LITTLE Jannita sat alone beside a milk-bush. Before her and behind
her stretched the plain, covered with red sand and thorny “Karroo” bushes; and
here and there a milk-bush, looking like a bundle of pale green rods tied
together. Not a tree was to be seen anywhere, except on the banks of the river,
and
that was far away, and the sun beat on
her head. Round her fed the Angora goats she was herding; pretty things,
especially the little ones, with white silky curls that touched the ground. But
Jannita sat crying. If an angel should gather up in his cup all the tears that
have been shed, I think the bitterest would be those of children.
By and by she was so tired, and the sun was so hot,
she laid her head against the milk-bush, and dropped asleep.
It was a beautiful dream.
While she lay thus dreaming, one of the little kids
came and licked her on her cheek, because of the salt from her dried-up tears.
And in her dream she was not a poor indentured child any more, living with
Boers. It was her father who kissed her. He said he had only been asleep--that
day when he lay down under the thorn-bush; he had not really died. He felt her
hair, and said it was grown long and silky, and he said they would go back to
Denmark now. He asked her why her feet were bare, and what the marks on her
back were. Then he put her head on his shoulder, and picked her up, and carried
her away, away! She laughed--she could feel her face against his brown beard.
His arms were so strong.
As she lay there dreaming, with the ants running
over her naked feet, and with her brown curls lying in the sand, a Hottentot
came up to her. He was dressed in ragged yellow trousers, and a dirty shirt,
and torn jacket. He had a red handkerchief round his head, and a felt hat above
that. His nose was flat, his eyes like slits, and the wool on his head was
gathered into little round balls. He came to the milk-bush, and looked at the little girl lying in the
hot sun. Then he walked off, and caught one of the fattest little Angora goats,
and held its mouth fast, as he stuck it under his arm. He looked back to see
that she was still sleeping, and jumped down into one of the “sluits.” (The
deep fissures, generally dry, in which the superfluous torrents of water are
carried from the “Karroo” plains after thunderstorms.) He walked down the bed
of the “sluit” a little way and came to an overhanging bank, under which,
sitting on the red sand, were two men. One was a tiny, ragged, old bushman,
four feet high; the other was an English navvy, in a dark blue blouse. They cut
the kid's throat with the navvy's long knife, and covered up the blood with
sand, and buried the entrails and skin. Then they talked, and quarrelled a
little; and then they talked quietly again.
The Hottentot man put a leg of the kid under his
coat and left the rest of the meat for the two in the “sluit,” and walked away.
When little Jannita awoke it was almost sunset. She
sat up very frightened, but her goats were all about her. She began to drive
them home. “I do not think there
are any lost,” she said.
Dirk, the Hottentot, had brought his flock home
already, and stood at the “kraal” door with his ragged yellow trousers. The fat
old Boer put his stick across the door, and let Jannita's goats jump over, one
by one. He counted them. When the last jumped over: “Have you been to sleep
today?” he said; “there is one missing.”
Then little Jannita knew what was coming, and she
said, in a low voice, “No.” And then she felt in her heart that deadly sickness
that you feel when you tell a lie; and again she said, “Yes.”
“Do you think you will have any supper this
evening?” said the Boer.
“No,” said Jannita.
“What do you think you will have?”
“I don't know,” said Jannita.
“Give me your whip,” said the Boer to Dirk, the
Hottentot.
The moon was all but full that night. Oh, but its
light was beautiful!
The little girl crept to the door of the outhouse
where she slept, and looked at it. When you are hungry, and very, very sore,
you do not cry. She leaned her chin on one
hand, and looked, with her great dove's eyes--the other hand was cut open, so
she wrapped it in her pinafore. She looked across the plain at the sand and the
low karroo-bushes, with the moonlight on them.
Presently, there came slowly, from far away, a wild
spring-buck. It came close to the house, and stood looking at it in wonder,
while the moonlight glinted on its horns, and in its great eyes. It stood
wondering at the red brick walls, and the girl watched it. Then, suddenly, as
if it scorned it all, it curved its beautiful back and turned; and away it fled
over the bushes and sand, like a
sheeny streak of white lightning. She stood up to watch it. So free, so free!
