The Fever Tree

by Jennifer McVeigh

  The baboon, which Piet called simply “Baboon,” was bottle-fed until it was able to suck from a bowl of milk. Then it would crouch, hands on either side of the bowl, only rising, snorting from the white froth, when it remembered to breathe. Piet was the only person in the house who had any interest in it, and the baboon adored the boy, reluctant to ever be prized away. When the twins came close, the baboon swiped at them until they learnt not to touch it. At night, when the family was gathered in the drawing room listening to Mijnheer Reitz reading from the Bible, the baby baboon sat by the lamp catching moths, stuffing them into its mouth with a puff of powdered wings.

  Thirty-Six

  The Reitzes had stocked the dam with fish many years ago, and they had multiplied. Now the water, a fraction of its former size, became a broiling mass of bodies. Every day it receded, and the fish were crammed more closely together. They flipped and turned, scales glistening through the mud, in a desperate bid to keep their bodies out of the sun. Mijnheer Reitz said that any man on the farm was welcome to take them away, and in the afternoons native boys could be seen wading into the water, grasping at them with their hands, shouting and laughing as the fish pumped and slid out of their tight fists like writhing chunks of muscle. They tossed them into canvas buckets and took them home. Hundreds were hauled out of the water with nets and left on the banks to die, mouths gulping under a hot sun, wet scales sticking with dust, and their eyes drying up in seconds to a hardened crisp.

  At the house, Frances was asked to help the cook gut the barrelfuls which were brought in from the dam, still alive. She stood in the kitchen, her hands glistening with slime and her arms covered in scales, knocking the heads of the fish against a corner of the zinc tabletop. Occasionally, one wriggled from her grasp, flipping onto the kitchen floor, where it lay motionless, gills heaving with knowing desperation. She sliced open stomach after stomach, spilling the guts into a bin. The Reitzes and their servants ate fish soup, fish pie, fish curry, fish balls, fish ten different ways, and still they weren’t rid of it. The cook jarred bottles of fish pickle and fish sauce, and every room in the house reeked of it afterwards.

  Every day, Mijnheer Reitz came back with blood on his shirt and stories that told of life disintegrating on the farm. When the men had watered the sheep, herds of springbok pushed down amongst them to draw water from the dam. The springbok wouldn’t move away, even when the men began shooting at them. Still the springbok pressed down to the water’s edge. That night they carried home thirty or forty animals, and for days they skinned the carcasses, butchered the meat, and hung sheets of biltong up to dry. Mevrouw Reitz said they ought to have saved the bullets for the cattle. They would need them before long. Ostrich, great shabby balls of feathers, gathered on the plains and strutted round the house, rapping on the windows, and Frances was reminded of stories of the Irish famine—the starving tenants of the rich being refused admission to the feast—except no one was feasting here. Everything was locked in a battle for survival. If the rains failed again, the Reitzes would be finished. The land would be impossible to farm.

  One afternoon, Frances discovered Maria shredding a newspaper, and she stopped her, asking if she could read it. She took it up to bed with her. It was three weeks old, from Cape Town. The front page was dominated by the fall of share prices in Kimberley: thousands bankrupt, the bottom fallen out of the market, banks refusing to lend. “Moneylenders are finding out that they have killed the goose that laid the golden egg,” the journalist declared. Property prices had fallen by 1,000 percent. She felt a thrill of satisfaction. Baier must be suffering.

  Inside, there was an article about a jailer at a prison in Natal who had deliberately starved to death half his native prisoners, dousing them with freezing water and beating them with clubs, while keeping the other half in perfect luxury. Then another article about Boers abandoning their farms because of the drought. Her heart stopped when she read the name Dr. Edwin Matthews in a headline on the third page. The article declared him a hero: “He has worked tirelessly to expose one of the most shameful medical scandals in British history.” An inspector had been sent to Kimberley from Cape Town and had instantly declared the disease smallpox. A handful of Kimberley doctors had lost the right to practice, and Baier had been taken in for questioning. She read the article over and over, smiling each time she came to the bit about Edwin. It was the news she had been waiting for. He had been vindicated, and Baier—even if he managed to escape justice in court—would be financially crippled.

