‘No.’
Realisation dawned. ‘They are pleased I took it?’
‘The village has many dogs.’
‘So to return it would not be rude but thoughtless?’
Mister David nodded.
Dallas took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I will keep it. But you have to understand that white men treat their dogs with love and respect.’
‘I have seen this happen.’
‘And I expect you to do the same.’
Unhappy but cornered, Mister David again nodded.
Changing the subject, Dallas used the opportunity to learn more about the significance of Zulu beadwork. Relieved, his driver was only too happy to oblige.
‘Each colour has a meaning. Together they are used to tell a story.’ He fingered a small square of beads around his neck. ‘I will test you with this.’
‘Is that a love letter?’
Mister David looked shy suddenly. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.
Dallas wasn’t sure if he should push for more details or not. His driver laughed. ‘Read this and you will know the secrets of my heart.’
Dallas smiled and waited.
‘To understand you must know that a girl may not give a love letter until she is allowed to have a sweetheart. For today I will only tell you that it takes a long time for this to happen. A young man may not declare his feelings for a girl until after the buthwa. So your head does not become too very sore, we will start with the tree.’
‘Good idea.’
Mister David touched his love letter. ‘We call this inCwadi. Each colour has a name and a meaning. White is called iThambo which, in our language, means bones. It also stands for love and honesty. Black is isiTimane, a darkness or shadow which prevents us being together. The red bead, umGazi, is blood but can tell us that the eyes are red from weeping or looking in vain for the one you love. Yellow are called iNcombo, our word for young corn. It stands for riches. To a Zulu this means many cattle.’
‘Is that why only the high-born usually wear it?’
‘Yes. They are the holders of our wealth.’
‘And green?’
Mister David looked uncertain. ‘Our word is oBuluhlaza, meaning new grass. Alone, it is a symbol of good times for our cattle. I do not know why but when we put green in love letters it means we are feeling lonely or our hearts are full of jealousy.’
Amazing! Dallas thought. The green-eyed monster certainly gets around. How is it that this colour means the same thing in his culture and mine? It must come from one primary source – but what, where? To Mister David all he said was, ‘You have a lot of blue in your love letter.’
‘That is for iJuba, the dove. A sign of faithfulness and loyalty.’
‘And the pink?’
‘Ah! That one is very bad. It tells of poverty. Her father cannot meet the bride price.’
‘What is the word?’
‘We call them ubuMpofu, poor ones.’
‘We’ve also brought brown and striped beads, though I see none in your love letter. What do they mean?’
‘Brown is umLilwana, a low fire that does not burn brightly. It is our word for disappointment. The other is like the striped grasshopper and tells of doubt. We call it iNtotoviyane.’
Dallas scrutinised Mister David’s love letter. ‘How do I read it?’
‘Start at the outside. The pattern leads to the centre.’
Feeling a bit like he was reading someone’s private mail, Dallas did as he was told. ‘White. She loves you. Blue, she is faithful. White, she loves you. Green, she is jealous.’ He broke off. ‘Why is she jealous?’
‘It is hard to explain. Her feelings are as if she is jealous. She feels sick because we are not together.’
Dallas continued his reading. White featured prominently, as did black, blue and red. The girl’s message was repeated over and over, ending with a solid block of white beads.
Mister David beamed approval. ‘Tomorrow I will show you another love letter and you will tell me the story using Zulu words for each colour.’
Dallas reached behind for his diary. ‘Then you’d better tell me again so I can learn them.’ He wrote the words phonetically. When he showed them to his driver and asked if they were properly spelt, Mister David shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
‘But you went to school.’
‘Yes, where I only learned to spell in English.’ Mister David hesitated, then asked, ‘Please do not be angry but, as you want to learn about the Zulu, I too wish to know more about the white man.’
‘That is good. I will try to help. Did Master Leslie teach you anything?’
‘He was a very busy man,’ Mister David said in defence of his previous employer. ‘Sometimes he spoke of a home but in his words I am thinking there was much sorrow.’
