Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

Will crowed constantly about how easy the trip had become. ‘Told you,’ he said, at least three times a day.

  It was an extraordinary time. The freedom compared with Dallas’s life in Scotland was intoxicating. Absorbing all kinds of new and fascinating knowledge, seeing a wild land that far exceeded anything he could have imagined, the sounds and smells, the dangers and unspoiled beauty, all kept Dallas so engrossed that he wondered less and less about home.

  Lorna was still with him, though. He thought of her at unexpected times. The call of a laughing dove one day, a bubbling series of descending notes, reminded him of her gentle laugh; the sand colour of dried grass moving slightly in shimmering heatwaves, her hair; the graceful movements of a lone female steenbok, her walk.

  With these painful comparisons came memories of her. The day she defiantly climbed into the uppermost branches of a tree and then couldn’t get down without his help. One rainy afternoon when Charlotte and Lorna, Charles and Dallas decided to try some claret left in the dining room. The boys had been twelve, the girls nine. All four became ill and were sent to bed in disgrace. The way she had looked at the ball given by his parents after Lorna and Charlotte had been presented to Queen Victoria. The smell of her skin and hair when he held her.

  He tried to push the memories aside but she crept back and remained, like an aching void, in his heart.

  Other recollections were less harrowing. Dallas had regrets – Charlotte and Charles, his mother, the security of family – but as time went by he felt more disconnected from them. Young, and busy embracing a new life, most of his past slipped into the background. He mentioned this fact one night as they sat staring into the hypnotic depths of flickering flame around the fire.

  ‘I feel as though part of my life happened to someone else.’

  Logan looked up from his contemplation. ‘You’ve changed. Both Will and I have noticed. That’s good. It’s what you have to do.’

  ‘You’d been back home when we first met. How was it?’

  ‘Couldn’t wait to leave. I only go to see family. Each time becomes more difficult. We’ve nothing in common. They think I’m too brash and rough. I find them pretentious and boring.’

  ‘How about you, Will?’

  ‘Ain’t never been back. Worked me way here under canvas and you’ll not see me set foot on one of them damned riggers again. Spent four years on the bastards.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  Will pulled a face. ‘What about them? My father was a drunk, more often than not out of work. My mother took to religion. I’m one of twelve children, maybe more now for all I know. They were probably pleased to see the back of me – one less mouth to feed.’

  ‘How old were you when you left?’ Logan asked.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Dallas couldn’t relate to that. At such an early age he’d been a child. From the sound of things, Will hadn’t enjoyed that privilege. His life must have been bad for him to leave home so young.

  Will’s next revelation confirmed it. ‘Worked the pits since I was seven.’ He shuddered. ‘No choice. Out here a man owns himself.’

  It seemed a good way of putting it.

  ‘How old were you?’ Will asked Logan.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you had to work your way over?’

  ‘No.’ Logan chuckled. ‘My father paid to get rid of me.’

  ‘Bit of a tear away, were you?’

  ‘Not really. My mother died when I was twenty and he remarried a much younger woman. I think he wanted to get rid of any possible competition. Not that I was interested. She was pretty enough, I suppose, but the most disagreeable, whining bitch I’ve ever met. Nothing pleased her. Father ran himself ragged trying. In the end, it killed him.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘Yes, more’s the pity. She makes my brother’s life hell.’

  ‘Did she have children by your father?’

  ‘No. After the wedding night I don’t believe he was allowed into her boudoir again.’

  ‘You ever been in love?’ Will asked suddenly.

  Dallas and Logan glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ Dallas said finally. ‘She married someone else.’

  Eyes turned to Logan. ‘Once,’ he admitted. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘Tuberculosis,’ Logan said briefly.

  Both men looked at Will, who shrugged. ‘Dunno. Felt like it. She wasn’t interested.’ Then he added, ‘Plenty of women selling it in Durban.’

