The Raft: A Novel

by Fred Strydom

  Over time, I grew used to the endless trees, the untidy forest floor, and the inquisitive looks and nods from the local wildlife. It had been my father’s idea for me to keep a notebook to write down whatever I saw and heard in the woods, and I adopted his advice with great zeal. Armed with my pencil and my notebook, I would wake up early and take a stroll, exploring and documenting all the woods had to offer. Every morning I went deeper in, sought out some new route, and found a perfect spot to lie in the shade and chew on the end of a pine needle.

  Beyond the woods were more woods. I never came across anyone else on my rambles. I was told that the woods ended in a cliff-face drop into the raging ocean, but I had never seen it for myself. After the first few weeks of going out as far as I could, I assumed the edge of the cliff was a great deal further than I could ever walk and so there was no need to worry about it.

  When I left the lodge I would always start at the same point—a path that led from our tiny car lot—but as soon as I was beyond the range of my mother’s kitchen window, I would divert left or right. Most of the time, it felt as if the woods led me, they set my path, and in that way I came to trust them, since the woods rarely led me to trouble.

  Rarely, but … No, I cannot say never.

  On one especially hot summer morning, I left the lodging with nothing but my notebook, a pencil and a banana, and began one of my regular walks. I turned off the path and headed down a leaf-laden slope. I grabbed a rough tree trunk and slung myself to the next trunk, and then the next one, and the next. I continued, light on the balls of my feet, all the way down. I looked up. Birds. Their silhouettes could have been mistaken for leaves were it not for their nimble darting from branch to branch.

  In the woods there were all sorts of birds.

  A book from the library had a picture of each of them, and I always made sure to keep an eye out. I had seen Knysna loeries, emerald cuckoos, olive woodpeckers and even a couple of barn owls. Funny how I still remember those names. Whenever I saw one, I wrote it down in my notebook and drew a picture of it. One day I even came back to the lodge with a baby robin that had fallen out of the tree and broken its wing. My father helped, but warned: Be careful out there, Moneta. The forest is not a playground. It’s a place full of living things, all fighting to survive in this world. Do not expect the loyalty of anything fighting only to survive. He warned that even plants, harmless as they appeared to be, would attack an intruder if necessary.

  Plants have had to survive this world just like everything else. Don’t make the mistake of thinking they are weak or useless things.

  He told me about prickly thistles and poison ivy and plants that would make me very sick if I ever ate them. I listened to my father and pondered his warnings, but still felt safer in the woods than anywhere else. As far as I was concerned, if everything in the world was fighting to survive, the forest couldn’t be any more or less dangerous. To me, the forest was a place of safety. A sanctuary.

  So there I was on that hot morning in my sanctuary. I jumped over puddles, picked flowers, dodged the gossamer webs of small spiders, and finally decided to eat the banana. I munched and ducked under low branches, munched and climbed over fallen boughs.

  Once I had finished my banana, I worried about throwing the peel on the ground, but remembered the peel was just a plant too. It’s only inside buildings and on concrete pavements that banana peels are considered litter; not out there. Certainly. My forest would take that peel back into itself. The bugs would come out and break it down into bits, and once they were done, the trees would finish the rest. That’s how it worked. And it was at that moment something else dawned upon me, something I’ve carried with me to this day: a peel on the floor of a building isn’t litter at all. The buildings are the litter. Nature can’t use bricks and mortar. In the end, it’s the buildings that will never be taken back because the world will never have any use for them.

  I threw my peel over my shoulder and soldiered on.

  The light above me cut through the leaves like spun gold. I could tell the sun had climbed a great deal since I’d taken off. As I walked I thought about chores I still had to do back at the lodge: sweep out the foyer, restack the pamphlet rack, unpack the boxes of vegetables and put them in the pantry. Just the thought of it bored me and I decided I’d continue for another few minutes before turning back. I still hadn’t come across anything new, although I had seen a few sparrowhawks, which was always a treat.

