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Fiction Short Story

Christine Andrews

Born in Johannesburg and raised in Pretoria, Christine strives to make her writing come alive with the pulse of Africa. The constant sunlight and diverse cultures have a strong influence on the South African society, in that it brings together opposites in a unique way. Individual cultures, legends and languages together weave a cloth of bright, earthy colours, fragrances, aromas sounds and tastes. All South Africans share a volatile, sometimes violent and heartfelt history ­ no matter which angle one approaches it from. In this short story, The Boer’s Tale, Christine tells the simple tale of a Boer that loses everything in the Boer War. It is based on a true story, of a Boer who once owned the farm that became the suburb on the outskirts of Johannesburg where Christine now lives with her husband Dave and three daughters. Christine is a professional artist, and produces the artwork and animation for various corporate communications, television broadcasts and educational video material.

Christine included a glossary of colloquial terms unique to South African English and some borrowed from Afrikaans (her native language).

Glossary:
Spruit = small river, stream
Veld = savannah landscape
Dassie = rodent living among rocks
Kiepersol = tree
Rooinek = "Red neck," name given to the English by the Boers during the Freedom war, indicating their sun-burnt necks
Boer = Farmer, Afrikaner (Afrikaans-speaking South African)
Magrietjies, Jakob-regops and Afrikaners = flowers

The Boer’s Tale

I am beautiful, and strong. His heart has roots deep in my soil. Why, then, would he go away? I held him in my lap, shaded with Bloubos, when he was a little boy. I offered him sweet sun-jewelled water from down the spruit to frolic in, solid rocks to jump and clamber over… watched him chase little footpaths down and out again on the other side of the kloof, just like a little cub playing over and around a big lioness.

Why, then, would Pieter leave me?

At first I was sure he would come back soon. He did, that first time. He brought Ella with him. They built new stables; added a room on the north side of the house. Babies came, three of them. Sarel, Anna and Hendrik. One spring they buried Pieter’s father next to that clump of Kiepersols, there. I miss Pieter. He likes to ride out to my highest point, before sunrise, and sit on the red, flat rock overlooking the east. He often has his mouth organ pressed to his lips, one hand cupping it jealously, and the other moving up and down to let the melancholy sounds escape. Around him the heavens would light up and spin a silky shimmer on his hair and beard.

One morning last summer he had Sareltjie with him.

"Sarel, my grootseun, one day you will have to work this land and take care of it, my boy. You must be prepared to fight and die for her! Never sell her; she is your heritage, your gift from Oupa, and me, and his daddy and his Oupa. Do you understand, son?"

Sareltjie nodded gravely.

Summer has come and gone, and Pieter is still not here. I remember the day well. The morning it all started. A troop of Boers on their horses came thundering from the south, down into the fold where Pieter and his family live. One of them jumped off his horse before it had even stopped, and banged on the door.

"Pieter Marais!," he shouted, "The Boers are fighting!"

Pieter came out with a mug of coffee warming his palms. They all shook hands and Pieter threw open the door to let them in. They laughed and shouted, I even listened to them sing. After a while they came out again to inspect and test their rifles. Ella came out too, with a packed bag and a jacket. Simon brought his horse from the stables, all saddled up. She threw her arms around Pieter, her shoulders shaking… then he went.

He went with the commando, wrapped in a cloud of dust, and he hasn’t been back.

Other commandos came, their horses breathing hot air impatiently into my grass, while their owners stopped at the house. They always came out with their arms filled, handing out biltong and dried fruits as they mounted their horses again. Ella would come out long after they have left to stare in the direction they went, her hands knotted together high up on her chest.

The worst thing has happened since Pieter left. It was terrible. The Khakis came! Annie was dancing through the long yellow grass up here when she saw them. She ran down to the house, pigtails flying in the wind, yelling: "The Khakis are coming, Ma, the Khakis!"

Her kappie had fallen off her head, and is still lying here in the grass, forgotten.

The English soldiers brought a wagon with them. They shouted at Ella to open the door in the name of the Queen, and then told them to gather what they will need for the concentration camp. Ella and the children huddled together and watched how the Rooinekke carried family heirlooms out of the house and trampled Ella’s flowers. One young man jumped jokingly on top of the piano, pretending to play. Then the others joined in, hitting the keys with the back ends of their rifles, smashing it to pieces!