  The three of them fell silent. Their conversation had come too close for comfort to the one thing missing from their lives. Contrary to popular belief, while Zulu men took as many wives as they could afford, and sexual experimentation was encouraged in children from an early age, the freedom seen by many Europeans as promiscuous was exactly the opposite. Within their own culture the Zulus were a moral and disciplined people. Any white man seeking a night’s pleasure in mistaken certainty that a woman would be his for the asking was, at best, told to leave. Some paid the ultimate price for their lack of respect.

  Neither Logan nor Will had quizzed Dallas about his past life. He was grateful for that. It saved him having to lie. Yet he wondered if their reticence was due to a respect for his privacy or because they suspected that he had something to hide. Will had speculated on it when they first met but hadn’t mentioned it again. In a land where men often had nothing better to do around the fire at night than gossip, Dallas knew his secret should stay with him. Still, he was sorry he couldn’t speak freely with these two. There were times when both men felt closer than family.

  Tobacco broke into their reflections with an announcement that dinner was ready. Their food this night was a first for Dallas and he was not sure, despite positive assurances from the others, that he’d manage to eat anything. An abandoned termite mound had been modified to form a kind of oven and a fire lit in one of the chambers. Next to it, an area had been scraped out until it was large enough to accommodate the foot of an elephant. It was then left to cook for nearly five hours. When served, the meat resembled a glutinous mess, rather like liquid brawn. Wild yams and a green leafy spinach type vegetable accompanied the delicacy.

  Dallas took a tentative taste. Not bad. He had another. Bloody marvellous! Pushing aside his unease about its origin – the elephant was dead, its ivory stored in a wagon – being able to eat a part of the animal made more sense of its death than merely taking life for profit. Dallas tucked in. After all, a man had to eat.

  Despite a dwindling stock of provisions, the men ate well. It was a varied diet of fresh meat, wild vegetables and fruit. Tobacco proved to be an innovative cook. A camp favourite was the small intestine of buck, turned inside out and made into a sausage stuffed with some of the animal’s liver and kidney, chopped fine and flavoured with onion. Another popular dish was whatever fruit or berry could be found, served with wild honey. On one occasion Dallas accompanied Tobacco on his quest to find a hive and was astonished to discover that the African was guided by a bird. It fluttered in front of them, near enough to touch, its body bouncing, tail flickering, before flying on ahead to sit in a tree and wait for them to catch up. This process was repeated until they found a hive, all the time the bird making a rattling call which sounded like someone shaking a tinderbox. With a honey source located, the bird then sat in a nearby tree waiting patiently for its share of the prize. Tobacco lit a smoky fire to drive out the bees then extracted most of the comb and solemnly placed a piece to reward the bird nearby.

  In Zulu, which Dallas now knew enough of to understand, Tobacco explained that they never took honey without thanking their guide. And they never cleaned out the hive completely.

  The land was abundant with sources of sustenance if you knew where to seek out tubers, berries, fruit and herbs. Water in the Thukela and streams that flowed into it was pure, if at times muddy, and yielded the bonus of fresh fish which, while happy to catch an
d cook, the Zulus refrained from eating.

  As the weeks went by and March became April, the weather improved. It was still hot by day but rain was less frequent and the air held a crispness at night that encouraged deeper sleep. The biting insects that had plagued them during the hotter months were more bearable and infection became less of a problem.

  Their cattle, originally seventy-six in number, had suffered the loss of eight from disease, two from having broken legs, one while calving and seven to lion. That left fifty-eight and they needed fifty-four to pull the wagons. Eighteen calves had been born but were still too small to fit in the harness, so they mixed some of their traded animals with the experienced team. It worked reasonably well for, despite their wild nature, many of the native cattle had become used to a harness when ploughing to plant crops.

  A frightening encounter with lion could have been much worse if a trembling Ralph hadn’t raised the alarm by scooting into Dallas’s bedroll. It woke him immediately and he could hear that oxen and horses were also nervous.

  Eyes adjusting to the dark, Dallas was horrified to see that a pride was efficiently surrounding their animals. Any making a bid for freedom were quickly brought down. Cattle bellowed nervously and horses whinnied at a screaming pitch. The increasing panic woke everyone else.

