Who Killed Piet Barol?

by Richard Mason

  The following day Bela’s father returned, and Noni told him. His relief was so potent she could feel it in the close little room, though she could not see him. “Before you smile much longer,” she said, “there is something else your Ancestors wish to say.” Noni’s habit of referring to facial expressions she could not see was unnerving. It tempered Litha’s smile.

  “I am listening, little mother.”

  Noni wound the set and switched it on. There was a knob that raised the volume, and she turned it as far as it would go to emphasize her point. “Your Ancestors are angry with you, as you can hear.” She drew herself to her full height. “They have sent you an heir, yet you do not visit your own daughter.”

  It had cost Bela’s father dearly to obey the witch doctor’s injunction that Bela was not to be spoken to, for her own good.

  “But what of the evil spirit?”

  “That spirit has been chased from her. And even if it were still there, no child can be injured by a parent’s love.”

  —

  IT WAS TIME, Nosakhe said, to show the world that Bela was under the protection of Good Magic once again. She was surprised by her granddaughter-in-law’s resistance. Bela was not at all sure how she felt about the friends who had abandoned her, and found that she had no desire to resume her girlish pursuits. Having been elevated to commune with spirits, she was in no hurry to rush back to the low gossip of village life.

  Nevertheless, the thought of seeing her parents was a powerful temptation. She fixed her hair and donned her best blanket for her walk through the village. She went hand in hand with Nosakhe, and the Chief himself came to his homestead gate to greet her. Those watching saw that the Bela they had known had gone forever. Her eyes were no longer glazed, but neither did they sparkle with mischief and innuendo. She had serenity now, and it gave her beauty a dignity that made them hesitate to approach her, conscious of their own weakness.

  When Mama Jaxa saw her daughter, she dropped the mealies she was carrying and threw herself at Bela. Their separation had been the sternest trial she had yet endured. Zandi’s return, at Bela’s request, had heightened her worry. So had Zandi’s sudden swelling, which seemed a further cause of shame. She had almost beaten her to extract a confession of the baby’s paternity. But Zandi had kept her own counsel, and now she understood that the child had been sent by the Ancestors themselves.

  Oh the merrymaking in the Jaxa homestead that night!

  Bela’s father slaughtered his finest cow, and Mama Jaxa produced the special spirit she distilled from the leaves of the aloe plant. It was at this feast, more truly than at the wedding of Ntsina and Bela, that the two families became one. “A very great battle is under way,” Nosakhe told them, accepting a drink. “I hope Light will prevail over Darkness, though one can never be sure.”

  “I am sure,” said Noni.

  —

  TWO DAYS LATER, Bela and Ntsina met in the clearing of the second Blessing. She could not wait to share the news of the child her ancestors had sent Zandi.

  The Blessing had withdrawn into itself, conserving its sweetness for another hundred moons. Ntsina lay down on the blanket Bela had brought, and when she joined him his face sought the squishy comfort of her breasts. He often reposed himself thus after they had put the love mat to good use. Today he seemed to have no strength for lovemaking.

  “Are you injured, my dear one?” She stroked his cheek. “Is the battle hard?”

  Ntsina did not reply. A strange sound found them—a thudding, regular beat. Frank Albemarle had devised a shift system, so that production need never stop. Far away, his men were dismembering an Ancestor Tree, and the wind reminded Ntsina of all he had done. He closed his eyes and held his wife tight. He was consumed by regret for permitting the destruction of these trees, and by rage at the possibility that he might not get paid for his pains.

  “Is the battle hard?”

  He had told her many fanciful stories. “Very hard,” he said.

  “Does it tire you, to take human shape for me?”

  “I do it gladly.”

  “We can meet less often, if you need it so.”

  He raised himself on his elbows. “I couldn’t fight this war without you.”

  This pleased her, and she kissed him. “Does it go well?”

  “Not as well as formerly.”

  “Why not?”

