Half of One Thing

by Zirk van den Berg

  Esther had a tremendous sense of anticipation as they made their way between the rocks and branches. She had felt comfortable with Gideon from the start. It could be because he had been infirm that first night and on the second they were both tired and shared the common goal of looking after Mr Matzdorff. Perhaps it wasn’t just the circumstance, but an innate quality of his or of the combination of the two of them. Lying down next to him had felt like the most natural thing in the world, even though she knew it would be frowned upon by those who did not experience it themselves. Even during that night she had been awestruck at times that she was lying nestled against a grown man she had only just met. He had held her with such tenderness. In the morning and the days that followed she had wondered if this was love, this fascination with little things about him, her renewed awareness of her womanhood, the glow of wellbeing when they were together. And here they were going into a corner where they could not be seen or heard, without even the wounded man’s presence, that silent breathing that had chaperoned them the other times they had been together away from other eyes.

  Gideon’s thoughts and feelings groped around each other. But like wrestlers on a slope, no matter who had the upper hand, they slid inevitably in the same direction. He prided himself on his ability to approach new experiences with wary reserve, without appearing in any way uncomfortable, but this was something of a different order. The novelty was not so much in what had happened, but in how he felt. His values were brought into question. The things that had seemed important before were suddenly being examined in the light of this new element, the irrational importance this woman Esther had assumed. Did she approve of him? Was she happy? Was that a smile? She occupied his thoughts more than anything he could remember. While at first he had noticed her shape, or rather her shapes as one moulded and melted into the next, he became increasingly fascinated by finer aspects of her appearance. When they were together, he registered every detail – the faint brackets of laugh lines on the sides of her mouth, the way she sometimes slurred her esses, the momentary faltering of grace as she struggled with a stray lock of hair, the way her left eye closed a little more than the right one when she concentrated. When they weren’t together, he examined these things in his head. He could be seen smiling absently into the distance. It would be embarrassing if he weren’t so utterly immersed in wonderment.

  ‘I don’t think we can go any further,’ she said. In front of them, boulders and cliffs barred the way. She looked back and saw only overlapping leaves and branches. They were so close they were almost touching. Esther was breathing hard and sweat tickled Gideon’s brow.

  They had walked up here with a sense of purpose and Gideon knew that simply turning back now would be a disappointment. Up to now, he’d had every indication that she was enjoying their mutual exploration of each other as much as he was, but what if they brought it into the open, this shy night bird, if they said the things they both probably knew, but had so far not expressed without ambiguity, however transparent the veils may have been? What would happen to this unspoken thing if its existence was brought into the light of day? And what if it weren’t?

  He avoided her eyes, looked at the narrow arrow of sky above them where clouds moved past. ‘I love you,’ he said, still not looking at her. Failure in her eyes would be unbearable. Emboldened by the sound of the words, he repeated them, in the local phrasing uniquely reserved for lovers, ‘Ek het jou lief.’ It felt as if he were dangling at the edge of a precipice for a moment, then the pressure of her body against his steadied him. He looked down and her eyes were wild and wet. She lifted her mouth to his and it was like being upended by a wave, a tumble during which time slows down and you don’t know which way is up.

  He had one arm around her middle and the other hand in her hair. Esther felt venerated, claimed and protected, all at the same time. She thought that whatever she thought, he’d know it, because everything that was hers was his and how could thoughts be excluded from this union? She did not want it any other way. Even marriage and the physical intimacy reserved for it could only be a technicality after this wholehearted giving. His moustache pricked the rim of her lips, seasoning the tingling of her mouth and face with a prickliness she enjoyed. His hands shifted, sliding slowly over her hips, one going around to the small of her back, with the fingers right down where it started to get private. He held her against him and she felt the hard mound in his trousers pressing against her abdomen. She didn’t mind it. She was a woman, his woman, and he had become, in the twinkling of an eye, by revealing a feeling, her man. She wanted the rest of her life to flow from that moment.

  He wanted nothing else.

  12–13 November 1901

  Both Gideon and Esther knew that this time of loaded looks, telltale touches and hearts at full gallop would end when someone from the commando arrived with Boer clothes for Gideon. It was Klein Steyn who came, bearing a pair of trousers, a shirt and a jacket taken from Triegaardt’s dead body; they had no other clothing to spare. It was time for Gideon to go back to the commando.

  While her mother gave Steyn a mug of coffee and a piece of beskuit, Esther called Gideon away, to the shelter of the willow tree. Their fingers touched, hands slipped around each other. Gideon whispered, ‘I promise I’ll come for you after the war.’ They clung to each other, their entwined bodies a totem, a monument to this newfound ideal.

  Though they were not unexpected, Gideon’s words had a profound effect on Esther. The future she had seen for herself – straight and purposeful as a road across a Free State plain, and no less clear – had been obliterated, replaced by something more akin to the way they had gone up into the upper reaches of that ravine the day he first told her he loved her. It was all rocks and bushes, a twisting path full of obstacles and surprises. Certainty, that benign father, had been replaced by a charming, unreliable rogue uncle: belief.

