Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  After stirring the beer the woman poured some into a small gourd from which she drank before refilling it for the chief. When he had sampled the brew, a larger container was filled to the brim and handed to the chief who took a long drink before passing it on. Dallas noticed that Logan, as the African had done, held the gourd in his right hand and the saucer in his left, just under his chin. Will, on the other hand, displaying a surprising lack of formality, grasped the gourd with both hands and ignored the saucer which Logan had placed on the ground in front of him. Dallas noticed the chief’s disapproval. When it was his turn, he copied Logan.

  The ‘beer’ was like nothing he’d ever tasted. It was reddish in colour and cloudy in appearance with a raw, freshly brewed smell. Dallas sipped and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. ‘Ummm!’

  Everyone laughed and Logan leaned towards the chief, saying something to him. The man responded. Logan nodded and translated. ‘Chief Ngetho says you are a man who, in white man’s culture has enough years to wear the isiCoco and therefore you are old enough to drink utshwala. Your appreciation amuses him.’

  Utshwala was obviously beer. The isiCoco would have to wait.

  Dallas passed the beer on and, by the time the gourd reached him a second time, it was nearly empty. He looked at it dismayed. Would it be bad manners to finish it? Logan spoke briefly to Chief Ngetho before coming to the rescue. ‘Drink what’s in there then hand it to the inkosikazi with the opening pointing upwards.’

  Dallas nodded, remembering that inkosikazi was the great wife. He drained the gourd and did as Logan instructed. It was refilled and handed back to him. He wondered how to indicate that he’d had enough but worried about insulting their host. The gourd had been refilled three times and Dallas was beginning to feel he would burst when the chief finally passed it empty to the inkosikazi with the opening pointing down. The beer drink was over.

  Expressing appreciation came easily to everyone. The fermented corn did its stuff and all belched with gusto.

  Dallas was surprised that he didn’t feel more intoxicated. If he’d had as much ale back home, especially in such a short space of time, he’d be well and truly inebriated by now. All he felt was mildly relaxed. He listened and observed as Logan and Chief Ngetho began the process of trade. It took several hours and night had fallen by the time they’d finished.

  ‘We are invited to eat with the chief tonight,’ Logan told Dallas as they made their way to the wagons. ‘Several sleeping huts are at our disposal. This has gone very well. Some of the younger men will come with us tomorrow to show us where to find elephants. To repay the chief for his kindness, they will keep the meat. It’s an early start tomorrow.’

  Dallas had no idea what exactly they had traded and what, if anything, would be given in return. Logan was the obvious one to ask, but once at the wagons, he busied himself with preparations for the following morning’s hunting. Realising that Will would have followed the bartering process, Dallas decided to ask him. Before he did, however, he queried how the normally vociferous Yorkshireman had managed to remain silent throughout the negotiations.

  Will looked slightly put out by the question. ‘I know when to hold my tongue,’ he responded with a touch of asperity. ‘You’ll get nowhere with the natives if you don’t follow their rules.’

  ‘Then why did you guzzle the beer like that?’

  ‘I was thirsty.’

  ‘The chief didn’t like it.’

  ‘Bugger the chief.’ Will looked defiant. ‘It doesn’t hurt to demonstrate that you know the rules but nor does it do any harm to show you’re not necessarily going to follow them. You’ll learn soon enough that if you give a Kaffir an inch, he’ll want a bloody yard.’

  Dallas was inclined to disagree, but since Will was supposed to be such a good trader, said nothing. ‘So you were happy with Logan’s bargaining?’

  ‘It was all right,’ came the grudging reply.

  ‘Would you have interrupted if he seemed to be giving too much away?’

  ‘Not then.’ Will looked briefly angry. ‘But he’d know about it by now, let me tell you.’

  ‘Then what have we traded?’

  ‘For every four green or yellow beads, we will be given a chicken.’

  ‘A chicken! For four cheap glass beads! That’s outrageous.’

