by Andre Brink
It is wild outside—night wind and crashing waves—but inside it's peaceful. Cozy beside the fire, they are reassured by the familiar drawings and color patches on the walls of the cave; the bats’ shrilling almost inaudible, flitting in and out; the wood-pile in the corner; the skins stretched out to dry, the dried ones cured and rolled; the small bundle of belongings they brought with them; her green Cape dress; the kaross she has completed, stitching together the square-cut skins with leather-strips and tendons; her collection of shells and crayfish and crabs; the horns of buck and a few strings of biltong; a roughly woven basket filled with dried fruit; his tools and weapons. Theirs. And in the circle of the fire, the two of them together.
She is preparing food, roasting fish, frying the large fleshy mushrooms he has brought in from the forest; he is finishing off a crayfish basket.
He looks up: “What I need is a son to help me on the rocks.”
“You’re not taking my children into the sea like that,” she says. “You’ll drown them all.”
“Oh, I’ll teach them to swim when they’re very small, like little seals. And when we’re old they can look after us.”
“I want a son like you.”
“First a daughter,” he says. “Like you. Every bit like you. I want to see, as she grows up, what you were like through all those years I didn’t know you. I’m jealous of everything that happened to you.”
They’re drawn into their old game again, dreaming and pretending. Until, through the flames, she suddenly looks at him and asks:
“Do you really think we’ll have children some day?”
“Of course.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I’m a man, you’re a woman.”
Before she can restrain herself, she asks, “That girl you had, the slave girl. Did she bear you a child?”
“How must I know?” he says, closing up. “I told you she was sold.”
“Of course. I forgot; I’m sorry.”
“Why did you ask?”
“I’d be so relieved if I really knew—that we could.”
“But why on earth can’t we? You’ve been pregnant once.”
“Yes. But then I lost it.”
It is the first time she dares refer to it again; the first time she dares admit to him that she has never forgotten.
“I wonder so often what happened to it. What they did to it.”
“What does it matter?”
“It was mine. It was torn from me. It was something of myself they buried in the veld. And sometimes…” She shudders. Looking up hesitantly, she says: “Last night I dreamt.”
“What?”
“That they buried me in a porcupine hole. And then it rained and I started growing, like a bean or something, pushing through the earth. I couldn’t move my feet, they were roots deep down. I pushed up my branches, screaming for help, but nobody heard, for no one can hear a tree. And I was all alone on that endless plain surrounded by vultures.”
Drawing up her legs she rests her head on her knees, contracted, like a sea-bean.
“It was only a dream.”
“I lost my child. And what's going to become of me?”
“You’re asking too many questions,” he says.
“Things can’t just happen like that,” she insists. “Why do they happen? What comes out of it all? Where does it lead to? How can one just live and die like this—and then it's all over? Is that really all there is? Just this?” She looks up in fear. “Suppose we grow old here and…something happens: then no one will even know that we’ve been here. They won’t know that we ever existed.”
“What does it matter? We’re here now, aren’t we?”
“But I want to know!”
“How can you know? Why should you know? I thought you said you were happy here.”
“But don’t you understand? Suppose we die here?”
“Perhaps they’ll find our bones one day,” he says.
Contemplating the shell, caressing my palm with its small smoothness, ochre on top, almost orange, as if immersed in liquid sunlight; changing to a creamy white below, sloping down into the gently ribbed groove, the secret shimmering of mother-of-pearl inside. Oval, like a small tortoise, but smooth, infinitely smooth, blunt and rounded in front, narrower towards the back, tapering to a slightly elongated orbed point. Perfectly spheroid on top, hard and glossy, glazed, complete unto itself; but turning it over it becomes more penetrable and exposed, the shiny curves folding inward to the narrow slit which housed the snail: vulnerable, naked, trembling, moist. It's such a long time now I haven’t seen myself.
The coming of the hunters. The bull had obviously been wounded first, for over a long distance the forest was trampled, with branches torn down, the earth dug up in blood-red trenches, black smudges of blood staining the ferns and trees. He was lying on his left side against a thick yellow-wood trunk, as if he’d propped himself up there before he collapsed, smeared with blood and dung. The front and lower parts of his head were a mess, covered with flies. The trunk had been hacked off, the tusks dug out. It seemed as if an effort had been made to remove the toenails as well, but the job had been abandoned halfway.
Around them the forest was quiet, except for the birds rustling or chattering overhead, bees buzzing in the purple orchids, timid monkeys in the branches.
They risked it out into the open.
“What happened to him?” she asked as they approached above the wind. “Why is he maimed like that?”
“Tusks cut out. Can’t you see?”
“But...” She fell silent, not because she didn’t want to oppose him, but because she was, suddenly, scared to receive an answer.
He was looking round, frowning.
“Shall we go back?” she asked, almost hopefully.
“We can try and follow his tracks to where he came from,” he offered. “If you want to.”
“If you want to.”
