But Deliver Us from Evil

by Lauri Kubuitsile

  ‘Hello,’ she says, standing.

  ‘You frightened me,’ Motsumi says. ‘I thought you were a ghost. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I come here sometimes in the night, to get away from the mission,’ she lies. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m on my way home. I was searching for cattle up on the hill,’ says Motsumi. He’s alone, no cattle to be seen. Nthebolang says nothing, though she’s annoyed by his obvious dishonesty.

  ‘How’s Seabe?’ she taunts him, stepping away, not sure of her reason for saying it, only that she wants a barrier between them. She’s still scared by what went on at Mmapitse’s and her emotions are swirling in wild unpredictable directions. She doesn’t want this now; she doesn’t want this always-needy Motsumi.

  ‘Don’t ask me such things,’ he says sharply. Then he moves to her and takes her in his arms. ‘Sorry … I’m sorry. I don’t want to speak of those things just now. Everyone is pushing me this way and that. And now this thing. Did you hear about the Boer attack in the Madibela fields? They took cattle. People say they came on horses and took all the cattle. The people did nothing to stop them.’

  ‘No, I’ve heard nothing. Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘No … not this time. They couldn’t fight – there were no guns. It’s impossible to get guns and gunpowder at the moment. The Cape government has banned the sale of both to us. They want us to sit and take what comes. It makes me so angry. The people just sit and the Boers come and take what they want: cattle, sheep, people. We must just watch like stones.’

  ‘But would guns solve it?’ asks Nthebolang. ‘The Boers will just shoot back at you – they’re very fierce.’

  Motsumi laughs dismissively. ‘Not me. No gun can kill me. I have powerful muti.’

  ‘Muti against guns? You’ll be shot thinking such stupid things protect you.’

  ‘Ah! You don’t know. I have a very powerful man. Barobi. Do you know him?’

  Nthebolang lets go of Motsumi’s hand and steps back from him. She’s remembering the man at Mmapitse’s gate. Why is his name here again?

  ‘Barobi?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, do you know him?’ Motsumi says again, looking at her oddly.

  ‘Perhaps … yes … I think I do.’

  Nthebolang sees the man’s face in her mind so clearly. His sharp features, his thin eyes with no kindness in them. And then, like magic, he is revealed. There he is. He’s walking with the cattle, and at the back is Lala. He’s the man who took Nthebolang’s family’s cattle, the man who gave her father the cattle medicine – the man she suspects really killed her uncles.

  She doubts her mother could have remembered the man, considering the mental state she was in at the time. It’s surprising that she remembers him herself; Nthebolang was sad and very young then.

  ‘You must stay away from Barobi, Motsumi. Promise me you will.’

  She sees from Motsumi’s face that she has spoken too urgently. She can see he thinks she’s bullying him, something that angers him.

  ‘Why? No, I will not stay away from him. He’s very powerful. I need him. Especially now.’

  ‘No! You don’t need him.’

  ‘What is it, Nthebolang? You look frightened. Has he done something to you?’

  ‘No, I just want you to stay away from him. He’s a dangerous man. Powerful men can also turn their power against you. You must promise to stay away from him.’

  Nthebolang is properly upset now. How is Barobi here? This murderer is walking free among them and no one can see that except her. Instead, they seem to respect him, almost worship him.

  Motsumi pulls her to him.

  ‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘I’ll stay away from him. Anyway, I know how to shoot. I’ll soon have the guns and gunpowder I need. I have ways to get such things. I’ll not wait patiently while the Boers walk away with my cattle. They’ll see a real Mokwena if they try to trouble me.’

  Nthebolang looks at Motsumi, so like a boy, full of bluff and false courage.

  ‘Yes, no one will trouble you,’ she says to encourage him. ‘You’re brave without muti; you don’t need it.’

  He kisses her. ‘I can’t stay. Let’s go back to the village. I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘No, I want to stay here for a while.’ She’ll not tell him about Mmapitse and the hyena. He’ll not understand, or he’ll mock her. She wants none of that. She needs time to think about all of this. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll go home after a bit. We don’t want anyone to see us together in any case.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. You always think properly.’