‘Was there anything to stop him going back?’ Dallas wondered if, like himself, David Leslie was also in exile.
The Zulu shook his head. ‘No. One time Master Leslie go back and I not see him for two full seasons. Then he was happy to return here.’
‘So what do you think made him sad?’
Mister David shrugged. ‘I think his heart lied. It whispered of home but all he found was strangers living in houses with no shadows.’
Dallas tried some lateral thinking. Shadow and darkness were represented by black beads, in the language of love letters, a colour that told of sadness. Strangers in a house with no shadows might mean the absence, or even distortion, of distant memories. He decided to try his deduction. ‘Master Leslie’s heart remembered how it used to be yet his eyes told him how much it has changed?’
‘That is part of it. And with time to think, he found that he too had changed.’
Strangers in houses with no shadows. How perfectly logical. Dallas nodded his understanding, then asked, ‘What do you wish to know of my people?’
Mister David looked uncertain. ‘We can speak of anything?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘And you will remember the tree?’
Dallas smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Tell me then why it is that you wear so many clothes?’
Glancing at the Zulu in surprise, for he was dressed European style in shorts and a singlet, Dallas then took in his own attire. Boots, socks, long trousers, long-sleeved shirt, braces and a waistcoat. He thought of so many different ways he could answer the question. Convention, modesty, fashion, none of it made much sense out here. Practicality might work. ‘In England it is very cold.’
‘But here it is not so cold.’
The Zulu way of looking at life – the sheer commonsense of everything they did – was, Dallas knew, going to make a nonsense of any answer he could give. Still, he had to regard the question as seriously as his driver treated those asked by him. ‘You are right. But it is our custom.’
Mister David threw him a quizzical look.
Dallas had a brainwave. ‘When you eat you sit differently from a woman. Why?’
‘Hau! A woman cannot sit with her knees drawn up. It is immodest.’
‘Why don’t you sit with your legs on one side like a woman?’
‘Others would point and laugh. It is not our way.’ He broke off. ‘Ah! I understand.’
‘That is the tree,’ Dallas went on. ‘It is called custom.’
Mister David nodded. ‘We have a saying that means it is as dangerous to change nothing as it is to try and change everything. Some things were meant to be left alone while others cry out for us to make them better. I understand this tree you call custom. It is good to respect the things you are taught. But like Master Leslie saw for himself, his past has not stood still for him. The day will come for him to stop being sad and find happiness in a new life. As a grown man, this may not happen quickly. In the minds of his children the distance to England will seem greater. And, too, for the children’s children. Africa will see to that.’ Mister David smiled suddenly. ‘Forgive me. I ask a question and fail to wait for your answer.’
‘Yo
u seem to know it anyway.’
‘I have one other thing that puzzles me greatly. Our women are more attractive to us when their . . .’ He hesitated, then demonstrated with his hands the ample proportions of a well-rounded posterior. ‘White women are not so lucky. They make themselves look bigger with too many clothes. Why do they do this? Is it to make themselves more attractive?’ The Zulu gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘For us, this does not work.’
Dallas was helpless to prevent the laughter that burst from him. Personally, he found a woman’s bustle the most ridiculous fashion accessory he’d ever seen. Mister David, once sure he’d caused no offence, joined in. When he could, Dallas managed to address the question. ‘Some of your women have scars on their faces. Why?’
‘They think it makes them beautiful.’
‘Does it?’
‘Many like it. I do not.’
‘Why?’
‘It changes nothing. Inside, that woman is as she was born.’
‘So, it’s a fashion?’
‘Fashion?’ Mister David’s brow furrowed.
‘It is liked by others so they do it?’
‘This I can see.’
‘So is the bustle some white women wear behind them. Fortunately for us, fashion changes. Five years from now, no-one will like it.’
‘Hau! Then they might dress for heat and comfort.’
Dallas shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Do your women cover anything that men are not supposed to see?’
The Zulu looked surprised yet answered calmly. ‘Only the tops of their legs at the back.’