  There was so much he wanted to tell her. In the end what he said was: “There are new forces in the forest.”

  “Tell me of them.”

  He contemplated the many truths he could never share with her. At last he said: “A wicked queen has come. She has brought with her twelve fiends, who do as she commands. Their leader is called Albamaah. He is a dark, dark wizard.”

  “What of the Strange One? Does he aid you?” She knew she should not pry, and yet it is hard for a human to resist the temptation to question a spirit. “Tell me of the Strange One. What became of him?”

  Ntsina sat up and turned away. “He used to be my friend.”

  “And now?”

  “He is bewitched by the wicked queen. He cannot remember the promises he once made.”

  “What promises?”

  “To do well by the Bantu.”

  “What of Luvo?”

  “He fights for goodness still.” Ntsina turned to her. “If Luvo escapes the Creature and makes it to Gwadana Village, you are to treat him with all honour. Care for him if he is wounded. Succour him if he is distressed. Feed him, clothe him. Hide him if Strange Ones come searching for him.”

  “Might he come to us?”

  “It is hard to say what might happen.”

  —

  UNDER ALBEMARLE’S SUPERVISION, many feelings were hurt but three Shabrill bedrooms, the drawing room, the smoking room, the billiard room and Dorothy’s boudoir were completed in record time. Albemarle’s craftsmen did not work to the standard set by Ierephaan and Mohammed, who hardly slept, doing their best to elevate uncaring workmanship. Piet was not satisfied, and forbade the dispatch of the furniture; but when he protested Stacey nodded in the direction of their hut.

  He followed her with a heavy heart.

  “My darling,” she said, when they were alone. “Pour me a cocktail.” She had decided to be conciliatory.

  There were now glasses and a decanter where before had been a vase filled with forest flowers. Piet mixed them stiff gins, and turned them pink with Angostura bitters.

  “God, I’m going to enjoy a cold drink when we’re back where we belong.”

  Piet looked at her warily. “You liked it here in the beginning.”

  “I liked being with you.”

  “Did you never find any charm in living in the wild?”

  She looked around the sparse little room. “I thought it charming that you would make such sacrifices for us.”

  “I could happily spend the rest of the War here.”

  “Without me?”

  “If you don’t care for it, you could live in town. Take a house. I could visit.”

  “For that matter, you could have a workshop in town.”

  “I’d rather live here than in Butterworth.”

  “What about Johannesburg?” This was Mr. Albemarle’s suggestion, and seemed eminently sensible.

  “Have you forgotten I’m meant to be fighting in France? I can’t show myself in Johannesburg.”

  “I told Percy you were invalided home. You’d need to walk with a limp for a few weeks, that’s all. Everyone will soon forget.” But she could see this was not a fruitful line of discussion and changed tack. “Remind me, my angel, what got us into this scrape to begin with.”

  “What scrape?” Piet was looking out of the window. His eyes focused on a pile of autumn leaves. Something was not quite right about them. “You mean us having no money?”

  “Exactly.”

  Piet had learned something of a forest’s deceptive powers. He took a sip of gin, his eyes trained on the leaves. They shifted. They were not leaves at al
l, but a Gaboon viper, coiled in the patch of sunlight caused by the felling of a tree. His pulse rate rose.

  “We had a successful business in Cape Town. We nearly went bankrupt for two reasons. First, you did not pursue our creditors. Second, you spent too long fussing over every piece you made. I don’t say this to goad you, or to blame you. You have genius, and genius must be nurtured. That is why you must leave all business to me.” She rose and went to him. Piet’s face, usually so animated, was as still as a photograph. She didn’t touch him. “The next shipment is ready. It may not be perfect, but I know our market in Johannesburg and our clients will be bowled over. We have made a splash. The worst thing we could possibly do is take so long with a second delivery that everyone forgets us. You know how fickle people are.”

  “Take it then.”

  “I need to take the bed.”

  “Not that.”

