Who Killed Piet Barol?

by Richard Mason

  “Where’s everyone?” asked Piet.

  “They’ve gone hunting. It is time to make biltong.”

  Piet poked his head into the cooking shed and saw the shining crockery. “It looks marvellous. Thank you.”

  Luvo glowed. The Strange One had become much more observant of the troubles others went to on his behalf during their sojourn in the forest. His gratitude alleviated for Luvo the otherwise considerable burdens of the experience—the insects, the exclusive company of men, the fears of wild animals.

  “I found my wife and child in Butterworth,” said Piet. “They came to find me.”

  “I am looking forward to making their acquaintance,” said Luvo, though in fact he was alarmed.

  “Then I’ll get the wagon.”

  As she entered the grove, Stacey Barol could not stifle a gasp of wonder at the majesty of the trees. Luvo’s quiet good manners were reassuring in this strange place, as was the camp’s perfect order. The fear that had built within her during the drive began to lift.

  “Were you really the man who mixed the Shabrills’ cocktails?” She smiled at him. “How lucky we are to have tempted you from them!”

  Luvo’s recollections of Stacey did not all accord with the impression she now made on him. In her pretty striped dress, her hair about her shoulders, she looked very fetching against the backdrop of the trees. Her smile made her look friendly.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find things rather primitive,” he said.

  “It’s only dirt I object to.” She nerved herself to peek into the kitchen. “And I can see you’ve kept things splendidly.”

  The word “splendid” had often been applied to Luvo’s schoolwork. To hear it again was immensely reassuring.

  “Our labourers do try, but Bantu men are not well trained in the domestic arts. I do my best to keep them in order.”

  “And a very good job you do.”

  Watching his wife with his friend, Piet Barol experienced an explosive surge of love for her, and gratitude for being rid of all they had left behind. In Cape Town, she had mocked people—often for his benefit. This had amused him, but somehow the joke had grown stale. “You two will be great friends, I can see.” He lifted Arthur down from the wagon. “Arthur. Meet your uncle Luvo.”

  —

  “I THINK ‘UNCLE’ was rather over-egging it, don’t you, darling?” asked Stacey, as he showed her where the latrines were. They looked back at their son, who was talking rapturously about the monkey he had seen on the way.

  “Luvo is a sound fellow. As educated as you or I.”

  She looked at him, as though about to say something. Then she smiled. “Show me more.”

  “Let me see to our Indians.”

  Piet showed Ierephaan and Mohammed to the accommodations that had been prepared for them. Then he took his wife’s hand and said: “Welcome to your new home. Our new home.”

  He led her across the clearing and through the line of trees. Their main room was in perfect order, the silver cutlery gleaming. Luvo had placed a vase of flowering branches on the table, beside the lantern Piet now lit against the dark.

  “I know you’re used to finer things.”

  “It won’t be for long.”

  He showed her the room that was to be their sitting room, and then the one that was for her alone. They were clean and inviting, their walls painted white. He badly wanted her to be delighted, and she was conscious of failing him. She made various polite exclamations, but it was only when she saw Piet’s sketchbooks that she gave way to pure excitement.

  She sat at the table, leafing through pages of chairs and chests and tables and bookcases, astonished by Piet’s exuberance. He had copied none of the fashions of the world they had come from. Elephant trunks curved graciously round the backs of chairs. Antelope legs supported tables. Percy’s library shelves showed creepers and trumpet flowers growing through the books. “You’re a marvel,” she said.

  “It’s the wood that’s the marvel. Come and see.”

  He took her over every inch of the trunk they had felled, and described in great detail how they had vanquished the tree. Stacey knew how much fine wood cost. To have this much, so cheaply! It began to compensate for the rustic discomfort. She nuzzled against him, banishing thoughts of the latrines. “You are clever,” she said.

