The Sun Between Their Feet

by Doris Lessing

  He glances at Pavu, who looks as if he were listening to lovers’ talk.

  ‘It is right for brothers to be together. A man who goes alone is like a man who goes hunting alone into dangerous country. And when we are gone, our father will not need to grow so much food, for he will not have our stomachs to fill. And when our sister marries, he will have her cattle and her lobola money …’ He talks on and on, trying to keep his voice soft and persuasive, although it keeps rising on waves of passionate desire for those good things in the city. He tries to talk as a reasonable man talks of serious things, but his hands twitch and his legs will not keep still.

  He is still making words while Pavu listens when the father comes out of the hut and looks across at them. Both rise and follow him to the fields. Jabavu goes because he wants to win Pavu over, for no other reason, and he talks softly to him as they wind through the trees.

  There are two rough patches in the bush. Mealies grow there and between the mealies are pumpkins. The plants are straggly, the pumpkins few. Not long ago a white man came from the city in a car, and was angry when he saw these fields. He said they were farming like ignorant people, and that in other parts of the country the black people were following the advice of the white, and in consequence their crops were thick and fruitful. He said that the soil was poor because they kept too many cattle on it – but at this their ears were closed to his talk. It was well known in the villages that when the white men said they should reduce their cattle to benefit the soil, it was only because they wanted these cattle themselves. Cattle were wealth, cattle were power; it was the thought of an alien mind that one good cow is worth ten poor ones. Because of this misunderstanding over the cattle the people of this village are suspicious of everything they hear from the sons of the Government, black or white. This suspicion is a terrible burden, like a cloud on their lives. And it is being fed by every traveller from the towns. There are whispers and rumours of new leaders, new thoughts, a new anger. The young people, like Jabavu, and even Pavu, in his own fashion, listen as if this is nothing terrible, but the old people are frightened.

  When the three reach the field they are to hoe, the old man makes a joke about the advice given them by the man from the city; Pavu laughs politely, Jabavu says nothing. It is part of his impatience with his life here that the father insists on the old ways of farming. He has seen the new ways in the village five miles distant. He knows that the white man is right in what he says.

  He works beside Pavu and mutters: ‘Our father is stupid. This field would grow twice as much if we did what the sons of the Government tell us.’

  Pavu says gently: ‘Quiet, he will hear. Leave him to his own knowledge. An old ox follows the path to water that he learned as a calf.’

  ‘Ah, shut up,’ mutters Jabavu, and he quickens his work so as to be by himself. What is the use of taking a child like this brother to the city? he is asking himself, crossly. Yet he must, for he is afraid. And he tries to make it up, to attract Pavu’s attention so they may work together. And Pavu pretends not to notice, but works quietly beside the father.

  Jabavu hoes as if there is a devil in him. He has finished as much as a. third more than the others when the sun goes down. The father says approvingly: ‘When you work, my son, you work as if you were fed only on meat.’

  Pavu is silent. He is angry with Jabavu, but also he is waiting, half with longing, half with fear, for the moment when the sweet and dangerous talk begins again. And after the evening meal the brothers go out into the dark and stroll among the cooking fires, and Jabavu talks and talks. And so it is for a long time, a week passes and then a month. Sometimes Jabavu loses his temper and Pavu sulks. Then Jabavu comes back, making his words quiet and gentle. Sometimes Pavu says ‘Yes,’ then again he says ‘No, and how can we both leave our father?’ And still Jabavu the Big Mouth talks, his eyes restless and glittering, his body tense with eagerness. During this time the brothers are together more than they have been in years. They are seen under the tree at night, walking among the huts, sitting at the hut door. There are many people who say: Jabavu is talking so that his brother may go with him.

  Yet Jabavu does not know that what he is doing is clear to others, since he never thinks of the others – he sees only himself and Pavu.

