Fever

by Deon Meyer

  The first thing he said was, ‘There are nearly two hundred and sixty people on their way, Willem. They should arrive tomorrow morning, if their petrol lasts. How is Melinda Swanevelder?’

  Chapter 21

  Arrival Day

  That’s what we call it. Arrival Day: 8 April. A public holiday for the last thirty-four years.

  Pa didn’t approve. Nero Dlamini was against it. Both of them said it was nothing more than the day that the largest single group arrived. It was also too reminiscent of Van Riebeeck Day, when the first European settlers arrived in the Cape in 1652, in the era before the Fever. Which, coincidentally, was 6 April, very close to the date of Arrival Day. One doesn’t want to sow a seed that might later sprout in division and discord.

  But Arrival Day is what the people wanted, and Arrival Day it remained.

  My Springbok hide was stretched on its frame and rubbed in with salt. My hands still stank of it, no matter how many times I scrubbed them with Sunlight liquid in the Pride Rock guest house.

  I moaned and complained until Pa let me go and wait for the Arrival from a vantage point high up on the hill.

  I rode the quadbike, and found a spot where I could look out over the dam wall, the road that my father and I travelled the first time we came here. This group too were approaching from the north.

  Last night Hennie Fly said they were coming from Tshwane and Centurion, Johannesburg and Sandton, Lenasia and Soweto, Nigel and Standerton, Randfontein and Rustenburg. These were places where he had scattered our pamphlets from his plane.

  At Westonaria, fourteen men with assault rifles had robbed the growing group. They were looking for jewellery. And money, can you believe it, they wanted money, said Hennie Fly. Now, in these days. At least nobody was hurt, though most of the food and water in the buses was taken.

  On the road the convoy collected people in Potchefstroom and Warrenton. That was before Hennie knew about the group. He only spotted the procession of vehicles – a luxury tour bus, a suburban bus, a bunch of minibuses and pick-ups and cars – once they had passed Wolmaransstad, on his way to us. So he landed and they talked. From then on he provided air cover, flying ahead to check for trouble. There had been no more incidents.

  Last night Hennie told us he had left them in Kimberley and come to alert us they ought to be here before midday.

  Then Hennie went and sat with Melinda Swanevelder, and talked, and she just sat quietly listening to him. ‘He’ll need a lot of patience with her,’ Pa commented to me and Domingo.

  Pa asked Domingo, where are you from, originally? And Domingo replied, ‘Here and there.’ And he began to interrogate Pa about what he envisioned for the community, as if he weren’t yet convinced whether he wanted to stay. I sat there hoping Pa would give all the right answers, because I wanted Domingo to stay.

  That morning, when we had finished breakfast, Domingo said, ‘I thought, being single . . . There’s no point in taking a whole house. Is it okay if I move into the Orphanage for now? There are a lot of rooms open.’

  And Pa said, ‘Of course.’

  That was how the old Pride Rock guest house got its new name. The Orphanage.

  I balled my fist under the table and whispered, ‘Yes!’

  Pa asked me, ‘How far are you with that skin of yours?’

  On the hill where I sat waiting for the Arrival and looking out over the vast, deep Vanderkloof Dam, the water now not thundering over quite as powerfully as before, I thought it was a very good thing that Domingo was going to stay. We had to have him on our side.

  By the time the convoy arrived around two o’clock, I was ravenous. I’d been reluctant to abandon my vantage point, in case I missed them, but was growing impatient. At last I spotted the bus coming around the hill on the other side of the river, taking the wide turns of the dam wall. Behind it, an older bus, and beyond that the cars and trucks. I grabbed the radio, and said, ‘Pa, they’re here. They’re on the dam wall, I can see them.’

  ‘Thank you, Nico.’ I could hear him laugh. I was hugely excited.

  I watched them stop midway along the dam wall, spend some time there, giving everyone a chance to see the water and the river gorge. Then they were on the way again. I hastily clambered down the hill over rocks and bushes, through thorn bushes and thorn trees to where the quadbike waited. It seemed to take for ever.