  It made him happy to have impressed her at last. The huntsmen were far off and would not return that night. The two Indians joined the Barols and Luvo at a table by the fire. Stacey went to get a shawl before dinner, and when she returned the strangeness of the scene caught her short. There they were—two brown men, a black one, a white man and a white child, who was making everyone laugh. In the town she would have found something repulsive in this overthrow of the social order. Out here, beneath these trees, as the insects roared and the bats swooped and the stars shone, she wondered, for the first time, whether perhaps notions of one race’s superiority were rather silly. Politics had never interested her, and she did not pursue this thought. But she did cross the clearing towards them feeling light of heart, and when she reached the table every man stood for her, and she sank to her seat as graciously as at the grandest dinner.

  Twelve baboons watched them. The light of the hairless apes’ lanterns caught their imagination. The one to whom Arthur Barol had given an orange, unable to contain himself, screeched in excitement. The alpha hit him—to silence him rather than hurt him. He made a succession of low grunts that meant: “It is better to watch and be ready, than to rush and be found wanting.”

  As the hairless apes laughed, the baboons began dozing off. They were early risers. Only the youngster watched on, which meant that it was only he who saw what lay beyond the door of the kitchen hut: a crate piled high with oranges.

  All the Barols slept in the same bed that night, since Arthur’s had not yet been made. The boy was euphoric to have both his parents so close. He chattered until he abruptly fell asleep, and when he had, Stacey shifted and put her head on Piet’s chest. She could feel his beard scratching her face. Together they looked up at the ceiling and listened to the symphony of the forest.

  “You’ve gone native.” She tried to sound lighthearted.

  “Don’t worry. I still know how to wear a dinner jacket.”

  She turned and looked at him seriously. “You won’t forget, will you?”

  “Forget what?”

  “The world out there. Our world.”

  “The one where all the men are killing each other? I won’t forget it, my darling.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “I intend to conquer it.”

  —

  NTSINA, RETURNING from the forest with a kudu the next day, was astonished to be met by a little blond Strange One. His thoughts ran at once to magic. It was the blond Strange Ones who were said to be half man, half plant—but in truth this one did not closely resemble a head of maize. His face was too round, too much like—and then he saw, as Arthur laughed, that he was Piet’s son.

  “There’s a monkey! A monkey!” cried Arthur, pointing.

  Blessing, Wisdom, Brightness, Grace and Happiness, who had been hunting with Ntsina, were shy in the presence of a female Strange One. They had seen them before, of course, but only in Butterworth—where the female Strange Ones were nastier than the males. They were taken aback when Stacey said “Good morning,” and then “Pleased,” in their own tongue. She had taken herself in hand and decided to prevail by charm. Being friendly was putting her in good spirits. The beast Ntsina had killed impressed her. Piet had told her he was more than a garden boy—it seemed this was so. She made them coffee while they washed the blood from their hands and bodies. She served it at the table, and set out oranges—one for each of them.

  Ntsina ate his, an inscrutable expression on his face. Inside, he was seething with rage. That the Strange One should have a woman when he prevented all the Bantu men from doing similarly! He thought of Bela—gorgeous Bela, so much lovelier than this skinny Strange One with her simpering sm
ile.

  Stacey had judged, correctly, that Ierephaan was the more sociable of the Indian carvers, and was asking him questions about his family. She thought well of herself for showing interest. Ntsina did not for one moment believe that she would be so sweet if there were other Strange Ones to observe her—or if she did not need him and these other men as much as she did.

  In the world outside, the Strange Ones ruled. They had the guns and the automobiles—the machines that gave them their unfair advantage. In the forest, the Bantu was king. Without his hunting skills, they would not eat. Without Grace’s strength they would never have got that tree down—a tree he had once worshipped. Her fallen corpse was a perpetual complaint against him. He turned his eye from it, and his gaze fell on the Strange One child.

  For the first time since his return, his heart softened.

  “Come here, my little man,” he said to Arthur, in isiXhosa. The child looked at him, alert for meaning. He was not afraid. He had not yet learned the Strange Ones’ vileness to the Bantu.

  “He is very keen on monkeys,” said Luvo.

  “Tell him I will show him some.”

  This was all the inducement Arthur needed. He allowed himself to be lifted to Ntsina’s shoulders, and Piet placed a hand on Stacey’s to silence her objections.