Away, away! She watched, till she could see it no more on the wide plain.
Her heart swelled, larger, larger, larger: she
uttered a low cry; and without waiting, pausing, thinking, she followed on its
track. Away, away, away! “I--I also!” she said, “I--I also!”
When at last her legs began to tremble under her,
and she stopped to breathe, the house was a speck behind her. She dropped on
the earth, and held her panting sides.
She began to think now.
If she stayed on the plain they would trace her
footsteps in the morning and catch her; but if she waded in the water in the
bed of the river they would not be able to find her footmarks; and she would
hide, there where the rocks and the “kopjes” were.
(“Kopjes,” in the karroo, are hillocks of stone,
that rise up singly or in clusters, here and there; presenting sometimes the
fantastic appearance of old ruined castles or giant graves, the work of human
hands.)
So she stood up and walked towards the river. The
water in the river was low; just a line of silver in the broad bed of sand,
here and there broadening into a pool. She stepped into it, and bathed her feet
in the delicious cold water. Up and up the stream she walked, where it rattled
over the pebbles, and past where the farmhouse lay; and where the rocks were
large she leaped from one to the other. The night wind in her face made her
strong--she laughed. She had never felt such night wind before. So the night
smells to the wild bucks, because they are free! A free thing feels as a
chained thing never can.
At last she came to a place where the willows grew
on each side of the river, and trailed their long branches on the sandy bed.
She could not tell why, she could not tell the reason, but a feeling of fear
came over her.
On the left bank rose a chain of “kopjes” and a
precipice of rocks. Between the precipice and the river bank there was a narrow
path covered by the fragments of fallen rock. And upon the summit of the
precipice a kippersol tree grew, whose palm-like leaves were clearly cut out
against the night sky. The rocks cast a deep shadow, and the willow trees, on either side of the
river. She paused, looked up and about her, and then ran on, fearful.
“What was I afraid of? How foolish I have been!”
she said, when she came to a place where the trees were not so close together.
And she stood still and looked back and shivered.
At last her steps grew wearier and wearier. She was
very sleepy now, she could scarcely lift her feet. She stepped out of the
river-bed. She only saw that the rocks about her were wild, as though many
little “kopjes” had been broken up and strewn upon the ground, lay down at the
foot of an aloe, and fell asleep.
But, in the morning, she saw what a glorious place
it was. The rocks were piled on one another, and tossed this way and that.
Prickly pears grew among them, and there were no less than six kippersol trees
scattered here and there among the broken “kopjes.” In the rocks there were
hundreds of homes for the coneys, and from the crevices wild asparagus hung
down. She ran to the river, bathed in the clear cold water, and tossed it over
her head. She sang aloud. All the songs she knew were sad, so she could not
sing them now, she was glad, she was so free; but she sang the notes without
the words, as the cock-o-veets do. Singing and jumping all the way, she went
back, and took a sharp stone, and cut at the root of a kippersol, and got out a
large piece, as long as her arm, and sat to chew it. Two coneys came out on the
rock above her head and peeped at her. She held them out a piece, but they did
not want it, and ran away.
It was very delicious to her. Kippersol is like raw quince, when it is very green; but she
liked it. When good food is thrown at you by other people, strange to say, it
is very bitter; but whatever you find yourself is sweet!
When she had finished she dug out another piece,
and went to look for a pantry to put it in. At the top of a heap of rocks up
which she clambered she found that some large stones stood apart but met at the
top, making a room.
“Oh, this is my little home!” she said.
At the top and all round it was closed, only in the
front it was open. There was a beautiful shelf in the wall for the kippersol,
and she scrambled down again. She brought a great branch of prickly pear, and
stuck it in a crevice before the door, and hung wild asparagus over it, till it
looked as though it grew there. No one could see that there was a room there,
for she left only a tiny opening, and hung a branch of feathery asparagus over
it. Then she crept in to see how it looked. There was a glorious soft green
light. Then she went out and picked some of those purple little ground
flowers--you know them--those that keep their faces close to the ground, but
when you turn them up and look at them they are deep blue eyes looking into
yours! She took them with a little earth, and put them in the crevices between
the rocks; and so the room was quite furnished. Afterwards she went down to the
river and brought her arms full of willow, and made a lovely bed; and, because
the weather was very hot, she lay down to rest upon it.