The forest was as bright as it had been the first time, yet it seemed ominous and strange, the openness of its mysteries overwhelming. They weren’t even sure what they were looking for, which made it more sinister. What was waiting at the end of the blood trail? More destruction, or more silence? Deeper into the forest they penetrated. It seemed to stretch out endlessly to all sides. How would one know when one had reached its innermostness?
Half a mile beyond the first carcass they came upon a second, lying with its hindquarters in a brook, damming up the water. Once again the head was hideously maimed, the tusks dug out; the small ferocious eyes staring muddily at them through tangled lashes.
“Do you think he's been here for a long time?” she asked, hushed.
“Two or three days.”
“But who could have done it?”
“It's only the people from the Cape who slaughter like this.” In his voice was a dark passion which she hadn’t heard for a long time now.
“It may have been Hottentots!” she protested, not knowing why she should.
“Yes. To sell their ivory in the Cape.”
She bowed her head, looking up again after a moment, now with great urgency: “Whoever they were, they were people. So close to us. And yet we heard nothing.”
“We’re down there at the sea. How can we hear what's going on in the forest?”
“Two or three days,” she said, reflecting. “They may have left by now.”
“Yes.”
“What are we going to do?”
He looked back to where they’d come from; and then farther ahead, into the green glow. Dark logs lay scattered in the undergrowth, half sunken into the humus, dumb and heavy, like dead things.
“We can go farther to look for them,” he said.
She wanted to answer: Yes. Farther. Deeper inward. Let us reach the pith and heart of it, penetrating through all the green growth-rings, to the mysterious core of light illuminating it all. Let us find something. Even if we can only approach something, to know it is there, within reach, graspable.
They turned back. She felt a curious sadness, almost rebellious against herself. What else could she have done? Yet, by turning back, they’d given up something—something which had very nearly happened, something she’d approached very closely: a feeling, a discovery, a possibility.
Near the edge of the forest they both stopped abruptly in their tracks. What was that sharp report in the distance, so far away that they couldn’t even be sure of the direction?
“Was it a gunshot?” she asked.
“Or a branch breaking.”
It might have been a shot.
Almost mechanically they followed their path through the brushwood and down the gorge, far from the rocky breach and the stonefall of their first excursion. Just in time, before dark, they reached their cave.
He went down to his nets. It was low tide. There were a few fishes; he brought them back.
Smoke came whirling from the cave; she’d already made the fire. But she wasn’t at the fireplace when he came in: he discovered her at the back of the cave, beside their bundle, and when she became aware of him, she swung round quickly, overcome by guilt.
“I only wanted to…”
She folded up the green Cape dress again, and, avoiding his eyes, put it back with the other things. Then she came to him and took the fish from him, and scraped it with one of his flint knives. When she finally glanced up his eyes were still on her.
“I was only looking,” she said, her cheeks glowing more red than the fire.
“I know.”
“You’re not angry with me, Adam, are you?”
“Why should I be angry?”
He went to the mouth of the cave, looking out at the moon rising.
She wanted to go to him, to touch the naked pain in him, to exorcise his sadness and his dull revolt; but she couldn’t, there was too much of it in herself. In silence she prepared their food, and he returned to his usual place opposite her. From time to time, through the fire, they looked at each other.
Without finishing his food he returned to the mouth of the cave. She saw the firelight flickering across the dark scars of his back. What are you looking at? What are you listening for? There's only the moon on the water, and the booming of the sea drowning all other sounds.
“Aren’t you coming to sleep?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
They moved in under the large kaross, on the soft bedding he’d gathered in the veld. Lying still beside each other. From habit, his hand started stroking her, a rough caress, questioning, searching. Because she loved him she yielded to him; but she remained absent. Passively allowing him to part her legs, she suddenly felt him contract against her. For a while he lay very still.
“Come into me,” she whispered.
“You’re not here,” he said. Not accusingly: neutrally, calmly.
“I want to be here with you,” she said, “I am here.”
“You’re looking for the hunters in the wood.”
“How did you know? Why do you ask? It isn’t true.”
“The Cape is calling you.”
“No.” She shook her head violently against his Shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, holding her.
“Stay with me.”
“I am with you.”
He felt his heart shrinking, not clearly knowing why. Their small cozy cave suddenly felt so exposed to the night wind; so penetrable by yesterday and tomorrow.
“Hold me tight,” she pleaded desperately. “I don’t know what's happening. Hold me. Don’t go away.”
Very early the next morning he went away, just after the reassuring return of the sun. Neither of them had spoken about it: he simply went; and as he left, she handed him a bag of food she had prepared for the road. For neither could tell how long he would be gone. He was wearing his skin apron and carrying the assegai, leaving the pistol with her for protection.
It was a long roundabout route, from the first carcass to the second, following the tracks from there, finding three more dead elephants before noon. Near the last carcass he discovered signs of camping, patches of grass pressed down where people had slept, footprints, a large fireplace with fresh ashes. Some of the ironwood logs were still smoldering. He glanced up instinctively, looking for signs of wind. A sudden gust might set the whole forest alight. But it was deadly still; not even the leaves or the hoary moss stirred.
