The donkeys are fatigued after the day’s trek. Saltpetre covers their skins. They have moved so slowly and cumbersome through the veld following wagon spoors you can scarcely call a road, that they stop abruptly when Jasper screams for them to stop. Their heads are hanging low; the harnesses limp.
Aletta climbs down from the wagon. Earlier she has walked for hours next to the wagon to make the weight lighter, but late in the afternoon, she climbed on again, too tired and sunburnt to walk any further.
Her dad is like a lunatic. From the day he has heard about New Rush, nothing could stop him. And she must pay the price; and the donkeys. Their poor dog also. All along the great Gariep River on nearly impassable terrain. And now all along with one of the tributaries of the river, a few days travel from New Rush.
“They will need me. We can live comfortably there,” he more than once convinced himself.
Jasper is a cobbler. He and his daughter trek from one farm to the other, from one missionary to the other, from town to town with his four lean donkeys and shabby wagon. Where he is allowed to stay over, he spans out and mends shoes, buys skins, and makes new shoes and sandals, but since the diamond glitter started to twinkle in his eyes, he mercilessly drives on inland.
Aletta knows the ritual. First, the donkeys are outspanned and knee-haltered. She takes the pots down and starts a campfire. As soon as it burns well, she puts the tripod over it and hangs a little pot over the fire. Then she begins with their meagre provision of greens brought along with great care, which she peels and put in a holder. Luckily she has two barrels of water which she had filled at the previous stop. The dog, Lion Head, already is flat on his stomach near a confusion of guinea fowls, motionless as if he is in a deep sleep. The guinea fowls are grazing undisturbed closer to him. The sun lies low on the horizon, a big orange ball, tired after his fiery day’s work.
Suddenly the loud scream of a guinea fowl. Lion Head is already halfway on his way to the flock. The guinea fowls are still looking around to detect danger when he attacks the first one. He kills a nice fat one with one bite, and before the others can fly away, he jumps on a second one and grabs him by the neck. The fowl yells in agony for a moment. Then it is quiet.
Jasper walks up to the dog and gathers the fowls with a satisfied smile on his face. Lion Head barks excitedly and circles around him.
“Good work, Lion Head. Tonight is the night you and I are going to have a feast.”
Downwind he slaughters the guinea fowls and takes off their feathers. The big one must go into the pot directly. The smaller one is hung by his bound feet at the wagon. It must also go into the pot later on. The fresh smell of meat and blood attracts predators. There are leopards in this region and also jackals and others raving for a bit of meat.
While Aletta cooks the guinea fowl and vegetables, it is time for him and his barrel. That is his great weakness, the barrels with cheap brandy. Cape Smoke they call it. Extremely potent. As a cobbler, he could live decently, but most of his money has gone through the barrel down his throat.
Aletta lights a lantern and hangs it near the fire on the wagon. Jasper gulps and gulps one big mouthful after the other out of his self-made tin cup and feels how the sense of well-being floods through him. One of these days he will be a rich man. New Rush will take care of that. Out of joy, he sings a few false notes. Aletta stands and stares at the sun that shows only its last slice. She knows how quickly the light can change into darkness after dusk. She checks the pot, stirs the coals a little and get her sleeping stuff from the wagon and make a bed under it.
Then she dishes up. Tin plates and forks, that’s all that is left, except for a few spoons, of her mother’s expensive cutlery. All of that has gone through the barrel like almost all their belongings.
She hates him. She hates to live with him. She hates his drinking, she hates it to look at the unkempt dirty figure. “Leave him,” Jemima said to her at one of the missionaries, “let him struggle on his own. Why do you allow him to ruin your life?”
Leave him! She has considered this more than once and has made firm decisions but then she always saw the pale face of her mother on the white pillow in front of her. She then was sixteen.
Through the spasms of cough, her mother whispered hoarsely. “Don’t leave him. Promise me!”
She averted her eyes because she already had a intense hatred for him for what he did to her mother because of his addiction. Her mother put her frail hand in hers.
“Promise me! You won’t leave him! He can’t survive on his own. He’s like a little boy …”
“But why …?” She could not hide her bitterness.
“Because I love him. I love him more than I love my life! That’s God’s will. I can’t help it. Don’t leave him alone. Look after him.”
