This Life

by Karel Schoeman

  Why was it so important for me to go to Bastersfontein, and what did I expect to find there? I did not know that myself, and today I still do not know, only that the names that had emerged so suddenly from old Dulsie’s incoherent mutterings in that time of silence and loss were to me the first firm evidence I could cling to, and the only promise that I might somehow discover what had happened to Pieter and Sofie. Wait, I said, and I did not mind waiting, for to be patient was another thing I had already begun to learn.

  When spring arrived, we loaded the wagon once more and followed the sheep up the slopes where the flowers were appearing in the crevices, and once again we took possession of the empty house waiting for us just as we had left it behind months before, the doors closed but not locked. The cots and beds were reassembled, the feather mattresses spread out and the beds made; the fire was rekindled in the kitchen hearth; our lives continued. I had not forgotten my resolve, but I could not simply disappear without explanation for an entire day, and so I had to endure patiently, waiting for the rare occasion when Father and Mother would be away all day. At last, that same spring or early summer, it happened – it must have been a funeral, for that was the only reason why Father still left home in those years, and Mother had begun to accompany him so that he would not have to travel on his own; I do not remember anything else, for it was unimportant to me. I only recall the fact of my sudden freedom, and how I hurried to finish my chores, and then I tied a handful of dried pears in a handkerchief and told Maans to come, for today we were going for a long walk. To the end of the world? he asked, for Coenraad had once taken him on his horse to the edge of the plateau where he could look down on the Karoo. Yes, yes, I answered impatiently without listening, and took his hand and set off.

  It was far that we had to walk, but not so far that we could not be back before Father and Mother returned, as long as we walked briskly and did not dawdle, and for most of the way Maans ran ahead of me, turning around, laughing, to ask if this was far enough, if we were almost there. Spring or early summer, radiant in the glow of the silvery sunshine, the wind blowing at us from the rim of the mountains, and in the shelter of the rocky ridges, in the hollows and on the sunbaked slopes we came upon fields of flowers illuminating the silver-grey veld with their brightness, spekbos, gousblom and botterblom like in earlier springs, but I took no notice and hurried Maans along when he wanted to linger to pick flowers. The farther we walked, the more anxious and impatient I became, as if it had become imperative that we reach our destination: perhaps, if we could only move fast enough, I argued irrationally as I stumbled over the uneven ground, if we could only get there in time, it might still be possible to find something, though I still did not know what I was looking for. The remains of a fire, perhaps, with the ashes still warm, bedding that had retained the impression of a body or bodies, the fresh tracks of horses? No, not really, I had never deceived myself so completely, but at last there was something within my reach, something tangible after all the secrecy and evasion, the rumours and suspicions on which I had survived for so long, perhaps incomprehensible in itself, but nonetheless comforting as a symbol of the things I could not understand, like the ring on my pillow in the early morning, or the cross between the stones in the wall. Eagerly and hopefully I pressed on, and time and again I over-took the child running ahead of me, and I communicated my excitement and anticipation to him, so that he insisted on knowing how far we still had to go and if we were there yet.

  Blindly and instinctively I headed in the direction I knew Bastersfontein had to lie, never doubting that I would be able to find and recognise it. Maans had stopped again to rest, for he was beginning to tire from the long walk, and I reached the crest of a low ridge and saw a hollow ahead of me with reeds and water, a moist, fertile spot in the pale-bright spring landscape, and I knew it was Bastersfontein. I began to run, with Maans behind me, crowing with delight, not understanding what was happening at all; my hair had come undone as we were walking and I had not bothered to tie it up again, and it blew across my face so that I could not see where I was going, and I stumbled and fell to my knees, tears pouring down my cheeks, while Maans danced around me, laughing with joy at our unusual game, excited to find out what would happen next.

  But that was all; that was Bastersfontein, we had arrived there. A moist, fertile place nestled in the shelter of a low ridge, a few dilapidated hartbeeshuisies, the collapsed remains of a few old shelters or kraals of stacked branches, the fluttering of white butterflies and the small, shiny leaves of the harpuisbos reflecting the light – what more had I expected? I remained on my knees, and later Maans became bored and ran off while I knelt there still, tears pouring down my cheeks, crying for the first time in years with no one to see my tears, no one to know. Does Maans still know, does he remember?

  After a while I wiped my face with my hands and tied up my hair, and I got up. So this was the place where Pieter and Sofie – but no, not even that: this was the place that a confused old woman, muttering in front of the fire in the late evening, had identified in passing as the place where Jakob and Sofie, or perhaps Pieter and Sofie, had hidden, or perhaps not. How could I tell how much of her tale was truth and how much imagination? Perhaps I had misunderstood completely, perhaps I had not even heard her correctly, yet it was all I could cling to. Here Pieter and Sofie had hidden for an indefinite period while people had been searching for them, here Gert had ridden over at night to bring them food stolen from the house, and from here they had finally continued on their journey, destined for somewhere I could not follow. I had to believe that, it must have been like that, for it was the closest I could ever get to them again. Gert and Jacomyn had known, even Dulsie had known, though she had not been let into the secret; our herdsmen and their families must have known of the white people living at Bastersfontein, but nobody had said anything, nobody had given them away, silently united in the plot in which the fugitives were protected from the masters and were helped to escape. Father rode to the Boland in search of them without anyone enlightening him, and I struggled desperately to create from a few incidental words a story in which I myself could believe.