  But when her pleasure at reading the news had worn off, she was left feeling more alone than ever. Edwin’s success accentuated their separation and her failure to show courage when he had needed her to. She wondered whether he was still working with Sister Clara. They had been side by side for so long, and their companionship, and the faith Edwin clearly put in her, might surely have turned into love. The idea tortured her, and she woke up in the night, palms sweating, throwing off the covers, trying to get away from the thought that he had found happiness with someone else.

  In the long, hot afternoons, when there was nothing left to do and the house settled into sleep, Frances would walk with Piet to the cottage, Baboon riding on his back, clutching his shirt with neat adroitness. The boy seemed to love the peace of the place, and he would bring a handful of toy soldiers and line them up on the crumbling stoep outside. Frances went immediately to the piano. Touching the keys worked on her as a kind of drug. She made her way through the book of sonatas, imagining as she read the music that she was playing for Edwin. There were six in total, and they were difficult—technical and unfamiliar—and it took her time to master them. The first was delicate, but they became increasingly dynamic, full of startling life and a brutal sadness. This music had meant something to Edwin. He had wanted to share it with her, and as she brought it into being, it was as if he were there talking to her, telling her about himself. It took their relationship out of the realm of memory into new territory. It was a gift, and she was grateful for it. Her sanity began to rest on being able to come here and place her fingers on the cool, ivory keys and conjure a different reality into being. But when it was over and silence had reclaimed the house, the fantasy receded and she was all alone in the empty room.

  Thirty-Seven

  When Frances came in one morning from the henhouse, she found the kitchen quiet. The cook had his back turned, sweating onions for the soup. She put the basket of eggs down on the table, brushed the wisps of straw from her skirt, and went through to the dining room to clear breakfast. The family had left the room, and the table was its usual muddle of spilt tea, yolk-smeared plates, and scraps of meat. It wasn’t until she turned to the sideboard that she saw it: a carcass ripped open and spread-eagled, front legs stretched out in front of it. She thought at first that it was a rat, but it was too large. It took her a moment to see the pink ears, the fingers, and the tiny, wrinkled toes, and then she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Does he know?” she asked the cook, walking back into the kitchen. He nodded sorrowfully.

  Mijnheer Reitz had killed the baboon at the breakfast table with a knife when it clambered onto the sideboard and took a fistful of porridge. Piet had watched it happen. It’s a drought, his father had said apologetically, and we’ve no room for hangers-on. The boy had run out of the room, and no one had seen him since. The general opinion was that he would reappear in time for lunch.

  Frances was kept busy all morning beating dust out of the mattresses and hanging out the sheets to air, because they couldn’t spare the water to wash them. The air was hotter than usual, humid and close. There was no sign of Piet at lunch, and it wasn’t until Frances walked into the kitchen laden with dirty dishes and was scraping the greasy remains of roast lamb into the bin with her fingers that Maria nudged her. The girl pointed outside. Low on the horizon, so far off they were still translucent, she could see clouds. They were banking in the distance. Even as she watched they moved closer, gathering in height and substance.

/>   By the time the dishes were washed, the clouds were purpling. The sun illuminated them from beneath so that the plains glowed, iridescent, as if lit by a lamp. There was a flurry of movement outside. Men ran past the kitchen door, and the barn doors swung open with a clatter. They were bringing in the sheep. Frances looked at Maria, and saw the woman was grinning.

  “Will it rain?” she asked, even though she didn’t need to.

  Jantjie appeared. “They should find the boy,” he said to them both, “before the storm breaks.”

  Mevrouw Reitz burst into the kitchen. Frances had never seen her look so frantic. “Have you seen Piet?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “Isn’t it your responsibility to be watching him?” she demanded.

