A Chain of Voices

by Andre Brink

  Galant came at me so fast, like a lynx from a bush, that before I properly knew what was happening he had me down on my back, his hands on my throat, throttling me.

  “Now you shut up!” he shouted. “Or I’ll kill you!” His face was right against mine, and I’d never seen him so mad. “If that’s all you can think about, Abel, it’s your brains I’ll be blasting out first of all. You hear me?”

  “Dammit, man,” I gasped when he eased up a bit. “I was just joking. What’s life if there’s no place for laughter any more?”

  “You think we planning a feast?”

  “And you make it sound like a funeral.”

  Campher was the first to get up and pull Galant off me; then the others kept us apart.

  “Have some more peaches,” Ma-Rose said drily. “They juicy and sweet.”

  “I’d rather have something to drink,” said Ontong. “I know Achilles still got some honey-beer hidden away.”

  “What do you know about my beer?” mumbled Achilles; but in the end he relented and fetched a calabash. And after some time the thunderstorm had passed and we got talking, right through the night until the cocks began to crow.

  I thought of the only occasion when I’d been on the point of taking on Baas Barend, on account of Goliath. That afternoon his gun had kept me off him. But one doesn’t forget a thing like that; and afterwards it begins to gnaw at one and make you feel ashamed. This time no gun would stop me. This time it would be all the way.

  Achilles was the only one who still shook his head doubtfully from time to time, as he sat chewing quietly on his shrivelled gums in search of the taste of the peaches.

  “You looking for your own death,” he mumbled.

  His cowardice angered me. “Right,” I said. “Then at least I’ll die with a shout in my throat, knowing I tried to do something worth while. And who knows, perhaps death is just like a woman: all deep and strange in the beginning, fit to make you weak in the knees; but once you’re in you don’t ever want to pull out again.”

  “Easy to talk about death when you young,” the old man grumbled. “I was just like that, I know all about it. But when you got to where I am death looks dark.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stand in front of you to protect you,” I mocked him.

  He went on mumbling to himself, but we ignored him.

  To begin with, we checked the men we had: the group of us beside the fire, and Dollie and old Plaatjie Pas; and the slaves from the farms Galant had been to, all equipped with the guns of their masters. That seemed enough for a start, and the general feeling was that we should go ahead as soon as possible, before the news could leak out. Some were in favor of launching the attack the very next night but there was still too much to be done and we couldn’t risk going into such a venture unprepared. Galant ordered Ontong and Achilles—much against their will, but they were scared to resist him openly—to make enough bullets in the mold he’d brought with him; while I offered to spend the next two days working on some more people from the other farms Galant hadn’t been to, so that we would be protected on both sides.

  “How will you do that?” asked Campher. “You’re working at Elandsfontein all day. Your master won’t allow you to take off just as you wish.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll find a way.”

  And so we all agreed on Tuesday night. And the next morning, Monday, on the way back home, I waited until we were about an hour from Houd-den-Bek before I said to Baas Barend:

  “Dammit, Baas, now we left that mare’s reins behind, and we need them for the tie-rod in the milling shed.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you think of it before?”

  “Sorry, Baas. But I can go back and get them. You can ride home so long.”

  “All right, then.”

  It was easier than I’d thought. Whistling gaily I rode back to Houd-den-Bek where I slipped into the stable and fetched the reins. When I came out I saw Galant in the distance and greeted him, waving my clenched fist. He did the same, a gesture saying: Tomorrow night!

  Once I’d passed D’Alree’s place again I turned off the wagon-road and made a wide detour round the mountain to Lagenvlei. On the day Oubaas Piet had fallen on the lands we’d already been discussing the possibility of taking our freedom; but I had to bring the people up to date so they would be ready the next day. From Lagenvlei I rode into the mountains to the grazing place where Moses and Wildschut and Slinger were tending the old man’s sheep. By nightfall I was back at Elandsfontein, but without showing myself to Baas Barend. I knew he’d be furious about my staying away; and he was probably already working himself up for another flogging. But I couldn’t care less: only one more day, then he would have no more say over me.

  That night I had a last talk with the people at our place. I even spoke to Klaas: and much to my surprise he immediately and eagerly agreed to join us.

  “You just say one word to the Baas and you’re dead,” I warned him.

  “What makes you think I want to have anything more to do with that man?” he said. “I been waiting for this ever since the Nooi had me flogged without any reason.”

  On Tuesday morning, after instructing Klaas to tell the Baas I’d sent a message that the mare had run off again and that I’d been sent in pursuit, I set out for the lower farms. I had to watch out so that the masters wouldn’t see me; but that was easy. On one of the farms I was told about a man, one Bans Jansen, who’d passed that way with his Hottentot Hendrik in search of the runaway mare. But I paid no further attention to it: how was I to know that I’d find them back at Houd-den-Bek? And even if I’d known it could have made no difference. They had nothing to do with us; and I had my work to do.

