A Blade of Grass

by Lewis Desoto

  Märit and Tembi try to explain the farm to Michael, but they are not sure how much he understands—sometimes his expression is attentive, at other times he just smiles. Märit gathers the hoe and garden fork from outside the kitchen door and leads the way to the vegetable garden. Weeds seem to spring up overnight between the rows, and if left to grow will quickly steal the moisture from the plants.

  Märit frowns at the trampled tomato plants and does her best to straighten them, then hands a long-handled hoe to Michael. “Do you know how to weed? Like this.” She digs lightly between the plants to uproot the weeds, bending every now and then to toss them to one side. “You have to make sure you get the root out. But the small plants only, not the vegetables, okay? Like so.”

  His smile and his constant nodding is foolish, and she wonders how much he understands.

  “Try it, Michael,” Tembi urges.

  He sets to work eagerly, moving between the plants.

  “He can do it,” Tembi says.

  “Yes, very good, Michael. That’s the way. Carry on like that. We will be just over there, in the mealie patch.”

  Tembi and Märit work at clearing one of the irrigation ditches that has silted up where the channel has collapsed. When this is finished, and the water runs free again, Märit goes to check on Michael.

  She finds him digging energetically at the spinach plants with the hoe.

  “No, no, Michael! Not like that.” She shows him again. “Just the small weeds between the vegetables.” When he shows no comprehension, Märit sets down her own hoe and places her hands over his and demonstrates the gentle motion he must make. She feels the roughness of his skin, like the bark of a tree, and she looks down at his calloused feet, and she wonders what his life has been, and where he has come from like this, out of nowhere.

  When Michael seems to have grasped the idea of how the weeding should be done, Märit picks up her own hoe and walks back to the mealie patch. As she turns back to look at him she sees that he has already discarded the hoe and is squatting on the ground with his music box in his lap. The strange repetitive music begins its rhythm.

  Tembi looks up when Märit rejoins her. “Is he all right?”

  Märit shrugs helplessly. “He is like a child.”

  “But I am glad he is here. He is harmless.”

  Throughout the morning he sits near the women as they work, sometimes playing his strange music, and sometimes just sitting contentedly in the sun, like a cat, his face upturned to the light.

  THE MIDDAY MEAL is taken on the veranda, out of the direct sun. Michael sits on the steps, and when the two women talk he looks at their faces, but if they address him he only smiles.

  After eating, Michael wanders off, but his hoe is lying on the ground still, so Märit does not worry that he might do further damage in the vegetable garden. She dozes a little bit. When she opens her eyes she watches lazily as a couple of chickens peck for worms in the freshly turned soil of the garden. Their clucking is subdued and has a gentle, soothing cadence.

  Then she shakes herself awake and sits upright. “The chickens,” she says, nudging the dozing Tembi with her foot. “The chickens are loose.”

  They leave the shade of the veranda and walk slowly towards the coop. “Maybe Michael let them out,” Tembi says as they notice more chickens wandering around. There is no urgency in the women’s motions, since the chickens are kept penned more for convenience than anything else, and to herd them together now is a diversion from the gardening.

  The sudden alarmed crowing of Dik-Dik breaks the stillness of the afternoon, followed by the thudding of feet on the ground. The chickens scatter as the rooster appears, squawking wildly with wings outstretched. And in pursuit is Michael, brandishing a hoe in one hand.

  “Michael!” Märit cries, breaking into a run. “Michael, stop. No!”

  Dik-Dik is darting from side to side, wings flapping, trying to evade the pursuing man. Then Michael drops the hoe and lunges at the bird. Märit watches in horror as the rooster tries to fly into the safety of a low tree, but too late, for Michael is quick, and grabs Dik-Dik into his rough hands.

  “Leave him alone, Michael!” Märit shouts over the alarmed cries of the rooster.

  By the time she reaches Michael the rooster has ceased his squawking and is limp in the man’s arms.

  “Oh, Michael, what have you done?”