  “But he’s been gone since breakfast,” Frances said, confused suddenly. Ordinarily, he was her responsibility, but the whole family had known he was missing, and no one had suggested they were worried or had asked her to look for him.

  Maria was dispatched to look for Piet in the outhouses, barns, and kraals. Frances searched the house with Mevrouw Reitz, turning over every inch of space. She was aware of the sky darkening outside. By four o’clock there was still no sign of the boy. The expectation of rain had infected the whole household with a kind of fever. Everyone wanted to know if the dam would hold, and what they would do if it burst. Outside, the men were herding the sheep off the plains into the barns and battening down the roofs. Mevrouw Reitz went out to find her husband, to ask him to help in the search. Frances was left alone in the kitchen. The air which blew in off the veldt was icy cold, filleting the humidity. It smelt of melting snow. The wire door on the kitchen suddenly swung back on its hinges and clanged shut.

  It occurred to her where Piet might be. Was it possible he had gone there by himself? If she was right, then it was her fault. There wasn’t time to fetch her shawl. She had to leave before the storm broke. She ran back into the hall, down the stoep, and out onto the plain. The temperature had plummeted. It was freezing out here, unnaturally cold. A gust of wind carried the smell of wet earth, and a streak of lightning flickered across the bruised sky. She paused for a second listening, transfixed. It felt like the prelude to something on a huge scale. There was a clang of metal and the shrill whistle of a horse as it kicked against the iron bolts on the stable door. A loose shutter banged against its hinges—then a door slammed shut. In the distance, a wind pump was turning a manic circle. She saw one of the Reitzes’ collies cowering under the stoep, whining, and all the time the wind was in her ears, threatening to bowl her over, bringing weather so cold it felt arctic. Could she get to the cottage before it broke?

  She began to run, tripping over the scrub. A low rumble of thunder, and the sky glimmered. The wind pushed at her back. A dark shape—an eagle, she thought—wheeled above her, and for a moment she saw herself from his height, being blown across the plains into the storm. If Piet was at the cottage, then he would be frightened. Hopefully too frightened to try to make his way back. A crack of thunder tore through her, and the ground tremored. Then a bolt of lightning, like the lash of a whip, struck the earth twenty yards from where she stood. She had a sudden intimation of the vastness of the sky and the power it could unleash. She ran faster now, her lungs burning, racing against the storm. The cottage loomed up ahead. A moment later she saw him, running down the stoep onto the veldt. He stood for a second against the sky turned black, then sprang towards her, his mouth open, arms held wide in joy at the storm, shouting, “I saw it—the blue-headed lizard. And now it’s going to rain.”

  There was a roar of thunder, and lightning forked directly overhead, striking the ground between them. A moment of silence, as if the world were holding its breath. Then out of the silence came the hail. A thousand tearing, brutal missiles unleashed from the sky. Rocks, flung down at them, from a thousand feet. Not rocks, she realized scrambling towards Piet, but hailstones, as large as cricket balls, with jagged edges like knives, bouncing over the earth. She threw her arms over her head and staggered forward. Piet was down. A blow struck her on the cheek as hard as a brick might have done and sent her sprawling into the dust. She pulled herself up, clambering on her knees to reach the boy, then lifted him into her arms and staggered forward until she was under the roof of the stoep. But the stones sliced in at them, and now the corrugation was being torn down. There was a thundering sound, as the hail ripped through the iron. The noise was immense; louder than the deafening clamor of huge factory machines.

  She pulled open the door and pitched inside, dragging the boy into the empty bedroom. The clatter of stones on the roof was overwhelming. She couldn’t hear her shoes moving across the floor or her voice as she shouted to Piet. The force of the hail stepped up a notch. The shutters were being ripped off their hinges. Hailstones tore into the room, skidding across the floor. She carried the boy down the corridor, into the study. It was on the lee side of the storm, and the window here was protected. It was dark in the room, and it took a second for her eyes to adjust. Two crates leant against the wall. Inside them, someone had stuffed some hessian sacks. She lifted Piet onto the crates and pulled his legs into the sacks to keep him warm. He wasn’t moving, and she willed him not to be dead.

