“You must go faster,” Mary called out to me from across the camp. She had washed and changed her two little ones by the time I had exhausted all my energy on one task. I felt disheartened.
I whisked the rod between my hands more aggressively, and now with more stubborn determination. My arms began to give way to the strain. My back begged me to sit down. The ground had looked uninviting, but now seemed like a haven. However, I thought, I might be close to accomplishing my task. I couldn’t give up now.
I continued turning the thin rod between my now aching hands. Maybe I could gain an advantage by distracting my mind. I tried to look around me for something else to draw my attention. There were short shrubs scattered around the plain, along with other low, dry vegetation along the ground that I did not recognize. There was nothing in my sight that registered a memory, or that held enough intrigue to interest me. My mind did, however, take hold of the idea of breaking this rod against my knee until it was nothing but splinters.
The ache was becoming unbearable in my legs, back, and arms. I could not continue in this way for much longer, and no smoke was rising from the wretched set of tools. I must either continue in stubborn pain or relent and bear the consequences of a messy dress.
Given the circumstances, the choice became much easier.
My knees crashed to the ground in sweet relief. Instantly, muscles that had been bellowing now relaxed. I stretched and straightened my back as I continued to spin the rod.
Finally, at the point where I was determined to live my life without warmth if it meant this type of agony, a small pillar of smoke emerged from the base.
“Mary!” I cried out. She was at my side in an instant. Carefully she pulled the base from the ground to reveal a small black mound of coal. The smoke wavered and faltered slightly as she transferred the precious bit to our pillow of leaves. I held my breath in agonizing hope that it had not diminished.
It had.
Mary handed the tools back to me with a nod. When I reached for them, my hand shook. Mary saw, but said nothing.
This time when I began to twist, my muscles actually jerked in protest. I had never worked them this way. It was true, then, that I had been mostly stagnant my whole existence. This thought made me angry and I attacked the spindle as I had not hitherto done.
Suddenly, smoke appeared again and this time the pillow Mary held burst into a small, yet exquisite, flame. It crackled and spat as Mary placed it gently underneath the pieces of wood she had arranged so meticulously. Instantly I felt the warmth from the small fire.
If there were rooftops to be stood upon, I would have been shouting from them. A task which had appeared so simple and mundane at first had become, to me, a colossal achievement. How many people had gone without fire because they did not know how to create it? I would have wandered in that same darkness, but I had conquered and now had light, heat, and a tool by which I could sustain life. My frame swelled with pride. I was a woman of the frontier.
Mary was kind enough to teach me in small increments—one step at a time. That night she allowed me to sit by my triumphant achievement as she took the skinned birds from David and prepared them on the coals that resulted from the fire. I tried to watch her movements and commit them to memory.
We all nibbled on pieces of Mary’s cooked bird and some strips of dried meat that David called biltong. It was small cuts out of cattle or antelope, sprinkled with salt and exposed to the hot sun, and could sustain a person between hunting wild animals. It was quite good, and the salt was especially gratifying.
I helped Mary in preparing the children for bed, and watched as she nestled them into their small tent and sang a simple song. I drifted away from them, feeling out of place, back to the fire where David and Mebalwe sat silently, comfortable in each other’s presence. I rested to David’s left, a little ways off so that I could leave him undisturbed. Soon, however, he spoke and surprised me.
“What are you running from?” he asked simply. He did not even look at me. The fire played patterns on his face, his mustache making funny shadows on his chin.
“I am not running from anything. On the contrary, I am running toward something.”
That got his attention. “What is that?”
“I cannot tell you,” I answered honestly. “I do not know.”
He grunted.
I smiled. “Perhaps instead you could answer some questions for me.”
“I guessed you would have some questions,” he confirmed.
“What happened to the Boers?” I spoke frankly.
His eyebrows raised as he turned to me.
“Perhaps that is not the question you should be asking. I had thought you would want to know where you will be living, what you will be doing to occupy your time, or how you will survive in a terrain that has already claimed many, many lives.”
“Oh,” I said, reconsidering, “I had supposed I would take that all in one day at a time. There are so many things I know nothing about. The recent history of this continent seemed like a good place to start.”
David acknowledged my speech with a grunt.
“You may be right,” he consented. “The Boers, as I said, were white settlers of Dutch descent who left the Cape to find their land of milk and honey. There were unwise in their search.”
“Because you said there is no land of milk and honey,” I repeated what he told me before.
“Certainly there was that,” he agreed. “But more than that, they mistook open land as free land. They saw a wide-open space and thought to claim it as their own property without any thought to the centuries of chiefs and tribes that had occupied that area in the past, or who were currently living on it. It happened more than once that a Boer would begin plowing a field while a native was plowing on the other side. They took no thought to their journey except to find a place where they would be free from government restrictions.”
“Government restrictions?” I asked. “What restrictions were they opposed to?”
“There were several regulations the Dutch did not agree with such as property taxation. But, in truth, the main area of concern was with the keeping of slaves.” An edge of hardness had come into his voice.
“Then,” I said, “the Boers desired to keep their slaves.”