  He has the bird cradled in his arms, one forefinger stroking the feathers along the underside of its neck. Dik-Dik opens one eye and regards Märit with his beady stare, then shuts it again, stretching out his neck like a cat. Dik-Dik is unhurt. Märit is astonished to see the fierce rooster so passive in the man’s arms.

  In his throat he makes a soft clucking noise, the way a chicken does when it sits on its perch, contented, and the rooster stretches out his neck and answers with the same soft clucking, content, like a pet in the man’s arms.

  “Dik-Dik likes you,” Tembi says. “He is your friend. Looking after the chickens can be Michael’s job, don’t you think, Märit?”

  “Would you like to do that, Michael? You can feed them and make sure they stay in the coop. Come, I’ll show you where the grain is kept. But first we have to make sure that all the chickens go back into the pen.”

  The two women herd the chickens together and steer them in the direction of the coop. Michael watches, then sets the rooster down and joins in, crouching low and moving with his arms widespread, making a deep clucking noise. And wherever Michael moves, Dik-Dik follows behind.

  When the chickens are back in the pen, Märit lifts the lid off the feed bin and beckons to Michael. “This is where the food for the chickens is kept, Michael. You can fill this pail and sprinkle it out on the ground for them. Once in the morning and once in the evening. Can you do that?”

  He nods and plunges his hands into the bin of grain, coming up with two fistfuls, then he squats down and holds out his hands to the chickens. Dik-Dik is there first, spreading his wings to keep the hens at bay, pecking quickly at the grain in Michael’s palm. Only after he has had his fill does he allow the hens to approach. As Märit crouches next to Michael, Dik-Dik flares his wings at her, darting for her ankles with his beak, so that she has to retreat.

  “He just doesn’t like me,” she says.

  “He’s jealous,” Tembi replies.

  WHEN IT IS TIME for the evening meal, Tembi goes to fetch Michael. She finds him sitting outside the chicken coop, his musical instrument in his hand, the strange music filling the air. The hens peck and scrabble in the dirt near him, and every now and then they pause and cock their heads to one side, as if listening.

  He is more at home with the chickens than with us, Tembi thinks. And she wonders what terrible thing in his past has set him to wander alone on the veldt with only a musical instrument made from a tin can.

  “Time for supper, Michael. You can come to the house now and eat.”

  He reaches into the pocket of his coat and withdraws a battered alarm clock, holding it up for her to see.

  “Yes, it’s supper time,” Tembi says. “Come to the house now.”

  Märit has set three places at the table and is serving a vegetable stew into bowls.

  “You can sit there, Michael,” she says, indicating a chair. But Michael takes his spoon and the bowl of food and walks back out to the veranda. The two women look at each other and shake their heads. Märit slices some bread and puts it on a plate, then carries it out to the veranda.

  “Michael, you can eat with us in the kitchen. You don’t have to sit out here.”

  He looks up at her but does not stir. She shrugs and sets the plate of bread down next to him. “It doesn’t really matter. You can eat out here.”

  LATER, when the women are washing the dishes, Märit says, “Where will he sleep tonight?”

  “I could make up a bed for him in the living room.”

  Märit sets aside the plate she is washing and dries her hands on her apron. The way she bites at her lower lip b
etrays her thoughts to Tembi.

  “You don’t really want him in the house, do you?”

  “We don’t know him, Tembi. He seems harmless and innocent, but we don’t know anything about him. I would be nervous having him in the house while we are asleep.”

  Tembi continues drying the plates without making a reply.

  Märit heaves a sigh of agreement. “All right.”

  From the linen cupboard Märit takes down blankets and pillows, and arranges them on the couch. On the floor of the cupboard she notices an old pair of boots that belonged to Ben. She takes these out and sets them next to the bed.

  Michael is sitting in contented silence, watching the last rays of the sunset. The generator chugs to life off to one side of the house, as it does every night when the timer activates the motor. Michael looks in that direction and imitates the sound of the generator with his lips.

  “I’ve made up a bed for you, Michael. You will be able to sleep there comfortably.”