‘Then you are lucky. In my society a woman covers herself from neck to feet.’
‘Hau! So white men excite easily.’
Dallas grinned and let that go.
‘The tree. It is custom. One branch is what you call fashion. Another can be modesty.’
‘Correct.’
‘I see it more clearly now. Thank you.’ Mister David went to say more but, at that moment, Ralph’s stomach rebelled against the unexpected feast of porridge and he unceremoniously dumped it between the two men. Mopping up, Dallas wondered why tribal culture made so much sense while his own seemed to contain nothing more than silly rules and regulations. He felt dissatisfied with his answers. The Zulu had a deep understanding and acceptance of those things that governed day-to-day life. All Dallas could do, indeed, all he had ever done, was buck the system because, although unknown to him at the time, he disagreed with most of it.
They found evidence of elephant around midafternoon the following day. Their guides from Chief Ngetho’s kraal had led them to a steep-sided gorge. Approaching the narrow entrance, no clue was given that there may be a way through. The hills beyond folded together, creating the impression of a solid barrier.
Logan dismounted and crouched to examine the first droppings they found. Picking up one of the soup plate-sized balls he broke it in half, sniffed and tested the firmness with his fingers. ‘Five or six hours old,’ he told Dallas.
‘How can you tell?’
‘Fresh dung is yellowish and has a stronger smell. Rather like cattle. Then it goes dark like this, although it retains some moisture. Anything older dries out, starts to bleach and gets broken down by beetles.’ Logan spoke to one of the villagers and listened intently to his reply before translating for Dallas’s benefit.
‘Apparently there’s a good-sized herd living here. This track leads into a valley and back to the river. For the past month or so, elephants have been in residence. Must be good feed for them. They don’t usually stay so long in one spot.’ Logan straightened, brushing the already drying dung from his hands. ‘It’s a big area and the Thukela runs along the base of those hills to the north. That’s where we’ll find them.’ He swung back into the saddle. ‘I suggest we go on a bit then leave the wagons and proceed on foot.’
The narrow neck that allowed access to the valley beyond was barely wide enough to pass through.
‘Jesus!’ Involuntary appreciation of the sudden change in vegetation burst from Dallas. Framed on all sides by rock-strewn hills of all shapes and sizes that were dotted with stunted trees, it was a valley of perhaps five miles wide that stretched far into the distance, twenty miles or more. Forest fringed the base of the hills – noticeably thicker where the river ran – enclosing a dead flat plain. Almost park-like, the trees in the valley were large and majestic. The grass was lush and long. Everything glowed gold and green in the afternoon sun. And, as far as the eye could see, herds of zebra, springbok, impala, wildebeest, buffalo and many more species grazed leisurely or simply lazed in the late afternoon sun. Haughty giraffe trimmed abundant acacia trees to perfect umbrellas better than any gardener could. None seemed in the slightest concerned by the presence of strangers.
Heat and humidity pressed down. No cooling wind found its way into this place, just the occasional hint of a breeze. Sweltering temperature, turned muggy by the presence of water, settled around the men with a lover’s ardour. Their clothes, wet with perspiration, stuck like flypaper. Sweat stung their eyes and turned fingers slippery.
‘The Garden of Eden,’ Logan commented dryly, riding up beside Dallas. ‘Wherever you think it might be, God throws in a flaw.’
Dallas grunted. He had no energy suddenly to do anything else.
They outspanned the wagons, allowing cattle and horses to graze. The smell of distant water drew their thirsty animals towards the river. Three Zulus went with them to ensure they didn’t wander too far.
‘Do you think the wagons are safe here?’ Will worried. ‘What if the elephants decide to turn this way?’
‘If this is the only way into the valley then you may rest assured it’s the only way out and they’ll most certainly come in this direction.’ Logan had little patience for Will’s nervousness. ‘That’s why we’re well off the track they use.’ Rummaging in one of his wagon’s side canvas pouches, Logan produced a crumpled pair of long, grey trousers and a dark shirt which he pulled on in place of the shorts and white top that he’d been wearing.