Her eyes dimming already, begged. Aletta’s inside shattered. She could only nod and started to cry. Her mother closed her eyes peacefully.
The gallop of a horse is a strange sound in the silence of dawn. It sounds as if it is coming nearer to them. Jasper jumps up hastily and hides his barrel. Then he fidgets around on the wagon and brings out his old front loader. Just to frighten someone. The thing is useless, hasn’t fired in years and there is no gunpowder for it.
The rider comes into sight in the last twilight on the horizon near them. He stops for a while, but then the sound of the hoofs come nearer, the rider more easy-going this time. Near them he holds in the horse, let it walks nearer. In the light of the fire, he sees the old man and the young girl. The horse walks up to the wagon.
“Good evening. I am so glad to see people. I’ve been in the saddle the whole day. Uncle, may I unsaddle here for a while?”
He is a strong man with black hair and a neat moustache. His voice is strong and smooth.
“Good evening, Stranger,” answers Jasper and puts his gun down. No need for this. The man looks neat enough and in one of his saddlebags, Jasper’s keen eyes have already spotted what he dearly wants to see. “Yes, my man, take off the saddle. Where are you heading this time of night?”
The stranger jumps out of the saddle and comes closer with his hand outstretched. In the light of the fire, they can see him better. Neat, expensive clothes, neat waistcoat.
“I’m coming from New Rush,” he says, while he shakes their hands. “Stefaans Verhoef is my name.”
“Jasper Steenekamp and this is my daughter Aletta. Pleased to meet you, Stefaans.”
Jasper is very jovial. He is already somewhat intoxicated from the brandy and now here is someone fresh from New Rush. What a lucky break!
“Get the man a veldstool to sit on, Aletta. And there is surely enough for him to eat in the pot.”
“Thanks, Uncle. Maybe a little later. I earlier had biscuits and biltong. I’ll quickly unsaddle my horse.”
Stefaans has heard and seen enough. The old man has been looking into the bottle quite heavily, maybe the girl also. She is a lovely girl, with thin clothes that expose the full roundness of her femininity. He has been away from home for such a long time and he resisted getting intimate with the black prostitutes at New Rush. You never know what disease you can pick up from them.
He takes one of the bottles of brandy out of his saddlebag.
“You and I, Uncle, will have a nice, long chat,” he says when he takes place on the stool.
“Yes, Stefaans. I want to hear everything about New Rush. I’m on my way there. Want to settle down there. I’m a cobbler, you know. Do you think there will be enough work for me?”
“For sure, Uncle. They swarm from all over the world to New Rush. Many feet must get shoes. Yes, you can make a good living there.”
“That is what I reckon as well. Do you hear, Aletta?”
She doesn’t react. She is only aware of the man’s dark eyes that want to undress her. Tonight she will have to fend for herself. Katryn, an old Griqua woman warned her long ago.
“You are beautiful,” she said, “very beautiful. But beauty can also be a burden. Men will all want to bed you. You will have to avoid them to give to the man you love that he is entitled to.”
She didn’t understand everything then but as the men have tried their luck with her, she became more vigilant. The man in front of her scares her to death.
“And you are on your way to where?”
“Deep in the Karoo, Uncle. We have a large sheep farm but the drought also hit us hard. My brother and I left the farm and bought a claim at New Rush. It is going well, but now I must go home to see if our people are all right. My brother remains at New rush in the meantime.”
The bottle is nearing its end. Jasper’s tongue drags heavily and Stefaans allows him to drink heavily. He only sips small quantities of the strong stuff but he drinks with his eyes.
“I’m going to bed. Night Father, goodnight, Mister Verhoef.”
Her father nods but scarcely says anything. Stefaans rises and puts out his hand. Reluctantly she takes it. The little pressure he exerts is meaningful. She shivers. The last quarter moon shifts in behind a cloud. It is dark.
She listens to how they talk and talk. She hears how the man fetches another bottle. She listens to how her father’s voice drags more and more. Then she falls asleep.
The jackal’s call comes far and lonely. But it not what awakens her. It is the soft shuffle of feet next to her bed. In the background, she hears her father snores loudly. She reckons it could be past midnight. She gets a fright when he softly whispers near her ear. Her inside clamps. She doesn’t hear what he says. She only feels how his hand glides over her shoulder to her breast.
The Free Story Magazine 