  The Zulus were fast to act. Seizing still-burning branches from the fires, and banging metal spoons against cooking pots, they stepped bravely into the midst of their terrified animals. The lions retreated, waiting. Dallas, Will and Logan loaded their rifles and went into the fray, shooting at every figure they could see slinking hopefully on the periphery. The lions were driven back but they were not about to give up their kills. With the guns keeping their tormentors at bay, the livestock were rounded up and brought closer to the wagons. The predators lost no time in claiming the seven already dead, even though bullets had reduced their numbers by three.

  ‘We’d best post guards at night while we’re in this part of the valley,’ Logan suggested. ‘A couple of extra fires would help and it may even be necessary to kraal the animals with thorn branches. That’s the biggest pride I’ve ever seen. They’re bold and hungry. As long as we’re in their territory they’ll stalk us.’ He issued instructions and three Zulus set about building extra fires. ‘Should be all right tonight,’ Logan added. ‘If they eat their way through that lot they’ll need to sleep it off.’

  With improving weather, the night sky became a glittering canopy of winking lights of stars that seemed close enough to touch. They had colour too, something Dallas had never seen in the northern hemisphere. Some shone red, others orange. White, yellow and brilliant blue were also evident. Logan pointed out the Southern Cross, Orion and the horse-shaped Leo. One evening they witnessed a spectacular meteor shower which disturbed the Africans to such an extent that they crawled under the wagons and could not be coaxed out again.

  ‘Bad omen, I suppose,’ Dallas guessed.

  ‘You should see them during an eclipse,’ Logan told him. ‘They think the sun and moon are sick, and even sing special songs and sacrifice cattle to make them well again.’

  The next day Dallas decided to find out more.

  Mister David explained that, to a Zulu, stars were the children of the sun and sky. He went on to tell Dallas his conception of the universe.

  ‘The sky is a blue rock which surrounds us. On our side of this rock are the sun, moon and stars. The sun is a great chief and each day travels the sky. At night he follows a path under the sea. He has a summer house and a winter house. Every year the sun goes there.’ Mister David pointed north. ‘Further each day until the winter house is reached. He does not stay long as it is too cold and always returns to his summer house. The moon is a soldier of the sun. Some believe it is a hole in the rock but I do not think this is true. It is not so strong as the sun. The days devour it until it is thin and sick. Then the sun brings it back to life. When a new moon is first seen we beat drums and do not work our fields for, if we do, nothing will grow.’

  Towards the end of their fourth month, two shocking events happened within seconds of each other.

  The hatred between Logan’s Sotho and Will’s Zulu driver erupted with no warning: no-one saw it coming and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to prevent it. The other incident involved Ralph.

  The morning, clear and cool, gave no indication of impending disaster. They had passed a pleasant night beside a small stream where both cattle and horses could spread out over the sweet, lush grass. No-one was in a hurry to get moving. Tree-studded hills rose on all sides, the silence broken only by the cry of guineafowl or baboon barking. A light breeze, bringing with it dung and dust-like scents of the bush, was drying clothes that had been draped over various small shrubs.

  Dallas had spent time over the past months fruitlessly trying to teach Ralph a few tricks. The pup had grown from a skinny, worm-ridden fleabag to a chubby, bright-eyed youngster, full of bounce and pep. But that was the only improvement.

  ‘You’ll never train him, old chap. These Kaffir dogs are inbred with stupidity. Most of them have the brains of a chicken.’

  Dallas was beginning to agree. Ralph, though cute, affectionate and apparently loyal, proved consistently impossible to control. With an unerring instinct for trouble, a disdainful disregard for socially acceptable places to relieve himself and a tendency to seek playmates in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, he sorely tried the patience of all.

  Ralph had a memory so full of holes that Dallas swore lessons learned escaped within three seconds. He forgot, time and again, that he couldn’t walk on water. No-one could remember how many times he had to be rescued from the river. Their nightly fire proved to be another hazard. Ralph liked to hog the heat. He never made a connection between flames and a smoking coat of hair. Horses’ hooves were there for yapping at, the dog quite forgetting kicks of objection that sent him tumbling – a yelping bundle of fur. Wagon wheels had to be nipped, despite a crushed paw that kept him limping for weeks. Burrows made by warthog or aardvarks were tailor-made for exploring, Ralph never remembering the numerous times he’d become wedged, needing to be dug out.

