Who Killed Piet Barol?

by Richard Mason

  In East London, she bought a truck and paid in cash, hoping to God she was right. She had left her fine gowns in Johannesburg for safekeeping, and was back in her old clothes. Their shabby grandeur depressed her. She had taken the precaution of hiring white craftsmen who spoke English, and allowed their Chief, whose name was Frank Albemarle, to drive them. They roared through Butterworth in a cloud of dust.

  Every night as she had gone to sleep in her suite at the Carlton Hotel, Stacey had whispered, as though he could hear her: “I love you, Piet Barol.” And yet, as the truck left Butterworth, passed the village of Idutywa, and wound up a dirt track towards the forest, a little voice reminded her that the man she loved had been a man of fashion, the handsomest gentleman at a party; a man whose looks and charm were proverbial. She had found his beard arousing before she had known the life it represented. Now she knew, and her long weeks of luxury made the coming squalor oppressive.

  The track ended and a barricade of trees and vines blocked their path. Frank Albemarle stopped the truck. He had had a checkered career in Johannesburg and had just decided to sign up for the navy when Stacey discovered him in the furniture manufactory of which he was foreman. He rather thought they might have a love affair. He was in the mood for one, and had chosen passion over fighting the Germans. He had no faith in the female sense of direction, and wondered how on earth they would get to where they were going with no maps. “Are you sure this is the way?”

  Stacey’s look silenced him. She got down from the cab and inspected the trees, looking for the elephant track. She made Albemarle’s men pull back a fallen log and masses of ferns. Ahead was a road, just wide enough for the lorry. She got back in and said: “Drive on.”

  The arrival of a motorized lorry in the forest of Gwadana was a seismic event. Snakes reared as the ground shook, and raced for their burrows. Spiders clung tight to their webs. Impalas fled in terror from this fast and violent beast. Baboons gathered their babies close to them, and Lula birds dashed for the heavens. The sound of the lorry’s engine penetrated the cold sleep of starvation that had come to claim the leopard who had stolen Piet’s biltong many moons before. It was heard long before it was seen in the clearing that had once housed a grove of Ancestor Trees, and Piet looked at his band and their workshop, storing them in his mind.

  He knew how all this must seem to a woman who has grown used to the Carlton Hotel. And yet he also knew that there was beauty here, and happiness. He thought that of all the places he had lived, this was the one he most preferred. If only Stacey could see its loveliness…

  He closed his eyes, found his tone and went to meet his wife.

  —

  TO HIS SURPRISE, she had brought with her a man quite clearly taken by her charms. He greeted this individual without enthusiasm and kissed Stacey passionately, aware of their audience.

  Frank Albemarle was annoyed by the fervor of their embrace. He took his temper out on the darkies Stacey had told him to whip into shape. One of them spoke English, and Frank berated him at length. He demanded an instant checking of the inventory, and on being told there wasn’t one he began shouting at the top of his voice.

  “Who on earth is that?” said Piet, as he and Stacey reached their little house.

  “We need someone to hurry things along. You’ll be glad I brought him.”

  Albemarle waited for Piet to close his door. Then he claimed the largest hide for himself. It had, until now, been occupied by Ntsina, who returned from the forest with two impalas to find that his few possessions were scattered on the ground in front of it. He asked why and was met by a torrent of English words.

  It was so long since a Strange One had shouted at him that he had the awful sensation that he was waking from a dream, returned to a reality he had forgotten while he slept. He collected his things and put them in Luvo’s hide. They sat without speaking as Albemarle’s men invaded the clearing. They had brought three cases of gin, and their first action was to fashion a door for one of the hides, and equip it with a lock.

  “You can’t trust Kaffirs with alcohol,” said Albemarle, whacking back a stiff one.

  Arthur had come back from the forest with Ntsina. He was overjoyed to see his mama but did not like these new arrivals at all. Stacey made him shake hands with them, and the way they crushed his little hand in their large ones made him aggrieved. He followed his mother into her room when she went to wash, and said: “Why have you brought these horrid men here?”