  He imitates the sound of the generator again.

  “That’s the generator,” she tells him. “It’s a machine that gives electricity for the lights.” He tilts his head and listens, but his expression shows no understanding of what she says. “Come and see your bed, Michael. In the house. Come.”

  Märit says, “I’ve found a pair of boots that might fit you, Michael. They seem to be about your size. Would you like to try them on?”

  She lifts the boots and presents them to him.

  Michael takes the boots and clutches them to his chest.

  “Try them on. Put them on your feet, Michael.”

  He beams his smile at her and nods vigorously, then reaches into his pocket and presents his old alarm clock to Märit.

  Märit shakes her head. “Thank you, Michael, but I already have a clock. You keep yours. Thank you, anyway.”

  AS SHE HERSELF prepares for bed, a soft tapping sounds at Märit’s door. “It’s me, Tembi.”

  Märit turns the key in her bedroom door, which she has locked.

  “Michael is gone.”

  “He’s left?”

  “The bedding and the boots are gone too.”

  “Maybe he went out to sleep on the veranda,” Märit says.

  “No, I looked.”

  Darkness is not absolute yet; the silhouettes of the eucalyptus trees and the windmill are still faint outlines against the deep blue of the sky.

  “Do you think he has left the farm?” Märit asks. “But where could he go in the night?”

  Tembi puts a finger to her lips. “Listen.”

  Faintly in the night they hear the plink, plink, plink of Michael’s music box.

  “He has gone to sleep with the chickens.” Tembi says. “He is happy with them.”

  38

  THE GRASS GROWS tall in the fields now that there are no longer cattle to crop it. In the orchard the fruit begins to fill the branches. The maize plants rise higher each day and the cobs thicken on the stalk. In the vegetable garden the tomato plants thrive alongside the lettuce and the carrots and the spinach.

  Märit no longer wears a watch, or counts the days, but she knows by the changes in the crops that months have passed since that day when her life changed with a stranger knocking on her door.

  The farm has become smaller. Around the house many more birds are visible in the trees now, and their song is a constant music. Sometimes Michael teases the birds by mimicking their calls on his music box.

  At night the generator chugs gently, and during the day the blades of the windmill turn slowly in the breeze. The women do not stray far from the house and the immediate fields. By unspoken agreement there is no talk of what might be taking place beyond the confines of the farm. Both Märit and Tembi know that their position here is fragile, but because there is peace and silence and harmony, they preserve the illusion that life is as it ought to be.

  In the hot afternoons, sudden thunderstorms bring a brief deluge of rain. The fruit ripens, the maize grows tall and green, the vegetables and the flowers thrive. A kind of peace has isolated the farm—the outside world no longer troubles itself with this insignificant patch of soil.

  Märit stands taller now, her face and arms are browned by the sun, her muscles show beneath the skin of her wiry frame, her eyes are bright. Her hair has started to grow out again, but she takes the scissors to it regularly so that it will remain short like Tembi’s.

  In the kraal, some of the thatch on the roofs of the huts is falling into disrepair and many of the huts have that particular air of abandonment that dwellings take on so quickly when the inhabitants leave.

  Once or twice at dusk, just as darkness falls, Märit thinks she has glimpsed an animal on the property, perhaps a jackal or hyena, but since she is not certain what she sees she does not mention it to Tembi. Nevertheless, she makes sure that the shotgun is loaded and accessible on the top of the cupboard in the office.

  Tembi still goes often to her hidden garden behind the koppie, carrying a pail of water to moisten the growing fruits. Sometimes Tembi asks herself whether she should tell Märit about her garden, even whether she should move the plants into the vegetable patch closer to the house where it would be so much easier to care for them. But she always hesitates. She cannot say clearly why she keeps the garden a secret, only that she knows it is tied to some other, inner life of hers that has nothing to do with Märit or the farm. She only knows that she must continue to possess this secret. A secret, when shared, is a gift, but still she holds back, perhaps because it is the only gift she has, and in the giving of it there will no longer be a gift or a secret. So she holds the garden to herself.