  There comes a day when Pavu agrees, but only if they first tell their parents; he wishes this unpleasantness to be softened by at least the forms of obedience. Jabavu will not hear of it. Why? He does not know himself, but it seems to him that this flight into the new life will be joyless unless it is stolen. Besides, he is afraid that his father’s sorrow will weaken Pavu’s intention. He argues. Pavu argues. Then they quarrel. For a whole week there is an ugly silence between them, broken only by intervals of violent words. And the whole village is saying: ‘Look – Pavu the good son is resisting the talk of Jabavu the Big Mouth.’ The only person who does not know is the father, and this is perhaps because he does not wish to know anything so terrible.

  On the seventh day Jabavu comes in the evening to Pavu and shows him a bundle which he has ready. In it is his comb, his scraps of paper with words and pictures, a piece of soap. ‘I shall go tonight,’ he says to Pavu, and Pavu replies: ‘I do not believe it.’ Yet he half believes it. Jabavu is fearless, and if he takes the road by himself there may never be another chance for Pavu. Pavu seats himself in the door of the hut, and his face shows the agony of his indecision. Jabavu sits near him saying, ‘And now, my brother, you must surely make up your mind, for I can wait no longer.’

  It is then that the mother comes and says: ‘And so, my sons, you are going to the city?’ She speaks sadly, and at the tone of her voice the younger brother wishes only to assure her that the thought of leaving the village has never entered his mind. But Jabavu shouts, angrily: ‘Yes, yes, we are leaving. We cannot live any longer in this village where there are only children and women and old men.’

  The mother glances to where the father is seated with some friends at a fire by another hut. They make dark shapes against the red fire, and the flames scatter up into the blackness. It is a dark night, good for running away. She says: ‘Your father will surely die.’ She thinks: He will not die, any more than the other fathers whose sons go to the towns.

  Jabavu shouts: ‘And so we must be shut here in this village until we die, because of the foolishness of an old man who can see nothing in the life of the white men but what is bad.’

  She says, quietly: ‘I cannot prevent you from leaving, my sons. But if you go, go now, for I can no longer bear to see you quarrelling and angry day after day.’ And then, because her sorrow is filling her throat, she quickly lifts a pot and walks off with it, pretending she needs to fetch water for the cooking. But she does not go further than the first patch of deep shadow under the big tree. She stands there, looking into the dim and flickering lights that come from the many fires, and at the huts which show sharp and black, and at the far glow of stars. She is thinking of her daughter. When the girl left she, the mother, wept until she thought she would die. Yet now she is glad she left. She works for a kind white woman, who gives her dresses, and she hopes to marry the cook, who earns good money. The life of this daughter is something far beyond the life of the mother, who knows that if she were younger she, too, would go to the town. And yet she wishes to weep from misery and loneliness. She does not weep. Her throat aches because of the tears locked in it.

  She looks at her two sons, who are talking fast and quiet, their heads close together.

  Jabavu is saying: ‘Now, let us go. If we do not, our mother will tell our father and he will prevent us.’ Pavu rises slowly to his feet. He says: ‘Ah, Jabavu, my heart is weak for this thing.’

  Jabavu knows that this is the moment of final decision. He says: ‘Now consider, our mother knows of our leaving and she is not angry, and we can send back money from the city to soften the old age of our parents.'

  Pavu enters the hut, and from the thatch he takes his mouth-organ, and from the earthen
shelf his hatchet. He is ready. They stand in the hut, looking fearfully at each other, Jabavu in his torn shorts, naked from the waist, Pavu in his loincloth and his vest with holes in it. They are thinking that they will be figures of fun when they reach the town. All the tales they have heard of the matsotsis who thieve and murder, the tales of the recruiting men for the mines, the stories of the women of these towns who are like no women they have ever met – these crowd into their seething heads and they cannot move. Then Jabavu says jauntily: ‘Come now, my brother. This will not carry our feet along the road.’ And they leave the hut.

  They do not look at the tree where their mother is standing. They walk past like big men, swinging their arms. And then they hear quick steps, their mother runs to them and says, ‘Wait, my sons.’ They feel how she fumbles for their hands, and in them they feel something hard and cold. She has given them each a shilling. ‘This is for your journey. And wait – ‘ Now, in each hand is a little bundle, and they know she has cooked them food for the journey and kept it for the moment.