  She watches him dash off towards the village.

  Once she’s alone, she sinks between the rocks and holds herself tightly. This night has shaken her. In the quiet, the fear surrounds her again. She’s not aware at first that she’s been praying until she hears herself above the sound of her own breathing.

  And forgive us our trespasses,

  as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation,

  but deliver us from evil …

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The cold wakes her. Nthebolang opens her eyes. It’s still dark although it’s nearly morning, the first new edge of light peeking over the eastern horizon. Her legs are stiff from being bent close to her body and her arms ache from holding them there the entire night. She stretches her legs out in the space between the two stones where she’s been hiding. She looks at the sky lightening, and wonders what she’s supposed to do in this new day after all that has happened to her.

  There is something wrong in Ntsweng. Kgosi Sechele is a devout Christian and a strong leader. He rejected all heathen ways. He stopped polygamy; he sent five of his wives away even though it caused many problems for them and their children. He doesn’t allow initiation or belief in the ancestors. He prays to Jesus; Jesus is kind and forgiving, he tells the people. Under Jesus no witches can operate. Jesus doesn’t recognise such things. Wouldn’t a strong leader like Kgosi Sechele manage to keep the evil at bay?

  Mmapitse’s transforming into a hyena seemed to answer that. Or had that been some sort of illusion created by Nthebolang’s mind? Was she so scared of what she’s begun to think is encircling her that she can’t think or see properly? She can trust no one at the moment, not even herself.

  She stands and heads back towards the mission house. Maybe she should speak to Thomas Milner. Maybe she should go to Kgosi Sechele, warn him about everything, get his guidance.

  As she passes through the village, people are waking up. Some start fires in their cooking houses; others are off to fetch water from the river with clay pots. A man harnesses two reluctant donkeys to a metal cart made from iron sheets and wood. The sun has not come completely over the horizon, but Ntsweng is awake. Nthebolang cannot stop herself from thinking – awake and unaware of the danger that stalks them.

  As she approaches the mission house, she sees Thomas Milner unloading his wagon. His horses drink greedily from the water trough even though they’re still harnessed. Nthebolang wonders where they’ve come from this early in the morning. Thomas Milner stops unloading when he notices her.

  ‘You’re up very early,’ he says. He pulls the tarpaulin back over the wooden boxes in the wagon.

  ‘Have you just arrived from somewhere?’ Nthebolang asks.

  ‘Yes … well, no … not really. I only went to meet some people at the crossroads. Some men … they had supplies … from Kuruman. They were in a hurry, heading north to Ngamiland. They didn’t want to make the detour to Ntsweng. They asked me to meet them.’

  Nthebolang ignores Thomas Milner’s intrigues and odd behaviour, for he is indeed acting strangely. She’s learned already he’s a man with many urges working within him – some of which she suspects he’s not even aware – that lead him in often conflicting directions. Some he cannot control, as she’s seen already.

  ‘I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment,’ Nthebolang says.

  ‘Of course.�
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  He glances nervously at the load that waits for him under the tarpaulin and then looks back towards her. He sits down on the edge of the wagon and Nthebolang sits on a nearby stone.

  ‘Do you know about Tswana things? The things that the missionaries stopped?’

  ‘You mean the old practices like rain making and the worship of ancestors?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Nthebolang. ‘And witchcraft.’

  ‘I know a bit. I know some people believe that others can bewitch them with pieces of fur or bones dipped in medicine. It’s not true, of course. All those heathen ideas are not true. They’re made-up things, superstitions. Nonsense, nothing more.’

  ‘And Jesus, what can he do to stop them? The witches?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to do anything. They don’t exist.’

  Nthebolang is becoming frustrated with Thomas Milner’s dismissiveness. You can’t just say something does not exist to make it stop.

  ‘But how can we, Christians, be protected from them? Be protected against the evil?’

