. “It’s okay. She means no harm.” I place a hand on his shoulder.
“Aye, she be da devil with dem eyes.”
“Shh, Max,” I plead. “How can I help?” I ask, trying not to focus on her gaze. Her eyes, one blue as the sky crowning our heads and the other as brown as the darkest chocolate ever tempered are the mark of a witch, according to local lore.
I lower my gaze respectfully.
“I no be meanin ta bother.” Her voice softens in a respectful tone as she apologizes and confirms my instincts.
Her skin is as leathery as her voice, but her body is strong. Her arms and legs, though slim, are lithe and toned, and her general appearance has no tell of the illness currently running rife through the village.
“Are you ill?” My hand instinctively rubs my tummy as I’m not sure why else she’d be here.
The woman throws her head back, and a cackle cracks like a whip through the heat-drenched air. Her laughter ceases as suddenly as it begins, and the woman inches closer.
Max tries to stand between us, but I shake my head as she reaches out and pinches my chin between her forefinger and thumb. She smells of smoldering fire and tobacco as she pins me to the spot with her mismatched gaze. For a moment, I am lost in the swirl of blue and brown.
“Noh, Dokta. I be free from da bad juju of dis place. But tis yew I cum ta see.”
Her words carry no threat of harm or dreaded curses - not that I believe in curses - but the look in those eyes almost bring me to my knees.
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Available for purchase here:
https://michelledaltonauthor.com/books/simple-truths/
Forget Me Not
LOST & FOUND - BOOK TWO
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Prelude
Queensland in February is like sitting in a sauna with all your clothes on.
Isabella Irish flapped her T-shirt to and fro, hoping to create some airflow and cool off. She came to stand beneath the blooming poinciana tree which created a canopy over the open-air stage. The popular Eumundi Markets were as crowded on a Wednesday as they were on Saturdays. It’d been months since she’d visited the busy Sunshine Coast bazaar. Her stall, which had showcased her art, had sat not too far from where she was now—before Mark had secured her first break.
Two men and three women stepped onto the stage and positioned themselves with their traditional indigenous instruments.
The earthy Australian music drifted out of a didgeridoo and flowed through her body, the player’s circular breathing imitating the rain and the wind in his songs of the earth and the sky.
A hand drum soon joined in and Issi found herself carried away to a distant place as she rode the rhythm and sound of the song.
The fog which always clouded her fractured cognizance lifted, and a clarity she had not experienced since the terrorist attack, seeped into her damaged brain. She closed her eyes and shut out the hustle and bustle around her, enjoying the brief reprieve from a mind which had lost so much.
A deep bassy tone emanated from the instrument as the player worked the mouthpiece with his breath. The sound painted a picture of the elements, and kangaroos hopping across a vista—boing, boing. A third instrument joined in, adding a crispness like dry grass brushed by the wind . . . It drew her away from the present and into an open space of land, her heart echoing the beat of the drum. Reds and golds unfurled around her. The music drew her back to an ancient time . . .
“Hey. You enjoying the music?” Jeff leaned in with his chin on her shoulder.
“Geez!” Issi slapped a hand to her chest as she jumped.
“Sorry, lovely.” He proffered a handsome smile along with his apology.
“Yeah. It tells a story if you listen closely.” She returned the gesture to show him she was okay. “Where’s Sam?” She leaned past Jeff. “I can’t see him,” she asked her ridiculously tall friend.
“Two rows down. He’s discovered a stall that sells exotic food and art.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “And I swear the stallholder’s accent is just like yours.”
“I don’t have an accent.” Issi waved off Jeff’s odd comment. For a born-and-bred Australian, she sounded nothing like one. But her different way of pronouncing words, according to the specialist doctors, could be due to her acquired brain injury.
“Come. We need to save that man from himself. I can see him buying a truckload of foreign foods I know I won’t eat. I mean, what in the holy heck is paap?” Jeff’s lips tried to wrap themselves around the foreign word. The outcome was hilarious and Issi bit back her laughter.
He slipped an arm through hers and guided her to where Sam stood tasting food and peppering the short, plump stallholder with questions.
“Are you still tasting?” Jeff nudged his partner, who nodded and swallowed.
“This pap is good once you put some honey in it,” he replied.
“What is it exactly?” Issi pointed to the bowl of what looked like bleached polenta.
“Haai. Why don’t you know what pap is?” The woman’s astonished expression caused Issi to pause.
Taking a step away from the table she shook her head.
“It’s a maize porridge.” Sam graciously drew the vendor’s attention back to him. “Really, you both need to broaden your palatable horizons.” He winked at Issi.
“Ja. So this is Achar,” she said, glancing at Issi once or twice more. “And you can eat it with a lot of stuff, especially wif your p-ah-p.” She pronounced the word slowly. “It gives it this really lekka . . . erm, wat is nou die word vir smaak . . . taste. Ja, taste! I make it from mango, curry . . .”
“Okay your accent isn’t quite like that, but it shares a similarity. Even she thought you were a South African,” Jeff whispered teasingly into Issi’s ear, but she barely acknowledged him.
An uncomfortable sensation made itself known, as though someone had wrapped a lasso around her midriff and was tightening it with every passing moment. Disembodied voices fought to break free from the shattered fragments of her broken brain. She’d understood the woman’s foreign words—but how? And then she spotted the easel standing center to the background of the stall. On it, an artwork . . .
A familiarity Issi couldn’t put her finger on filled her head and stirred something in her heart. The style, she knew it . . . but like the foreign words spoken by the stallholder, she was not sure how.
She rubbed the scarred skin behind her left ear. The part of her brain devastated in the bomb blast ached, pleading with her to access what she had lost. Instead, nausea roiled in her belly and left her mouth dry and her vision blurred. Issi instinctively reached out and gripped Jeff’s shoulder as her world turned.
“Lovely, are you okay?” Jeff stroked a stray lock off her cheek as Sam came to stand beside her.
“You’re white as a sheet. Getting another migraine?” Sam rubbed a caring hand on her back.
Issi nodded, then pointed to the artwork. “How much?” was all she could get her stupid mouth to articulate.
* * *
Available for Purchase here:
* * *
https://michelledaltonauthor.com/books/forget-me-not/
Other Books By Author
Available for purchase here:
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https://michelledaltonauthor.com/books/
About the Author
G’day, howzit, sanibonani, goeie dag.
My readers know me as Michelle Dalton and my friends, as the call-a-spade-a-spade-South-African.
Originally from Pretoria, South Africa, Michelle Dalton and her family fled the rising violence taking over her beloved country and now lives near Brisbane, Australia with her husband and triplet sons.
While juggling a nursing career and teenage sons, she loves to escape into her fictional world. Michelle has a deep love of horses and enjoys weaving them into dramatic stories with honourable men and strong women.
Her other hobbies are gardening (usually trying to save her precious herbs and bulbs from an overactiv
e miniature Jack Russell), painting, and reading. She’s also a huge Star Trek and Marvel Comics fan, and as of recently a wee fan of DC too.
You can connect with Michelle Here:
http://michelledaltonauthor.com
https://www.facebook.com/MichelleDaltonAuthor
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https://www.instagram.com/michelledaltonauthor_/
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https://www.pinterest.com.au/daltonauthor/_saved/
Road to Redemption Page 15