  The brother turns his face away in shame and sorrow. Then he embraces his mother and hurries on. Jabavu is filled first with gratitude, then with resentment – again his mother has understood him too well, and he dislikes her for it. He is stuck to the piece of ground where he stands. He knows if he says one word he will weep like a little child. His mother says, softly, out of the darkness: ‘Do not let your brother come to harm. You are headstrong and fearless and may go into danger where he may not.’ Jabavu shouts: ‘My brother is my brother, but he is also a man -’ Her eyes glint softly at him from the dark, and then he hears the apologetic words: ‘And your father, he will surely die if he does not hear word of you. You must not do as so many of the children do -send us word through the Native Commissioner what has happened to you.’ And Jabavu shouts: ‘The Native Commissioner is for the baboons and the ignorant. I can write letters and you will have letters from me two – no, three times a week!’ At this boast the mother sighs, and Jabavu, although he had no intention of doing any such thing, grabs her hand, clings to it, then gives it a little push away from him as if it were her desire to clasp his hand – and so he walks away, whistling, through the shadows of the trees.

  The mother watches him until she can see her sons walking together, then waits a little, then turns towards the light of the fires, wailing first softly, then, as her sorrow grows strength with use, very loudly. She is wailing that her sons have left the kraal for the wickedness of the city. This is for her husband, and with him she will mourn bitterly, and for many days. She saw their backs as they stole away with their bundles – so she will say, and her voice will be filled with a bitter reproach and anguish. For she is a wife as well as a mother, and a woman feels one thing as a mother, another as a wife, and both may be true and heartfelt.

  As for Jabavu and Pavu, they walk in silence and fear because of the darkness of the bush till on the very outskirts of the village they see a hut that has been abandoned. They do not like to walk at night; their plan had been to leave at dawn; and so now they creep into this hut and lie there, sleepless, until the light comes first grey and then yellow.

  The road runs before them fifty miles to the city; they intend to reach it by night, but the cold shortens their steps. They walk, crouching their loins and shoulders against it, and their teeth are clenched so as not to confess their shivering. Around them the grass is tall and yellow, and hung with throngs of glittering diamonds that slowly grow few and then are gone, and now the sun is very hot on their bodies. They straighten, the skin of their shoulders loosens and breathes. Now they swing easily along, but in silence. Pavu turns his narrow, cautious face this way and that for new sights, new sounds. He is arming his courage to meet them, for he is afraid his thoughts have returned to the village for comfort: Now my father will be walking alone to the fields, slowly, because of the weight of grief in his legs; now my mother will be setting water to heat on the fire for the porridge …

  Jabavu walks confidently. His mind is entirely on the big city. Jabavu! he hears, look, here is Jabavu come to the town!

  A roar grows in their ears, and they have to leap aside to avoid a great lorry. They land in the thick grass on hands and knees, so violently did they have to jump. They look up open-mouthed, and see the white driver leaning out and grinning at them. They do not understand that he has swerved his lorry so that they have to jump for his amusement. They do not know he is laughing now because he thinks they look very funny, crouching in the grass, staring like yokels. They stand up and watch the lorry disappearing in clouds of pale dust. The back of it is filled with black men, some of them shout, some wave and laugh. Jabavu says: ‘Hau! But that was a big lorry.’ His throat and chest are filled with wanting. He wants to touch the lorry, to look at the wonder of its construction, perhaps even to drive it … There he stands, his face tense and hungry, when there is a roar, a shrill sound like the crowing of a cock – and again the brothers jump aside, this time landing on their feet, while the dust eddies and swirls about them.

