by Guy Butler
Then Johanna saw something that took her breath away. A great eagle was gliding towards them above the mountains, free and strong in its flight.
‘Look, Mr Schreiner!’ she cried. ‘The bird of truth, with wings outspread, sailing against the everlasting blue.’
And all looked up and watched it until blinded by the sun.
‘And now he’s dead’, Johanna thought, and his body is in a goods van coming to Cradock from Cape Town. On the mountain top they must already be opening the sarcophagus for him. Shall I go, shall I?’
As soon as her routine tasks in the kitchen and dining room were over she walked through the dusk down the hill to T.J. Schooling’s to ask for details. Schooling was on his dignity; all the arrangements were in the hands of Cron’s brother, Mortland, from Johannesburg, who would arrive on the down train that night. Schooling had sent his men up yesterday morning, through the sleet and the bitter wind, to open the sarcophagus. He had eighteen bearers on standby, who would work in three relay teams of six. There would be no overnight delays this time. As for Mortland, he planned to catch the up train back to Johannesburg the following evening. ‘A rush job for sure’, said one of the bystanders.
Johanna was about to leave when Joe Mann, the mason, appeared. He was looking pale and old. He was very angry with Schooling.
‘Why didn’t you call for me?’
‘You’re too old to go climbing up there in a blizzard.’
‘Maybe. But I could have told your men where the keystone is. They’ll never unlock the end without it. They’ll have to break it open.
‘I never thought of that.’
‘You should have. I put a lot of thought and care into that.’
Walking back through the dark, Johanna wondered how they were going to open the tomb for Cron.
When last had she seen Cron? He had not got Olive or Kransplaas out of his system by burying her in defiance of family, friends, society and nature on Buffelskop. The place still haunted him, and he haunted it.
He was back again in November 1921, with Lidbetter, the photographer, and a nice, cultivated Cape Town widow woman called Anna Purcell. Anna and Cron were working together on the life of Olive Schreiner, and they talked of a little book about the funeral itself. Anna had been a great friend of Olive’s, but it seemed to Johanna that she’d come in the hopes that she might get closer to Cron. She had climbed to the top with the men. She looked exhausted when they got back. One could see that Cron’s courtesies to her were not felt.
He was back in Cradock again, in 1925, with his new English wife to show her his favourite east Cape landscapes. She came no further than Cradock itself.
While they were having tea Andries offered to fence off that morgen on the mountain top. Why? To keep the baboons from romping all over the tomb. Cron shook his head. ‘Olive loved all wild things.’ Johanna had added ‘And hated fences.’
Cron went off up the mountain alone, and stayed up there a long time.
He was back again in 1930. The Van Dyks had left Buffelshoek by then. Andries and Johanna had separated at last. The Hartmans had bought the farm. Mrs Hartman told Johanna that Cron was as handsome as ever, but white-haired now, with slightly staring eyes. Those intense eyes.
Now he’d be back for good.
In the morning Johanna was back at Schooling’s. He was not there, only old Joe Mann.
‘Schooling and Mortland have gone to collect the coffin from the down train’, he said .
Feeling weak Johanna sat down. ‘Did they find the keystone at the end?’
‘No!’ exploded Mann. ‘They had to break the top open with a sledgehammer! As if it were a huge stone egg!’ Joe Mann was weeping. He could not imagine anything more stupid. All his craftsmanship wasted. And how were they going to get the coffin in from the top? They’d have quite a job fitting those four boxes into the space.
The whistle of the down train broke his tirade. He and Johanna exchanged glances. He said, hoarsely: ‘They don’t know what they’re doing, that lot.’
Johanna walked slowly up the hill. It was a sunny day. That was something to be thankful for. She could see the sunlight shining in at the broken top of the sarcophagus on to those boxes. She reported sick, and went to bed.
When she read the report of the burial in The Midland News and Karoo Farmer of Tuesday, September 15, 1936, she was glad she had not been present. Even if there had been a great white bird flying over them, ‘that lot’ would not have seen it; or if they had, they would not have thought it worth reporting. The report ends:
‘The brass plate that was placed on the sarcophagus in 1921 when Olive Schreiner was buried contains the four names: Olive Schreiner, Cronwright-Schreiner, Baby and Nita. The last mentioned is the name of a pet dog. There was no service of any kind, Mr M.C. Cronwright merely expressing in a few words, his thanks to the undertakers and their staff for the efficient manner in which they had carried out their difficult and strenuous task.
The tomb was then again closed, and the party wended its way down the mountain track, eventually reaching town towards the close of the afternoon.’
About the Book
‘Griet approached the house via the kitchen and poured the potion into a glass, put it on a tray, and brought it into the hall. She offered it to the doctor with her characteristic little Victorian curtsy. He smelled it – wonderful herbal scent. But what, he thought for a moment, if it’s poisonous?’
First published in 1989, Guy Butler’s Tales from the Old Karoo is considered to be one of the classics of South African literature. In celebration of the author’s birth in 1918, this centenary issue is newly packaged and designed to appeal to a modern audience. The short stories in this collection are all set in the old Karoo – in a place and time before tarred roads, television and the internet replaced horse-drawn carriages, steam-engine trains and fireside storytelling. In his characteristically dry, humorous style, Guy Butler captures the essence of the people and landscape of the Karoo. It is a collection of delightful yarns and reminiscences about real ghosts, imaginary people, stubborn farm animals, and events that never happened – stories so strange they can only be true.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or
by any means, without prior permission from the publisher or copyright holder.
© Text Guy Butler, 1989
© Published edition AD DONKER PUBLISHERS, 2018
Originally published in South Africa in 1989 by
AD DONKER PUBLISHERS
An imprint of Jonathan Ball Publishers,
A division of Media24 (Pty) Ltd
PO Box 33977
Jeppestown
2043
ISBN 978-0-86852-248-7
ebook ISBN 978-0-86852-249-4
Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publishers apologise for any errors or omissions and would be grateful to be notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future editions of this book.
Twitter: www.twitter.com/JonathanBallPub
Facebook: www.facebook.com/JonathanBallPublishers
Blog: http://jonathanball.bookslive.co.za
Cover by MR design
Cover photograph by Samantha Reinders
Typesetting and ebook conversion by Wouter Reinders
Editor’s note:
This edition of Tales from the Old Karoo is published here in its unedited, original
form. In order to preserve the authenticity of the text, we’ve introduced only
minor changes and corrections where necessary.
z-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share