She had waited so long for a telegram that when it came she found she could not open it. She had told Piet to send anything to the Mount Nelson, in case she should move. Now here it was: an envelope addressed to the Vicomtesse Pierre de Barol. It lay on the silver salver, potent as a sentence of life or death. She ordered another cocktail and drank it quickly. Then she asked for a letter knife, and one was brought. Stacey did not believe in God and only went to church for show; but in this moment, she prayed.
She opened it and burst into tears.
Observing her from the other end of the room, a crowd of ladies who usually feared her felt sympathy for her. The telegrams had started to come from Europe, announcing the deaths of brothers, husbands, sons who had gone home to fight. They thought of Stacey’s handsome husband, who had always had a good-natured word for everyone. “How terrible war is,” they thought.
But the telegram in Stacey’s hand read: WOOD READY STOP WORKSHOP BUILT STOP SEND TWO CARVERS AND ALL TOOLS STOP WILL COME FOR YOU WHEN HOUSE READY STOP UNDYING LOVE
—
SENDING THIS TELEGRAM from the immaculate post office at Butterworth had given Piet Barol a great deal of pleasure. He had no idea that the others he had sent had not been delivered—for the lines between Butterworth and Cape Town were not well maintained, nor was their improvement a matter of urgency in a country at war. Each had reported a milestone: the discovery of a tree of rare quality; the hiring of men from Idutywa to clear a path from the Ancestor Grove to the road; the chopping and seasoning of eight forest mahoganies. He left the post office, whistling, and called to Luvo, who was reading the newspapers outside the town’s general store, ignoring the sharp glances of its white manager.
The wagon was loaded with the best steel scaffolding. From the hardware store Piet collected two chainsaws and eight sharp axes. At last he was ready. He had a route to transport his creations to the outside world. Soon he would have carvers to assist him in giving life to the designs that filled ten notebooks. His native labourers were dependable and hardworking. They were used to white men and answered to the names Blessing, Happiness, Grace, Wisdom and Brightness, since previous employers had found their Xhosa names too effortful. Piet had decreed that there should be no women in his camp, and one bottle of brandy a week between them all.
Their vigorous life, and its strictly limited pleasures, had made them strong and their leader more resilient. Insects still bothered Piet, but they no longer kept him awake. He had lost his fear of spiders, and learned to look carefully when he left their clearing to avoid basking snakes.
Piet had thought long and hard before purchasing a gun. He had done so, finally, when hyenas visited the camp at night. He kept it in a trunk to which he, Luvo and Ntsina had the only keys. Its possession reinforced his ban on women and drunkenness, for he knew the violence unleashed by liquor and lust.
Luvo drove them home along the track the elephants had first carved. Its potholes were now filled. With strong horses, the journey from the Ancestor Grove to the edge of the forest could be accomplished in hours, not days.
Blessing and Wisdom stopped singing as the wagon drew up, and went to unload the stores Piet had bought. He had purchased chocolate for them and handed it round. They had never encountered a white man like him, and he enjoyed their gratitude.
Luvo supervised the storage of their provisions beneath the hides previously used by the villagers of Gwadana. Piet unwrapped one of the axes and tested its blade. It cut his finger and he was well pleased.
Ntsina watched them from the wood lot. According to Luvo, his Ancestors’ spirits resided in the heavenly mansions of the Christian God. Apparently Heaven was like a very nice Strange One town, its streets paved with gold, its gates made of pearl. Ntsina had no clear idea what a pearl might be, and Luvo’s explanation did not satisfy him. He did not see how anything that grew in a small sea creature could be strong enough to build a gate. Nevertheless, his grandmother had often told him that there are miracles beyond understanding, and perhaps this was one of them. Having come this far, he did his best to believe.
What he could not subdue was his affection for the trees themselves. It troubled him that Piet Barol should want to kill one. He watched as Piet went to the furthest edge of the grove and took off his shirt. The Strange One was strong. His muscles writhed as he swung the axe. Ntsina said two prayers—one to his Ancestors, and one to Luvo’s God, who was now their host.
