Cry of the Firebird

by T. M. Clark

  ‘He went at the same time as Maestro. Andries got him good in his thick boer skull and cracked it on the floor a few times with Nomonde’s help. He couldn’t hurt anyone else after that.’

  ‘Great,’ Lily said sarcastically. ‘Just stay here. When I get back, we’ll need to call Mum and Dad and let them know what happened. Andries’s parents, too. You don’t want them seeing this on the news. A raid like this one is sure to make one of the radio channels if not the SABC station itself.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘To find your maestro, and make sure he’s okay.’

  After that night, Lily spent almost a month checking Quintin’s vitals every hour with the nurses, and she grew fond of the ritual. Having undergone a decompressive craniectomy, as well as his hand surgery, the intubation tubes that kept him alive were his friend, feeding vitamins, nutrients and drugs into his blood, taking his waste away, and finally giving him life-saving oxygen as they ‘breathed’ for him, creating as little stress on his body as possible while he healed. Soon he would be able to breathe and eat on his own again when they were removed. He would need physical therapy after the muscle wastage, but it looked like he was one of the lucky ones and had made it through without noticeable brain damage so far. The odds had been stacked against him, and yet, he was doing well.

  Checking the swelling on his hands, Lily watched the pleated grafted skin, which had come from his stomach area, on each of his balloon fingers and across the metal that had been inserted into his knuckles. His hands were immobilised on boards, and she’d observed them, fascinated, as they slowly had begun to shrink again. His head was also clamped in a neck brace in his induced coma.

  ‘He’s going to wonder why you’re always here,’ Staff Nurse Olivia said.

  ‘I’ll tell him the truth when he’s awake enough to remember it. I’ve another week of this punishment from Mr Bolleneti for daring to call out a specialist surgeon in the middle of the night. But it gives me enough time to watch him go in for the cranioplasty, and actually witness the neuros replacing the skull piece they previously removed tomorrow. Then it’s back to emergency for me, and normal odd-hour rosters of a final medical residency student again.’

  ‘When you think on it, Mr Bolleneti was actually nice to you, giving you a month of normal working hours. That’s not a punishment, it was a reward for daring to break the rules.’

  ‘I think it was his way of making me like the regular hours he keeps, then when I get wrenched back into shift work, I’m going to feel it. Like he said he did after the early-morning and all-day surgery with Quintin’s hands.’

  ‘You know, there’s a bet going that when he wakes up, he’ll be in love with you. I’ve money on you two getting together before he leaves the hospital.’

  ‘Really? I think you’re going to lose. The poor man just had a hole cut in his head. Tomorrow, hopefully they can put that piece of skull back in, and then we still have to wait to see if the neurosurgeon gets it right and doesn’t make him a vegetable. And maybe after that, there’s still only a forty per cent chance that he’ll live past his first year of rehab. Can you imagine if this all goes wrong, and this man can’t play his violin anymore, and can’t live a normal life?’

  ‘Write the BP in the chart for me one-hundred-and-ten-over-seventy. He’s almost awake, don’t let him hear anything negative,’ the nurse warned.

  Lily peeked over her chart at Quintin. His eyes were indeed fluttering, trying to open. ‘Come on, you can do it, fight the drugs. Wake up, Quintin,’ she said.

  Then she was looking into those blue eyes again, and despite them still being a bit dazed, she started telling him their regular lines. ‘Don’t try to talk, you’re in hospital. We need you to communicate with us, using a blink or shrug if you can move your shoulders. Don’t try to move your hands; they’re immobilised,’ she repeated the same thing she’d said to him day in and day out.

  His eyes focused, and she could tell that he was now fully awake. She repeated her instruction, and added, ‘Do you understand?’

  He gave a single blink.

  She smiled. ‘That’s great, we’ve cognitive controlled movement,’ she said, writing it on the chart. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  He blinked three times. Slow but deliberate movements.

  ‘Good, numerical function.’ She looked at the chart and wrote it down. ‘Do you have feeling in your foot when I push this pen into the sole here?’

  He blinked once.