  And then I raced back. To welcome them, and get something to eat.

  I saw it all from some distance, and only years later would I think it over, and philosophise about the significance of the scene.

  That day I was conscious that I was witnessing history, as much as an excited thirteen-year-old, starved for company of others and friends of his own age, could be. The true gravity of the moment and the people involved in it would only be impressed on me later.

  The leading vehicle, the luxury bus, was already parked in the centre of the road when I stopped the quadbike. Two men got out and approached Pa, Hennie Fly and Domingo, Melinda Swanevelder and Beryl and all sixteen of the children who waited for them in the middle of Protea Street. The first man out of the bus was old, his hair snow white, wearing a white surplice with a golden stole and a peculiar hat. He carried a shepherd’s crook, made of wood and silver. His left hand leaned on the arm of another – a younger, impressive man with a broad chest who was taller than everyone else.

  That was what I saw, what I stored away to pass on one day, to tell others, I was there, I was part of it.

  I ran over, and took my place between Pa and Domingo.

  ‘The man in the dress, is that the bishop, Hennie?’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s a surplice,’ said Pa, with a chuckle in his voice.

  ‘Yes, Nico, that’s the bishop,’ said Hennie Fly humbly. He had told us about the Anglican clergyman who was part of the group, who had become their leader.

  The grey-haired bishop shuffled across the road to Pa. He opened his arms wide, smiled and said, in English with a faint Scots accent, ‘You must be the author of the pamphlet.’

  ‘I am,’ said Pa. He stepped forward and shook the bishop’s hand.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ the broad-chested man beside him called out, ‘Hallelujah.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the bishop. ‘I am Father James Rankin. This is my colleague, Pastor Nkosi Sebego.’

  Pa shook the powerfully built Sebego’s hand. ‘You are all welcome,’ he said.

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Sebego. He turned, and gestured to the other people in the bus to come out. He had a gracious smile on his face and an intense gaze. But then he turned back and focused on Domingo.

  As people tumbled out of the buses and cars, calling out, talking, walking up to us, I think I was the only one who saw Pastor Nkosi Sebego’s smile change to a frown of consideration, suspicion and finally an unfathomable dislike.

  Domingo’s face was stiff and unreadable behind his dark glasses.

  Chapter 22

  The 256

  Two hundred and fifty-six people arrived that day.

  Number-crunchers in the community would later point out that 256 is a perfect square – sixteen to the power of two. The superstitious would extend this principle to call it a lucky number, a good omen. I suspect in a hundred years’ time they will talk about the descendants of the 256, like the descendants of the Mayflower in what was once the USA. It might carry some sort of status.

  But in that first week it was an unlucky number. We were totally unprepared for the influx.

  A much better number in that time was thirteen. When you are thirteen years old, and you are the son of the author of the pamphlet, you are allowed everywhere that adults congregate, but at the same time you are invisible, as long as you sit still and keep quiet.

  The first emergency meeting was late that afternoon on Arrival Day. It was about accommodation.

  The problem was that the 256 didn’t arrive in tidy family groups. In the entire group there were only three people who were related – old Mrs Nandi Mahlangu, her daughter Qeda
ni, and her grandson Jacob. Three generations of genetic resistance to the virus, the only case recorded. (In the following months and years there were brother-and-sister combinations joining us, there was myself and Pa, eventually another four cases of parent and child.)

  When the excitement of the Arrival trickled away and the 256 began to think of a place to sleep and live, it suddenly became a rush for the best, biggest or closest-to-those-that-I-know, without organisation or forethought. Some people wanted to share accommodation, there were many singles who moved into houses on their own, while there were arguments over who would claim the two luxury houses on the shore with a view over the dam. And six teenagers who had travelled together in the old municipal bus had formed new bonds of friendship which meant that they just had to stay together, without supervision, in the furthest, most remote house on the slope of the hill.

  The Committee, as they later became known, formed in a natural way when everything had to be decided: the first three members were Pa, Father James and Pastor Nkosi. The fourth member was Ravi Pillay.