  Märit does not count the days—she lets them pass, content within the enclosure of the farm. In her body she feels a new strength as she goes about her daily tasks. Some days there is the frequent flash of aircraft high above the land, streaking north to the frontier, but here on the farm the outside world has no meaning. The telephone is silent, the radio is silent. The outside world is absent.

  Michael sleeps every night in the kraal and appears at the kitchen door each morning, announced by the tinkling of his music box. And each morning Dik-Dik follows Michael to the house.

  “I think they have adopted each other,” Tembi comments as she sits next to the window cradling her morning coffee.

  When Michael enters, the rooster tries to slip in as well, and Märit has to shoo him away with a dishcloth. “Out, out,” she admonishes, flapping the cloth at the rooster.

  Michael collects his bowl and spoon from the counter.

  “Did you sleep well?” Märit asks him. “Are you comfortable in the kraal?”

  He sets the bowl down and puts his hands together in a pillow shape against his cheek, and his round face breaks into a particularly radiant smile.

  “You are happy this morning, Michael,” Tembi observes. “Why are you so happy?”

  His reply is a mischievous chuckle. As soon as Märit serves the porridge, he grasps the bowl from her hands and sits quickly at the table. The porridge is spooned into his mouth rapidly, and when Märit places a cup of tea in front of him, Michael gulps it down just as fast, then moves to the door and beckons eagerly to the women.

  “What is it, Michael?” Tembi says. “Do you want to show us something?”

  His head bobs up and down.

  “Can it wait a minute?” Märit asks. “At least until we finish breakfast?”

  Michael giggles and shakes his head. He advances and grasps Märit’s arm in a light tug. When she rises from her chair, he reaches over and urges Tembi from her seat as well. As the women follow, Michael darts ahead, turning every few moments to make sure they are behind him, gesturing for them to hurry on.

  When the procession reaches the chicken coop, where the hens are milling about in the dirt, Michael unlatches the wire gate and hurries into the shed where the chickens roost at night.

  He emerges almost immediately and beckons for Märit and Tembi to enter. Märit follows Tembi,
keeping an eye out for the rooster. Michael crouches down and crooks a finger at Märit. He pats the sand, indicating that she should kneel next to him. With another glance around for the rooster, she does so.

  Now Michael reaches with both hands into the straw and brings them out cupped together. Pursing his lips, he holds his hands out towards Märit and makes a high peeping noise with his mouth. When he opens his hands, a small fluffy yellow head appears and a peep, peep, peep comes from the little beak of a chick.

  “Oh,” Märit exclaims. “Oh, look at the little thing!”

  Michael offers the fuzzy little chick to her, and she cups her hands to receive the warm, soft body, closing her fingers gently around the yielding down. The little chick nibbles at her finger and peeps up at her.

  “How sweet!” she murmurs. “How lovely it is. Oh, how sweet.” Lifting the tiny creature to her lips she plants a gentle kiss on the diminutive head. “Tembi, come look!”

  A hen appears at the entrance to the shed, and when Michael makes the clucking sound that he uses to talk to the chickens, she waddles towards him, and from behind her four more yellow balls of fluff hurry after.

  “Look at the little babies!” Tembi exclaims as she kneels in the dust with her hands extended, and the chicks come to her with a quick, darting motion, hurrying on their spindly legs. The mother hen hovers solicitously around the chicks, but she lets the women handle her brood.

  The chick in Märit’s hand struggles to join its siblings, but she is reluctant to let the warm creature out of her grasp. Raising it to her lips she kisses the soft head again. “There, there,” she murmurs. “Mother is nearby. There, there.” And the chick makes a peep, peep, peep sound in reply.

  Märit holds the tiny beating life in her hands. So soft is the fluff, and the small body, and the beating of the new life in it. So soft and eager for life. Then she releases the chick gently to the ground, and the hen bends herself low, spreading her wings to enfold the small creature, which immediately huddles into the welcoming feathers.