  ‘And here?’ she asked as she ran the pen up the inside.

  His toes curled and he blinked.

  Lily smiled. ‘I believe you have a ticklish spot there, Mr Winters, I’ll make a note not to touch there again.’

  He attempted to shake his head slightly from left to right.

  ‘Don’t do that, just blink rapidly and I’ll know that you’re saying no. Don’t attempt to move your head. You understand?’

  One blink.

  ‘Good. Now, going back. Did you feel it when I touched your foot?’ Lily asked.

  He blinked.

  ‘You did feel it?’

  He blinked.

  ‘That means you were trying to say that you don’t want Lily to stop touching there, is that it?’ Staff Nurse Olivia asked him.

  He blinked—just once.

  Lily could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She knew that the blush was unprofessional, but somehow his not wanting her to stop touching his feet was making her want to run her hands instead of her pen up his foot.

  Lily cleared her throat. ‘Very funny, Nurse. Okay, last one, then we can put you back to sleep.’

  He blinked rapidly.

  ‘Sorry, buddy, I know this is gruelling on you, but we’re only allowed to have you awake for a short time, then you need to sleep again. It’s for your own good. Your brain needs time to heal.’

  He just looked at her.

  ‘This last one is going to be a bit harder. You need to tell me if I touch you with something cold or warm. So, one blink for cold, and two for warm. Understand?’

  He blinked.

  ‘Can you feel this?’ she asked as she touched the centre of his forehead with her stainless-steel pen.

  He blinked.

  She placed her finger next to her pen but touched with her other hand on his cheek. ‘Can you feel this?’

  He blinked twice.

  ‘You’re doing great. That’s fantastic,’ she said as she opened his drip and flooded his blood with medication again. ‘There’ll be a change of shift and a different set of nurses will wake you for your next observation, just letting you know. Good night, I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said as his eyes fluttered closed.

  ‘I’m taking a second bet in that pool. I reckon you guys will be married before the year is out,’ Olivia said with a laugh.

  * * *

  ‘Lily? You listening still or are you asleep?’ Quintin asked, his voice slicing into her mind and drawing her back into the present time. ‘I’m listening but lost in a memory, too. That piece is haunting, it transported me to another time.’

  ‘Mexico? Where we slow danced all night in Cancun?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Here in Durban, when we met. I was just thanking the music for bringing you into my life.’

  ‘And I thank medicine for you, although it’s also for your stubborn determination, each and every time I’m able to play anything.’ Quintin lowered his violin, and leaned over to kiss her.

  ‘No, don’t stop, I’m enjoying it, it’s soothing.’

  ‘We have so much to unpack.’

  ‘It can wait,’ she said against his lips. ‘We have all the time to do what we want.’

  * * *

  Lily stretched her back. Looking at the clock on the wall, she couldn’t believe it was almost ten in the morning. It was Sunday, after all, so she’d indulged in a leisurely lie-in. The last week at the house had gone quickly, and she was expected to start work at the practice next Monday. But this mo
rning, she had wanted to get into the study and put everything that she had from Marion in order, and read each report and email, to understand what was happening, before she could add to Hawthorne’s work.

  Tiger’s purr changed pitch, and he lifted his head where he sat next to her on the floor. No matter how many times she had moved him, he had come back and lay within touching distance of her hand. Ignoring her papers when they landed on him, he had purred continually, until now. Lily looked towards the door.

  Bessie knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ Lily said.

  ‘The medicine man, Klein-Piet, is at the gate,’ Bessie said. ‘He’s come to see you.’

  Lily stood up and stepped carefully over the stacks of papers, which were sorted into three categories: normal sickness, abnormal symptoms, deceased.

  ‘Klein-Piet, the policeman?’

  ‘Yebo.’

  Lily smiled. ‘Please let him in, I’ll meet him now. Perhaps we can have some tea in the lounge.’

  ‘Yebo,’ Bessie said. ‘Do you want me to take Tiger? Is he bothering you?’

  ‘No, he’s delightful company. He’s fine where he is, thank you,’ Lily said, reaching out her hand and giving Tiger another fuss.