  There was a gash on his forehead, and blood was seeping down his face, across his mouth. She put her sleeve to the wound to try to wipe the blood away, to see how deep it was, but more blood dripped onto his face. Her hand was soaking. Not with the boy’s blood, but with her own. It was hard to tell in the darkened room where it came from. Her clothes had been shredded; they were wet, and so was her hair, drenched with blood and water. She called Piet’s name, squeezing his hands until he moaned slightly and half opened his eyes; a rush of relief. He was still alive.

  Footsteps behind her. She swung round. A figure was standing in the doorway, a saddle slung over one arm. She couldn’t get a clear picture of him, and when she did she didn’t believe it. The hail was like thunder, and her ears roared with the sound of it. She stared, rooted to the spot. Swallowed. A moment of fear. She didn’t trust herself. Edwin was saying something. She couldn’t make out what it was—too much hail. Then she felt the brush of his shoulder against hers as he walked past her into the room, flung the saddle down, and knelt beside Piet. After a few seconds, he opened one of his saddlebags, took out some fabric, and bandaged the boy’s head. There was a crashing inside the house, and the roar of hail grew louder. The roof must have given way over the sitting room. She prayed it would hold over their heads. Then a different sound beneath the hail—a juddering of notes, a clamoring of keys. The piano, she realized. It was being torn apart.

  Edwin gave Piet a sip of brandy, took off his jacket, and laid it over him. Then he turned to her and pushed her down so that her back slid along the wall and she was sitting with her knees bent. He crouched beside her. His hands ran over her head, her shoulders, her face, feeling for breaks or cuts. His eyes were flashes of white in the darkening room, and she willed him to look at her. Then, quite suddenly, the hail stopped. There was—for a perfect moment—a complete and profound silence. It seemed to stretch far out across the plains. A second of astonished stillness. She could hear Edwin breathing, the dripping of water and the brush of his shirt against her dress as he moved his hands down over her arms.

  Then, a moment later, it started to rain. She heard the soft, gradual falling of raindrops like fingertips over skin.

  He put a wad of cloth in her hand and motioned to her to hold it against her cheek. She felt a sharp, throbbing pain as she put pressure on the wound. The rain began to fall more heavily; a luscious, rushing sound of large, fat raindrops growing every second more forceful until it sounded as if they were standing beneath a waterfall.

  Edwin stood up and left the room. A few minutes later, he came back.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked in a whisper.

  “He should be fine. The important thing is that he doesn’t get cold or wet. We can’t carry him back. The ice i
s nearly three feet deep. I’ll go for help when the rain stops.” Three feet deep. Was that possible? She had thought the worst was over, but now she felt a tremor of fear. The ice would be halfway up the door of the cottage, and if it didn’t stop raining soon they would be flooded.

  He came and sat beside her with his back to the wall. The room was pitch black. Night had come on. They sat with their shoulders a few inches apart. Now she felt the cold, and her body began to shake. She let the bloodied cloth fall into her lap. Her hands were numb, and when she tried to warm her fingers, rubbing them on her skirts, she couldn’t feel them against the fabric. Water ran off the ice into the room, swilling around their feet.

  “So,” he asked, “are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He didn’t reply, and there was a moment of quiet between them. Then she said, “I couldn’t go back to England.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I came here. Mevrouw Reitz took me in.”

  “Under what pretext?”

  “She needed a maid.” A thread of panic was weaving through the seconds that she was with him. The throbbing in her cheek, the freezing water rising over her feet—none of it mattered. Her whole existence had crystallized into the simple pleasure of having him near, and she dreaded him leaving.

  “But you don’t speak Dutch.”

  “I have learnt.”

  “Why is it any better than living in England with your aunt?”