  It wasn’t long, however, before I came across a new surprise: a small, shallow brook, gurgling its way to the distant ocean. It was only a few metres wide and not very deep, but brooks were always great places to spot things you otherwise wouldn’t see: kingfishers perched on rocks, pools of tadpoles, little black sucker-like things that slid on their bellies and seemed to live off lichen.

  I got down on my knees at the river’s edge and drank some of the running water. It was cool and refreshing. I stopped to breathe, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and as I lifted my head, was startled by a long, dark reflection rippling on the water. I looked up.

  A man was standing on the other side of the river.

  I lifted my head slowly and got to my feet, keeping my eyes on him. He was high up on the opposite bank, staring down at me. There are some things I don’t remember as clearly as others—that is only natural, I suppose—but I will never forget my first impression of that man on the other side of the stream. The image of his body is burned into my mind just as a black mark is left in a plank of wood by a soldering iron. I remember how tall he was, and gangly—a lamppost dressed as a person. If you’d asked me then I would have told you he was seven feet tall, maybe taller. Perhaps it was the way his legs seemed to blend into the ground rather than rest on it. I could barely tell where he ended and his sinewy black shadow began.

  He was wearing a long dark trench coat and he had his hands in his pockets. From where I was standing I could not make out the details of his face. He said and did nothing. For a moment I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, that he was a being conjured out of nothing but light and shade, but I quickly dismissed that possibility.

  The funny thing is, I felt no fear. You may find that odd, but don’t forget, I was a young and innocent child. Quiet men standing on riverbanks didn’t scare me. Loud, barking, snapping things like dogs were more likely to send me off in a sprint.

  From across the water, I asked his name, but he said nothing. He didn’t move. I asked if he came there often and finally he nodded. That gave me the go-ahead to continue asking questions. I asked where he was from and he shifted his head to his left, telling me. I asked if he had a home and he shook his head slowly—no.

  Eventually, after running out of questions to ask, I told him it had been a pleasure meeting him, I was going home, and turned away. As I walked from the river, I looked back over my shoulder. He was still in his spot, watching me go. I waved and continued on, through the woods, back to the lodge to deal with my chores.

  That night I could not get the man out of my head. I remember sitting at the dinner table, rolling peas on my plate with my fork as my father talked about something or other and my mother fed my sister in her high chair. I hadn’t told them about the man in the woods. There didn’t seem to be any need to do so. He was just another one of the many woodland curiosities I kept to myself. I guarded my time in the woods the way one guards a diary full of secrets that may never mean as much to anyone else as to oneself. I confided in the woods the way the woods confided in me, revealing each of its marvels so faithfully.

  After dinner I went to my room, climbed onto my bed, and stared through the window at the moon. I thought about where he could have come from and what he wanted. I was struck by sympathy for him. He had seemed so alone. Not just alone in the woods, but always. Anywhere. I struggled to imagine him knowing anyone, which was not an assumption I’d made about anyone up until that point in my life. What was most clear was that I needed to know more. I decided then I would return to the brook t
he following day.

  But in the morning, I was less enthusiastic. The previous day seemed like many weeks before. I couldn’t trust my earlier opinion, that he was nothing more than some harmless woodland curiosity, but the weather was beautiful and sunny, promising a day of good things, so I grabbed my notebook and pencil, ignored my concerns, and set off to find him—not that there was any reason for him to be in the same spot.

  At first, I struggled to retrace my steps. It wasn’t often that I felt the need to take a route I’d previously taken. I liked to set out and see where my feet would lead me. That day, I tried to remember where and when I had turned. I found it surprisingly difficult. It didn’t really concern me though; whether or not I found the brook, I was in good company. The birds chirped and the leaves rustled. Small creatures scurried beneath the dried leaves on the forest floor. Above, trunks creaked and teetered in the wind like old men with bad joints. I found a large stick and used it to plough my way through bushes, through small swarms of miniature flies that did little but tickle my face. It was not long before I felt warm and needed a drink of water.