  “To work, darling. We need to get out of this ghastly forest.” Stacey opened the cabinet by her bed and shrieked. An enormous spider was within. “Piet!” She did not intend to ask Ntsina to assist her again. She was horrified to see Arthur scoop the frightened creature up, very gently, in both hands.

  “These spiders only bite if you hurt them, Mother. Don’t be afraid.” And he took him outside and put him on a bush.

  Dinner was fraught. The white men drank too much and the black men, until recently as entertained as they were entertaining, sat in silence.

  “We will use these visitors to get the furniture finished,” said Piet to Luvo, once Stacey had gone to bed. “Think of them as a temporary inconvenience.”

  “That man cannot call us Kaffirs. Tell him.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  That night, as Piet kissed her tender places, Stacey tried to relax but found that she could not. He was used to giving her pleasure and persisted. When he knew he had failed he pulled away and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. In the past, pleasure had always soothed their disagreements. Without it, there was only silence and the deafening roar of insects.

  “I’m sorry you do not care for this place,” he said.

  “I don’t care for our son going native. That’s what I don’t care for.”

  “He’s becoming a man. Can’t you see?”

  She said nothing. Outside, Arthur’s high voice floated over the growls of the men by the campfire. Instinctively, she listened to what he was saying, and found she could not understand it.

  “He’s speaking like a Kaffir.”

  “Don’t use that word.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It isn’t polite.”

  “Our son is speaking like a native, then.”

  “There are millions of natives in this country. The white man who can speak to them in their own tongue will be at a huge advantage.”

  “In what possible way?”

  “He won’t be cheated, for one thing.”

  She turned away from him and said, “Tickle my back.” He did so, sending ripples across her skin. At length she whispered, rather timidly: “Did you miss me?”

  “Terribly.”

  But they did not make love.

  —

  NTSINA HAD BEEN UP till dawn the day before, in raptures with his wife, and though he and Luvo had many things to discuss he could not keep his eyes open. Luvo watched him, and felt afraid of the future. What Piet had said about the likely priorities of King George the Fifth had the ring of truth. This demolished his last defence against despair. To live in a country where no Bantu might own land! It was not to be borne. His parents could not live with the Rankes forever, yet what alternative did they have? He thought of his sister. Anna had suffered doubly: Xhosas did not educate their women, and now the whites would not let her work as anything but a servant girl. She was cleverer than him, with a natural quickness he had often envied. Thoughts of her brought the knowledge of the way his nephew had died. He could hear the white men carousing by the fire. Who would tell them that in this place the Bantu were treated respectfully?

  It was May, and very cold. He thought of all that had happened since Ntsina had asked him to translate for the Strange One in the Shabrills’ rose garden. Like Piet, who was also lying awake, he understood that something had ended for good: a way of life they had made for themselves. Now it was over, he regretted not enjoying himself more. He had been annoyed by the inconveniences of forest life, by the endless amounts of w
ashing up. He had grown too used to being treated as an equal, and the prospect of a return to servitude was unbearable.

  He did his best to believe that Piet would pay him what he had promised, whatever Stacey said. The effort made him sleepy, and then sentimental. He looked at Ntsina’s sleeping form. How many more nights would they have together? What would happen to him? He grew angry on Ntsina’s behalf. By helping Piet he had betrayed his people. No sum of money could compensate him for that.

  He lay down on his blanket. He was freezing, and he pacified his conscience by reminding himself that it is natural for animals to seek one another’s warmth when they are cold. He lay right against his friend, closer than he ever had. The solidity of Ntsina’s body was reassuring. He allowed his nose to touch the back of his friend’s neck, and drank in his smell, praying to God for His protection.

  —

  WHEN PIET WOKE the next morning, Frank Albemarle had already had half the contents of the workshop laid out in the clearing and was shouting at Ierephaan and Mohammed. He had authorized his men to conduct a search of their sleeping place and they had discovered two chisels and a gouge.