  Will chuckled, his sense of humour restored. ‘Only the high-born can wear yellow and green. It’s believed they grow on trees in a magic place. Others tell you they’re from the sea. Those little beauties are worth far more to a Zulu than gold or ivory.’

  ‘But I’ve seen many of the people here wearing yellow and green around their neck.’

  ‘Not as decoration. Only in love letters, where each colour has a special significance.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That you’ll have to ask David. I don’t know. By the way, when you are counting out beads tomorrow, remember that they prefer the smallest.’

  ‘Have we traded the other colours?’

  ‘All of them. But by weight. Depending on colour, we’ll get a bull or a cow for one or two pounds of beads.’

  No wonder traders can become rich! Dallas could not believe that coloured glass could have such a value. He said as much to Will.

  ‘In the old days,’ his partner explained, ‘Kaffirs wore woven and dyed grass, strings of snail shells, horns, even animal gall bladders stuffed with fat. Those who could afford it also used copper and brass. To get the colours they wanted meant mixing dyes. It was a lengthy process and most would fade in the sun or run when wet. That’s why glass beads became so popular and they’re prepared to pay handsomely for them.’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you? These beads are ten a penny.’

  ‘Value,’ Will said portentously, ‘is in the eye of the buyer.’

  The meal that night was filling but not especially enjoyable. It consisted of a mealie meal porridge and several unfamiliar vegetables in a green liquid. Using hands, squeezing the dough-like substance into a ball then scooping up some of the rest and popping it into one’s mouth, was the acceptable way to eat. The main course was followed by different varieties of wild berries. Immediately after they had eaten, the chief excused himself.

  Once he had gone, Logan and Will looked knowingly at each other.

  ‘What is it?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘No meat,’ Will said.

  ‘Perhaps they have none.’

  ‘Oh, they have, and plenty of it. We are not important enough to justify killing a beast. No matter, the trading went well.’

  ‘Bed,’ Logan said. ‘Most of the village is already asleep. This way.’

  ‘How do you know where we’re supposed to sleep?’ Dallas hadn’t seen anyone show Logan their accommodation.

  ‘Visitors are always allocated huts to the right of a kraal’s entrance, next to where the younger men sleep.’

  He might have known. The Zulu sense of order again.

  Zulu huts, the like of which Dallas had only seen from the outside, had a cosy yet rustic interior. Comfort proved to be an entirely different matter. A structural backbone was formed by bent saplings, lashed to three central poles supporting the roof. The sides and roof were of thatched grass with no windows and an arched doorway so small that they had to crawl through it on hands and knees. Inside, the floor was made from a mixture of soil from termite mounds, mixed with clay then beaten flat and hard with stones. It had been covered with cow manure and polished to a smooth glass-like finish. Round sleeping mats were rolled and fastened to the wall with cowhide. Wooden headrests, a kind of bench design, stood on the ground under each of them. Otherwise, save for a cooking fire, the hut was empty.

  Dallas went to move the three-stone hearth that was situated centrally in a space between the hut’s supporting posts. With three grown men sleeping on the floor he felt the fireplace would be in the way.

  ‘Don’t touch that.’ Will and Logan’s sharply spoken words, for once in unison, stayed his intention.

  ‘
Why? We’ll need all the space we can get.’

  Logan shrugged. ‘The Zulus are superstitious about one of those rocks. I can never remember which, so best to leave them all where they are.’

  Will supplied the answer. ‘It’s this one.’ He indicated the stone behind the pillar, closest to the entrance. ‘It’s called umLindiziko. They always leave it, no-one dares touch it.’

  ‘Any reason?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘There are always reasons,’ Logan replied. ‘Some long forgotten, leaving nothing but superstition. I suspect this is one such example because I’ve yet to find someone who can explain it properly. Trust what we say, though. Move that stone and God help you.’

  Following his companions’ example, Dallas took a sleeping mat from the wall and rolled it out. He eyed the headrest. Two blocks of wood with a narrow, yet solid, suspension bridge between them. ‘Can they really sleep on that?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Logan removed his shirt, rolled it up and put it under his head. ‘I tried once. Woke up with a neck so damned stiff I suffered for days.’

