A Blade of Grass

by Lewis Desoto

  And in her mind she hears the answering, “And I greet you, my daughter.”

  Tembi stands for a long moment with sorrow in her heart. For all that she has lost, for all that will never be. Only her mother and the company of the dead will ever truly have a place on this farm.

  And where is God?

  She weeps at last. Tembi weeps as she kneels at her mother’s grave, placing the palms of her hands flat on the ground. She prays, and the words of the prayer are bitter with her tears.

  The morning light rises above the hills and above the trees, and the warmth of the sun falls lightly upon the fields and the grasses. The birds call to the sun newly risen, and somewhere the beasts of the field lift their heads to the scent of the warmth that falls upon them. And somewhere, in some other place, even the women and men of the earth find hope in their hearts. But not in this place.

  53

  MÄRIT CAN NO LONGER BEAR to remain hidden in the hut. Whatever the consequences, she must return to the house. Even if she must be a servant and suffer the derision and scorn of the soldiers.

  Outside the house the soldiers are gathering their horses together and loading up their weapons and packs. The remains of last night’s campfire are cold ashes, a couple of empty bottles tossed onto the remnants. Märit avoids looking in that direction and stands to one side, partly hidden, watching a soldier loading a mule with bundles that he brings from the house. They are taking what is left of the food, she realizes, they are taking everything. But she cannot run forward to stop them. She is afraid of the soldiers, of their casual brutality.

  Khoza struts back and forth amongst the horses with an air of self-importance, inspecting bridles and saddles, stopping here and there to pat a horse on the rump and exchange a word with the soldier seated in the saddle.

  When all the soldiers are mounted, the captain makes a quick inspection of his troops. Then he turns to Khoza.

  “You can lead the mule.”

  “What? Why?” Khoza looks around in befuddlement.

  “Didn’t you tell us last night of your bravery and your ability with a gun? What a good shot you are? Don’t you want to kill Schoon? Well, you can come with us.”

  Khoza backs away with a sheepish grin on his face.

  “No…I should stay here…”

  “Not so brave after all,” says the captain, and a couple of the men laugh mockingly.

  “I should stay here to look after the farm,” Khoza responds.

  “Ah, you want to stay with the women and do women’s work. Or is it that you are afraid?”

  Khoza mumbles, “I’m not a soldier.”

  The captain walks to the mule and unfastens a coil of rope from the saddle, which he then ties into a loop at one end. He approaches Khoza with a smile on his face and with a quick motion drops the loop around his shoulders and jerks the knot tight, trapping Khoza’s arms flat against his body.

  Before Khoza can react, the captain mounts his horse and tugs at the rope, causing Khoza to stumble forward.

  “I will teach you how to be a soldier,” the captain says. He kicks his horse into motion and Khoza has to run to keep from being dragged to the ground.

  “Stop!” a voice cries with such authority that all activity ceases.

  Tembi comes running up the driveway.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking him?” she demands, planting herself in front of the captain’s horse.

  He ignores her and nudges his horse forward.

  Tembi runs to Khoza and begins to work the loop free from his shoulders.

  The captain shouts an order to one of his soldiers and the man leaps from his saddle. He grabs the rope from the captain, and before Tembi can react, he wraps it around her as well. The soldier mounts his horse again and fastens the other end of the rope to the pommel of his saddle.

  “I don’t mind if you come too,” the captain says to Tembi.

  Only now does Märit rouse herself from her passive watching.

  “Leave them alone! Let them go!”

  Reining his horse back the captain shouts, “Go back, woman. Go back to your house. It is yours again.”

  Märit dodges between the horses towards Tembi. “They are just children. You don’t need them in your war.” She grasps the rope and tries to jerk it loose.

  A rider detaches himself from the group and spurs his mount in Märit’s direction. She tries to dart away, but the horseman wheels upon her. She sees that it is Joshua in the saddle.