A being does not live two thousand years without sound defences. Piet’s blade barely scratched the bark. It was hard as granite. He swung again. His aim was better than it had been in his early days in the forest, and he did not swing wide. Nevertheless: nothing. He swung a third time, giving it his all, and the head of the axe cracked.
Ntsina was glad. He roused himself and climbed down from the hide. “The Furniture Tree will do well for us.” He did his best not to sound gloating, for he did not wish the Strange One to act against the Ancestor Tree in order to prove himself to him.
But Piet Barol’s competitive instincts were already engaged. “It is because it resists so well that it will make furniture that lasts for centuries. Do not worry, my friend. I have planned for this.”
Blessing and Wisdom were unloading the scaffolding he had bought in town. Piet pointed upwards. The first branches began thirty feet above the forest floor. “We’ll cut those first, and dig up the roots at the same time. Blessing! Get Grace and dig some holes for me.”
—
BY THE END of the following day, the holes for the foundation of the scaffolding were dug, and the poles inserted in them. Piet looked up at the vast blue sky. To approach it made him feel like a god. He had had a ladder made of pine—light enough to move easily when required. He set the ladder against the scaffolding and climbed to the first platform. “Brightness! Happiness!” He felt bright and happy. “Hand me the metal logs.”
They did so, and he fixed them into the ones beneath. The methodical placement of the poles, the careful tightening of the screws, raised his spirits further. He worked carefully, heart soaring. By the time he broke for lunch, the top of the platform was twenty feet above the ground. He climbed down. “Time to start digging.”
Over his months in the forest, Piet had observed the Ancestor Trees at close quarters and given much thought to how one might be brought down. His experience with the axe had shown him that a straightforward assault on the trunk would not work. After lunch, which they ate together, he set Blessing, Happiness and Grace to digging the roots out. Grace was by far the strongest of them all—a man of sinew and taut, lean flesh whose expertise with a shovel was miraculous. The roots alone were as thick as a yellowwood tree. “Dig until you reach the earth beneath,” Piet said. “And dig away from the tree, until you reach the narrowest point of the root.”
The roots were smooth, almost the colour of ebony. He felt sure he could put them to good use—as table legs, perhaps, or the posts of a bed.
By unspoken consent, Ntsina was not asked to participate in any activity related to the toppling of an Ancestor Tree. Luvo did not wish to strain his new convert, just as his descriptions of heaven were taking hold. Nor did Piet fancy testing the arguments by which he had persuaded Ntsina to permit the desecration of a place so long held sacred by his tribe. Watching them, Ntsina could not quell his conscience, no matter how often he repeated Luvo’s assurances to himself. He picked up his spear and went into the forest.
He stayed away until sunset. He had speared two impalas, and dragged their carcasses behind him. He felt listless and sad. Piet had convinced him of the necessity of making money, so that he might rescue his wife and free them both, forever, from his father’s clutches and the scandal that must attend a woman who has entered her husband’s kraal. With Piet, he had explored the towns beyond the forest. He knew there were houses natives might buy in Butterworth, which might be made very comfortable with money. He had been a hard master to Blessing, Happiness, Grace, Wisdom and Brightness, and fired without he
sitation three early workers who were too slow.
Piet had exacted one promise: that he would make no attempt to return to Gwadana Village before the time to fetch Bela had come. It was a hard bargain but Ntsina saw its necessity. If his people suspected his complicity in the violence done the Ancestor Trees, he would be thrown from the cliffs—and nobody would mourn him. So he bided his time. He worked hard to chop the forest mahoganies and ready the camp for the arrival of the workmen Piet had summoned from Cape Town.
Luvo had told him of Kagiso’s intervention and of Piet’s warning to his father. Were these enough to protect Bela? He did not know, and his worry never left him. But the more he saw of the refugees who flooded the town, the more he knew that without money her future was hopeless. So he begged his Ancestors to care for her, and hers to give her strength. He dragged the impalas into camp, kicking the dust to cover the warm blood that might tempt a leopard after them. He felt in need of consolation and prayed for a sign—any sign. The scaffolding depressed him further. He sat on a rock and put a sharp knife to an antelope’s throat. He slit her neck and put his hand into the cavity, as his grandmother had taught him. He closed his eyes and reached sure. The first thing he clasped was her heart, still warm.