  Thomas Milner smiles. ‘You’re protected already, Nthebolang. You were baptised. You pray to God; you read your Bible. No witch can harm you. You’re safe.’

  Maybe where Thomas Milner came from such things did not exist. Nthebolang wonders if this place is different, if Ntsweng is different, if the Bakwena are different, if they know things that the Europeans do not. Maybe Thomas Milner’s ways can’t work here; maybe Jesus’s ways can’t work here either.

  Thomas Milner stands. He seems impatient for the conversation to be over. He looks at the wagon and then back at her. He wants to finish what he started.

  ‘I’ll not keep you then,’ Nthebolang says, standing to go to the servant’s hut.

  Thomas Milner moves closer to her. ‘You know you can come to me for anything. I care about you, Nthebolang.’

  She doesn’t respond. Thomas Milner’s words have given her more doubts than comfort.

  As she turns to go, she sees the tarpaulin has slipped off the wagon. There’s a crate made of wooden slats in the back and she can see something grey inside it. The crate does not contain supplies from Kuruman. The crate looks as though it contains something made of metal. Some sort of machine perhaps, or maybe even guns, but how could that be? Is that why Thomas Milner is trying to hide them? What does a missionary want with guns?

  She looks back once to see if he has noticed that she saw the crate. He hasn’t. He’s leading the horses to their kraal. She wouldn’t want Thomas Milner to know what she saw; she knows enough to know that would be dangerous. If it’s guns, then Thomas Milner is involved in things he shouldn’t be, and he would not want her to know about it. She’s already seen how Thomas Milner behaves when he’s unhappy with a person. She doesn’t want to be involved in any of that.

  Nthebolang enters their hut and her mother rushes to her and pulls her to her bosom.

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear Jesus!’

  Nthebolang extracts herself from her mother’s arms and sits down at the table. She takes her mother’s cup and pours tea from the pot her mother has made. She doesn’t speak until she’s added sugar and milk, and taken three sips in quick succession.

  ‘I thought they’d got you,’ Mma Nthebolang says. ‘I thought they took you like they took your father.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The witches.’

  Nthebolang looks at her mother. ‘I thought we didn’t believe in witches, in the throwing of the bones – in any of it.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right – we don’t. We’re Christians, Nthebolang, of course, we’re Christians. But we must protect ourselves too. Your dreams were scaring me. I didn’t know what to do. Mmapitse is a Christian, but she’s also a healer. She’s healed so many Christians. I don’t know why you got so frightened … why you ran off.’

  ‘Did you not see what happened to her last night? How she changed? I told you that woman was evil, but you didn’t listen.’

  Mma Nthebolang looks confused. ‘Changed? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean her hands … and her legs. Did you not see?’ Nthebolang thinks her mother is purposefully pretending not to understand.

  ‘See what? What are you saying? I don’t understand.’

  ‘The claws, her shadow on the wall …’

  ‘Nthebolang, I think it’s your dreams. Waking and sleeping are confused in your mind. I saw nothing. Mmapitse was trying to help you. I think you were scared of her words, scared of the warnings. I’m afraid for you and all that’s happening around you.’

  ‘No! I know what I saw. And that man, the one at the gate, that Barobi, do you not know him?’ Nthebolang steps carefully. She does not want her mother to break down again, reminded of that horrible time in the past, but she needs to know why this man is here.

  ‘Barobi? Of course I know him. He’s a friend to Mmapitse, as I told you.’

  She doesn’t remember. Nthebolang won’t remind her.

  A white-hot spike of anger rips through Nthebolang’s body. The thought of Barobi alive and thriving while her father, a good man, is dead, his bones lying crumpled at the bottom of the mountain, infuriates her. It’s good, she tells herself. She’d promised justice for her father and now she knows that Barobi is right here, right in Ntsweng. Perhaps Jesus does work in mysterious ways, bringing them together like this. Was it not a nod to what should be done?

  In the meanwhile, while Nthebolang waits for the plan to emerge, she must protect her mother from all of them.