  The hartbeeshuisies had stood empty for a long time; the mouldering thatch had disintegrated and the leather thongs securing the posts of the framework had given way, so that the entire structure had collapsed and it was no longer possible to enter. Here they must have slept together at the beginning of their long partnership; at this fountain they must have knelt to wash and drink the clear water from their cupped hands. Did they expect to be followed and tracked down, or did they not even consider the possibility, so that they spent the waiting period laughing together, with no fear that it would pass and that reality would set in? There was no sign left of their presence, the remains of their fire had long been obliterated by the rain and the soil held no footprint or hoofmark any more, but in the moist earth around the fountain there were the fresh hoofmarks of the klipspringertjies who had recently come to drink there. Even the herdsmen had not been there with their flocks since winter.

  It was time to return, for we were far from home: as far as a horse could travel in an hour, I remembered dreamily, as far as old Dulsie could walk in an afternoon, and suddenly I recalled Gert’s words. Could it have been more than banter on his part when he sang to himself as he was dressing the thong; could he have been telling me something without my realising it? That was probably the way it happened and I should accept it and stop thinking about it; in any case I was not disappointed, though I had to make up stories on the way back to make our long, unexplained journey seem worthwhile to Maans. I stood on the ridge for a moment, looking back, and I watched as light and shadow washed and surged over the wide landscape before the dark waters closed over everything, rendering all that had disappeared into the dark invisible for ever. I had lost them, across the wide, barren Roggeveld and beyond the undulating horizon, like the wind, like the fog, like the thin, swirling snow, down the narrow, steep cliffs and passes of the mounta
ins – Ouberg, Vloksberg, Verlatekloof, Komsberg – down to the Bokkeveld or the Karoo, from the starkness of the interior to the Moordenaarskaroo, the Koup, the Nuweveld or the Hantam, lost in the desolation of Boesman-land and Namaqualand where no white people remained, to Groot River where the hopeful Basters had sought refuge, and over the distance in the quivering heat it was impossible to recognise them or to follow the rest of their journey, the last certainty obliterated by the heat’s distortions.

  We returned home and washed our feet and hastily I prepared the evening meal and laid the table, but when Father and Mother returned it was late, and no one asked what had happened during the day. When Maans spoke eagerly of the long walk we had taken, Father asked where we had gone, but he was tired and keen to go to bed and he scarcely listened to my answer. We walked to a place where we had taken out honey years ago, I said, for I wanted to see whether there were still bees, but there was nothing. We passed old shelters, I said, but we did not see any people; and then I got up to take Maans to his room, for he also had to go to bed. That was the first time I had ever lied to Father, but it was probably also something I had to learn, like the silence and the vigilance and the patience, and part of the skills I would need to survive. But in a way my story was not completely untrue, for while I was putting the child to bed I suddenly remembered that day when I was still very young and we all went along to take out the honey, Jakob and Pieter and Gert and I, and Gert removed the honeycomb from a cleft in the rock, and on our way back that evening one of them – I do not remember who – carried me on his shoulders for I was too exhausted to walk.

  4

  I do not believe Father ever had enemies, but it was during this time that we discovered just how fond people were of him and how highly regarded he had become in our district over the years, in spite of the secluded life we led on the farm; for as it became more and more difficult for him to move around among the people, it was they who started coming to him.

  For as long as I can remember establishing our own congregation in the Roggeveld had been under discussion; that is to say, the men discussed it when we met for church services, for what concern was it of the women? During this time it was brought up again and began to receive more urgent attention, and it was specifically to learn Father’s opinion and obtain his advice that people came to call on us. We were not used to visitors, not to mention the substantial groups arriving now: we had to take all the coffee bowls from the kist and the spittoons that had never been used were brought out as well, and later Coenraad hired a stable boy whose chief duty it was to look after the visitors’ horses. Even Mother was surprised, though she would never have let it show, but there was a kind of agitation and nervousness in her behaviour as she welcomed the visitors, unlocked coffee and sugar and arranged for meals, and it was never clear to me exactly how welcome these uninvited guests were. In time, however, I believe she realised how the solemn gatherings of elders and deacons in our voorhuis flattered us and how those conferences dignified us, and somewhat unwillingly she began to go out of her way to welcome and entertain these visitors.