  “Barol! Perhaps you can help. This coolie is trying to say that the tools we found hidden in his bag belong to him. Is that so?”

  Piet examined them.

  “It is so.”

  “Well, lucky for you this time,” said Albemarle to Ierephaan. To Piet he said: “This camp wants order. You won’t keep darkies on the straight and narrow without it. Boy! Coffee for your master.”

  The individual thus addressed was Luvo, who made coffee for everyone every morning, as a politeness.

  “Now, boy,” said Albemarle. “I take four sugars. You go ask the other baas men how they like their tea, their coffee, their gin. And don’t you forget what they tell you.”

  Luvo looked at Piet.

  “A word if you please, Mr. Albemarle.”

  He took Frank Albemarle to the furthest recess of the workshop, where they would not be overheard. “Welcome to this forest,” he said.

  “Much obliged to assist you, I’m sure. You leave everything to me. I’ve been in South Africa twenty years. Know how to get the best out of darkies.”

  “In this camp, we don’t refer to anyone as a darkie. Or a Kaffir.”

  Albemarle looked at him. His eyes narrowed.

  “The Bantu who work for me have made many sacrifices and shown themselves loyal and dependable. And very good fellows. I don’t want you to address fully grown men as ‘boy,’ and I don’t want you to suggest that people have been stealing unless you have clear and abundant proof.”

  Piet did not enjoy giving these orders, and Frank Albemarle did not enjoy receiving them.

  “Kaffir lover, are you?” he said. “Well, you’ll learn the hard way.”

  —

  THERE IS NOTHING LIKE the observation of an attractive woman to sharpen a man’s work ethic. On the train from Johannesburg, Stacey Barol had told Frank Albemarle plainly what must be accomplished. She had not been disloyal about her husband, and had praised Piet’s genius as a designer; but she had made it quite plain that he was too softhearted to get the best out of his men.

  Spurred by her approving glances, Albemarle set about getting results. He observed a strict hierarchy of labour: heavy unskilled work for the blacks; carving for the Indians and the whites. He himself was no furniture maker, but he knew a thing or two about production lines. He had another workshop built, twice as large as the first, and put his twelve craftsmen in it. He put Grace in charge of the black crew and sent them on an orgy of destruction through the forest. Within a week, ten further mahoganies had been felled and brought to the clearing. This was enough for the carvers to be getting on with and he turned his attention to the Ancestor Trees. Fifteen had once grown in this hallowed place. There were twelve standing when Albemarle arrived. Within six weeks, only the greatest of them was left.

  The strength of the Ancestor Trees had derived, always, from their unity. Their fused roots, deep in the ground, were an anchor that kept them steady in the fiercest winds. When fire or disease ravaged one, her sisters sent nutrients to her aid, as well as a particular toxin that no bacterium had yet been able to stand for long. In this period of crisis, their leaves filled with this toxin. Ants ate the leaves, and tree frogs ate the ants, and became very poisonous. One of Albemarle’s men, who fancied himself a naturalist, caught one of these frogs and made the mistake of not washing his hands. He was in bed for six days, writhing in agony.

  “We should take him to a hospital,” said Piet.

  “No such shakes,” said Albemarle. “Food poisoning and too much gin. No one leaves this clearing till the last of these trees is down.”

  His swagger made Stacey feel safe, and she tended the ailing man herself, and after a time he got well.

  With the felling of each tree, the job of slaughtering the others got easier. Few men crossed the clearing any longer. It was scarred by deep trenches where the roots had been dug out. Each severed root weakened the trees who still stood. The scaffolding was put to punishing use, and soon it was the tallest object still standing.

  It is a sad truth that once a sacred rule is broken, it is rarely adhered to again. Ntsina was powerless to keep Piet to his promise that one tree would suffice. When only one still stood, Luvo found him at dawn by the stream.