It consoled him.
“The day is coming when you will save your wife,” said Piet Barol, cheerfully.
“Make it come sooner.”
Ntsina left the clearing and gave the creature’s blood to the stream. His grandmother had taught him many ways to communicate across long distances. He beseeched the Water to take a message to the River that ran through the village, for the River to give it to the Sea, and for the Sea to deliver it where it was needed. A swift downward current brought the blood to a larger tributary, and by the time the impalas were roasting on spits above hot coals, its molecules, invisible to any human eye, were flowing into the lagoon that separated the homestead of Bela’s family from the village proper.
Bela stood in the lagoon, cooling her feet in its waters. She had come in search of sponges, which sometimes washed up on the beach. From the cliff above, Sukude watched her. As she bent for a sponge, he stamped on a lizard and killed it. He had still not had her, having promised himself the pleasure of taking her willingly.
Her refusal to acknowledge him was a maddening aphrodisiac.
Bela turned back. Sukude was waiting at the top of the escarpment, a cupful of brandy in his hand. He knew liquor’s power to tempt. But Bela walked past him and into the kitchen hut, where she set the sponges to dry and sat cross-legged before the great cauldron. This object was an heirloom, brought by the wives of the Great Founder on their first journey across the forest. It had been black as pitch for as long as anyone in the Zini family could remember. Now the brass shone like gold, for Bela had made a project of it.
Standing in the Sea, Nosakhe saw little Noni playing on the dunes with her brother Kagiso. The child’s every breath was a reproach to her. In the aftershock of the news of the creature in the forest, Fezile the witch doctor had detected a service he might do a grateful Chief. Without consulting Nosakhe, he had conducted an arresting ceremony in which he confirmed Noni’s gift of Farsight and lifted the threat of execution. Watching the sightless thing run and laugh, Nosakhe cursed herself for her weakness. There were now two possessed women in the village, and her grandson was a prisoner of the mermaid snake.
The stories told to Xhosa children about the malice of dark creatures are vivid, and Nosakhe knew no rest. She had searched every inch of Ntsina’s hut for a hair, a nail clipping, anything she might use to summon his soul. Only with his soul at her side might she attempt a reincarnation. But the cleaning before the wedding had been thorough, and there was nothing.
A seabird was flying towards her, white and graceful on this bright day. She expected it to perch on the cliffs with its brethren, but instead it alighted on a rock beside her. She looked at it and it flew on—away from her, towards the forest.
At last! A sign.
She summoned Ata and hoisted her bag of charms on her shoulder. She ran through the village, fleeter of foot than she had been in many years. The white bird alighted, waiting for her to catch up, then went on. Ahead were the trees, green and inviting on this sunny day. She paused, asking Ma for permission to advance.
At that moment, a hawk dropped from the heavens and caught the seabird and tore it apart in midair.
—
IN THE FOREST, the scaffolding had reached the first branch of the Ancestor Tree. Piet was satisfied with his work and climbed down. Wisdom had filled a black rubber bag with water from the stream and left it in the sun at noon. Piet had stitched this bag with his own hands and added at one end the rose from a watering can and a little valve. It gave him great satisfaction to have found ways of being comfortable in this dark jungle. He took the bag and went through the trees to the spot he had set aside for washing. They had built a wooden fence for modesty and hauled stones from the riverbed for the floor. He hooked the sack over a pulley and winched it upwards, till the rose was two inches above his head. Then he took off his clothes, kicked them away, opened the rose, and let out a long, relieving sigh.
This was much better than a jug and a basin.
