“More stories,” Isak begs, tracing his finger over the stars that make pictures like clouds do.
Outa snorts and spits. “Nooi Visagie would milk her own goats in the kraal, even caught them herself, here behind the back leg.” He lifts his leg up for them to see. “Then the nooi would milk them and Outa had to hold the head and if the goats knocked the bucket over, then the nooi would jump up and neek the daylights out of Outa.” He snaps his fingers, making pitiful noises.
Isak can see the woman in her starched kappie and laced boots, beating Outa.
“The nooi would press Outa’s head between her thighs and beat Outa black and blue.”
Danie places the rigid beetle on top of his blanket. It starts to creep over the squares of material. Calico, satin, velvet, kaffir sheeting.
“The last time the nooi did this to Outa, Outa was caught with his head facing up …” he pauses, “then Outa bit a chunk out of Nooi’s snuifie.”
Isak shoots upright then flops back, overcome by mirth, while Danie giggles hysterically into the blanket until his chest closes. The torch is switched on and they search for his asthma pump as Outa repeats the story.
“Jaffie.” Danie wheezes, shaking his blanket.
Isak shines the torch all over the sand but the beetle is gone. He makes patterns of light on the tent roof, beaming the torch into the eyes of Danie and the old man. The torchlight is so powerful it makes the stars disappear.
He remembers the lullabies his mother used to sing, not for him but for his father.
* * *
Greyness and cold wake him in the ward. It is with disappointment that he finds himself not with the old man. It is his calmness that he craves. To lie in hot sand and study the stars, to hear stories, to live for now without a care in the world is his desire. All the complications of running a business, have been self-made. He has created the mess that he is in. And he will have to find the way out.
Behind the screen Danie is on the phone with his back turned to him so that he will not hear. But one thing that has not been damaged is his hearing. In fact he can hear better than ever before.
“Amelie.” Danie throws a furtive glance over his shoulder, making big eyes as he points to the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”
The mask is lifted briefly for him to speak.
“Isak?”
Her voice cuts deep.
“Take it away … take it away.” Weakly, he raises his hand.
Embarrassed, Danie puts the phone down. “Sorry.”
The line makes alpine peaks on the screen.
“We’ll try later.” Danie’s moustache is trimmed in a perfect line above his lip.
They both stare at the black tulips.
The Dutch were breeding black tulips while Van Riebeeck was growing vegetables for scurvy.
Makgemaak … tamed. That is what the uniformed man had said about tulips.
He listens to his breathing, regulating the flow of air. But his heart beats its own rhythm.
* * *
Sheep bleat outside in unison.
Dust that smells of dung hangs over the tent and the old man is missing.
All is still but for the windmill that jerks and whines, pumping water into the trough. Isak pulls on his clothes and the sand hole of Outa has the shape of a man. Something moves on Danie’s blanket, it is the beetle. He unhooks the barbed legs, gently placing it in the matchbox clutched in his brother’s hand. Thoughtfully, he strokes the squares of the blanket with the tips of his fingers and it makes him peaceful inside, even happy.
Seated at the shelter is Outa with a new feather in his hat. The mountains are rumpled like his clothes. All is still but for the windmill and the sheep.
They walk a little way from the camp, heads down, and on the ground there are delicate scribblings. “Rabbit spoor.” Outa traces the spoor with his kierie.
Isak outlines it with his fingers, destroying the patterns in the sand.
“After breakfast, Outa will take the dogs out into the veld, then Outa will show the Basies how to hunt like plaasmanne.”
At the shelter, Danie sits with the open matchbox. “Look, Jaffie came back.” He holds the beetle in the box for them to see.
Outa ties string to the dogs’ collars and the boys hold them back as Outa walks ahead, sweeping his kierie from side to side. The sand is a story of the night. Of birds and insects and animals, intersecting each other like railway tracks. To the boys they look all the same but to Outa and the dogs there are differences that make the old man pause and the dogs strain on their leashes.
Isak is thirsty and Danie is tired of looking at the ground when Outa raises his hand to silence them. The whippet chokes with excitement. Outa’s arm stays up.
Hidden beneath the vyebos is the rabbit. It takes a leap but the whippet is too fast, tipping it in mid air. The rabbit somersaults, landing on its back with the dog at its throat.
“We’ve got him, we’ve got him!” The boys hurdle over the bushes.
Snarling, the dogs bite into the fur. Isak pulls the rabbit from under their paws, holding it high, dancing a little jig while Outa grabs the rabbit firmly by its ears, slitting its throat before throwing it into a bag. Disappointed, the dogs sniff at the bag slung over his back. There is fur around their mouths.
Unleashed they run ahead. The rocks shimmer as the day’s heat increases. Slowly they make their way towards an outcrop. Here they sit in the shade, sucking oranges, while Outa sharpens the blade of the knife.
Danie removes the beetle from the box. He taps the rock three times. The beetle responds, tap, tap, tap. He squeezes a drop of juice onto the rock and the beetle drinks.
“What did Outa eat in those times?” Isak turns to Outa.
“Mammie had a basin, a big white enamel one. Mammie bled the goat into it. Then Mammie would beat the blood like you beat scrambled eggs. After that Mammie cooked it slowly until it became thick porridge and we kleingoed would eat the red custard.” He slides his thumb along the sharpened edge. “That was a lekker meal indeed. There was strength in the blood. We never got sick, not one of the sixteen.”
“Can Outa make us bloedpap?”
Outa packs the knife away and passes the bag with the rabbit to Isak. “Only with a klipspringertjie, Basie. Rabbit blood is too bitter and too thin.”
Isak carries the bag all the way back to the shelter. He can feel the weight of the rabbit against his back and it is nothing in the beginning, but as he walks the rabbit hangs heavy in the bag and he shifts it from shoulder to shoulder.
They open the bag. The rabbit is thinner and smaller than when it was alive. Outa strips the skin and guts it. Danie’s head whips to the side as though someone has smacked him hard in the face, then he walks to the tent, closing the flap behind him, but Isak helps the old man truss the pathetic carcass.
For the rest of the day they lie listlessly in the tent, under the hooked carcass drying in the breeze, watching it change colour above their heads. And the beetle wanders over the tent’s floor, stops, then tap, tap, taps.
Only when the sun and moon hold the corners of the sky together as though it were a newly washed sheet do the boys come out to find Outa roasting the meat for them. The rabbit is tough and dry, tasting of bush.
* * *
It is dark. The lights of the Holden catch the fence as they drive along the sheep track. Hundreds of red eyes flash behind the barbed wire. Outa has had a dop or two.