  I heard the chatter of water on stones and stepped through the bushes. I hadn’t spent any time exploring the edge of the stream the previous day. I was longing to see a frog or toad out in the woods and hadn’t yet been lucky. Perhaps today would be the day …

  He was there. The man. It had momentarily slipped my mind that I had set out to find him, and yet there he was. Standing just as before, in his long coat, his hands in his pockets, still on the other side, but a few metres closer. He was no longer high up on the bank but right at the water’s edge. I could now see his face. He had a long head, like a horse’s, but his features were sharp and lizard-like. His pale skin was stretched too tightly over his skull, his ears too big and his neck a little too long. Now that he was closer I could see that he was, in fact, very tall—taller than anyone I’d ever met. He was hunched over slightly, his long wizened neck undulating. He cocked his head to the left like a nosy bird. His face was expressionless, his lips taut and thin, indistinguishable in colour from the rest of his skin.

  I said hello. He said nothing in return. He cocked his head to the right. I sighed and looked away.

  His lack of reaction disappointed me. I asked why he wouldn’t speak. He didn’t reply. I asked if he could, in fact, speak at all. He shook his head, no. Without thinking, I stood a step forward, but he became agitated and stepped back, shaking his head violently. I said there was no need to be scared of me, that I wouldn’t hurt him, but he did not seem convinced. For a few minutes we simply stood there, our eyes fixed on each other.

  I pointed at a green bird in a tree. I told him it was a Knysna loerie. It didn’t seem to interest him. I looked down at the water and saw a small shoal of silvery fish whip between the rocks. I asked him if he liked fish. Nothing.

  Frustrated, I said if he wouldn’t speak, I’d leave. Still, he offered only silence. I waited for him to signal that he wished for me to remain. Nothing. Fed up, I turned and headed back into the woods. As I did, though, for reasons I could not—and still cannot—fully explain, I looked over my shoulder and promised I’d visit the following day. Then I left.

  As promised, I returned the next day and met him at the brook. He was closer still than the day before. In fact, he was in the middle of the stream now, unperturbed by the water sloshing about his knees. He simply stared as I talked on and on, about my father, my mother and sister, our house in Kroonstad, and what had brought us out to Tsitsikamma in the first place. I told him about the birds, the bugs, the trees and the plants. I assumed he was listening the entire time, though he continued to extend nothing other than the occasional nod and shake of the head. Soon, I simply forgot he was there at all. I got lost in my stories, punctuating my babbling with expressions like you know what I mean? and isn’t that wild?

  Finally, he reached into his inner breast pocket and when he pulled his hand back out it was tightened into a fist. His action startled me. I’d been sitting on the riverbank, not expecting a response, and was now propped up against it. Carefully, he opened his enormous white hand and rolled out his long, bony fingers.

  In the middle of his palm was a small frog.

  I sprang to my feet. I so wanted him to show me up close. He didn’t. Instead, he extended his open palm as if it was the frog’s fleshy white throne, and tipped it over. I gasped as the stiff body rolled over, out of his hand like a ball, and plopped into the water.

  It was dead. He’d pulled a dead frog from his pocket. The frog floated down the river on its back, arms and legs splayed, white belly up, and disappeared behind some rocks.

  My hands flew to my mouth and I let out a wheeze, yet even then I didn’t fear him. I was like a mother whose child has made a horrible undercooked breakfast for her. Or rather, the owner of a cat both appreciating and detesting the dead pigeon left on the stoep as a gift. After the frog was gone, I let out an uneasy giggle and thanked him, my voice dubious.

  He smiled. It was an awkward smile that stretched from ear to ear. His cheeks pulled back like two thick curtains. It felt physically forced, but earnest. It seemed to pain him, smiling in such a way, but I was pleased he had offered it.

  I announced that he needed a name. Everyone needs a name, I told him.

  I decided his name would be Burt.

  Burt, the man in the woods.

  A few minutes later, I left Burt and returned to the lodge.

  At the dinner table that evening, I still said nothing, but was in better spirits. My father had invited a nice young Dutch couple to have dinner with us. Afterwards, he pulled out the guitar and played his songs. I could tell where the night was going; a couple of bottles of wine had been called to duty. The more the chatting and laughter grew, the more tired I became. They hardly noticed me leaving. I switched on my bedside lamp, climbed under the covers, grabbed my grubby notebook, and turned to a new page. I drew a picture of Burt smiling his big banana smile and wearing his long black coat. I drew myself, standing beside him. I filled the rest of the page with tall green trees and big, bushy plants. The land and sky teemed with birds and bugs. They were all huddled around us, faced inwards, keeping a watchful eye.