  For Gideon, too, the present, which had always been the entire stage where his life was enacted, gained an unfamiliar dimension – from the wings came the whispers of a beckoning future. So far, he experienced his life in general and this war in particular as a test of his endurance, adaptability and courage. Now there was a prize beyond the sheer joys of victory and survival. His commitment up to this point had been to be on Major Bryce’s mission rather than to complete it. But no longer. He had to do what he could to get this war over with as soon as possible. A new adventure beckoned, one to which this clash of nations was only a prelude.

  The war was over for Matzdorff. He had declared his own private peace. He sat on a tiny folding stool outside the tent, having slipped out of the arms of the shirt, which now dangled from his belt. The welt of his wound was like a ruby. He was told the mark at the back was only slightly larger. Nobody knew what went on between the two spots, but he was able to breathe and hadn’t been bleeding, so … He seemed to be healing nicely. He rested his elbows on his knees with his fingers intertwined. His beard had grown to a tangled black mass, streaked with grey. It wasn’t as if he had had an epiphany. What he knew now is what he had known for a long time; he just knew it more completely after his brush with death. He loved the life he used to have. Of course, he couldn’t go back to the time, but he could go back to the place and bring all those same people together, take his chances from there.

  He marvelled at the foolishness of this Dutchman who came halfway around the world to fight a fight that wasn’t his. The man was saddling the big mare with the blaze, kneeing it in the stomach before securing the girth straps. The girl was giving Klein Steyn a parcel tied in a cloth, but kept looking across at the man who’d be leaving soon. Matzdorff wished he could tell them a thing or two, these young people who thought love was a calling and not a contract.

  Looking back, the valley was a tapestry, threaded through by the sound of doves. Tucked away in the trees, the birds were the size of fists, the colour of clouds at dawn. Their rhythmic song had been the constant background to Gideon’s stay at the Lost Lamb and it occurred to him
that once he was out in the open, this sound would no longer be with him. The veldt had few trees. Here, noisy little bulbuls with their butter-coloured behinds bounced on bent blades, nervous of the hawks that soared overhead. The open veldt held nothing as homely as doves. Gideon was back in the saddle, but literally and figuratively unarmed. He felt like a traveller, not a soldier of any stripe.

  ‘Did the commando move far since …?’

  Klein Steyn screwed up his eyes, but the effort yielded no measure of distance. ‘Some way … We’ll be there before dark.’ The boy looked decidedly unhappy. He had hoped to see more of the girl, Esther, but she was away somewhere most of the time he was there. Who knew when he’d be able to come back here again. Maybe when Mr Matzdorff had recovered. He wondered if he could ask the Dutchman about the girl, but he didn’t have specific questions, at least not ones the man would be able to answer. To the foreigner, she was a nurse, but to him … The eyes of love look differently. Why wasn’t she there? She knew he’d only be around a short while. He held on to the heartache like a precious blue egg in the wet nest of his chest.

  For Gideon Lancaster, letting go of Esther was surrender, defeat. He was travelling one way, but thinking only of going back the other.

  His companion pointed to the west. ‘There’s the farmhouse.’ It looked small in the distance. Yet another place that echoed with Esther’s absence.

  They pushed on.

  Once, they stopped to water the horses in a stream, little more than a ditch with a trickle of water. While they were waiting, Steyn squatted and wriggled his finger in the mud. Gideon kept watch. Something was moving against a distant slope, not in the leisurely way of antelope, but briskly and in a straight line. ‘Do you have binoculars?’

  ‘In the saddlebag, why?’

  ‘I just want to look around.’ No need to alert the boy. Gideon took the binoculars and adjusted the focus. It was a man on horseback, a Boer wearing a strange pointy cap. Was he hunting? There, a second rider coming forth out of the shadows. The first rider pulled up, bringing his horse around and back to the other. They seemed to be talking, the Boer and a black man wearing distinctive Basotho headgear, a woven cone with a tangle of loops at the apex. The Boer gave the man something. Gideon saw the gesture, but not the object. They talked for a while and then the Boer cantered off back in the direction he had come from. The Sotho watched him go and then steered his pony downhill.

  ‘Steyn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s someone coming.’

  ‘Boer or Brit?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘They’re all over.’

  ‘I think we should talk to this one.’

  Steyn took the binoculars. ‘I don’t see him.’

  ‘Just next to the hollow cliff, moving to the right.’

  ‘Got him.’

  ‘I’d like to see what he’s got with him. Can we do that without spooking him?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’ll put the gun on him.’ Steyn watched open mouthed, his tongue touching his lips. ‘We can follow the ditch and head him off up by the drift, where those willows are … You can’t see it from here, but I know the place.’

  ‘I’ll follow you.’

  They walked most of the way, leading their mounts to keep a lower profile. The trees were there, just like Steyn had said.