He went on with a strange sensation, as if time had suddenly obliterated the past few months, restoring him to his endless trail through the land, fired by his own restlessness, rediscovering the tracks of a wagon trek and following them for days and weeks, spying on them from a distance: wagons and oxen, Hottentots, white people, a man and a woman; a woman on her own; waiting for something to happen.
There were two wagons. From the far edge of the forest the tracks swerved back, following an open trail parallel to the route on which he’d set out; so that, coming upon them late on the second morning, their camp was barely a half-day's journey from the coast as the crow flies. Two wagons and numerous oxen, at least forty, with five or six Hottentots, and two white men—one middle-aged, the other quite young, both with wild unkempt beards.
Adam stayed at a safe distance, for fear of being discovered by their dogs. Hiding below the wind, he kept watch for several hours. One of the wagons seemed to be used exclusively for merchandise. A whole heap of ivory, tied up in bundles, lay waiting to be loaded, and piles of dried skins, ostrich feathers, antelope horns. Judging from the bustling activity in the camp they were preparing for departure, probably the next day.
The place held him spellbound, like the first camp of the Larsson trek. But now with more solemnity. And it was with a heavy heart that he finally crawled from his hiding place and set off for the coast. The veld was easy there: heath and proteas and clusters of wild lilies; sparse trees, karee and others, most of them smallish.
It was only when he reached the top of the cliff wall above the green expanse of the sea that thoughts started up in him again. For he knew she was waiting down there and that he would have to report to her. It might be the end. And he was filled with sadness at the attainability of ends. One might drift timeless through the days, abandoned like seaweed to the tide: but in the end you’re washed ashore.
High above the cliffs an eagle was riding the wind, looking for something moving below. Almost motionless, it hung in the highest currents, a small cross in infinite space: one day it, too, would fall, dropping like a stone. What appeared impossibly remote, so distant that it seemed irrelevant, suddenly turned factual, immediate. Tomorrow became today; today moved back to yesterday. And the earth remained untroubled by it all: it was like thistle seeds blowing in the wind, insignificant sighs in space.
It was late afternoon by now. The afternoon was morning to the night. And she was waiting.
He needn’t tell her anything; he needn’t tell the truth. She didn’t know a thing yet, she was merely waiting. And whatever he said she would accept. That he’d found a band of Hottentots, ready to set out to the Cape with their bundle of tusks. That he’d found a deserted camp in the forest, but no sign of people. That he’d come upon a wagon plundered by Bushmen, signs of cattle driven off, two maimed bodies he’d buried; no provisions. That he’d found no sign of anything.
You will believe me. Even if you know it is a lie, you’ll believe me because we both want it that way; because you are as scared as I am.
Let those two wagons trek through the country plundering as far as they go, planting the beacons of civilization on their destructive way: you and I shall remain here, in our cave above the sea. Nothing shall disturb us. We’ll listen to the gulls screeching at dawn, and tighten our embrace, my bitter root planted deep in you, doepa against loneliness. In the daytime we’ll gather shells which I shall string round your waist to tinkle as you walk. You’ll fish with me and help
me bring in my nets, and mend them where the sea has torn them. Sometimes we’ll go to the forest and empty my snares and bring home buck for food. I shall see the light and the laughter in your eyes when you taste a fruit you’ve never seen before. I’ll baptize your breasts in blood. And I shall lay you down on the sand again and open you like a starfish, moist as an anemone; and feel the sun burning on the grains of sand on my back where the sweat has dried. I’ll play music for you on a reed-flute or ghoera; and you will sing silly little songs with improvised words to keep me company. And we’ll be happy, needing nothing beyond ourselves. Believe me. It is true. It must be true.
The eagle, a mere speck in the sky, shot down to its prey below: badger? hare? skunk? mouse? Carrying something in its claws it rose again, rowing against the wind.
With a sigh he started the descent down the red cliffside, following the gorge. It was late.
“There are two wagons,” he said when she came running to meet him on the beach, pressing herself against him. “One is loaded with things. They’re preparing to move on. I suppose they’ll be going straight to the Cape, because they’ve got no packing space left.”
“Only the two white men?”
“Yes. One is middle-aged, the other young.”
“What do they look like? Friendly? Or wicked?”
“Like hunters. Men from the Cape. Rather dirty. Nothing that can’t be washed off with water.”
“Do you think they’d try to molest me?”
“You’re a woman.”
“I suppose one can keep them in their place, I still have the pistol.”
“Of course.”
“How long does it take to get back to the Cape on a wagon?”
“It's a long way, and there are mountains too. They’ll have to trek round the forest. Say two or three months.”
They returned to the cave.
“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” she asked. “You can protect me.”
“If they found out about you and me… ?”
“We won’t let them.”
In the cave he sat down, leaning against the wall, exhausted and depressed. She brought him water in a large abalone shell; and some honey.
