A Chain of Voices

by Andre Brink

  The first time I came upon him doing it I ran to him to stop the beating. “What you doing?” I shouted at him. “You got mad or something?”

  He stopped beating the horse, breathing heavily, a wildness in his eyes as if he didn’t recognize me properly. Then he threw away the sjambok and stalked off, leaving me to lead the stallion back to its stable.

  “Don’t you ever do this again,” I told him after he’d calmed down. “How can you do that to a horse?”

  He said nothing. He didn’t even look up; too ashamed to face me.

  And yet he did it again. And then Nicolaas discovered it, one evening when Galant provoked the horse into another frenzy. I was close by, working on a wooden fence for the chicken-run, and watching them askance, pretending not to notice.

  “Galant!” Nicolaas shouted, hurrying towards him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Galant stopped, as he’d done the first time when I’d interrupted him, hanging his head. But after a while he looked up to stare straight at Nicolaas, although he still said nothing.

  “How dare you beat my horse like that?”

  “He broke the gate.”

  “He’s never done a thing like that before.” There was a long pause before Nicolaas added in a low, angry voice: “If I ever catch you doing that again—”

  “What will you do then?” asked Galant.

  “Galant, you’ve been trying me for a long time. One of these days you’ll be going too far.”

  “How can I go too far? I’m just a slave and the son of a slave.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  I couldn’t hear Galant’s answer.

  “It’s the last time, I’m telling you. Your work is going from bad to worse. You’re looking for trouble. Do you understand me?”

  “No, I don’t understand you at all. If I don’t do my work well I must be punished. You’re the baas, or aren’t you?”

  “Galant.” I could hear the strain in his voice; he was still struggling not to lose his temper altogether. “We’ve always got along well.”

  “That’s for you to say.”

  “If it happens again, only one more time—”

  Galant gave no reply to that. I collected my tools and went off to the shed. They must have gone on arguing for quite a while yet for it was quite dark before I saw Nicolaas coming home, leading the horse. Galant went off into the veld on his own. I felt annoyed at both of them that evening. They were changing an unnecessary thing into something neither could avoid. And there was nothing I could do to stop them.

  We others often discussed it, usually in the evenings after the day’s work had been done—lands tended, sheep put in the kraal, cows milked, wood chopped, the farmyard tidied up—and we all agreed that it had been caused by the death of the child. But when Bet was there she would get furious at such talk.

  “It’s no use talking about what’s past.”

  “We’re not talking about what’s past, Bet, but about what’s coming.”

  “And what is that? The Baas asked forgiveness, didn’t he? He said he never meant it to happen. So what can still be coming?”

  “You’re very quick to defend the Baas,” Pamela said once, when she was also with us.

  “You stay out of it,” Bet flew at her. “What do you know about it?”

  They could never stand one another, those two. Bet was annoyed because Pamela had been brought in to do the housework after the Nooi had turned against her; and Pamela seemed to blame Bet for Galant’s moodiness. She never quarreled openly: she had a way of just looking at one in silence, and that would be enough to wither you. And even though Galant was still keeping to himself one could see that Pamela was already siding with him against Bet.

  There were two other new hands on the farm by then, two youngsters, both Hottentots, Rooy and Thys, whom the Baas hired from the Swartberg region. Since they weren’t slaves like us, and much younger, they usually kept out of our conversations; but when Galant wasn’t present they sometimes joined in cautiously and one could see that they, too, were worried about the whole thing.

  People from other farms in the neighborhood also took part. Usually over weekends or when one of the masters had gone elsewhere. There was a lot of riding to and fro at night, and the visits often lasted until the morning-star came out. The top dancer and talker of them all was Abel, from Barend’s farm. A handsome man, tall as a tree and strong as a bull, a great lover of women. He had a go at Pamela too in the beginning, but she soon put an end to it. From time to time he had a ride with Lydia, who never seemed to mind who it was or when. Otherwise Abel rode to more distant farms in search of female flesh. And he was the only one who didn’t seem to worry too much about Galant. “Let him be,” he would say when we discussed the matter: “It’ll soon sort itself out. It’s like a sickness in the stomach.” Then he would take a large swig from the calabash or pick up his music or give us another show of reel-dancing in the firelight.

