0.0.0.0 Would Our Legacy Survive?

by Richard Graupner

  Now it might appear that our plan should not work that well as cooking the meat would invariably destroy most of the bacteria. What we had noticed with this group, though, was that they were not particular and often did not bother with trying to build cooking fires. Consequently, they seemed quite at home simply eating the raw flesh of whatever they caught. This was to be our saving grace. When the young men returned, they confirmed that after the chase stopped, they backtracked sufficiently close to observe what happened, and this was indeed what had occurred. The rare prize of a fat sheep, as opposed to their normal fare, had resulted in them squabbling and fighting over the carcass and eating with gusto. As in the wild, the leaders and the strongest ate first.

  Although eating raw meat seemed quite unnatural, I recalled watching people in restaurants in my younger years eat steaks, which were cuts of meat from cattle that had hardly been touched by the cooking process. This was therefore not that out of the ordinary and was obviously expedient from their point of view. Despite what they had been attempting to do to us, the result was still sad to experience. By the evening, our scouts had reported that over half of the members of the fifty or so strong band were seriously ill, mostly the men, as it was they who had been out and found the ram. By the time our scouts got close enough to their camp the next morning to observe the situation, many were clearly incapacitated; some even appeared dead, while others were obviously infected but still semi-functional. Counting those they could see, it appeared that a few, obviously those that had not partaken of the ram or had not been too ill had departed, in essence leaving the ill unprotected.

  We decided to wait another day before we ventured closer. In hindsight, I suppose we should have expected what we found, especially after noticing the vultures circling in the distance later the previous day. Lion, hyena, vultures, and others were all in residence, and the scouts only took as much time as necessary to discern this before leaving. There was nothing more to do there. The siege, as it were, was over, but it left a bitter taste that we were forced to do something as drastic as this to protect ourselves. In later community discussions, with only the older people present, we came to the conclusion that it could not be worse, surely, than putting an arrow into someone to defend yourself. Could it? We justified it to ourselves, I think, on this basis simply to allow us to process it and to move on.

  The burial of a further two of our village, who had succumbed to their wounds, brought the total lost in those eight days to five. We used this to help justify our actions, although the ‘them-or-us’ mentality was precisely what we were attempting to avoid by remaining hidden in the bush rather than occupying one of the smaller towns and constantly having to fight off others. My father and I had observed this behaviour in the towns over the years before his passing – and our scouts confirmed fairly recently that it was still occurring. At that point in time, it had appeared to me that it would be some years yet before moving into one of the now dilapidated country towns might become a reality.

  After two more days of precautionary scouting, we had decided it was safe to resume normal activities. The herdsmen had a tough time controlling the animals as they dashed for the open veld and fresh grazing. A number of the villagers had been tasked with restocking the emergency supply for the animals and went out early. Such work in the heat of the day was not pleasant and was reserved for early mornings and late afternoons. The four young men I had requested sat with me as I explained to them what I required. Satisfied they knew what I wanted, they gathered up the various items I had presented to them and set off for the cliff top behind the camp. As we had no real way of protecting that area, I at least wanted to try to reduce the chance of any strangers going up there, as well as remove as many of the potential weapons the renegades had left behind.

  The four were back before sundown, exhausted, and reported that they had managed to hang all the items, out of reach of the animals (except the monkeys of course), but visible should anyone go up there. I was hoping the collection of chicken bones, feathers, and anything else I could get my hands on would serve to work on the superstition of anyone venturing near the top of the cliffs. Although this in itself was not exhausting for them, my other request, to limit the potential damage should someone with ill intent towards us ignore the warnings we had placed, saw to that. The constant thudding sound from falling stones and rocks into an unused section of the village close to the cliffs bore testament throughout the day to the amount of rocks and stones these young men removed from the cliff top and threw below. I felt a little better about that area above the cliff now and would sleep more easily as a consequence of this work. The stones would also come in handy in any further building work, as we had pretty much exhausted the sources close to the village. If I had thought of this before, we would possibly not have sustained the multiple injuries and bruises amongst us, as well as the death of the sweet young girl who had been hit in the head by a fist-sized stone.

  Chapter 12

  I was now standing in the first rays of the sun, trying to recall what had precipitated that unpleasant memory. Ah yes, the thoughts about the clothing and blankets. Quite a few of us now wore the rough-weave wool clothing we had begun to make from the sheep wool we harvested from our growing herd. The clothing was simple to allow for ease of manufacture. Being a rough weave with plenty of air pockets it was surprisingly warm. Care had to be taken when washing them though, to prevent damage, as we had not yet perfected weaving a really good thread.

  Enjoying the sun on my face and body, I stood there planning the day. We were going to put into practice what I had been teaching regarding the earth energy lines. I had decided to use a number of different people together, all with a divining tool of some sort. Most tools had been made from springy branches of different trees which had a good equal fork. The branches were cut to resemble the shape of the old wish bone as it was called on a chicken. I still had the stainless steel rods from my father, as well as the three pendulums he had purchased all those years ago, one for each of the family members. Two days previously, I had demonstrated the use of all three methods, and today we were going to practice.