  Ntsina took Arthur to a fig tree that lay beyond the stream. He had seen before he left that its fruits were hours away from perfection. Arthur began to jiggle up and down. The tree was full of samango monkeys—agile and dexterous, with comical beards that delighted the child. Ntsina approached as close as the monkeys would allow, but the fruit was a strong inducement to them to remain where they were.

  To see his favourite creatures on a tree in a forest, gorging happily; to know that there are monkeys in the world who are freed from their cages at the zoo, made Arthur reverential with happiness. They stood in silence, man and boy absorbed in contemplation of these beasts who looked so much more like they did than any other beasts of the forest, and yet were not like them at all. The sugar in the figs sent tidal surges of energy through the monkeys, who began leaping and shrieking.

  It was only when they started copulating that Ntsina took the child away.

  —

  THE SPELL OF REINCARNATION is first and foremost a spell of opening. Nosakhe’s grandfather had taught it to her painstakingly, and she knew that having found her ally she must choose her element. Would she meet Death in Fire, Air or Water? She chose Water, for she had always trusted the Sea. The spell’s trickiness is partly due to the fact that it is many spells: one to open a gate between the realms of the living and the dead; another to summon the soul of the person to be reincarnated. In this case, adding to the difficulty, she would also need to break the magic of the Creature who had turned Ntsina to wood.

  Nosakhe had decided against slaughtering the billy goat and using his heart. Ntsina had loved that goat, and this made her feel tenderly towards him also. Besides, Life is a potent ally in the battle against Death. She cut the hairs from his chin and plaited them tightly into a bracelet. It was a white bracelet, and white is the colour of the sangoma. She took this as a sign that she had found the path she must follow.

  Nosakhe told no one but Fezile of her intentions, and was unaware that the breaking of the sacred bond of secrecy between sangomas did not trouble him, and that Lundi also knew. Lundi told Sukude, who steered clear of Nosakhe in case she read this knowledge in his eyes. He was in an agony of anticipation. What a chance! To be rid of his mother-in-law through no action of his own! With Nosakhe’s death, the wealth of the Zinis would come to him. All of it. So would an undisputed right to the body of Bela, whatever he had promised her sister. Watching Nosakhe make her way to the beach, Piet Barol’s warning that the snake would come for him if he sexed her seemed absurd. How could a Strange One know such a thing?

  He thought of Zandi. She had taken his sexing greedily, almost as if she hungered for it. She had made him spend three times in her, and his back still bore the marks of her fingernails. Why not take her as a second wife?

  He was humming to himself as Nosakhe dipped out of sight.

  Fezile was on the beach, waiting to command the waves. On his assistance all depended, for it was in the Sea that Nosakhe would enter the realm of the Dead. This would not be so very hard, since she did not know how to swim. Once she had found Ntsina’s spirit, it would be Fezile who calmed the waves and allowed her to breathe again, and so breathe life into her grandson too. She was wearing her heaviest robes, weighted with cowrie shells. Fezile, who was not often moved, found that a painful lump had come to his throat at this image of loving sacrifice. It stilled some of the panic he had felt since waking.

  “Is all as you would wish it, my brother?” asked Nosakhe.

  He was wearing his second-best robes, in case he should be compelled to wade into the water. “Everything is ready,” he said.

  “Then let us begin.”

  Fezile watched her. For his services on this day, he had bargained another twenty-five cattles from Sukude. He need never worry about money or women again, with such a herd. He swallowed as Nosakhe began to draw strange markings in the sand and offered her cowrie shells to the Sea. When she opened the Gate to the Underworld, who could tell what other spirits lay beyond it—perhaps even Atamaraka herself. Should any of them escape, he would be their first victim. He began to feel more content with his lot as it currently was. His homestead would soon be ready. He had enough cattles to live comfortably, if not magnificently. Nosakhe extended her hand towards him. He thought of running from her. But riches are a powerful lure, and he did not. He took her hand and stepped into the circle she had drawn.

  “Oh Ma, Great Goddess. I present my ally in this undertaking.”