  Shortly before dusk, after a hard day’s riding, I was back at Elandsfontein. In a small kloof at some distance from the farmyard I tied up the horse and sat on a rock watching the place slowly come to rest for the night. The Nooi coming down from the chicken run, her apron filled with eggs, followed by the two little boys each carrying a basket. The Baas making his last rounds to the kraals and the pigsties, the hay-shed and the stables; then up to the huts, no doubt to find out whether I wasn’t home yet, and back to the house. I saw Sarie coming from the back door for a last armful of wood. Now she would go in to wash their feet. Then supper. Prayers round the dining table. The dishes. At last the doors barred and bolted and the light disappearing from the windows.

  For the last time.

  Only then did I go down to the huts for something to eat. I had a last talk with the people to make quite sure everyone knew exactly what to do. It was very close now.

  Then I took a spare horse from the stable and led it back to the kloof, and mounted mine. In the moonlight I took the well-known road along the valley, past Wagendrift, and up to Houd-den-Bek.

  In my mind I was already holding my fiddle to my chin and stroking the strings, drawing from it the sound of a woman in the night. Without thinking, as in the early days when I’d been courting Sarie, I brought my hand to my nose and sniffed my fingers. It was the smell of freedom.

  Hendrik

  We had trouble with that mare before. A devil of a horse. My body was still raw from the beating—because I got the blame for it, of course, as always—when the Baas ordered me to set out with him to look for the bloody thing. For three days on end, including Sunday, which was the day I usually got off to visit Dina and the children over the mountain. We’d meant to get married long ago, we’d both been brought up with the Scriptures. But what’s the use? I’m Khoin; Dina is a slave. And the Baas wasn’t interested in buying her so we could be together, while her master didn’t want Hottentots on his farm: said we were just a lot of thieves and vagabonds.

  On the farm where we finally found the mare on Tuesday, a place called Houd-den-Bek, I saw the people eyeing me rather suspiciously. At last one of them, the mantoor, Galant, came to me.

&n
bsp; “What’s your name?” he asked. “And are you a slave?”

  “I’m Hendrik. What makes you think I’m a slave?”

  “Who’s your baas?”

  “Hans Jansen,” I said. “We came all the way from there, from the hills of the Karoo.”

  “You staying for the night?”

  “I suppose so. The Baas isn’t a young man no more and he’s had his backside in the saddle for three days.” I screwed up my eyes. “But why you asking all these questions?”

  “Because I’m glad you came. We can use you well. Unless you’re one of those ass-lickers with the masters.”

  “An ass-licker, me? Look what Hans Jansen’s whip done to my back.” I pulled up my shirt to show him. “And on Sunday he kept me away from my wife and children.”

  “Then you very welcome here.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Tonight the people of the Bokkeveld are rising up. They promised to set us free when the New Year came round, but the farmers stopped it. So now we breaking out. Just like that mare of yours.”

  “A breakaway horse gets caught again.”

  “A man is not a horse. We got it all worked out. Or do you think you can stay out of it because you’re of the Khoin?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I went to the stable. The mare whinnied softly as I pushed open the top door. For a moment I felt an urge to let her out again so she could run free into the wide world. But my back was bruised enough as it was. Carefully I closed the stable door again and went back to Galant.

  “Yes, I’m of the Khoin,” I said. “The Dutch call me Hottentot. But what does that mean? On one side you have the masters. On the other side the slaves. What about us? We’re in between. We get trodden on from both sides. The masters came from far across the sea and so did you. We’re the only ones who have always been here. And what do we get for it?” I pulled up my shoulders. A shiver ran down my raw back. “Just give me a horse.”

  “You can have your master’s horse.”

  “The big one?” I felt the shiver again, this time of delight. How could this man have guessed that I’d desired that horse for years?

  I took Galant’s arm. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s a good thing I came. You can use me well.”

  Jansen

  I only came to fetch a horse. In what conceivable way could that implicate me?

  Galant

  On this farm we’ve seen everything. Burial, as far back as the death of Hester’s father. Marriage. Children who get born and who die. There’s the stable. From its beams I’m still hanging, waiting for Hester to untie me. And in the night Pamela whispers: “Galant, who are you?” We know about sowing and planting, and ploughing and reaping and harvesting. We know suffering and joy; and summer and winter. We know about wind.

  But now the wind has died down and it’s very quiet. Nothing stirs. Everything is in suspense, waiting.

  A single worry gnaws at me: ever since the day on the threshing-floor Nicolaas is refusing to take offense and to give me the reason I am looking for. All is ready; but my heart remains heavy for that lack of a final reason. Already it’s Tuesday. Tonight it must happen.

  Quite unexpectedly, when the sun is already down, Nicolaas comes out towards me, holding his daughter Helena by the hand. The visitor Hans Jansen is with him; also the tall thin schoolmaster Verlee.

  “Galant,” he says sternly. “It’s Tuesday already and I told you on Sunday to repair the threshing-floor.”

  I shrug. “I had other work to do.”

  “You know very well that every year as soon as the harvest is home the floor is laid and smeared again.” He glances at the visitor. “Baas Jansen here told me they had a lot of trouble with disobedient farmhands in his part of the world lately. I told him I was proud of my people, they can set an example, to all the others. Now you let me down like this.”