  They look at each other, then drop their eyes so as not to confess they do not know what to think. But they are wondering: Are those lorries trying to frighten us on purpose? But why? They do not understand. They have heard tales of how an unpleasant white man may make a fool of a black one, so that he may laugh, but that is quite different from what has just happened. They think: We were walking along, we mean no harm, and we are rather frightened, so why does he frighten us even more? But now they are walking slowly, glancing back over their shoulders so as not to be taken by surprise. And when a car or lorry comes up behind they move away on to the grass and stand waiting until it has gone. There are few cars, but many lorries, and these are filled with black men. Jabavu thinks: Soon, maybe tomorrow when I have a job, I will be carried in such a lorry … He is so impatient for this wonderful thing to happen that he walks quickly, and once again has to make a sudden jump aside when a lorry screeches at him.

  They have been walking for perhaps an hour when they overtake a man who is travelling with his wife and children. The man walks in front with a spear and an axe, the woman behind, carrying the cooking pots and a baby on her back, and another little child holds her skirt. Jabavu knows that these people are not from the town, but travelling from one village to another, and so he is not afraid of them. He greets them, the greetings are returned, and they go together, talking.

  When Jabavu says he is making the long journey to the city, the man says: ‘Have you never been before?’ Jabavu, who cannot bear to confess his ignorance, says: ‘Yes, many times,’ and the reply is: ‘Then there is no need to warn you against the wickedness of the place.’ Jabavu is silent, regretting he has not told the truth. But it is too late, for a path leads off the road, and the family turn on to it. As they are making their goodbyes, another lorry sweeps by, and the dust swirls up around them. The man looks after the lorry and shakes his head. ‘Those are the lorries that carry our brothers to the mines,’ he says, brushing the dust from his face and shaking it from his blanket. ‘It is well you know the dangers of the road, for otherwise by now you would be in one of them, filling the mouths of honest people with dust, and laughing when they shake with fright because of the loud noise of the horn.’ He has settled his blanket again over his shoulders and now he turns away, followed by his wife and children.

  Jabavu and Pavu slowly walk on, and they are thinking: How often have they heard of the recruiters of the mines!

  Yet these stories, coming through many mouths, grow into something like the ugly pictures that flit through sleep when it is difficult and uneasy. It is hard to think of them now, with the sun shining down. And yet this companion of the road spoke with horror of these lorries? Jabavu is tempted; he thinks: This man is a village man and, like my father, he sees only the bad things. Perhaps I and my brother may travel on one of these lorries to the city? And then the fear swells up in him and so his feet are slow with indecision, and when another lorry comes sweep
ing past he is standing on the very edge of the road, looking after it with big eyes, as if he wishes it to stop. And when it slows, his heart beats so fast he does not know whether it is with fear, excitement, or desire. Pavu tugs at his arm and says: ‘Let us run quickly,’ and he replies: ‘You are afraid of everything, like a child who still smells the milk of its mother.’

  The white man who drives the lorry puts his head out and looks back. He looks long at Jabavu and at his brother, and then his head goes inside. Then a black man gets out of the front and walks back. He wears clothes like the white men and walks jauntily. Jabavu, seeing this smart fellow, thinks of his own torn trousers and he hugs his elbows around his hips to hide them. But the smart fellow advances, grinning, and says: ‘Yes, yes – you boys there! Want a lift?’

  Jabavu takes a step forward, and feels Pavu clutching his elbow from behind. He takes no notice of that clutching grip, but it is like a warning, and he stands still and plants his two feet hard in the dust like the feet of an ox who resists the yoke.

  ‘How much?’ he asks, and the smart fellow laughs and says: ‘You clever boy, you! No money. Lift to town. And you can put your name on a piece of paper like a white man and travel in the big lorry and there will be a fine job for you.’ He laughs and swaggers and his white teeth glisten. He is a very fine fellow indeed, and Jabavu’s hunger is like a hand clutching at his heart as he thinks that he, too, will be like this man. ‘Yes,’ he says, eagerly, ‘I can make my name, I can write and I can read, too, and with the pictures.’

  ‘So,’ says the fine fellow, laughing more than ever. ‘Then you are a clever, clever boy. And your job will be a clever one, with writing in an office, with nice white man, plenty money – ten pounds, perhaps fifteen pounds a month!’