  Fezile was trembling, but Nosakhe held him firm. She begged the Great Goddess for Her aid and thanked Her for Her goodness. She entreated their ancestors to send Ntsina’s soul to the Sea Gate of the Underworld. She shook her arms, waving the goat-hair bracelet to attract the attention of Ntsina’s spirit. Her certainty in herself had returned. She was not foolhardy. Nor was she proud. She did not underestimate the dangers ahead, as she had as a girl. Her voice rose, clear and strong, and Fezile joined in, making up his incantation as he went along. The wind carried the sound out to sea, and then, changing direction, back over the homesteads of Gwadana.

  Noni heard them.

  Noni was an early riser, and the fear that had settled on the village had seeped into her soul. Her dreams were disturbing and in the daylight she heard sadness and unease all around her. The discovery that the tip of her mother’s little finger was missing had confirmed her sense of unknown evils. Her mother refused to tell her what had become of it, and Noni was certain that a monster had escaped from her dreams and bitten it. She had been bewildered by the ceremony Fezile conducted, confirming in her the gift of Farsight—but when it was all explained she had felt proud of herself. Today she heard something greasy and untrustworthy in his voice, quite different from the blazing lies of the Strange One who had disappeared.

  Nosakhe’s voice, soaring over the ocean, was a bright, bottomless blue. Noni could not hear the words, and would not have understood them if she had—for Nosakhe was using an ancient tongue, given by Marimba to the First People and preserved in the traditions of the Zinis. What Noni did grasp was the sincerity and courage in Nosakhe’s voice. She went to the furthest extent of her homestead and sat on a rock, listening. She heard Fezile singing a song that twisted round Nosakhe’s words. He was afraid, and trying not to show it. His voice was like the muck that gathers at the bottom of a pig’s trough. She frowned.

  The sea at Gwadana is powerful and cold. Noni heard Nosakhe’s cry as the water slapped her breasts. She heard that the blue, true voice was moving away from her. She could not understand it. No Xhosa brought up in the strictest tradition, as Nosakhe was, knows how to swim. Noni listened as Fezile’s song grew stronger, gliding over Nosakhe’s voice, smothering it. Until Nosakhe�
�s voice ceased altogether.

  Noni began to be afraid.

  This was nothing by comparison with how Fezile felt. He had known many charlatan sangomas, and never feared them. Nosakhe’s conviction made his hands clammy. He stood where he was until her head went under. It was imperative she believed in his allegiance. He waited, teeth chattering, on the edge of the surf. The tide had not yet taken all Nosakhe’s cowrie shells and he glanced round him, then knelt and began to rescue them from the water. As if angered, the waves grew rougher and the sky darkened. He retreated, fearful of being dragged into them to share Nosakhe’s fate. Beside him on the beach, Ata the dog sat motionless, ears cocked, listening.

  As her head went below the waters, and the Sea’s currents welcomed her, Nosakhe was blessed with a jolt of fierce energy. Her grandfather had warned her long ago to prepare to meet Atamaraka. She had trained diligently, learned the secrets of natural things and animals, suffered through thirsts and starvations and held the power of Life or Death, which alone can send a soul mad. At this crucial hour, her fear of Death was wholly lifted from her—the first sign that the spell was working. The water numbed her body. She lost sensation in her limbs. There is a strong current at Gwadana Bay, and soon she was in its grasp. Her brain clouded, and a deathly peace began to creep over her. She clung to consciousness with all her might.

  The Sea hurled her, dragging her downwards, tumbling her this way and that. The blood in her head began to thud insistently. She steeled herself against the need for air, drawing on every privation she had ever endured. At the brink of unconsciousness she opened her eyes. It was murky down here, but the sun’s light penetrated from above. Her eyes stung, but she could see. Ahead of her, where there should only be water, was a dark mass. The Sea drew her closer, and the mass turned pink. It was covered in gaping holes—smaller than she had imagined, but large enough for a spirit to escape. She touched the reef, praying with all her might that Ntsina’s soul was there, and could cling to her hand. Then she made one mighty kick, her feet connecting with the coral. It was the last of her energy, but it was enough. Her body hurtled upwards, towards the light. Her head broke the surface of the water.