  I wait in silence.

  “At sunrise tomorrow I want to see that floor smeared and done.”

  “The sun is down already.”

  “Then you can damned well do it in the dark, I’ve given you enough time. Tomorrow morning when the sun comes up I want to show Baas Jansen what you’ve done.”

  “The sun will come up and it will go down too. I can’t stop it.”

  “Galant.” How well I know that little muscle flickering in his jaw. And just because he’s trying to show off to this stranger. “We’ll be coming down to the floor first thing in the morning.”

  “You can come down if you wish.”

  As they walk back to the house I suddenly feel like laughing; my heart is light and carefree. Now I know what Abel feels when he’s talking about his fiddle. Everything is very quiet now: there is an openness, all tension released. Like a new sun rising from the threshing-floor. Now I have the reason I was looking for.

  For a moment I am a boy again. I am alone behind the stables in the grey drizzle where a mare is giving birth. There is no one near, and she is in pain. I thrust my arm into her as far as it will go, shoulder-deep, feeling the trembling hot wet life inside and dragging it out. It is a foal, stumbling about on sticks of legs, but soon as fierce and free as the lightning, the wildest grey horse in the world. It is mine forever. This horse I shall ride into the mountains of the night, into the day already breaking, into the heart of the sun.

  I know now: horses are tamed, hope can be shackled, the dream is crippled.

  But it is a new foal I’m dragging from its dark mare-mother today. It’s a new horse I’m mounting bare-back to ride into the world. And this one no man will ever take from me. A stallion like the wind, like lightning, like fire, life itself.

  In the silence of the night we hear the sound of Abel’s horse coming to the yard. It sounds dull and muted, like far-off thunder.

  But actually it’s very close.

  Helena

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

  Tomorrow I’m starting school. I don’t like Master Verlee’s breath. But his wife is sweet. She lets me hold the baby.

  Mummy has already started teaching me things. Daddy thinks I’m very clever. I can plait my hair myself. And two and two make five.

  Part Four

  Ma-Rose

  I was told by my mother, and she by hers, and she I should think by hers again, that one day, long ago, the Moon sent the chameleon to the people newly created by Tsui-Goab to give them this message: “Even as I wane and disappear and wax again, so will you all die and be born again.” But the hare took over the message from the chameleon and ran ahead to tell the people: “Listen to the words of the Moon: Even as I die, so shall you also die.” That was how death came into the world. And now it is right in our midst, in this Bokkeveld. Not just the death of those who have been murdered. There is another kind of death, a deeper one, the death of the heart, and that is something which will be with us for a long time. When I stare into the dark I can see with my old eyes the dying of my people’s fires and the cold ash turning white. I see no longer the smoke curling from our fireplaces. I hear no longer the songs of the women as they come home with wood from the veld. The antelope that used to roam these plains have gone and all the wild animals have disappeared. Only the wail of the jackal is heard, and the cry of the hammerhead bird treading the waters of death. My heart is cold inside me and my eyes are growing dim. My end is drawing near now that I am bowed down by the death of the one who could have been my child, by the death of both who were suckled on my paps. It is a death that comes from far off. There is one kind of lightning that one sees with one’s eyes, the lightning that announces the storm which lays waste the wheat but which also brings new life to the earth for next year’s harvest. But there is another kind of lightning, invisible, and inside you, leaving its mark on your heart; it lies there waiting for years, curled up, as patient as the egg of the Lightning Bird in the darkness of the earth; and sudden
ly one day it breaks out to burn and scorch you inside, driving you into a madness until it has destroyed you; and only then, perhaps, can you be fertile again for a different kind of harvest.

  You, Tsui-Goab

  Father of our fathers

  Our Father!

  Let the thundercloud stream.

  There is nothing more I can do about it. I cannot change the world. When the fire broke out here that night, blown up high by Galant and the others, I could neither stop them nor encourage them. I couldn’t join in with them; but I couldn’t stay out of it either. All that was left for me to do was to be there: to see what was happening; to look with my old eyes and listen with my old ears—so that it wouldn’t just pass like a summer storm on the horizon of which you remember nothing when you wake up in the morning. I did not sleep. I was there. I was among them. I was too old to do anything, but one thing I could do and that I did: to be there.

  And all that was left in me was pity. For all of them. For those killed as well as for those who had no choice but to kill. For the parents as well as the children. For white and black.

  When, afterwards, the wagon came to take away the bodies, I rode with it. I helped to wash them and lay them out: Nicolaas and the schoolmaster and the stranger Jansen, all three. It was a long and shaking journey on the slow wagon from Houd-den-Bek back to Lagenvlei where we’d all started, where old Piet had been lord and master in the old days. Now he was finished, wasted away. For the last time I washed him too; and to my surprise Nooi Alida did nothing to prevent me. He was still alive, but I washed him the way one washes a body for burial; the way a mother washes her child. Death lies in wait for all of us. And all that remains will be the rough cliffs and the plains of our highlands, with their black wagon-trees and their red-grass, and the smell of buchu in the evening breeze, and the sweet tea of the mountain.