‘Why are you doing that?’ Will’s question seemed superfluous to Dallas but Logan answered it anyway. ‘An elephant’s eyesight is bad, though they’re far from blind. We’ll be in thick bush and I’d like to remain as invisible as possible.’
‘So you are scared,’ Will crowed.
‘Cautious,’ Logan said shortly, turning to test a vagrant scrap of breeze that suddenly ruffled the grass. ‘Couldn’t be better. Straight in our faces.’
‘I’d like to come with you.’
Logan was preparing two enormous eight-bore muzzle-loading single shot rifles. He paused and looked at Dallas. ‘What did I tell you back in Durban?’
‘To do as I was told.’
‘Right. So now I’m telling you no.’
‘That’s not acceptable. I’ll do as I’m told but I’m coming with you.’
‘You don’t have a gun.’
Dallas indicated his ornate Yellow Boy.
Logan laughed derisively. ‘You won’t knock down an elephant with that toy.’
‘I also bought this in Durban.’ Dallas produced a breech-loading Rawbone. 577 double hammer gun.
Logan grunted. ‘Better. But those folded metal cases can be difficult to extract. Ever fired it?’
‘No, but it can’t kick that much.’
‘That’s another reason why you’re not coming.’
The two of them locked eyes. ‘I can shoot,’ Dallas said coldly. ‘And I don’t panic easily.’
‘You’d know that, would you? Been charged by a few wounded ducks, have you? Stood your ground, did you? Bravo!’
‘I have to start somewhere,’ Dallas pointed out reasonably.
‘Not in thick bush, you don’t. Open country, maybe, but this will be hairy.’
‘Then another gun could be useful.’
‘We’re not grouse shooting, you dumb bastard.’ A kind of controlled tension had come over the older man. It was in his eyes and voice. ‘You bloody
well stay here.’
Logan’s uncharacteristic anxiety was not about Dallas. From past experience he knew that in conditions like these there would be considerable danger. A build-up of nerves always brought Logan to the brink of an adrenaline rush. It had saved his skin on more than one occasion. However, how could he explain this to an inexperienced youngster whose courage was not in doubt but, should things go bad, remained an unknown quantity just as likely to shoot Logan as an elephant? Yet, the boy had a point. He had to start somewhere.
The logic of Dallas’s next words seemed to sway Logan. ‘You were once as raw as I am now. Who taught you?’
‘No-one,’ Logan answered shortly.
‘Then I’m one up on you.’
He had to concede the point, but Logan wasn’t about to give in easily. ‘Think so? Out there you’re on your own. Me? I’ll be taking care of number one.’ He jabbed his chest with a thumb and coughed once as the gesture tickled something inside. Frowning, he went on. ‘So listen and listen good. Where would you shoot an elephant?’
‘Heart. Brain. Lung. Any one should stop him.’
Logan grunted. ‘True. And where exactly would you expect to find them?’
‘Usual places. Head or just behind the shoulder.’
Logan smiled sourly. ‘An elephant’s heart lies more or less at the front of its chest cavity. The lungs are just above. From either side, a leg obscures most of them. From in front, their trunk is often in the way. The brain? Well now, you’d think in a head that size it would be easy to hit. It isn’t. Proportionately, an elephant’s brain is quite small and surrounded by a honeycomb of protective bone. It lies between the earholes. For a side shot, you bust him midway between the ear and eye. From the front aim below the eyes, roughly third wrinkle down the trunk, though that depends on how close you are. Unfortunately, the earholes can’t be seen when the bloody thing is facing you. Miss, and you’re in a heap of trouble. A good brain shot is the only one that will drop him immediately. Hit him in the heart, and even if he’s dead on his feet, he’ll run. Sometimes that means straight at you. And there’s another problem. The rest of the herd aren’t going to stand around waiting their turn. Once the first shot is fired, all hell breaks loose. You need a cool head to stay in one piece.’
Shadows in the Grass Page 27