He looked at me, then nodded. “Yes. They were anxious indeed. A surprising number of Boers fail to see anything wrong with the way they treat the natives. Some maintain that it wasn’t loss of slave labor that drove them from Cape Town, but the British threat to their position of authority over the Africans. They saw a distinct difference. But there is no difference.”
He began to speak more freely with me. “The Boers live out their lives as if they were on the pages of the Old Testament. The African is Ham, the dark-skinned son of Noah, cursed into slavery. Their flight from the English in Europe was the Exodus of the Children of Israel, the African interior their Promised Land by covenant with God. To them, all actions are justified, all brutality and bloodshed mandated—even ordained.”
“Of course, there is certainly an economic issue with the freeing of slaves. Suddenly large ranch owners have no more labor to work their land, no hands to plow the field. With the release of slaves, one has satisfied the demand of one’s conscience, but a large work force, previously relied upon, is suddenly relinquished. You do have to consider the influence on the economy.
“But to my knowledge, the British did as well as they could in that regard. Small steps were taken to bridge the gap the change would form. The Boers were informed well in advance that the slaves would be freed. But how do you transition a large group of people from something that has been ingrained into their culture? When the emancipation law finally came into effect, plows were dropped in fields without a glance back. All slaves instantly migrated from this lifestyle into a new. The Boers offered to pay the slaves to return, but they would not return to their former masters. As much as the British enforced the laws of mistreating slaves, I believe the fact that they
would not return speaks volumes to how they were treated behind doors.”
“So you are opposed to the slave trade,” I guessed.
“If Africans behaved like savages, it was the slave trade that made them do so,” he said, with a touch of fierceness. “I find I cannot be morally sound and be in favor of slavery. The slave trade ought to be a source of burning shame to every civilized being who does not help to put it down. I know that God certainly disapproves. I am simply attempting to see the good in the Boers. I wonder sometimes if it is warranted.”
“And so the Boers simply left their homes?” I asked bewildered. “They left their homes because they could not keep slaves?”
“Oh, there is more to it, Miss Anna,” he continued calmly. “You see, after the release of the slaves, some of the natives took it upon themselves to redeem past slaves. Looting and thievery abounded. Some would simply walk onto Boer property and take away cattle, or chickens or anything they desired. The Boers applied to the government but claimed they would do nothing.” I noted that David didn’t seem to believe that statement. “They are self-proclaimed pioneers. They must move forward, even if moving forward is detrimental to themselves and to the natives.” The fire played off the broad angles of his masculine face, casting harsh shadows across his cheekbones.
“Is that why they dislike you,” I asked quietly, “because you took the side of the natives?”
“No, Miss Anna.” He almost smiled. “They believe I have used my missionary work as a facade, and have, in reality, been supplying rifles to my friend, Sechele, and to his people.”
“Have you?” I asked interested.
He did not look at me, but smiled at the ground. “No Miss Anna. I have not. I do not deny it openly, however, because it is useful for others to believe it is true. I know the Boer’s fear of guns in African hands is as useful to the Bakwena as the guns themselves. It prevents the Boers from treating the Bakwena as they do many others under their domination. Some arms and ammunition are a necessity in this terrain as lions and other carnivorous animals roam here, and they are certainly more effective than spears. But it makes little difference to a group of men who are feeling particularly hostile in their vulnerability.”
I considered that.
“What happened,” I asked, “on their trek? Why were they so dejected?”
“That is a story I would not like to retell at all, let alone late at night with a full day ahead of me,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back. “We do have another long day tomorrow, don’t we?”
“I think you will get used to them,” he responded. “Now, do you know how to put out a fire?” he questioned.
“With water?” I guessed.
He shook his head. “No. We don’t waste water here, Anna, not for anything.” He then took giant mounds of dirt in his hands and smothered the fire effectively. Soon we were all nestled around the bed of the wagon in our tents, ready to sleep away the darkness. I shared a tent with Agnes, wiggling myself into the small space to sleep with my back to her, listening to her small steady breathing.
I had time to think before I slept. It had been fascinating to hear David speak. Even down to the fine details, he spoke in an air that would indicate that he spoke fact with every syllable that escaped his lips. Perhaps he did! He did not waste time with pleasantries nor did he bore his companions with polite conversation. He continuously had only one course with a sense of absolute certainty. There were no forks in the roads of David’s mind. I had never, nor ever would again, meet someone who was so confident in their honesty.
The darkness was not gone when I awoke.
I sat up amidst my small band and instantly felt the effects of yesterday’s fire making. Every muscle from the top of my shoulders to the tips of my red fingers torqued in pain at my every movement. Simply lifting my hand to remove the blanket from my legs was excruciating. Mary saw my discomfort and looked away.
Another day passed in like manner. Mary began to lean on me more heavily as the days went on. I had only been in the wagon for an hour when Mary’s voice beckoned me from the front.