  “Do you promise me, my brother, that my Ancestors are safe with your Christian God?”

  “I promise,” said Luvo. “And once the furniture has gone the Strange One will pay for new shrines, closer to the village, where you may pray for their souls.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I do,” said Luvo, trying to.

  And that day, the last tree came down.

  —

  NO ONE AT GWADANA mourned Sukude Zini, or objected when his body was weighted with rocks and offered to the Sea. When the Chief ventured that perhaps lightning had struck his roof, and set the fire, Nosakhe merely said: “It was time for him to meet the Goddess.”

  For many moons the villagers had avoided the homestead at the top of the hill, so much closer to the heavens than theirs, but once word got out that Nosakhe had a box that allowed her to hear the spirits, curiosity got the better of fear—as it so often will. The children went first, and knocked on Nosakhe’s kitchen door, offering their services, eyes peeled for evidence of this magic box. Once they had confirmed its existence, many adults found a reason to climb the escarpment.

  In these worrying months, the displeasure of their Ancestors, made so alarmingly plain, had caused many an interrogation of personal piety at Gwadana. Few failed to find themselves wanting. Twenty-eight white goats had lost their lives to the cause of winning ancestral forgiveness, and the death of Fezile the witch doctor left people feeling exposed. The possibility of finding out, once and for all, where they stood gave them the courage to brave Nosakhe’s piercing gaze, and her kitchen filled with all manner of good things.

  Nosakhe had no need of a spirit box to tell her that her neighbours had gossiped about her, but the success of her spell of Reincarnation had left her in a forgiving mood. What need has a woman with power over Death itself to worry about the unkindness of mortals? She received them more gently than they expected. The spirit box was placed at the centre of her magic hut, but it was not Nosakhe who set its dials to their correct frequency.

  It was Noni, whose gift of Farsight became plainer with each passing day.

  The elevation of Noni to chief operator of the magic box was her mother’s crowning happiness. She found it possible to forgive her husband for his weakness. Perhaps the flowering of Noni’s gift had required the fertilizer of a mother’s sacrifice. She was by nature a contented, gentle person, and satisfaction so profound made her very obliging on the love mat. Happiness reigned once more in the Chief’s household, and again Kagiso proposed a mission to the forest to rescue his friend. This time Nosakhe forbade it, though she blessed the young man’s courage. She
told him Ntsina was fighting a war only spirits can wage. “When the time comes for you to play your part, you may be sure he will send for you. And in the meantime, dear boy, savour life as it deserves and put away your fears.”

  Noni’s pronouncements were not always so reassuring. Her light footsteps and uncanny ability to navigate the village even on the blackest nights had left her with a treasure trove of information about Gwadana’s residents. The attention she received when she used these nuggets went to her head, and she developed the impressive trick of running up the escarpment as quickly as her legs would carry her, despite the narrowness of the cliff path. She was not unkind, and there were things she knew that she never spoke of, as befits a great seer. But in the matter of husbands who hit their wives, or took young girls who were not their wives to the love mat, she was unforgiving.

  Many a man left Nosakhe’s magic hut chilled to his core, and determined to do better.

  On a windswept day, when the waves danced, Bela’s father came. Zandi was with child, and he wished to know the father. Noni listened intently to the box, and told him to come back the following day. As soon as he had gone, she went to Bela’s hut and told her of her father’s visit.

  That her father should visit without greeting her punctured Bela’s great happiness. She spent her days praying to Ntsina’s shrine, and three nights a week worshipping the manly form his spirit had taken. The sweetness in her nature, intensified by isolation, found a happy recipient in Noni, who had never had a big sister. They were inseparable, and when Noni told her of her father’s enquiries, Bela was glad. So what if her sister had not married! She had tasted the joys of the love mat, and that was wonderful. “You must tell my father his ancestors have sent Zandi a child, so that he and my mother will have someone to worship their spirits when they have crossed to the world beyond.”