  Bessie smiled then left the room.

  Lily was eager to meet the man. She’d heard stories as a child of the legendary men of the Kalahari, those who didn’t need to drink water for days, who could survive in the desert. She was aware of the socioeconomic problems that had been brought to the newly settled San community. She’d read in Ian’s reports that had been submitted to Marion all about the alcohol abuse, violence and staggering jobless rate. It was terrible.

  She wiped her hands on her denim shorts and walked slowly down the stairs, anxious to meet Klein-Piet, but unsure how this get-together would go. Tiger got up and followed her, much like a dog would.

  She’d admired the pictures decorating the dining-room wall, but it was when she got into the office that she’d realised that perhaps these were pictures that Ian must have taken himself. Multiple photos, some headshots, others full body, covered the walls. One of her favourites was who she assumed was Klein-Piet in traditional loincloth with the sun silhouetted behind him, digging some plants out of the harsh Kalahari sand. Others had Klein-Piet and Ian together, standing close but not touching. Obviously, they were friends from what she’d read, but the pictures were a stark reminder to her of how deeply the apartheid laws that had been abolished still affected generations of people. She wondered how long it would take those who had lived through it to begin to accept the change and to learn to live differently.

  There were none of Klein-Piet the policeman. Lily frowned.

  She reached the entrance hall and slipped on her shoes as she heard Bessie talk into the gate’s intercom in the kitchen. It was a language like no other; there were clicks, not words, which sounded like something from her favourite movie as a child, The Gods Must Be Crazy. She couldn’t contain her smile as she walked.

  Opening the front door, Lily watched Klein-Piet exit his police bakkie and walk towards them. She knew that klein meant ‘small’ from her smattering of Afrikaans that she’d carried with her from her childhood. Being brought up very English in an apartheid society had meant that she wasn’t as bilingual as she would have liked to have been.

  Now that Piet was closer, it was obvious that he was even shorter than she’d realised. Almost the size of a fourteen-year-old before his growth spurt. He carried himself proudly. His hair was steel grey, cropped close to his head, and his posture that of someone who’d been training in the military. Someone who was proud—and determined. While he wore a khaki shirt with short sleeves, she could see that his arms were older, the skin taut but devoid of fat deposits. The muscles shaped and the veins strong. She estimated his age to be closer to sixty than fifty. This ‘old man’ was still as muscular as any other person half his age.

  He looked nothing like his photographs. His Nike takkies were bright white, despite the dust around, as if they were cleaned regularly and kept in pristine condition. He carried a bag slung across his shoulder, and there was some plant flapping about his head as if it was a feather from a bird of paradise. He lifted his hand and waved. She saw his signature grin from the photographs and couldn’t help but return the smile as she walked out onto the front porch to greet him.

  ‘Hello, I’m Dr Lily Winters,’ she said, extending her hand to shake his.

  Piet looked at her, but instead of a Western greeting, he put his hand on the front of her right shoulder. He nodded and said something that she did not understand as she didn’t speak any of the languages of the Khwe or !Xun San community, but she smiled anyway, hoping that the panic of not understanding him didn’t show on her face.

  Piet began giggling, as if a slow bubble was in his throat, and then it became a full-on belly laugh. ‘I think I got you good there,’ he said, reaching for her hand and pumping it with both of his wrapped around hers. ‘You looked so confused, if not a little terrified.’

  ‘Taken aback, and yes you did,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I would have to try my almost non-existent Afrikaans.’

  ‘I learned Afrikaans and English at the same time up in the Caprivi Strip many years ago. My mother tongue is still !Xun, although I also speak Khwe, Zulu and Xhosa. I hear you are here to take over Dokotela Meva’s work. He left a hole in my heart deep inside when he was killed.’ Piet’s accent was strongly Afrikaans, but it had a different melodic sound in the way he spoke.

  Meva. She knew the word and sound of that, and realisation dawned on her—Dr Thorn. He was talking about Ian Hawthorne. Of course—Dokotela and Ameva manipulated together from Zulu. She was going to be kept on her toes if Klein-Piet always spoke in a mixture of languages.

