One evening, sharing a plate of food with Twa that Sanna had sent from the kitchen, Willem Kloot’s shadow fell over them at the fire.

‘So, you’ll show me what you’re made of, Roeloff Kloot? You’ll stay in this hok and show me you don’t care to improve yourself? Maybe I’ve misjudged you. Maybe it’s time to test your mettle in the bush.’

‘I won’t go killing Sonqua, if that’s what you mean.’ The words came out unbidden, and Roeloff cringed: not only had he spoken out of turn, he’d also remained on his heels while his father spoke.

Willem looked down at his son, squatting beside the fire.

‘Yes, I can see I have misjudged you. Another week and I wouldn’t be able to tell you from this goat-smelling bosjesman. You’ve made a mistake; I’ll overlook it this time, but I warn you—don’t go turning the Kloots in their graves. Now get yourself into the house.’

Spring came with a torrent of rain and a rush of yellow and purple flowers rising from the veld. There was water in the barrels, the well, the house. The tin tub came out for the first time in months. It was a warm October evening, and Roeloff turned his grandfather’s chair on the stoep so he could look out directly over the veld. Propped up with a cushion in the mahogany chair with the riempie seat he’d bought from a Roodezand farmer, half dozing, half listening to Roeloff tell of his success with Boerhaan, Oupa Harman had got thinner over winter. He didn’t have to talk or cough or be in a closed room for Roeloff to pick up the gangrenous odour. Roeloff knew, better than his father who didn’t want to face the fact that Oupa Harman had poison brewing in his lungs, that it was only a matter of time. His grandfather had no strength in his legs and had to be helped into his chair where he insisted on being instead of in bed. His beloved pipe lay, dried out and dusty, on the window sill.

‘That sunset’s like a paralysed scorpion bleeding over the rant. Look at that, Oupa. The whole veld’s red.’

Oupa Harman shuddered at the description. A scorpion didn’t bleed, but what did it matter, he knew what the boy meant. Someone else had talked like that. His difficulty with his estranged brother had always been Krisjan’s obsession with words. Visionary verse, he called it. What was a man of vision if he couldn’t foresee the result of his actions? But Roeloff was right. It was a rosy sky flecked with gold, and he wasn’t yet dead to its beauty. It was his last season. Hewn from the blood dust of Africa, the land would soon claim him back.

‘You all right, Oupa?’

‘Everything’s all right on a day like this, Roff. Beauty is God’s cure for despair.’

‘You are quiet today.’

Oupa Harman coughed, farting at the same time. His grandfather never broke wind in company; it showed his lack of control.

‘I’m thinking of my brother, Krisjan. Your father never wanted him to come here.’

‘Is there something wrong with him?’

‘No.’

Roeloff waited for his grandfather to continue, but he didn’t.

‘One day I will travel to the Cape. There are many things I want to see there. I’ll look him up.’

Oupa Harman turned sideways to look at him.

‘You must leave that part of the family alone.’

‘He’s blood.’

‘Yes, he’s blood. And blood’s blood, even if it’s diluted. But, perhaps your father’s right. Listen, Roff, when I’m gone …’

‘Don’t talk like that, Oupa.’

‘There’s a wooden box with a green lid … the dockets of the first settlers. My great, great, great-grandmother, Anna Kloot, wrote it. A handful of papers in duiker hide. Also a leather necklace.’ He spoke slowly. ‘The first Kloots were vrijburghers. Their children grew up with the Hottentots.’

‘Koi-na.’

‘They came to bush and mountains and murderous winds. They are the ones who made it easy for us.’

‘Where will I find these dockets?’

‘Your father had them last. When you read them, read what isn’t there.’

‘What do you mean, Oupa?’

‘Anna Kloot was a smart woman. From across the sea. There’s a story she tells, and a story she doesn’t.’

‘Bad?’

‘In the eyes of some, not in mine. We all stand still when we pee.’

‘A Sonqua can pee while he’s running.’

‘Who says?’

‘Twa.’

‘You mustn’t believe everything he says. He thinks if you chew on a root, you’ll get better.’

‘I did, when I had pains in my stomach.’

‘Did you get better?’

‘No. He said in his hurry to get the root out of the ground, he forgot to put back a piece. You have to pay the land if you take from it. If you don’t, it doesn’t work.’

‘That’s what I mean. His head’s full of such nonsense. But he’s a good tracker. Did I tell you about the day I found him behind the Hantam?’

‘Not the whole story.’

The coughing started up again and Roeloff waited for his grandfather to get back his strength.

‘I thought it was an animal when I saw the bushes move. It wasn’t. It was Twa, crouched on all fours behind a doringboom, stalking an eland. We saw each other, and I fired at the same time as his arrow came flying through the air and into my saddlebag. I wasn’t injured, but he was. The shot knocked him over, into the bush. I got off my horse, and as I came forward, he ran off. I followed his spoor on horseback, and soon had him. What puzzled me was why he didn’t run when he first saw me. He must have seen me a long way off.’

‘Maybe he was afraid of losing the eland.’

‘Maybe. Anyway, there was something about him. I couldn’t leave him there or finish him off, so I brought him back to the camp. Your father was even younger than you are now, and we were camped a short ride away. I cleaned his wound and put on a poultice, and for three days he lay close to death with a dangerous fever. When he came out of it, he swore my magic was more powerful than his and that he’d been mistaken about us.’

‘He doesn’t think so any more. We are the robbers, and they the ones robbed.’

‘I know.’

‘They were here first, he says.’

‘True. But they’re not the only ones now.’

‘We’re the ones who don’t want to share. We want everything for ourselves.’

Harman Kloot looked at him a long time.