  She took a deep breath, to suppress the frustration in her voice. The realities of Johannesburg were hard to summon here, and yet she knew them to be true. “It’s your masterpiece, my darling. People must see it. Let it go with this shipment. The other things can follow.”

  “Only three of its posts are finished.”

  “Have Ierephaan and Mohammed knock up some vines and stick them on the empty one. That’s all that’s needed.”

  “No one touches that bed but me.”

  “Then you make the vines.”

  “That post is to have jasmine. It’s tricky.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to overrule you.”

  But Piet would not have this. His stubbornness so infuriated her that she forgot her good resolutions and said: “Why can’t you be more like Percy Shabrill?”

  —

  IT TAKES A GREAT DEAL to disturb the repose of a Gaboon viper, but the raised voices of the hairless apes were sufficient to make this one twitch. He was a male in his prime. Three days before, he had lain in wait for a baby bushpig, and caught him. His venom had made the pig bleed from every orifice. As his meal lay dying, a puff adder had chanced to pass. With dazzling effrontery, this puff adder had taken the pig’s haunches in his jaws. The viper had taken the head. They had ingested him together, moving steadily towards one another, neither giving way. But it was the viper who had sprung his jaws extra wide and locked them over the head of his rival—whose body, consumed whole, now lay within his, taxing his digestive capacities most pleasantly.

  This contented viper felt the shudder of the earth as a door slammed. Still he slept on, quite happily. He would have done better not to, because the person slamming the door was Piet Barol, and he was in a white temper.

  Stacey sat in their shack, alarmed by the mood she had provoked. Piet crossed the clearing, leaping over the wider trenches, and went into the toolshed. Frank Albemarle was there. His wife’s trust in this odious man was a daily provocation. He took a pitchfork that hung on the wall and went back to his house.

  The viper felt the tread of the hairless ape and lay insolently where he was. It was not until a sharp piece of iron pierced the skin above his skull and went right through his brain that he grasped the ape’s malevolent intent. His body thrashed, his venom glands filled, but the rupture of his brain destroyed his higher faculties.

  Stacey watched from the window. The spectacle solidified her resolve to leave this place by any means necessary.

  When the snake was quite dead, Piet lifted the fork and flung his body far beyond their clearing, to become a feast for the ants. Then he went back inside. His anger made him fearless. “Since we are having a frank chat, I have something to tell you.”

  Stacey had locked her awareness of Frank Albemarle’s admiration far away from her conscious thoughts. Now it seeped from its confinement, bringing with it the knowledge that her husband must have had many opportunities for infidelity. What a time to confess them! She sat down. She could not breathe.

  “It concerns Ntsina and Luvo.”

  Oh the relief! It was all she could do to keep her tone businesslike. “Ah yes. I wanted to speak of them also. It’s time we let them go.”

  “Is it?”

  “Ntsina can’t carve for toffee and you speak Kaffir quite well enough now. We don’t require a translator. Besides”—and this was Stacey’s real objection—“there is something uppity about those two.”

  “I have promised them each three hundred pounds as soon as Shabrill pays us.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s thanks to them we have this wood at all. I’ve also promised to build new shrines for their ancestors, closer to the village.”

  “Pay them twice what Shabrill paid them, then.” She saw the look on her husband’s face. “Three times, if you like. But the shrines must be their affair.”

  “I promised them three hundred pounds, and new shrines. They used to worship their ancestors in this grove.”

  “That’s quite out of the question.”

  “They have families to support. You must have seen how hard things are for the Bantu in this country.”

  “It can’t cost much to build a mud hut and buy some cows. Nor still a wooden shrine.”

  “I have promised them better than that. Electric light and beds, education for their children. And the shrine must be a proper Christian chapel. Everything comes at a price.”

  This observation enraged her.

  “Finally! It takes the plight of two insolent Kaffirs to teach you that everything comes at a price! So do our house and our clothes and our son’s education. Or would you rather Arthur grew up a piccaninny, knowing nothing but the call of wild birds?”