  I had given two of the pendulums, one each, to a young girl and a young boy who I felt were quite intuitive. The divining rods were with Angela. Somehow I suspected this twenty-something-year-old was going to be the leader in these aspects when I departed this life, and I had taken to giving her private lessons in the esoteric field, building up her knowledge level as fast as I could. She assimilated and understood the information quickly, even though much of it was, by its very nature, quite abstract. Much of this training took place in the late afternoons when everyone was off doing their chores before evening meals. We were able to read until it became too dark, and afterwards we would discuss the topics, and anything else of related interest, into the evening.

  She had come as a student from the smaller of the two other villages, where she had been staying alone as a consequence of losing her parents to separate incidents while she was in her teens. We had connected from day one, and it was not long before I quietly probed with a few leading items for discussion. Those large, gentle eyes had begun to sparkle, and she soon confided that she had always felt a ‘little different’ to everyone else and did not seem to have much in common with the other youngsters. When I asked if she would like to move in with me and assist me, she broke down and sobbed, her head buried in my shoulder. How easy it was, I reflected again, for us to be so busy we do not see the pain within others or notice when they need comforting and companionship. In defence of that though, as individuals, we feel that we need to be tough and need to hide our pain and hurt. How complicated we make our lives. After recovering sufficiently, it had taken Angela only minutes to move in to my rondavel.

  It had been nearly a year now since that moment, and she was an absolute blessing for me, doing the chores of our simple home and the cooking, when necessary. I believed strongly that her presence
had uplifted me, providing additional strength, which allowed me to continue. As much as I now wanted to simply rest, I knew there was still something I had to do, something I was in a unique position to accomplish. I only hoped it would arrive soon.

  I felt her touch my arm lightly, and then put her arms around me from behind, squeezing gently. It always felt good, but at the same time, it reminded me of my father. He would do this, and we would simply stand and watch something in silence, whether it was a sunset, birds, or anything else. Time seemed to stand still in those moments.

  ‘You seem troubled,’ she said, her intuitive side kicking in. I sighed heavily and told her where my thoughts had been. ‘Not a good way to start the day’ she replied. ‘I will get some hot water, and I still have some lemon left. The lemon water will lift your spirits.’ That was true, it always did. As a youngster, I never drank anything hot, but as I got older, the hot lemon water that my mother had so loved grew on me until I looked forward to it, especially in the early morning or the evenings.

  I watched Angela walk off, remembering looking like her in my youth. How time and life experience changes us, both physically and mentally. I was glad for the few civilised amenities we had. Good, heavy pots and items such a good-quality stainless steel cutlery had been ample and easily available. We had a good supply, and although we had some crockery, we tended to preserve this and rather used the enamel plates and mugs, of which we had also hoarded a fair amount in the dry caves that housed our granaries. I smiled, thinking how few people enjoyed going into those caves, as I had insisted on populating them with mole snakes to help control any possible mouse and rat infestation. Although not poisonous, they did get quite large, almost the span of your arms, and they had a painful bite. Treating this constrictor with respect though was all that was required. Simply taking a moment to make a bit of noise at the entrance to the cave, by scraping your feet on the ground or stamping them, alerted the snakes to your presence and reduced the potential for surprise. This had worked extremely well, and we rarely had anyone confronted by the snakes and rarely noticed a rat or mouse in the vicinity of the caves.

  Angela came walking up, smiling broadly, and handed me the mug. Wondering what she was smiling about I raised the cup to my lips, not suspecting anything. The aroma gave it away instantly.

  ‘Honey!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yip,’ she smiled. ‘Danny and Peter harvested some honey yesterday. It will be a while before we get honey again due to the onset of winter, but this past year has been good. It was a very good idea to begin beekeeping, despite the initial fear of the bees by most of us.’

  She was right, it had been a good idea, but it had at first met with some resistance. People had been stung over the years trying to pilfer honey from the wild bee colonies. The African bee was considered the most aggressive bee on the planet and would attack with little provocation. As Angela set off to the communal breakfast pot to collect the stiff white maize meal porridge which was our staple breakfast, my mind wondered back to the bees and how I had learnt to handle them.

  Before he had bought the plot of land outside of town, my father had gone out and bought a book on beekeeping, as well as a small apiary. I remember he had asked me if I wanted to go with him to collect the apiary; my face obviously betrayed my ignorance.

  ‘Beehive,’ he responded. The chap he bought the hive from seemed to do this part-time. He had a single-car garage that was packed with various items, including a few hives of different sizes and the accessories to go with them. My father bought what he needed, but there had been no suits in stock so we left without one. My father had seemed unconcerned.

  He had placed this in our garden and had shown the bees where it was by cutting off flower stems laden with bees from a palm tree in our garden and placed these in the entrance to the apiary. Watching him work without gloves or any other protection worried me.

  ‘Aren’t you scared of being stung?’ I asked.