She went to sleep soon, and slept long, for she was
very weak. Late in the afternoon she was awakened by a few cold drops falling
on her face. She sat up. A great
and fierce thunderstorm had been raging, and a few of the cool drops had fallen
through the crevice in the rocks. She pushed the asparagus branch aside, and
looked out, with her little hands folded about her knees. She heard the thunder
rolling, and saw the red torrents rush among the stones on their way to the
river. She heard the roar of the river as it now rolled, angry and red, bearing
away stumps and trees on its muddy water. She listened and smiled, and pressed
closer to the rock that took care of her. She pressed the palm of her hand
against it. When you have no one to love you, you love the dumb things very
much. When the sun set, it cleared up. Then the little girl ate some kippersol,
and lay down again to sleep. She thought there was nothing so nice as to sleep.
When one has had no food but kippersol juice for two days, one doesn't feel
strong.
“It is so nice here,” she thought as she went to
sleep, “I will stay here always.”
Afterwards the moon rose. The sky was very clear
now, there was not a cloud anywhere; and the moon shone in through the bushes
in the door, and made a lattice-work of light on her face. She was dreaming a beautiful dream. The
loveliest dreams of all are dreamed when you are hungry. She thought she was
walking in a beautiful place, holding her father's hand, and they both had
crowns on their heads, crowns of wild asparagus. The people whom they passed
smiled and kissed her; some gave her flowers, and some gave her food, and the
sunlight was everywhere. She dreamed the same dream over and over, and it grew
more and more beautiful; till, suddenly, it seemed as though she were standing
quite alone. She looked up: on one side of her was the high precipice, on the other was the river, with the willow
trees, drooping their branches into the water; and the moonlight was over all.
Up, against the night sky the pointed leaves of the kippersol trees were
clearly marked, and the rocks and the willow trees cast dark shadows.
In her sleep she shivered, and half awoke.
“Ah, I am not there, I am here,” she said; and she
crept closer to the rock, and kissed it, and went to sleep again.
It must have been about three o'clock, for the moon
had begun to sink towards the western sky, when she woke, with a violent start.
She sat up, and pressed her hand against her heart.
“What can it be? A coney must surely have run
across my feet and frightened me!” she said, and she turned to lie down again;
but soon she sat up. Outside, there was the distinct sound of thorns crackling
in a fire.
She crept to the door and made an opening in the
branches with her fingers.
A large fire was blazing in the shadow, at the foot
of the rocks. A little Bushman sat over some burning coals that had been raked from
it, cooking meat. Stretched on the ground was an Englishman, dressed in a
blouse, and with a heavy, sullen face. On the stone beside him was Dirk, the
Hottentot, sharpening a bowie knife.
She held her breath. Not a coney in all the rocks
was so still.
“They can never find me here,” she said; and she
knelt, and listened to every word they said. She could hear it all.
“You may have all the money,” said the Bushman;
“but I want the cask of brandy. I will set the roof alight in six places, for a Dutchman burnt my mother once alive in
a hut, with three children.”
“You are sure there is no one else on the farm?”
said the navvy.
“No, I have told you till I am tired,” said Dirk;
“the two Kaffirs have gone with the son to town; and the maids have gone to a
dance; there is only the old man and the two women left.”
“But suppose,” said the navvy, “he should have the
gun at his bedside, and loaded!”
“He never has,” said Dirk; “it hangs in the passage,
and the cartridges too. He never thought when he bought it what work it was
for! I only wish the little white girl was there still,” said Dirk; “but she is
drowned. We traced her foot marks to the great pool that has no bottom.”
She listened to every word, and they talked on.
Afterwards, the little Bushman, who crouched over
the fire, sat up suddenly, listening.