  I had nothing to do with these meetings, of course, but as her daughter I remained in the kitchen to carry out Mother’s instructions, for by this time old Dulsie was no longer capable of much. One day, however, I was summoned unexpectedly when the men were struggling with a letter that had to be written. It must have been Father’s proposal, for I do not think any of those solemn old gentlemen would have considered such a possibility, but in the circumstances they could not offer much opposition. Thus I wrote the letter as it was dictated to me, head bowed over the paper, while from across the table they watched my skilfulness with silent disapproval. Afterwards I withdrew to the kitchen without any of those present expressing a single word of approval or appreciation, or even just thanking me. The letter must have been written well, however, or they were convinced of my skill anyhow, for after this I was often summoned to the voorhuis where the men sat with their pipes and their chewing tobacco, to put their letters and memorials and petitions in writing. When they discovered that I could not only write in an elegant, legible hand, but also had knowledge of words, they would allow me, somewhat stiffly and unwillingly, to express a thought they had been struggling with; sometimes they simply spoke, without taking notice of me, and allowed me to put down their thoughts in my own words. When I read aloud what I had written, they nodded slowly over their pipes, and that was the only thanks I ever got from any of them. “I must say, a daughter like this is worth as much to a man as a good team of trek oxen!” Oom Daantjie van Wyk once exclaimed, but he always liked to tease and everyone assumed he was only joking. Later they also discovered that I could read fluently, could decipher longhand writing and explain difficult words, and I was summoned to read the letters and documents that had arrived from Worcester and from the Cape.

  I had never liked people, especially not the company of strangers, but to be called into the voorhuis like that by Father never bothered me, for it was the first time I realised there was something in the world I could do apart from helping Mother in the house and teaching Maans. Moreover, I began to realise that when I was called upon to read to the assembled people, I was not self-conscious and my slow tongue no longer encountered any obstacle. Later still, they found out I also knew some English, and then it was not only the deliberations about the new congregation I had to help with, but sometimes a neighbour rode over on his own with a letter from the magistrate or a newspaper from the Cape to ask Father whether his daughter might look at it for him. Father was proud of me then, that was clear, and it was actually the only chance he ever had to feel proud of me, for I was a shy, withdrawn child who did not normally attract any attention or elicit any approval.

  I bent my head over the paper and wrote down the requests, objections or admonitions without considering what I was writing: the scratching sound of the quill pen, the men around the table in a haze of tobacco smoke, and their monotonous arguing voices interspersed with sudden outbursts of anger or indignation, “in order that they, the undersigned members of this congregation, want to make their wishes known to the designated authorities, in accordance with their humble request …” It was not only here in the Roggeveld that the establishment of a congregation was being considered, for during this time many changes were taking place in these parts, as I discovered from the men’s conversations where I sat in the voorhuis, waiting to be told what to write. In the Bokkeveld, as well as the Hantam and the Nuweveld, towns were being founded, there was mention of churches being built, ministers being called and church councillors elected. Around us new congregations came into being and the boundaries of the old ones shifted; magistrates and schools and such matters came under discussion, hitherto no more than strange, distant phenomena to us, connected with Worcester and the Boland, on the outskirts of the world we knew. When I got up and withdrew from the voorhuis, I soon forgot all about these matters, however, just as I forgot about the letters or petitions I had drawn up, for these were the men’s affairs and did not concern me.

  I still taught Maans, but he was beginning to grow up and did not spend all his time with me like before. He often rode out to the sheep; at first Coenraad took him on his horse, but then he learned to ride and Father gave him his own horse, ordered from the Hantam. He was given more and more duties on the farm and, after he had been my responsibility for so many years, I lost him again, the baby I had held on my lap when I arose from my long sickbed. The beams had collapsed, the thatch had mouldered, and nothing remained. Sometimes the house seemed very big and quiet and empty as we lived together in silence, Mother and Dulsie in the kitchen and Father in his armchair in the voorhuis: when I had nothing to do, I would sit close to him with some item of sewing, but it would soon slip from my clumsy fingers and I would just sit there, not moving or having the least desire to speak, silently occupied with thoughts I was unable to express. The thatch had mouldered, the stones had been scattered, and in later years there was no si
gn that a house had stood there, that people had lived there, the imprint of their feet no longer visible in the moist earth of the fountain where they had fetched water. I had fallen to my knees, tears pouring over my cheeks, but that was long ago. In the voorhuis I wrote letters for others and read their letters, but I never had any reason to write a letter myself, and not once did I receive one. I was a young woman and no longer a child.

  In time the men who called upon Father began to bring their wives and families along. Initially the women entered our voorhuis hesitantly, as though uncertain of their welcome, almost as if they did not feel quite safe with us, and Mother was nervous and sat up very straight and spoke a bit too shrilly, with red spots breaking out high on her cheekbones. I did not mind the men so much, but I was never happy to see their wives, with their quick eyes that took in everything and their whispering as soon as we left the room. I can still see them eyeing Maans when the boy came in to greet, the son of Jakob who had died so mysteriously, the child of Sofie who had disappeared so mysteriously: they studied him eagerly as if they hoped something in his mere appearance would supply answers to all the questions they so desperately wanted to ask. Those names, Jakob and Sofie and Pieter’s names, were never mentioned openly, however, and the questions remained unasked. They sat lined up against the wall holding their bowls of coffee or glasses of sweet wine, eyes darting around surreptitiously but incessantly, and minds working steadily, filled with speculation and suspicion that would be aired in detail later. I received no more than a passing glance from them as I served the coffee, for I was only the girl with the scar on her brow on which their searching glances lingered for a moment, and they showed no further interest in me.