  ‘You must stay away from Mmapitse. She’s dangerous. I’m sure she’s the one who put medicine at the gate the other night.’

  ‘Medicine? What are you talking about?’ her mother asks.

  ‘Beaty saw an old woman with a walking stick at the gate. I didn’t, but I found the medicine later. I destroyed it. I think it was Mmapitse. I think she put it there.’

  ‘You touched it?’ Mma Nthebolang asks, fear filling her voice.

  ‘Not with my hands, I know better than that. I destroyed it. We’re fine now.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that to us? What have we done to deserve so much hatred?’ Her mother begins to cry.

  ‘You know why. People are jealous because we live here, that you have this job. And it’s my father, for what they say he did in Lephepe. They know about us. Things are happening here – maybe they blame us. Or maybe the evil has followed us. I don’t know. And now Mmapitse and what she said, and what I saw …’

  Nthebolang knows she’s rambling; she’s frightened … exhausted from sleeping out.

  Mma Nthebolang covers her ears and sobs. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. We’re through with those things. What will be enough to free us of all these things? How much must we suffer?’

  Nthebolang puts her arm around her mother; she doesn’t want her to be upset by all of this. She’ll take care of it. She wonders again how Beatrice is involved, how she knows so much. A white woman from Cape Town. What does she know of these things?

  It’s better Nthebolang deals with everything on her own. She puts her hand on her mother’s and pats it.

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong. It may not have been Mmapitse. I’m tired; I need sleep. Maybe I’m confused about everything. Everything will be fine.’ She rubs her mother’s hand, now wrinkled, her paper-thin skin reminding Nthebolang of her vulnerability. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  ‘Mmapitse is old,’ her mother says to convince herself further. ‘She can’t move easily. She rarely leaves her compound. I think you’re right: you’re confused. She has seeing powers and healing powers. I know this; I’ve seen it many times. But she’s not a witch. She’s a good woman. She’s helped me ever since we arrived here, even when we stayed at Kgosi Sechele’s. I’ll not believe that she wants to harm us. When I mentioned your dreams, she was the one who said we must come to her. That she could help you. She cares about us. She would never put medicine at the gate to bewitch us. What would she have against us?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. And now
I want to rest.’ Nthebolang is exhausted in every way. All she wants is to lie down, and not think. Too much is happening. Too much she doesn’t understand.

  ‘Yes, my dear, you rest. That’s what you need, you’ll feel better then. You rest, and everything will be fine.’

  Nthebolang lies on her mat; her mother leaves quietly. She opens the window and a cool breeze blows across her body. She tries to relax and let her fears slip away. A verse from the Bible comes into her head – ‘The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.’

  The words give her comfort. If Jesus is out there – and she hopes he is – he must know what she’s going through. He’s watching and she needs just to wait for his help. To lie silently as he prepares his weapons. She falls asleep and, for the first time in a long time, she dreams of nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ‘No, like this. The needle must go in from the front.’

  Nthebolang takes the bit of cloth from Elizabeth. She’s teaching her to sew on a scrap of fabric, just simple stitches. Perhaps Elizabeth is too young for such things, but she’s keen to try; she wants to do everything adults do. She begs to knead the bread, to sweep the house, to help wash the clothes. Nthebolang always gives in. She can deny the little girl nothing. Elizabeth’s needle and thread are tangled up in the hem of her apron now and, as Nthebolang attempts to untangle them, she realises Elizabeth has sewn the scrap of cloth to the apron itself.

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth, why do you waste time with such mundane things?’ Beatrice asks. ‘You could be out roaming the mountains, swimming in the river. But instead you choose to sit in this horrible house and sew. It’s as if you have not even a small bit of me inside you. You’re as tame as a lap dog.’

  Beatrice is sitting at the window, looking out with yearning. Thomas Milner has banned her from leaving the mission-house compound alone and yet that’s the only thing she wishes for. He has spies in the village who tell him when she is away from the house. She’s frustrated and angry, and takes it out on Elizabeth.