  ‘They will only attack you if they feel threatened,’ he answered. ‘The way I am moving them, they feel safe. There is no squeezing them or blocking off their flight path, so the movement they simply see as natural.’ Although he ended up moving the apiary to the plot without a colony having taken up residence, one did so within three months of him placing the apiary on the plot. ‘There is sufficient food out here with all the bluegum trees,’ he told me, ‘but few places for decent natural hive space it seems.’ Two weeks later, he had made and placed out another three hives, and within six months, these too had been colonised.

  It reminded me of the breakfast with my father the morning after I had asked about the possibility of the ice cap slipping into the ocean. I had not been one to use jam, preserves, and similar products much, so I was hesitant when my father offered me a piece of toast with honey. To be honest, I had tasted commercial honey once before and it had not found favour with me, but this tasted really good. ‘The trick is not to put too much on,’ he told me. ‘Also, treating the bees with respect and kindness, rather than simply as something to harvest, makes a difference. Most commercial beekeepers use hired labour, who’s only intention is to get the job done as fast as possible with only as much care such as not to destroy the hive nor get stung. It affects how the bees respond and cater for your needs.’

  I finished the toast, and amazingly for me, asked for another. He grinned and promptly obliged. My dad seemed really different – and younger looking too. Being out here was definitely working for him.

  ‘Is this something along the lines of what you were telling me about putting the seeds in your mouth before planting?’ I asked.

  ‘The same principal,’ he replied. ‘Working with nature rather than against it, and not seeing it simply as yours to abuse, is the way to return to good quality food, as well as a much improved lifestyle.’ I provide the hives, and there is now increased food supply for them with the additional fruit trees and vegetables, I treat the bees with respect, and they respond with improved honey over that of the commercial lads.’

  I could not help asking, ‘I don’t understand how you treat them with respect though. How would you say, “Good morning, how are you today,” in bee speak?’

  He chuckled, and after breakfast he took me down to one of the hives, which he said was nearly ready for honey removal, but we could do so now so as to show me.

  The hive was in a small clearing, situated near the pond. The sun was up; it was cool but not cold, and the bees were already active. ‘African bees need very little light to work by, so they will be busy long before sunrise and past sunset. This allows them access to many of the night blooms as well. Now all commercial beekeepers simply walk up to the hive, puff it full of smoke to sedate the bees, and proceed to dismantle the hive and take what they want, usually extracting more than they should. This stresses the bees, and they release all sorts of defence and other stress hormones into the air and so on. All this affects the honey quality, and the bees retain this stress, affecting the future honey production too.’

  Mention of the smoker reminded me. ‘Where’s your suit and equipment?’ I asked.

  ‘Not necessary if you treat them right. I only use this thin brush to gently move them off the honeycomb I extract.’

  Now that freaked me out a little, and I wondered how far it was to the nearest hospital.

  ‘Sit over there on that rock, and enjoy the sun. I need about fifteen to twenty minutes.’

  ‘To do what?’ I asked as I moved over to the rock and sat down, my back towards the sun.

  ‘To simply blend with them, to allow them to feel my energy, intent, and my thanks and gratitude to them for assisting me.’ He looked at me. ‘All of us have an energy field; we’ve discussed that before.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ was all I could say, not yet getting the point.

  ‘You know how you can feel the presence of someone near you, how you can instinctively f
eel if someone close to you is being truthful, or if they have less than desirable intentions, and so on? You know you can cultivate this, and improve this ability. Correct?’

  ‘Correct,’ I said remembering all the times my father had talked with me about books he had read about the deeper aspects of life and things he had learned from his own experiences.

  ‘Society as it currently is, doesn’t allow us to cultivate this natural ability; it makes us hide behind Facebook, Twitter, SMSs, and so on, which all have their place but which have also unfortunately taken the place of decent one-to-one conversation, especially where it matters such as with conflict or love.’ My father was really averse to these communication forms, which he felt destroyed meaningful communication and were doing far more harm than good. I remained silent on this, not wishing to get him aggravated.

  ‘We can communicate with others, but it is not always done as we generally understand it – such as with words. It can also be done using our energy fields to convey our mood, our intent, and so on. You know how sometimes just being with someone who is calm will also calm you? I will sit close by the hive and calm myself and think about what I wish to do, with gratitude to the bees for allowing me to take some honey and wishing well for the hive. You notice there are no negatives in the statement. In other words, I don’t work with “wishing them no harm”; I work with “wishing them well”. I remembered the discussions we had had on this. Not being at home much anymore, I was obviously getting rusty on my dad’s lessons.

  My father had no problem reading and getting involved in what was in our time an area dominated by the females amongst us. An area one might call the ‘softer’ side of life and which was seriously put down by the male part of society. Books by authors such as Diana Cooper17, Sylvia Brown18, Caroline Myss19, Mona Lisa Schulz20, Doreen Virtue21, and many others went through his hands. If a book caught his eye or was mentioned to him by someone, he obtained and read it. I am sure my father took additional strain from his working environment, which already aggravated him, when he began investigating these aspects of life. I was quite young then, so I did not notice. Knowing what he knew, from the years of reading, investigation, and self-exploration, put my father in ever-increasing conflict with the world his earlier training had placed him in.