“Miss Anna, step down and have Mebalwe show you how to direct the oxen.” She relayed her instructions to Mebalwe in her native Sechuana. A sudden shot of adrenaline shot to my fingers as I thought of walking next to the giant animals, but I swallowed hard and jumped out of the moving wagon. I walked as confident as I could muster to Mebalwe. He handed me a long wooden stick similar to his own. He communicated to me through simple pantomime that I should watch him. He walked beside the rows of oxen and softly tapped their sides and feet with the stick. Gradually, he moved to the other side and did the same. The idea was to gently guide them along and keep them in their straight lines. One of the ox acted up and Mebalwe shoved against its shoulder with his own to push it back in line and exercise some authority. I wondered how an ox would react to my small frame pushing against it. I wondered if I would have any more affect than the hundreds of flies the oxen ignored so easily. I would soon find out, for Mebalwe gestured to me to begin guiding.
The grass had gotten considerably higher as I had observed Mebalwe’s methods. I worked hard to step high with my knees so as to make good time with the wagon, but the effect was making me fatigued very quickly. Nevertheless, this was the sort of activity I felt I was obligated to become accustomed to. I tapped the leg of one ox and the animal jerked his head back so quickly and violently that I jumped back and dropped my stick in the tall grass. It took me several moments to find it again, and when I did, I looked at Mebalwe for instructions. He creased his forehead and gave me a hard nod. I was to try again. This time I was a bit more frustrated and hit the ox a bit harder than was necessary. He moved back in line as if I had just asked him politely. I would soon, gratefully, find that oxen do not measure pain in the same way as me. I moved around the yoke of oxen, tapping and pushing their sides and feet with my stick. One ox began to act out by rearing its head and stamping its feet. I rammed against its shoulder as mightily as I could in my small figure. In a move that surprised me entirely, the ox quickly jumped in the opposite direction of me and I suddenly found myself at its feet. It didn’t take long for the inevitable to happen. One of his mighty hooves came down on my hand.
I heard several loud cracks and snaps.
As soon as he had moved on I rolled far out of its reach and cradled my hand to my chest. My mind couldn’t focus. Images seemed hazy to my eyes. Somewhere in my mind I knew that the pain, when it set in, would be excruciating. For now, though, I felt only surprise.
Mebalwe and David were upon me very quickly, jabbering in calm Sechuana, and David slid an arm underneath me to steady me. “Stand up, Miss Anna,” David instructed as he lifted me on to my feet. “That’s it,” he said soothingly, complimenting my simple effort. They kept looking at my face to assess my reaction, but the real pain had not set in yet. I was simply feeling embarrassed for getting in the way of a moving ox.
David sat me in the shade of the wagon with a drink of water, and slowly, I came back to myself as the pain began. As I’d imagined, the pain was immense, and waves of nausea threatened to overcome me when I looked at my injury, but I stayed silent, pulling myself inward to the space within myself I’d discovered long ago.
After a time, when he was sure I was calm and no longer suffering from shock, he took my hand in both of his. Considering the rough look of his own hands, he was surprisingly gentle. He touched and pulled slowly on all the bones in my hands. He did not have to tell me it was broken, only in how many places it was broken.
“We will have to adjust the bones in your hand, Miss Anna,” he explained.
I did not need the details. I had had many broken bones before. “Proceed,” I said simply.
He looked at me warily, possibly wondering if I was some unearthly thing. Maybe I was. I looked away as he adjusted two of my fingers back into their rightful place. The pain was excruciating as always, I pursed my lips and jumped slightly with each bone
. I felt, as I had always felt, that as soon as the bones were back in place, my mind felt more settled but my hand felt worse.
David made very nice small splints for my two fingers and bandaged the rest of my hand professionally. Robert and Agnes had jumped down from the wagon to see the commotion, and they watched attentively as David bandaged my hand. Agnes was especially sympathetic as she repeated, “Anna hand hurt,” enough times that Robert finally asked her for some quiet.
As soon as my hand was safe and covered, I stood on my own and thanked David profusely. He still regarded me strangely. Mebalwe came upon us in that moment and spoke something in Sechuana. In response, Mary nodded, a look of concern on her face.
I cocked my head in question.
“He says you must be strong to not make a sound when stepped on by a full-grown ox,” Mary translated. Mebalwe gave me that same expression as David, as if they did not know how to react to me.
I shrugged, not knowing what other reaction to give.
I could see Mary tried to contain the swell of sympathy she sometimes felt when I revealed too much of my history. David and Mebalwe merely nodded.
Suddenly I was embarrassed, and excused myself to get another drink of water.
Chapter 9
A few hours later, Mary and I collected roots and tubers as we walked alongside the moving wagon. She said this was one of the responsibilities the women of the Bakwena took on. Mary showed me how to dig in the earth and pull out the ones that would benefit the body most. She pointed out to me which were wholesome and which were detrimental. I took care to use my good hand, as the other pulsed painfully with surplus blood.
As we rummaged, we spoke.
“What are your responsibilities in Sechele’s village, Mary?”
“Not much,” she responded modestly. “I take care of my family, attend David’s sermons, and help in the village where I am needed.”
“I feel certain you do a great deal more than that,” I prodded. “You’re so accustomed to the work load that you do not feel it upon your back.”
In Spite of Lions Page 9