  Dallas also used his shirt. The floor was hard but not much different from the ground. Curled comfortably on his mat, he decided that the pleasant smell of thatch which offered protection from the elements was as good a sleeping chamber as any. How wrong he was! Since the hut was reserved for guests, its cooking fire was rarely used. The lack of smoke, essential to rid the thatched roof of its less welcome inhabitants, meant that they shared the place with all manner of bugs.

  Several hours later, as he slapped away yet another unidentified creepy-crawly, Dallas asked anybody who would listen, ‘Do you think it would be rude if we gave up on Zulu hospitality and slept out in our own bedrolls?’

  ‘Very,’ came back Logan’s sleepy reply. ‘Just try not to lie on your back and snore. Anything could end up in your mouth.’

  In a hut close by, Mister David and the three others in there with him were having no such qualms. Sonorous sounds filled the night. ‘They might at least make that racket in unison,’ Dallas grumbled, having long since given up trying to sleep on the rock-hard floor. Both hips ached and his back cried out for what now seemed like a spongy bed in the open veld. Mosquitoes attacked incessantly and something had taken more than a passing interest in one finger which now itched, burned and, on inspection in the pitch dark, felt twice its normal size. Eventually he slept, if you could call it that – more an uneasy truce called between a tired body and suspicious mind. Dallas tossed, scratched and swiped his way through the rest of the night.

  The next morning he was bleary eyed and out of sorts. It was of little comfort to discover that whatever munched on his finger had left no long-term ill effects. On leaving the hut, Dallas’s eyes adjusted to the light and he became aware that the inhabitants of Chief Ngetho’s kraal had been up and about for some time. The ground was swept clean of leaves, calabashes stood full to the brim with water collected from the river, and women were leaving for the fields with hoes. A group of men sat under a shady tree, talking. Logan and Will were already at the wagons supervising the unloading of trade goods.

  ‘Sleep well?’ Logan asked teasingly.

  ‘No.’ It was an answer as short as his temper.

  Logan nudged Will. ‘Do you think the young master got off the wrong side of the floor?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Dallas said sourly. ‘Where’s Mister David?’

  ‘Here, master.’ His driver’s head appeared round the corner of a wagon.

  ‘What is an isiCoco?’ No messing around and keep it simple, his tone implied.

  ‘It is the headring worn by married men,’ Mister David told him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Chief Ngetho arrived as they finished unloading. He inspected the wares, prodding, nodding and grunting as he went. Umbrellas and blankets were highly prized, but by far the most sought-after items were beads. The deal confirmed, two bulls, six cows, three goats and a dozen chickens joined the expedition, along with an assortment of skins and several elephant tusks.

  By midmorning, and with a group of young men ready to go with them, the wagons were rolling. Dallas twisted in his saddle and looked back at the village, his first experience of traditional African life. The umuzi, yesterday afternoon a collection of conical huts surrounded by a fence of closely packed branches, was much more than that now. He had learned so much and yet, he knew the process had only just begun. Despite the lack of sleep his spirits had risen and he found himself mentally comparing the Zulus and their ways with all that had been familiar a few short months ago. The man he might have become had once been predictable. Now, nothing could be anticipated, barring one inescapable fact. If he made old bones, his creaky brain would hold memories that most men couldn’t even dream of. Surely, in the step-ladder of life, the experiences he was having now had him standing several rungs higher than others his own age? The thought brightened what so far had proved to be a somewhat dismal day.

  The crowds of smiling, waving children who had chased after the wagons eventually turned back, skipping and giggling, the diversion of a trading party overtaken by chores awaiting each and every one of them. Young as they were, all understood that the fine line between full and empty bellies meant shared responsibility – a lesson taught by example – so ingrained that none ever considered challenging the logic of it.

  Even as he had these thoughts, Dallas was aware that with continued exposure to European ways, time-honoured traditions would eventually become diluted. He couldn’t decide whether that would be a good or a bad thing.