  The others from Barend’s place were more apprehensive. Klaas, the old sourpuss, mostly agreed with whoever had spoken before him; and we were careful about what we said in his presence, for one never knew what tales he might carry back to his master. Goliath was very cautious. He was still a young man and preferred to stay out of trouble, which was why Galant’s ways worried him. That was long before Goliath himself ran into trouble with Barend, of course; and a bad business that was.

  One man who used to talk a lot was Dollie. He’d come to work for the old tailor-shoemaker D’Alree who was farming on a part of Houd-den-Bek, not far from our place. A large Mozambiquan was Dollie. And a bad influence, I think, on Galant. “Just you wait,” he would say, obviously enjoying the thought. “One of these days we’ll get a proper chance. I’m just biding my time to run away, then no one will ever find me again.”

  “Where will you run to?” sneered Achilles. “They always find you and bring you back. I tried.”

  “It’s a big land,” said Dollie.

  “Big enough to get lost in, true. And if the masters don’t find you the wild animals will get you. Otherwise you’ll just die of hunger.”

  And if old Adonis from Buffelshoek was there he would say: “Talking’s easy. Lot of big mouths you are. How d’you think we’ll manage if the masters aren’t there to look after us? They give us food and drink and clothes and everything. And I tell you, my Baas Jan is the best baas in the land.” Then a strange session of bragging and swaggering would start, usually involving the older ones, each trying to outdo the rest in praising the strength or skill or goodness of his own master. Among the biggest talkers were Oubaas, Piet’s men, old Moses and Wildschut and Slinger and the others; and inevitably quarrels would break out, ending often in noisy and spectacular fights.

  Through all our nights Galant went his way as if he couldn’t care less about our opinions. No one could persuade him to turn back before things had gone too far. And so the inevitable happened.

  Just after we’d harvested the beans, after the first frost. Nicolaas took the wagons to Cape Town; and the Nooi went too. Galant had wanted to go with them but Nicolaas wouldn’t let him: said he had to stay behind to run the farm; that was what he was mantoor for. It was a time of nightly parties on Houd-den-Bek, uproarious festivities the likes of which I’m sure these parts had never seen before or since. Almost nightly a sheep would be slaughtered and roasted on the coals. Galant arranged for everybody to take turns providing meat and drink. The farmers in the neighborhood couldn’t make out what predator had got in among the sheep; while we had a roaring time of nightly blow-outs leaving us reeling and bleary-eyed in the mornings.

  Bet was against it from the start—Pamela had gone to the Cape with the family—but Galant reined her in very quickly: “I’m mantoor on the farm,” he told her. “And if I say a thing can be done it is done. You just open your mouth to Nicolaas when he comes back and see what happen
s.”

  When the others heard it they closed in round the two; and I suppose that intimidated Bet. Resigning herself, from then on she sulkily took part in all the eating and drinking.

  It came to a very sudden end when Nicolaas arrived home almost a week earlier than he’d been expected. One afternoon—one of the still, colorless days of early winter before the snow sets in—we saw in a state of numb shock the wagon approaching along the narrow strip of veld between the mountain ranges. Galant was at the slaughtering stone, skinning and cutting up the sheep for the night’s festivities. When he recognized the wagon he stood up to watch, very calmly, the blood still on his hands. He didn’t seem scared at all. In fact, he almost appeared content at having been caught in the act.

  Nicolaas didn’t immediately grasp what was going on.

  “It’s late in the week for slaughtering,” he said in mild surprise. “Did you skip Monday?”

  “We slaughtered on Monday too,” said Galant.

  That was when I realized there was going to be trouble.