The water poured over his shoulders, its temperature delightful. He closed the rose and soaped himself, then opened it again and washed. The bag held ten litres of water—more than that and the pulley would not take its weight. He had learned to use every drop. When he was done he was clean from head to toe and in a very good mood. He put his feet into his work boots, to avoid clogging his toes with sand, and walked naked to his quarters.
The European War looked likely to last much longer than expected, and he did not care to hurry home to be enmeshed in it. He missed his wife, and yet the efforts he was going to on her behalf soothed his feelings. He had intended, when the idea of living and working in the forest first came to him, to establish Stacey in a house at Butterworth. He still meant to offer her this, and had been careful to hold back enough money to pay for a fine one. But he had built such picturesque accommodations where he was that he was seized by the idea of sharing them with his family. Of being with them always.
Piet had not grown up in comfort, but in his middle twenties he had lived for a time in the most luxurious house in Europe. He had never been a man who mistook expense for quality. Life in the forest had attuned him to many subtle pleasures, and he had built for himself a dwelling he would not have exchanged for many a metropolitan palace. Much less for a trench in France.
The structure was of wood. It faced twenty-six degrees east of true north—which meant it avoided the direct sun on hot summer days like this one, and would be warm when the winter set in. It was set back from the clearing, and he had cut down eight trees to make space for it. The sudden percolation of light on the forest floor had cast a powerful spell of fertility. Twenty trees distant he had found a creeper with bright purple flowers in the shape of trumpets, and had transplanted it and trained it over his doorway. Already it had rooted. The air was voluptuous with its scents.
The proportions of his new home were rectilinear, its walls straight. The doors fitted. So did the windows. He had made a floor of mud, ox blood and straw, and had himself stamped it flat and smooth. Its roof was tin, and musical in the rain. At night, as he sketched at a small table to the light of a lantern, the cottage took on the air of an illustration in a fairy tale—a house deep in the woods, where magic took place. Wisdom and Happiness were building three more rooms, but this first would be forever his—his workshop of the mind, its walls bedecked with sketches of the masterpieces to come.
He had purchased a double mattress and soft linen in King William’s Town, and a handful of other European objects that, to his eye, gave the rustic place great charm. There was a silver jug for flowers, a porcelain basin for shaving, six fine china plates, six teacups, a set of silver knives and forks he had found in a secondhand shop, whose bends and crookednesses spoke to him of cheery mea
ls. In Cape Town, corrupted by the lordliness of the whites, he had developed messy habits. With servants to pick up one’s clothes, what point was there in picking them up for oneself? Here there were no servants. He took care of himself and his own quarters, and discovered that it gave him joy to sweep his little room on a Sunday morning.
Prolonged experience of the Xhosas had led Piet Barol to certain opinions that would have horrified his friends at the Mount Nelson Hotel. He had discovered, first of all, that Xhosas were no less honest than Europeans, and often more so. He never locked anything against his companions, except the gun. He had kept up his Xhosa lessons, at first to ease communication with his men, and more recently because the language had cast its spell on him. Now he understood at least half of what was said around the campfire, and loved to lose himself in stories of ancient feuds and magical adventures as the sparks leaped and the coals glowed. On the table was the newspaper Luvo had purchased in Butterworth. The horrors it recounted were a world away on this gentle night. He dressed and went outside. The stars were out. The town was far away. With no electric light to compete with, the heavens were infinite. He felt that life was treating him very well.
Piet intended to reward his employees handsomely for the risks they had faced in order to help him, and this stilled his conscience when he thought of the look on Nosakhe’s face as he told the story of the mermaid snake. How much happier she would be, he thought, when Ntsina returned to her with the funds to keep her comfortable in old age. He and Luvo had had many conversations, progressively frank, about the political situation in South Africa. He found that he could not fault Luvo’s logic, nor find grounds to justify the abolition of black property rights. Piet was moved by the stories of suffering Luvo told him. To throw families out in dead winter—it was not right. There was a pleasing symmetry to the fact that the profits he wrung from Percy Shabrill, who had made his money so vilely, would be used to send a petition to the King of England—whose ministers alone possessed the power of veto over this law.
Who Killed Piet Barol? Page 21