  “Arthur will be leagues ahead of the other boys when he goes to school. Luvo has taught him his times tables already.” Now that he had said what he had promised himself to say, he felt calmer. He went to her and took her hand. “You’ve done splendidly. I am grateful, believe me. I’ll make the furniture more quickly. I’ll even put up with that foreman you brought, who can’t keep his eyes off you.”

  This was a little too close to the mark. “Without Mr. Albemarle, we’d be miles behind.”

  “If I grant you that, will you let me keep my word to our Bantu partners?”

  They looked at one another. Piet’s anger was spent, and he gave her his most winning smile. It was the smile that so often got him what he wanted. He kissed her on the lips, felt an answering tremor in her body and stepped closer. But this proximity was too much. Stacey stood back. She had a flash of intense memory—of the first time she had seen this smile. He had been wearing evening dress that night, sitting by the stage in the first-class nightclub of a glorious ship. Now the liner’s gilt and velvet had been replaced by a squalid shack in a forest teeming with snakes, the waiters by insolent Kaffirs. “What have you become?” she asked.

  “I am the man I always was.”

  “That you are not.”

  “A better man, then.”

  “What if I forbid it?”

  “Then I will overrule you. For a change.”

  The air was thick with unsayable things. Abruptly Stacey sat down. She felt she could not stand this dress, this heat, this place, a moment longer. Her relief at being spared one kind of betrayal intensified the pain of learning of this other, quite-unexpected piece of treachery. To give six hundred pounds to Kaffirs!

  Piet could not read her silence. As it endured, he felt his own resolve creaking. “I will finish the bed. Give me two more weeks with it. Then you may have it.”

  She said nothing.

  “One week then. After that I will let you strike all our bargains for us.” Eight spiders were watching them intently. They could sense that a battle was taking place between these hairless apes, and feared for their webs. “Are we square, my darling?”

  Stacey had a gift for strategy. It told her now to defer the making of a decision until they were in a civilized place, where logic might prevail. “Do me the—favour of allowing me to think about it. Let’s get this shipment off to Percy. We’ll pay everyone their standa
rd wages. When we know what’s left, we can decide.”

  It was more than Piet had hoped for. “Thank you, my love.” He sank to his knees and kissed her.

  “Pour me another drink,” she said.

  —

  THE AXES HEAVED THAT DAY, and long into the night. The electric motors of the chainsaws roared, and in Gwadana people heard the sounds, and knew that the great battle was taking place at last. Lundi sat alone in his darkened homestead. The deaths of Fezile the witch doctor and Sukude had convinced him that his own would not be long in coming. How he repented the day he had taken Sukude’s first bribe!

  Nosakhe, Bela and Noni gathered in the Zinis’ magic hut and prayed with all their might. “Oh, but this is a powerful monster,” said Nosakhe. She switched on the magic box and asked Noni to tell what she heard. To a child with a vivid imagination, the sound of a chainsaw conjures horrifying explanations, and the shrieking of the box intensified them. Noni knew from Bela that a wicked queen had come to the forest to aid the creature, and brought with her twelve fiends and a dark wizard named Albamaah. The queen had bewitched the Strange One and made him a traitor to his friends. Against this devilish army stood only Ntsina and Luvo. She fused this information into a chilling narrative.

  Nosakhe leapt up to join the fight, but Noni restrained her. “No, mama. This is a war of the spirits. The Ancestors are in the forest with them. Stay here, so that you may heal your grandson and his brave friend when they have vanquished the monsters.”

  So Nosakhe stayed, and cast spell after spell, and hurled them over the forest.

  The sun set and the noises went on. Now a further strange phenomenon was observed: a huge glow, half a day’s walk away, in the Ancestor Grove itself. It was visible only from the escarpment of the Zinis, and Nosakhe thought it must be fire. But fires dance, and this light glowed still.