  A small brown puppy, thin and undernourished, kept coming even when the children had turned back. Unsteady on its feet, sometimes moving more sideways than forward, the obviously sick animal seemed determined to follow. No-one called it back and the puppy stumbled after their wagons as if on an invisible leash. Dallas watched in sympathy. Each step was obviously an effort. ‘Go home,’ he shouted, waving an arm.

  The animal stopped, blinked, then came on.

  ‘Clear off.’ Dallas tried again.

  Will, carrying his rifle, rode up beside him. ‘This should do it,’ he muttered, raising the weapon.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Dallas snapped. ‘You can’t just shoot someone else’s animal.’

  Will looked surprised. ‘Why not? The Zulus only use dogs as leopard bait.’

  ‘I don’t care. Don’t shoot it.’

  ‘Fine.’ Will looked disappointed. ‘You deal with it.’ With that he rode off towards the leading wagon.

  Great! The puppy abruptly sat down, its dark eyes locking onto Dallas, a plea in the animal’s expression.

  You don’t want a dog. Don’t look in its eyes. Sucker! It’s only a dumb animal.

  ‘Ralph!’ The high-pitched yip was wavering and uncertain but the pup obviously enjoyed the sound enough to try a repeat performance.

  ‘Ralph, ralph.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Logan had ridden up to see what was going on.

  ‘Did you hear that? It said “ralph”.’

  ‘Ralph!’ The animal obliged once more.

  They watched while the puppy, with some difficulty, rose and came closer.

  ‘Could have rabies,’ Logan said. ‘It’s certainly not a happy chappy.’

  ‘It looks starving.’

  Mister David called to Dallas. ‘It is a present to you from my brother.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks,’ Dallas muttered.

  ‘Are you going to keep it?’ Logan asked, watching the runt with some distaste. ‘It’ll be covered with fleas, probably have all kinds of skin disease. It’s a Kaffir dog. Inbred to buggery and not a brain in its head.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Dallas cursed himself for a soft touch. ‘I can’t refuse the gift,’ he added, in a voice that didn’t convince even himself.

  The puppy finally made it to where Logan and Dallas sat on their horses. Tosca skittered nervously at its proximity. No more than eight weeks old, the animal stared up at Dallas, one ear cocked, the other
floppy, head tilted to one side.

  ‘Ralph,’ Dallas spoke to the animal. ‘Very well, Ralph. Let’s see if we can make anything of you.’ He dismounted and gently picked up the dog. It was little more than skin and bone. Fleas scurried in all directions. The puppy wriggled and tried to lick his face. As canines went, Ralph had to be the most unsavoury and pathetic specimen Dallas had ever seen. Naturally, that organ which pumped blood as its prime function and occasionally admitted feelings for others, missed a beat, did the latter and embraced one trembling and thoroughly disgusting bag of flea-covered bones, no questions asked. ‘Mister David, do we have any of that corn porridge made up?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Dallas carefully handed the puppy to his driver. ‘Give him some.’

  ‘Ralph,’ Logan said, laughing. ‘You’re not seriously going to call him that, are you?’

  ‘Why not? It’s his name. Ask him.’

  Logan rode away, shaking his head.

  Dallas joined Mister David on the wagon. ‘You drive. I’ll feed Ralph.’

  The puppy inhaled porridge with such gusto that Dallas could only assume that the poor little thing had had to fight for every morsel of food ever to pass its lips. Sustenance was followed by some serious paw-licking and five minutes at least of vigorous flea-stirring before Ralph curled himself into a ball, winked one eye at Dallas, then fell asleep on the seat between his new owner and Mister David.

  Something in the way the Zulu kept glancing down at Ralph alerted Dallas to the fact that his reaction to such a present was unusual. ‘Why did your brother give me a gift?’

  Mister David answered warily. ‘To help with the hunting.’

  Dallas stared at his driver, who shrugged and added, ‘Perhaps not.’ After more silent eye contact, the Zulu miserably owned up. ‘He did not give you this dog.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘No-one! You mean I’ve stolen someone’s animal?’