"On the wagon, on the wagon, me ladies and me gents!" one shouted.

The wagon was scarcely round the bend when they torched the house. Black smoke heavy with cooking fat, candle wax and mahogany filled the hollow where the burning house lay.

Since then it has been very quiet, very lonely here. The commandos don’t come here anymore, and the English haven’t been. It is just I again, sighing, scattering ash everywhere and shaking the seeds from the grass heads.

Where could Pieter be?

Winter is settling in. The dassies make the most of the halfhearted sun. The Kiepersol stretch their necks as long as they can go, keeping an eye open for Pieter.

Is that the sound of hooves I hear? Yes, it is! Not galloping, not racing, no. The steps are slow, careful. Listless.

I spot them, yes I do!

I knew he would come back, I knew my Pieter would! I am beautiful, full and ripe, in autumn. I am bursting with song; my curves worked in an intricate tapestry of yellow, ochre, rust and fertile brown…

His head is hanging, hidden under the rim of his hat, but I am sure he will be so happy to be back! He is coming over here, past his old spot where he loves to sit and dream.

He stops!

Pieter slips -- no, falls -- off his horse onto his feet and walks a few steps toward his beloved rock.

He is going to linger here, renew his bond with me.

No, wait! What is he doing? He is kneeling… is he going to pray? Oh, I see! It is Annie’s kappie! It has been lying here all this time. Dear Annie, I miss her too.

What is that strange, strangled sound?

Pieter is bent down in the grass, Annie’s kappie pressed to his wet face. He’s almost falling to the ground.

My dear, dear Pieter.

The sun is low. Pieter gets up, silent now, and leads his horse by the reins down to the house. As he approaches the edge of the hill, I hold my breath, scared of his reaction. Oh, how will Pieter survive this?

He stays still, just staring, with rounded shoulders.

I follow his progress with a beating, anxious heart. Down the veld path to where Ella’s garden grew wildly, once. The Magrietjies, Jakob-regop’s and Afrikanertjies are all gone. Only dust and weeds remain, here and there one can spot where careless boots stamped a bush into the ground. Half-burnt planks are scattered everywhere… the front door is hanging like a paraplegic on just one hinge. Inside it looks dark, and empty, even without a roof. He did not go in. He turned around and came back up here, where he can look up at the stars and remember that life does not end here. No, it doesn’t.

***

Morning has come, and brought spring with her. She is almost indecent, so giddy is she! She brings more than blossoms and tender new growth. From afar, I spot the man on his horse, a white horse. He makes a turn at the house ruins, then, with his hand shielding his eyes against the over-eager sun, picks out the thin trail of grey winding upwards from Pieter’s fire. Gracefully he steers his horse up and towards us.

It is an English gentleman.

"Good day! I am looking for Mr. Marais? The owner of this farm?"

Pieter looks up to him, his eyes guarded. His hands keep busy, shuffling coals, topping up the water in the can.

"I am Pieter Marais."

The Rooinek triples about on his horse for a minute and a half, and then decides Pieter is not going to invite him to sit down.

"Mr. Marais…? Pieter?" He slides off his horse and approach Pieter, but keeps a respectful distance.

"Quilliam is the name! I am happy to make your acquaintance. The bank manager told me to speak to you. I am interested in buying your ground? My son suffers from asthma and the doctors in England advised a warmer, dryer climate. Would you consider…?"

Pieter flinches when the Rooinek mentions his son. He sits stone quiet for what seem hours, then looks up with a soft glint in his sky blue eyes. Now he rises, his hat gripped with white knuckles.

"If I sell my farm to you…"

No!

"…would you let me stay on? I can work hard…?"

The request takes Quilliam a few seconds to digest, but he recovers swiftly.

"But of course, old chap, why didn’t I think of that? What a brilliant idea!"

***

It has been many years. Hard years. I jealously guard a heap of fresh soil, not far from the Kiepersol trees. Just yesterday the Rooinek brought his wife, and his son here, to this spot. They were carrying Pieter’s coffin. They bent their heads, said a prayer, and gave back to me what they took away.