  “Oh?” said Nicolaas, still incredulous.

  Galant started washing the blood from his hands in the barrel beside the stone, working very meticulously, rinsing each finger separately and cleaning the nails. Then he put on his jacket. The smart corduroy jacket Nicolaas had given him after the death of the child.

  “We worked up an appetite for meat,” he said calmly.

  The Nooi and the womenfolk were unloading in the distance. Galant and Nicolaas were alone at the slaughtering stone; and I was standing at the stable corner, watching and listening.

  “Didn’t I leave you in charge to keep an eye on everything?” said Nicolaas.

  Galant shrugged.

  “Where are the sheep?” asked Nicolaas, coming a step closer.

  “In the veld where they belong.”

  “Bring them to the kraal. I want to count them.”

  Galant gave a curious little smile. Without saying anything more he sauntered off in the direction of the grazing veld, leaving Nicolaas to take care of the carcass. I made a wide detour and followed Galant, in case he should need a hand. Together with Achilles, who’d taken the sheep out that morning, we brought the flock home to the kraal where Nicolaas stood waiting at the gate, one foot resting on the lower beam, his pipe between his locked teeth. He didn’t say anything as we approached. In silence he counted the sheep.

  Five short.

  “Ontong?” said Nicolaas. “Do you know anything about those five sheep?”

  That was a nasty question, I thought; and I was reluctant to give a straight answer. “You think something caught them?” I asked.

  “I’m not thinking anything. I’m asking you.”

  “It’s difficult to say, Kleinbaas.”

  “Achilles? What do you know about them?”

  “I just brought the flock home, Kleinbaas.”

  I stood looking at Nicolaas. His eyes were on Galant; but Galant was staring away into the distance, half-whistling through his teeth, although it didn’t sound very convincing.

  “Did you find any leopard tracks?” asked Nicolaas, going out of his way it seemed to make it easy for us.

  At last Galant stopped whistling and turned to Nicolaas. “It wasn’t a leopard,” he said. “It wasn’t the jackals either.”

  “What happened then, Galant?”

  “I slaughtered them myself.”

  “You had permission to slaughter one a week. Wasn’t that enough for you?”

  “We wanted more.”

  Nicolaas pressed his thumb into the head of his pipe and put it away in his shirt pocket.

  “The two of us had a lot of trouble before I left, Galant,” he said. “I hoped to see an improvement when I came back. I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “That’s so.”

  “Ontong. Achilles.” He was speaking slowly to control his voice. “Go and tie him up over the empty barrel in the stable.”

  I tried to stall him. “Kleinbaas—,” I said.

  But it was clear that he’d finally made up his mind.

  “Come on,” Galant said to us. “Take me.” And as we took him away he still looked at Nicolaas over his shoulder as if to make sure he would follow us.

  He took up position over the barrel by himself, offering his wrists and ankles to be strapped down. We stood there sheepishly, avoiding each other’s eyes, until after what seemed like hours Nicolaas came in with a sjambok and a leather thong. The thong he gave to Achilles, the hippo sjambok to me. It wasn’t to my liking at all. If a baas feels like beating his slave he must do it himself. It’s no work for slaves.

  “I’ve had enough from you, Galant,” Nicolaas said. “Come on, Ontong. What are you waiting for?”

  Straining to raise his head Galant looked round at Nicolaas. “Why you asking them to do it?” he said. “You scared to do it yourself?”

  “Ontong!” said Nicolaas.

  I brought down the sjambok on Galant’s back. Dust came swirling up from the smart jacket.

  “You scared?” Galant taunted Nicolaas again.

  That seemed to make him mad. He grabbed the heavy sjambok from my hand and started laying into Galant like a whirlwind, without paying much attention to where and how the blows landed. He went on and on until that outlandish jacket was torn to shreds and the hippo hide started cutting into the bare flesh. Not a sound came from Galant’s lips. Only a dull groan from time to time, barely audible.