  ‘Got you again. That was too easy, seriously,’ Piet said with a mischievous grin. ‘Ian and I were friends, but these things happen a lot here in South Africa, unfortunately.’

  Lily shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. It had been a few years since I last saw him. It’s lovely to meet you in person. I feel as if I know you already from the pictures that are in Ian’s home. Come on inside. My husband, Quintin’s in the garage and we can join him in a moment.’

  ‘Ian and I had fun when we went camping and looking for plants in the Kalahari. There is much about flora that he taught me and so much that he learned from me. I do miss him,’ he said, putting down his bag outside the front door and stamping his feet on the mat before entering the house.

  ‘Talking plants,’ Lily said, ‘according to Lincoln, there’re a few in the garage that you apparently have an explanation for.’

  He stayed silent as they made their way to the lounge room.

  ‘Please, have a seat.’ She gestured widely to the lounge as she sat on the three-person couch. She watched as Piet sat in one of the overstuffed recliner chairs as if it was his favourite spot. ‘There are many plants in the garage, including some medicinal ones.’

  Piet smiled again. ‘Dokotela Lily. Do you know that means a flower that blooms in winter? We have been sent another plant doctor to help us.’

  ‘Please just call me Lily.’

  ‘Lily, until your uBuntu name finds you.’ He grinned and the lines in his face crinkled so deeply she couldn’t help but smile back. ‘You know, my Afrikaans name found me when I worked for the SADF. They could not say my San name, so I became Piet. Because I could mimic the Piet-my-vrou, and the SWAPO soldiers did not know it was not a bird warning of their passing through the veld but me.’

  ‘And Klein?’

  ‘I’m Kleinman, my surname, but when there were two Piets it got confusing. I was the smaller man, so I became Klein-Piet. Now there is only me, so some people just call me Piet.’

  ‘Noted. Just Piet, then.’

  Quintin chose that moment to walk in, and Piet stood up.

  Lily said, ‘Piet, my husband, Quintin.’

  They shook hands, and Quintin sat next to Lily. �
��So, what did I miss?’ Quintin asked.

  ‘You didn’t miss anything exciting, got here just at the interesting part. Piet was about to tell us about those plants in our garage.’ Lily lifted an eyebrow at Piet.

  Piet frowned before he spoke again. ‘There is more than one plant on Ian’s property that the law says you cannot grow without getting into trouble. I was teaching him the traditional plants of the San. If you are worried about the dagga medicine, you need not be. I think that our police force is too busy chasing after the real skabengas to come after this tiny medical operation. Maybe also because a majority of them use that oil since they are broken inside.’

  ‘Broken?’ Quintin asked.

  ‘Definitely. Some policemen in this town rely on alternative medicine to get through their day, they rely on us. Many people in South Africa have witnessed too much extreme violence, and the stress of living here, it takes its toll, no matter how beautiful the country is. Ian was aware of the PTSD side of the policemen’s jobs, but also the need to have medicine that doesn’t impair concentration. That didn’t contain any THC part of the marijuana plant.’

  Tiger came into the room, walked up to Piet and brushed against his legs, before he trotted over to Lily and jumped onto her lap. She stroked his soft fur.

  ‘I see that Tiger has given you the nod of approval. He is a beautiful cat,’ Piet said.

  ‘Big, fat and heavy is what he is, but gorgeous. In a few days, he seems to have gone from an outside cat to being Quintin’s or my constant shadow.’

  ‘I believe he likes you,’ Piet said.

  Lily smiled. ‘And I him.’

  Piet nodded. ‘Tiger is a good judge of character. He might have been given to Ian, but he was still wild. With you, he looks like he’s ready to be tamed.’

  Tiger looked at Piet as if he understood what was being said. ‘Spoilt, more like it,’ Lily said. ‘What about now that Ian is dead? Will the police continue to look the other way?’

  ‘Nothing will happen to you growing the plants and making the oil here. Life goes on.’

  ‘But with no guarantee that we won’t be arrested for having those plants?’ Quintin asked.