“Ha! what is that?” he said.
A Bushman is like a dog: his ear is so fine he
knows a jackal's tread from a wild dog's.
“I heard nothing,” said the navvy.
“I heard,” said the Hottentot; “but it was only a
coney on the rocks.”
“No coney, no coney,” said the Bushman; “see, what
is that there moving in the shade round the point?”
“Nothing, you idiot!” said the navvy. “Finish your
meat; we must start now.”
There were two roads to the homestead. One went
along the open plain, and was by far the shortest; but you might be seen half a
mile off. The other ran along the river bank, where there were rocks, and
holes, and willow-trees to hide among. And all down the river bank ran a little
figure.
The river was swollen by the storm full to its
banks, and the willow trees dipped their half-drowned branches into its water.
Wherever there was a gap between them, you could see it flow, red and muddy,
with the stumps upon it. But the little figure ran on and on; never looking,
never thinking; panting, panting! There, where the rocks were the thickest;
there, where on the open space the moonlight shone; there, where the prickly
pears were tangled, and the rocks cast shadows, on it ran; the little hands
clinched, the little heart beating, the eyes fixed always ahead.
It was not far to run now. Only the narrow path
between the high rocks and the river.
At last she came to the end of it, and stood for an
instant. Before her lay the plain, and the red farm-house, so near, that if
persons had been walking there you might have seen them in the moonlight. She
clasped her hands. “Yes, I will tell them, I will tell them!” she said; “I am
almost there!” She ran forward again, then hesitated. She shaded her eyes from
the moonlight, and looked. Between her and the farm-house there were three
figures moving over the low bushes.
In the sheeny moonlight you could see how they
moved on, slowly and furtively; the short one, and the one in light clothes,
and the one in dark.
“I cannot help them now!” she cried, and sank down
on the ground, with her little hands clasped before her.
“Awake, awake!” said the farmer's wife; “I hear a
strange noise; something calling, calling, calling!”
The man rose, and went to the window.
“I hear it also,” he said; “surely some jackal's at
the sheep. I will load my gun and go and see.”
“It sounds to me like the cry of no jackal,” said
the woman; and when he was gone she woke her daughter.
“Come, let us go and make a fire, I can sleep no
more,” she said; “I have heard a strange thing tonight. Your father said it was
a jackal's cry, but no jackal cries so. It was a child's voice, and it cried,
‘Master, master, wake!’”
The women looked at each other; then they went to
the kitchen, and made a great fire; and they sang psalms all the while.
At last the man came back; and they asked him,
“What have you seen?”“Nothing,” he said,
“but the sheep asleep in their kraals, and the moonlight on the walls. And yet,
it did seem to me,” he added, “that far away near the ‘krantz’ [precipice] by
the river, I saw three figures moving. And afterwards--it might have been
fancy--I thought I heard the cry again; but since that, all has been still
there.”
Next day a navvy had returned to the railway works.
“Where have you been so long?” his comrades asked.
“He keeps looking over his shoulder,” said one, “as though he thought he should see something
there.”
“When he drank his grog today,” said another, “he
let it fall, and looked round.”
Next day, a small old Bushman, and a Hottentot, in
ragged yellow trousers, were at a wayside canteen. When the Bushman had had
brandy, he began to tell how something (he did not say whether it was man,
woman, or child) had lifted up its hands and cried for mercy; had kissed a
white man's hands, and cried to him to help it. Then the Hottentot took the
Bushman by the throat, and dragged him out.
Next night, the moon rose
up, and mounted the quiet sky. She was full now, and looked in at the little home; at the purple flowers stuck about the room, and the kippersol on the shelf. Her light fell on the willow trees, and on the high rocks, and on a little new-made heap of earth and round stones. Three men knew what was under it; and no one else ever will.
up, and mounted the quiet sky. She was full now, and looked in at the little home; at the purple flowers stuck about the room, and the kippersol on the shelf. Her light fell on the willow trees, and on the high rocks, and on a little new-made heap of earth and round stones. Three men knew what was under it; and no one else ever will.
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