  Gideon tied his horse to a low-hanging branch over a patch of grass, then he went to hide up a willow tree. He hadn’t climbed a tree for many years, but this one demanded no great effort. Steyn kept out of sight behind some karee bushes, holding his horse by the reins. Gideon craned his neck to see the road. The Sotho was only half a mile off. ‘I’ll signal when he’s close enough.’ Steyn nodded. They could hear the approaching man sing, a strong voice singing a slow song with many open vowels. It wasn’t as pretty as the song of birds, but far more moving. The Sotho rode bareback. He wore pants that ended a good way above his ankles, homemade veldskoens and a threadbare jacket with no shirt. Gideon signalled and Steyn stepped forward, his rifle in his hand, but pointed at the sky for now.

  ‘Dumela,’ he greeted.

  ‘Kleinbaas.’ The Sotho reined in his pony.

  ‘It’s hot to be travelling.’

  The rider shrugged. ‘We cannot choose.’

  ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Just me. I’m going to visit a girl.’ He grinned.

  ‘Get off the horse.’ Steyn flipped the rifle forward so that it pointed at the man. ‘Let me see what’s in your pockets.’

  Gideon came down from the tree, a bit behind the man, who turned around, anxiety showing now.

  ‘Just stay calm. We won’t do anything to you. We just want to see what you’re carrying.’

  ‘Please, baas …’ The Sotho was afraid now, angry for having got into this situation. These damn white men! They come here with their guns and they fight so their cattle can graze on the land, but the cattle don’t care who they belong to, the wind blows the same and grass grows and only the people suffer because of this stupidity. He shouldn’t have got involved, but the English paid him and he didn’t mind whose herds walk where if they were not his own anyway. These men were going to beat him, this boy and this soft-spoken man. He wanted to get it over with and took the piece of paper from his top pocket, holding it out to the man.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Steyn.

  ‘Keep watching him.’ Gideon unfolded the paper. It was a map, presumably showing the location of the commando’s latest camp, with the troop strength and the commandant’s name. ‘The man who gave this to you, he’s the one wearing the hat made of springbok hide?’

  ‘Baas Tromp, yes.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt my family.’

  ‘We have more important things to do than bother your family. I just want to know your name.’

  ‘Lucas.’

  ‘Well, Lucas, is this the first time?’

  The Sotho shook his head. ‘A few times already. But never a picture.’

  ‘Where do you have to take it?’

  ‘I go to Senekal. There is an officer there.’

  ‘I’m going to keep this paper. You can go. Just stay away from the British. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if they find out about this.’

  Lucas didn’t move. The way the English would feel was a problem for later. He would be delighted just to leave this spot alive, but didn’t believe it could really happen.

  ‘Go now!’

  Lucas kicked his horse in the flanks. He rode away hard and did not look back once.

  ‘What’s this about Tromp?’ Klein Steyn asked.

  Gideon handed him the paper and watched the boy’s lips move as he read the handful of words.

  ‘He was going to give the map to the Khakis.’

  ‘We have to tell the commandant.’

  A moth had found the flame and cast shadows big as bats on the inside of the tent. The flickering effect irritated Jacob Eksteen as he tried to read. It was as if the words themselves were flying off the page; he couldn’t make sense of the poem. He scanned the rhyme scheme. That, at least, made sense.

  ‘Commandant.’ An urgent whisper, followed by a hand parting the tent flaps.

  ‘Close it quick before more bugs come.’

  The man slipped inside, Field Cornet Liebenberg. After the abortive attack on the Khakis, Jacob had finally demoted the insufferable Du Plessis to ordinary burgher, involving Liebenberg more in the running of the commando. The man was popular with one and all, tending to go along with the majority on most things. His most unusual attribute was his innate athleticism, for which there was no suitable outlet in this war. He was an exceptional horseman though. ‘Klein Steyn and the Dutchman just arrived,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jacob’s gaze returned to the book.

  ‘They say they have something to tell you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘The Dutchman said it’s u
rgent.’

  Jacob put a dry leaf between the pages and closed his book. It could be a revelation about Matzdorff or a message from Esther. He’d hear soon enough.

  Liebenberg showed them into the tent. They ducked inside and everyone shook hands, then found places to sit. Jacob used his folding chair and the others squatted. It was the only way to fit four people into the tent.

  ‘I was getting worried. Did you get a late start?’

  Steyn started to speak, but tried to say three things at once, so the Dutchman took over. ‘We had to make a small detour. We found this Sotho …’

  ‘He was a spy,’ Steyn interjected.

  ‘He had this with him.’

  Jacob looked at the sheet of paper. He didn’t like what he saw, but at least he could make sense of it, more so than the poems he had been struggling with. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I let him go.’

  Jacob felt for his pipe. He needed something to keep him calm. ‘You let him go?’

  ‘He wasn’t the one betraying us.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  ‘I only saw him at a distance. He wore a cap of springbok hide.’

  Jacob looked at Liebenberg, who confirmed the name. ‘Tromp.’ Gerrit Tromp was generally regarded as the kind of man a moderately gifted witchdoctor might have fashioned from snake shit and snot. Still, Jacob wouldn’t have picked him for a traitor. The man never gave any indication that he could act independently.