  “Bitch!” Joshua shouts, and urges his horse into a gallop. As he bears down on her he lifts a foot from the stirrup and kicks hard between Märit’s shoulder blades. The impact throws Märit to her knees. The horse is charging down upon her again, the hooves flashing and whirling around her. She falls to one side, raising her hands to protect her face, hearing somewhere the screams of Tembi, then a sudden pain burns along her leg, a pain so intense that nausea rises in her throat, and then a light bursts between her eyes. She hears a sound like the rushing of wind, and the wind sucks the light away, leaving her in darkness.

  MÄRIT’S FACE IS WET when she comes back to consciousness. For a moment she is outside of time, outside of all awareness except for the gentle comforting drizzle on her face and the cool, misty light.

  Rain. It has been so long since she felt the touch of rain on her skin. She lies on her back in the damp silence, letting the drizzle bathe her lips and cheeks. And then the image of the horse charging upon her breaks through her stillness and she sits up abruptly. Where is Tembi?

  A searing pain shoots up the length of her right leg, and she gasps in shock. She lies back and waits for the pain to lessen, and when it abates slightly, down to a persistent throb, like a terrible toothache, she gingerly leans forward and examines her leg.

  Her ankle is cut, deeply gashed down the inner side, the skin purple and black. But there is no blood from the deep gash. She touches the cut, wincing again, and sees a whitish gristle. Nausea makes her turn her head away. How terrible to see her own bone beneath the skin!

  She falls on her back again and waits for the nausea to subside, for the pain to lessen.

  The sky is a uniform gray, the light without variation. How long has she been here? Where is Tembi, where is Khoza, where have the soldiers taken them?

  I can’t lie here, she tells herself. I must go after them. I cannot let them just take Tembi away like that. I have to do something. She sits up, then turns to her left and kneels, letting all her weight rest upon her left leg, then pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, the bile rising in her throat because the pain is so terrible—but she must stand, she must get to the house. As she takes a step forward, having to put pressure on her other foot, the pain makes her scream out loud, her voice the only sound in the silent drizzle.

  The few yards towards the veranda steps are the most dreadful journey she has ever undertaken, each step excruciating, each step a weight that threatens to snap her ankle, each step filling her mouth with bile. But she must go on, she must reach the house. She will die if she does not, she will die lying in the dust outside her own house. And Tembi will be lost, cast into the hands of strangers.

  Here is the railing; she clutches her fingers around the wood gratefully, then up the first stair, no, the pain is too much, she turns and sits backwards on the stair and levers herself up, then the next one, pushing with her good foot and using her arms as props, all the way up the six wide stairs; then, still pushing, she manages to get to the door, reaches up with one hand to open it, then into the hall, into the living room, here is the couch, one last effort to lift herself. She sits a long while with her eyes closed, waiting for her heart to stop its wild beating, for the fire in her body to cool.

  When she opens her eyes and looks around the room, the familiar room, her breath is taken away. The radio has been smashed, the telephone ripped from the wall and flung across the room, the pictures shattered and broken, the furniture gashed.

  The sight of it is too much, like a blow
to her heart. A final wave of pain shudders through her. She collapses onto the cushions and slips into unconsciousness.

  MÄRIT WAKES in the dark house. Her leg throbs with a pulsing, biting pain. When she places her foot on the floor she realizes that she will not be able to walk without some kind of aid.

  Lowering herself onto all fours Märit begins a slow crawl towards the kitchen, using her knees, holding her injured foot up from the floor. She crawls all the way into the pantry and finds what she is looking for—the broom. Levering herself to her feet Märit upends the broom so that the wide part with the soft bristles can fit into the niche of her armpit, and the broom becomes a makeshift crutch.

  She hobbles to the sink and holds a glass under the tap, waiting for the slow trickle of water to fill the glass. How thirsty she suddenly is! She gulps the water down and fills the glass again. The water trickles even more slowly, then ceases.

  Now there is only the future. But the future is too terrible to contemplate. Märit stretches out on the couch and curls her head into the cushions and shuts her eyes. She is too weary, too weary of everything.