  The bishop and pastor called all the 256 people together to discuss the accommodation arrangements. Pa and the bishop stood on the load bed of the Tata Super Ace in front of the Midas filling station to address them, and to see and hear everyone. Pa called for order. Pillay came out of the group to the front. He was a slight figure, greying at the temples, somewhere between fifty and sixty. He asked Pa if he could say something for a moment. Pa nodded, and helped Pillay to climb on to the back of the Tata.

  He held up a hand for silence. He began to speak, his voice surprisingly deep and authoritative. It rang out over the group, it demanded attention. He spoke English with the characteristic accent of the South African Indian. He told the people that he had run a restaurant in Bedfordview for fifteen years. His initial marketing strategy was to offer a buffet on Sundays: eat as much as you can, at a fixed price. ‘It worked. People came, they told their friends about the delicious food and good service. I made a solid profit. But two years later, I stopped providing the buffet. Many clients were angry with me. “Ravi, we support you. Ravi, the place is packed, why are you taking our beloved buffet away?” Then I told them, I couldn’t stand the waste any more. Every Sunday I watched people piling up their plates, overflowing, excessive. But they didn’t eat half of it. Rich people. Black and white and Indian, every last one of them. Every Sunday they wasted so much food, in a land where many of the poor are living below the breadline. But that’s the way we are, our people. If we get something for free, we take more than we need. More than we can use. Come on, we have a new beginning here, let’s not start out that way. Let’s each just take what we need and what makes sense, what’s best for our survival and our future and the good order here, including the houses and the accommodation. We’re just the first of the arrivals, we won’t be the only ones.’

  From that moment on Ravi Pillay also became a member of the Committee. Only later would he tell us he had once been the mayor of Lenasia.

  The second crisis was food.

  The 256 had not brought food with them. Some of them had two, maybe three days’ provisions, but most of them had assumed it would all be provided at Vanderkloof.

  The evening of Arrival Day, Pa, Pillay, Father James and Pastor Nkosi held the second emergency meeting in the dining room of the Orphanage. I sat at the table and listened, Domingo sat to one side, busy cleaning a pistol and oiling it. Pastor Nkosi looked at Domingo every now and then with dislike, unease; it was hard to tell what he really thought.

  Beryl Fortuin brought coffee to the table while they weighed various options of teams, groups and shifts – for food gathering and cooking. Beryl put the tray down hard enough to rattle the cups and then she sat down and said, ‘A new beginning for good people, right?’

  She had their attention.

  She was angry: ‘That’s what Willem’s pamphlet said. That’s why all these people travelled all that way. As far as I can tell, it didn’t say “A new beginning for good people ruled by middle-aged men”.’

  I saw Pa look around the table, and nod thoughtfully. Bishop James got a word in first. ‘You’re absolutely right. Join us; we need your wisdom just as much.’

  And that was how Beryl became a member of the Committee.

  All the while Domingo sat in total silence a few tables away, his hands occupied with some task, but he listened to every word.

  The third crisis came two days later. The vehicles were lined up at the Midas filling station. They had to be filled up for the planned expeditions: the search for any still-edible packaged food in the towns in a two-hundred-kilometre radius, and the capture and transport of surviving sheep, cattle, pigs and chickens on what were once farms.

  Then the fuel ran out.

  The Committee had to rethink, reorganise manpower so that two groups of four people could go in search of a fuel tanker. One of those groups we never saw again, and we never found out what became of them. It was ten long days before the other group returned with a large, practically new tanker, full of petrol.

  Most of our vehicles used diesel.

  So on we stumbled, on the road to progress.

  The Saturday of that first week a pack of starving, bloodthirsty dogs attacked one of our sheep capture expeditions, six kilometres east of Philippolis. The men – two adults, two teenagers – had cornered seven sheep in a camp. After such a long time without handling the sheep were fearful and jittery. The men planned to load the sheep on to the pick-up; their attention was focused on the sheep and they didn’t see the dogs until it was too late. None of them were skilled with the firearms they had with them. They rapidly depleted their ammunition in their flight back to the pick-up and did little harm to the dogs. The dogs bit one of the men on the arm, and one of the teenagers on the leg before they could slam the truck door. Then they sat and watched the pack tear the sheep apart. They came home to Vanderkloof safely, but badly shaken.