  The following day I returned with food.

  Burt was standing even closer, still in the water, but on my side of the brook. I had brought a tuna-mayonnaise sandwich my mother had made.

  Now, the only thing I hate more than tuna is mayonnaise. My mother told me to not be fussy with food, because one day I might not have the choice. I replied that when the day came, I’d eat the tuna-mayo sandwich. Until then, I’d take advantage of my options. At which point my mother shoved the wrapped sandwich in my hand and said, The day’s come, smarty face.

  I’d taken the sandwich reluctantly, but now I had an idea: I’d offer it to Burt.

  I placed it on a dry rock between us and waited. He lowered his head and looked at it.

  I said, Go on. It’s for you.

  He looked up at me and down at the sandwich. He whimpered softly to himself, almost pitifully, and I encouraged him again to take it.

  Then, unexpectedly, he lunged. His long arms flailed like two long windsocks as he leaned to grab it from the rock. I stumbled back and tripped over a branch, falling onto the mushy bank. I watched with wide eyes as he ripped the cling film with his teeth and stuffed the sandwich messily into his wide, cavernous mouth. He ate voraciously—his big jaw opening and closing violently—as if he feared the bread would try to escape his clutches. His throat made gurgling sounds as he pushed the food in. Once it was finished, he licked the mayonnaise off his hands, working his long pale tongue into every crease and wrinkle of his palms and fingers.

  Then he was done, and he snapped upright like a switchblade. He narrowed his eyes at me and licked his lips.

  He groaned. He wanted more.

  I shook my head to say, Sorry, I don’t have any more.

  He groaned again, his head jerking like a chicken. />
  For the first time, I felt scared, acutely aware that I knew nothing about the man. There was no way to anticipate what he would do next. He shifted under his coat, the bones in his shoulders clacking like pebbles dropped on pebbles as he twisted his head up and to the left, then up and to the right. He chattered his teeth, clack-clack-clack-clack, like the novelty toy dentures you wind up and set on the floor. Clack-clack-clack-clack. Birds fluttered away from the branch above him. His tongue rolled out of his mouth; his eyes widened to the size and shape of large coins.

  I struggled to breathe. My heart beat faster. My body knew what my mind couldn’t fully register: I was more than nervous. I was scared.

  His left foot moved forward. Then the right. Then the left. Clack-clack-clack-clack. My hands scrabbled for purchase on the bank behind me, I pushed myself up with my feet, crawling backwards as fast as I could. He was gathering speed, lurching towards me, hands out, grabbing at air.

  I’m sorry, I told him. I don’t have any more.

  He wailed from his throat, disappointed and aggrieved. I continued to crawl backwards, realising he was not going to stop. He was begging now, yowling for food and no matter what I said he would not accept that I had nothing left to offer. He would not stop. I flipped over and dug my feet into the mud. I would have to run.

  Moneta, it is time to run for your life, I told myself. This is what you must do. No time to think it through, Moneta. Run.

  And so I did. I ran.

  If there’s one bit of advice I can give you, it’s this: take care of your body. People forget it’s the only one they’ve got, flippantly putting all kinds of poisonous things into it, never doing enough to keep it fit and strong. People don’t realise that when it finally gives in, there is no replacement. That’s it. You’ve ruined it, rotted it away, and now you’re stuck in it, my friend. People also don’t realise that, yes, they will get older. Their bodies will weaken and there will be some things they won’t be able to do, like climb a tree or jump over a fence. Or run. Oh, I would give anything to be able to run again. Anything to have my young legs, my young lungs and my young heart! And let me tell you, as a young girl, I could run all right. On that hot summer morning, in the thick, evergreen woods of Tsitsikamma, with gangling, lizard-faced Burt ploughing through the woods after me, I ran.