  Her mouth is dry, her body aching, in darkness, not knowing where she is except that she is in some abandoned place. The texture of the cushion pressed under her check is unfamiliar, the feel of her face against her hand is unfamiliar, the ache down her side has an unknown cause and origin, the darkness is unfamiliar.

  A cool waft of air drifts across her face, then a moment later the smell of something warm, something living, something animal.

  She knows that she is alone in the house, that she is injured, that somewhere a door or window is open. A noise sounds from the direction of the kitchen, as if a cupboard door is slowly being opened. Something clatters into the sink. Someone in the house.

  Märit sits upright, wide eyes trying to see into the darkness. The zoo smell—the warm living animal smell—is suddenly very strong. Märit stares towards the vague outline of the doorway leading to the corridor.

  A soft cough out there. A shape in the doorway, darker than the darkness, something upright, shoulders, arms, a head. Moving slowly into the room towards her.

  Märit fumbles on the side table for matches—somewhere here, didn’t she see a box? Where are they? Her fingers close on the box, she draws a match out and strikes it across the phosphorous strip.

  “Who is it?” she cries as the match flares.

  A figure leaps past her, crashes into the front door, turns, upends a lamp. Footsteps down the corridor.

  Märit screams. The match goes out.

  Then silence, and the air in the room is full of the rank living smell.

  What was it? So fast that she saw nothing but a figure. Was it an animal? Not a person, surely, to move with such agility. Yet it had a human shape, like a long-limbed child.

  Märit strikes another match and holds it high above her head, but she knows the intruder has gone. Who was it, what did it want?

  The flickering light from the match dies. How she hates this darkness! Märit bends down and finds the broom and levers herself upright. Pain banishes all other thoughts from her mind, and she stands a long time, leaning on the broom heavily, waiting for the fire in her leg to lessen. Slowly she hobbles down the corridor and into the kitchen. The back door is ajar, the night air drifts in. With one hand she slams it shut, then hobbles over to the table, remembering that a candle stands on the windowsill.

  When it is lit she sinks down into the chair, her arms shaking. Her leg is throbbing, almost unbearably, and when she moves the candle closer to the edge of the table so that she can examine her ankle, what she sees sends a wave of panic through her.

  Her ankle has puffed up like some bloated fruit, purple as an overripe plum, the gash from the horse’s hoof a raw red line stitched across the swollen skin, and the rest of her foot is a sickly yellow color. She winces as her fingers probe the flesh.

  Somewhere in the kitchen cupboards is a first aid kit, she remembers. She must get some aspirin, something for this pain. And disinfectant. The sight of her ankle frightens her.

  With the aid of the crutch, and with the candle in her other hand, she hops over to the cupboards, wax spilling hot onto her fingers, and she groans with the agony in her leg.

  There is nothing in the cupboard. Stunned, she stares at the empty shelves. Nothing. Not a single dish or cup. Nothing but the one glass that she drank from earlier, now standing in the sink. Her first thought is that the intruder has stolen everything. But how could it—wasn’t it some kind of animal? The soldiers, she realizes, they have taken everything. She slams the cupboard door angrily. How could they! How could they steal everything like this? Her anger is replaced swiftly by a more pressing anxiety. The food!

  Disregarding the pain, she scuttles into the pantry, pulling open cupboards, her hands touching nothing but bare shelves. Nothing. Not even the two tins of corned beef and the coffee jar that she had hidden on the top shelf. They have found everything, and taken it from her.

  She remembers that there is maize and fruit drying in the sheds. Have they taken that too? But she cannot go now, in the darkness, with a strange animal out there. In the morning. In the morning when she feels better, when the pain is less. But without aspirin, without disinfectant, will the pain be less? The thought is too terrible to contemplate. Everything is too terrible.

  Leaning on the crutch Märit shuffles back to the sink and turns on the tap, holding the glass under the faucet. A slow trickle appears, then ceases. She turns the handle back and forth and bangs on the pipe. A few more drops of water trickle into the glass. Have the soldiers smashed the pump as well?

  Märit groans and rests her head against the cupboard. Now this too. No food, no medicine, no water. And crippled. Märit drinks the last half glass of water.