  The Committee conferred that night about the incident.

  ‘We have to teach people to shoot,’ said Father James.

  ‘We’ll have to collect enough ammunition first,’ said Pa.

  ‘Who’s going to do it?’ asked Beryl. ‘We haven’t got any extra useful hands or vehicles or fuel left over.’

  ‘The people who are gathering food must also look for ammunition. Most farms have guns.’

  The Committee members nodded in silent assent, as there was no other solution.

  ‘Too many calibres.’ Domingo’s voice filled the silent void from his seat to one side of the room. It was the first time that he had uttered a word during a Committee meeting.

  Five heads turned to look at him.

  He explained: ‘Guns on farms are mostly hunting rifles. There is a range of calibres. If we want to teach people to shoot . . . In three or four months we will have to travel a long way in search of ammunition.’

  The Committee were silent.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, there is a solution,’ said Domingo. ‘We must standardise. The Defence Force depot at De Aar. It’s an hour’s drive from here. There should be a few thousand R4s. At least. And hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition.’

  ‘R4s?’ asked Pastor Nkosi.

  ‘The army’s assault rifle. Five point five six by forty-five millimetre, thirty-five rounds in the magazine. If we don’t empty that arsenal, someone else will do it some time or other. And then we’ll have bigger problems.’

  ‘Will you lead an expedition?’ asked Pa.

  Domingo nodded.

  In that first week I burned to go on an expedition too. Any expedition, but especially Domingo’s. I had already shot dead two bad people, a few dogs and buck. I had some big adventures with Pa in the era before Vanderkloof. It was more than most people could say. But Pa just shook his head when I first hinted, and then asked outright.

  I should have known there was something brewing.

  On the Sunday afternoon the Committee held a meeting, but Pa said I
should go and help Melinda in the kitchen.

  That Sunday evening Pastor Nkosi made an announcement on behalf of the Committee that would change my life radically. They asked the whole community to gather in the parking lot behind the OK Value supermarket, the meeting place that later became known as the Forum. The pastor stood on the back of the little Tata truck. He spoke in his sonorous voice about the food crisis, and asked everyone to respect the rationing of available provisions. He said everyone was working hard on it, and as soon as there were enough reserves, they would begin slaughtering livestock.

  He gave feedback on the various expeditions. There wasn’t much good news.

  And then he came to ‘the children’.

  According to their calculations, he said, there were forty-nine children between the ages of six and sixteen. The Committee suggested that all forty-nine gather at the old bowls club at eight thirty on Monday for school. Three people had been provisionally identified to work as teachers. ‘Children, we want you to know, your education is extremely important to us as a community. Under normal circumstances we’d let you attend school exclusively. But we don’t live in normal circumstances. Therefore, the children who are ten and older will receive one week of instruction, and the following week they will help with all the work that needs to be done.’

  Chapter 23

  James Rankin

  As recorded by Willem Storm. The Amanzi History Project.

  I spent my whole adult life working for the Church. I was with the Anglican Diocese of Johannesburg for eleven years, but nothing prepares you . . .

  There was this moment, at the height of the Fever . . . I was working, helping at the Milpark hospital, I was really just praying for people, for the dying, for their relatives who were being infected. It was . . . There was this moment, I was standing next to a bed, holding a dying man’s hands, in this six-bed ward, and I heard the shouts, there was a man with a gun, he was pointing it at me. He was saying, ‘It’s your God who did this, it’s your God,’ and just came closer and closer, with the gun pointed at my head. He was already sick, you could see that, he was in the first stage, the Fever had started, he knew he was going to die, and he wanted to blame someone. He stood right up against me, and he pressed the barrel of the gun against my forehead. And then he looked at me, and he realised I wasn’t sick. So he started shouting, ‘Why aren’t you sick?’ Over and over again. He was so furious, I was sure he was going to shoot me.