  The dog was a glutton of the first order. He’d been known to brave fire just to knock over the stew pot and lap up spilled food. Once he gnawed his way through a bag containing sago and devoured the entire two pounds. Nothing was sacred. Boots and socks had to be placed out of reach at night. Logan tried to teach the animal a lesson by placing red-hot chillies in the toe of a sock and leaving it easily accessible. Both were gone by the following morning. For two days Ralph had the most horrible wind and deposited unspeakable things onto the ground. The experience taught him nothing.

  ‘Sit.’ Dallas held a finger over the dog’s nose. A strip of biltong waited in his other hand, a reward if, by some miracle, Ralph obeyed.

  Instead the animal lunged, grabbing the tidbit and pelting off into the grass to devour it.

  ‘A lead suppository might help,’ Will observed balefully.

  What happened next was so fast that Dallas wondered for a moment if he was dreaming. No-one had noticed the leopard. That in itself was not surprising. Normally a night hunter, this rarely seen cat was capable of creeping unnoticed to its prey before moving in for the kill. One minute Ralph was tearing at the dried meat, enjoyment evident in his wagging tail and perky ears, the next there was a blur of dappled movement, a single yelp, and the leopard turned towards the treeline, Ralph held firmly in its jaw.

  Dallas raced for his gun.

  ‘Forget it,’ Logan shouted. ‘It’s already out of range. Anyway, the dog will be dead by now.’

  ‘Was that what I think it was?’

  ‘Leopard,’ Logan told him. ‘I wondered why the baboon were so noisy this morning.’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Will said pragmatically when he saw the look of sadness on Dallas’s face. ‘If Ralph had stayed in the village he wouldn’t have lasted another week.’

  ‘We’d better get mov
ing,’ Dallas said curtly. The dog had been a complete pain in the neck but he’d somehow wriggled his way into Dallas’s affections and would be missed.

  With the drama of Ralph holding everyone’s attention, Will’s driver had picked up a whip and flicked it lazily in the direction of his old adversary. Whether he intended it to be a challenge or not would never be known. The Sotho had been whittling some spare skeis, wooden pegs that secured leather reims under the necks of inspanned oxen. He came off the ground in one fluid motion, his hand thrust forward, burying the knife to its hilt into the stunned Zulu’s heart. The wound pumped blood as he fell to the ground. Leaning down, Logan’s skinner retrieved his blade, casually wiped it clean on the driver’s shirt, sat down and resumed his whittling. The first anyone else knew of it was when Mister David went to his wagon to tie down the canvas.

  He came running back, eyes wide, shouting. ‘Trouble. Big trouble.’

  Dallas was still thinking about Ralph. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘You come.’

  Blood drained slowly from the body, which twitched spasmodically. ‘Jesus!’

  Logan and Will joined them, alerted by Mister David’s panic.

  They stared down at the dead driver then, almost in slow motion, four heads turned to seek out the obvious perpetrator. The Sotho kept whittling.

  Logan spoke sharply to him.

  The man raised defiant eyes and shrugged. ‘He came at me with a whip.’

  Seeing that the dead Zulu still clasped the handle in his right hand, there was no option other than to believe the story.

  ‘We’ll have to bury him,’ Dallas said softly.

  ‘Leave it to the Africans. They have special rituals.’

  ‘Are they sacred?’

  ‘Some. Though out here, with none of his family present, probably not.’

  Dallas checked with Mister David and was allowed to observe the entire process.

  Tobacco, who knew the driver’s family slightly, went to gather leaves from a strong-smelling shrub. These he boiled, using the water, once cooled, to wash the driver’s face. Tobacco then shaved the man’s head. While still pliant, the body was propped against one of the wagon wheels in a sitting position, knees drawn up under the chin, arms down each side. Using a blanket, the corpse was firmly bound into that position.