  Making her slow and arduous way along the few yards to the bedroom, she reaches her wardrobe and opens the doors. Empty. The dresser is empty as well. They have taken everything.

  54

  FOR THE FIRST MILE or so after the soldiers leave the farm, both Tembi and Khoza are forced into a trot to keep up with the horse to which they are roped, no words exchanged between them, all their efforts directed towards not stumbling and being dragged across the ground.

  An outrider comes galloping back and exchanges a few words with the captain, who then wheels his horse around and approaches Khoza. “You saw the direction those men were traveling in. Which way is it?”

  Khoza nods towards the valley. “Somewhere up there.”

  The captain dismounts and unties Khoza. “Come on, you can go up front with the trackers and show us.”

  Khoza turns a helpless glance towards Tembi as he is pushed up to the head of the troop. The horses set off again, though at a slower pace, except for a group of fast riders that gallop ahead.

  All through the day the soldiers press on. At one point the rope that binds Tembi is unfastened and draped around her neck in a loop, then tied to the mule that carries the soldier’s supplies. Most of the soldiers have ridden on ahead, and she walks with only two guards, one in front and one behind.

  Tembi turns to look back at the route they have covered, but the farm is long out of sight, the landscape is unfamiliar. For a moment she hopes that she will see the figure of Märit outlined against the top of a hill—Märit following. But there is nothing, there is nobody following beneath the gray sky, and Tembi is left only with that last image of Märit collapsed on the ground and the horse charging over her. Her heart aches. Is Märit lying there in the dust, hurt, unable to move? When Tembi looks at the column of soldiers moving ahead of her she wonders if she will ever see her home again.

  The rope chafes at her neck, but when she tries to lift it, a harsh word from one of the guards warns her to stop. She thinks of trying to escape, of slipping free from the rope and dashing away, but she knows that on foot in this unfamiliar country she will soon be caught.

  She walks on—thirsty, tired, dispirited.

  In the e
arly afternoon a halt is called. The soldiers dismount for a meal of cold mealie-pap and water from their canteens. Tembi sinks to the ground, weary, her feet aching. A plate of porridge and a tin mug of water are set in front of her, but she barely lifts her head.

  Then Khoza sits down next to her and reaches across to squeeze her hand. “Eat something,” he says.

  Her spirits lift at the sight of him and she manages a weak smile. “How are you, Khoza? Are you all right?”

  He glances over at the guards, then winks at her as he uses his fingers to lift the mealie-pap to his mouth.

  “Where are they taking us?” Tembi asks.

  “They want to catch that man. The one called Schoon.”

  “Are they going to kill him?”

  Khoza shakes his head. “They should. But they want to put him on trial in a courthouse. He has committed crimes.”

  Tembi picks at her food, swallowing morsels of the cold porridge. “And us? Why does the captain want us? What have we done?”

  “I think he just took us to spite Märit. Because we were friendly with her. He took us away to spite her. He doesn’t like white people.”

  “How will all this end? What is going to happen to Märit all alone on the farm? She is hurt. You saw what happened.”

  Khoza shakes his head and shrugs, any answer he is about to make cut short by a command from the captain for the men to mount up again.

  Once more Tembi is separated from Khoza as the rest of the troops range ahead of the slow-moving mule. Once more Tembi walks with the chafing rope around her neck under the watchful eyes of the guards, moving towards the unknown future. The mule plods on next to her, its large brown eyes long-suffering, resigned. Tembi reaches out a hand and strokes the animal’s neck soothingly, a gesture that perhaps does more to calm her own distress than offer any comfort to the mule.

  Through the long afternoon the journey continues. Tembi walks on at the same steady, resigned pace as the mule, aware only from the position of the sun ahead of her that they are heading southeast. The country here is unknown to her, with many shallow valleys surrounded by green hills where thin streams flow down to the valley floor. Sometimes she glimpses the soldiers up ahead as they crest a hill, and again on the floor of the valley as she herself descends the same hill. Sometimes she makes out the figure of Khoza.