  “Kleinbaas,” I said at last. I didn’t want to go against the man, but I was afraid something bad might happen if Nicolaas weren’t stopped in time. He paid no attention, almost sobbing with rage with every blow. When I could stand it no more I touched him lightly on the arm. “I think that’s enough, Kleinbaas. You killing him.”

  Nicolaas stopped as suddenly as he’d begun. He swung round to me, a savage gaze in his eyes. Then he threw down the sjambok and strode out.

  In the deepening dusk Achilles and I untied Galant and carried him to his hut where we brought him round with cold water.

  If only he’d learned his lesson now, I thought. This thing had been coming for a long time, but now the storm had broken. Perhaps it was just as well; perhaps the air would now be cleared and peace be restored on Houd-den-Bek.

  But I’d underestimated him. And what must be will be.

  Galant

  A young horse in a walled-in field. Watch that wall, they tell you. Stay inside. If you dare jump over—You never know for sure what will happen if you really do. Impossible to know unless you jump. And that’s not easy. This side everything is familiar. You know where to run and where to graze. But the stone wall is always there. You may pretend not to see it, or turn your head away, but the wall remains and within it the field seems to be growing smaller every day. Unless you are prepared to jump it may crush you in the end. Now I’ve made the jump. I’m over. And I have survived.

  Useless to go on threatening and bobbing and ducking like two bantam roosters: like the fighting cocks of the Cape Achilles talks about. “Watch out, Galant,” says Nicolaas. And: “I’m warning you.” And: “For the last time.” But it’s never really the last time, and there can be no peace before it has been proved. Where is that wall? And can I make it? The flogging of the horse makes my own flesh tremble. Damn you! I want to shout at him. Why do you stand there and let me flog you? You’re so much bigger and stronger than I am. Why don’t you rear up and trample me with your great hooves? Why don’t you break loose and run into the mountains and never come back? But he doesn’t. He allows me to beat him and abuse him and break him. He accepts whatever happens to him: I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.

  “Don’t challenge the man like that, Galant,” says Ontong. What does he understand about it? It’s not Nicolaas I’m challenging. His wall is nothing to me. It’s my own wall I got to face. Otherwise you may as w
ell dig me a grave and cover me up with earth: and don’t bother about buchu, let the thas-jackal roam as it wishes.

  I can see right through it now. To be children at Lagenvlei is one thing; to adapt to Houd-den-Bek is another. Often, when we face each other in anger or despair, Nicolaas cries: “For God’s sake, Galant, what’s the matter with you? I don’t know you any more. We always got along so well.”

  How can I explain it to him? It’s that stone wall both of us are facing. Both must make the jump.

  It has nothing to do with the beating. The blows smart; they tear into the skin and expose the flesh. One’s legs are unsteady when they untie you and there’s a blackness from which they have to bring you back with water; you don’t even recognize their hands. Yet the beating itself is not the wall; it only brings awareness of the wall. And there’s joy in knowing you’ve made the jump. You can hardly move for the pain, but it’s worth it for now you’re on the other side. Now at last you know.

  Then, in the darkest hours of the night when everybody else is asleep and you’re the only one awake, in pain but relieved too, there is another discovery to make. You’ve crossed the wall. But now there is another. Before the jump your only thought is: I must get over. I must get over. Now you’re over and there’s another. There will always be another. Wall after wall. There is terror in the thought; a weariness that overwhelms you even before you’ve tried the next jump. But then you fall asleep and it brings a new sense of peace.

  In the early dawn you crawl from the hut. The morning star is still shining; the frost forms grey moldy patches on the ground, not yet hard enough to crackle when you step on it, but the cold seeps through the soles. The slave bell hasn’t gone yet. You’re stiff and numb from lying curled up in the cold and as you move about the pain creeps back into your body. It feels as if you’ll never be able to straighten your back again or walk upright, but you clench your teeth for there’s a long journey ahead. Before the bell goes you must be gone from Houd-den-Bek.