‘Sun’s going down,’ Roeloff said. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s not going anywhere.’

‘The oubaas wants us to kill him.’

‘He won’t come to the farm. I think he’ll look for a herd now.’

‘Bulls like this don’t move in a herd. I know about elephants. There were many at the river where I lived. Kill him—we are wasting time. He’ll be in a rage when he comes.’

‘No. We’ll guard the fence. I’ll come back in the morning for the tusks. The scavengers will have cleaned up by then.’

‘You’re feeling sorry for him.’

‘He’s too grand to be touched.’

‘Grand?’ Twa shook his head in amazement. ‘There would not be one of us left if we considered the grandness of animals. We don’t kill animals for no reason, only when we have to eat, but the oubaas will be angry if this bull comes to the farm. You’re not a true hunter, Sonqua.’

‘If you say so. And I’m not Sonqua.’

Twa noticed the change in Roeloff’s mood.

‘You mustn’t take notice of everything Twa says. You’ve fed us from the accuracy of your gun, of course you’re a hunter.’

Wynand was glad to hear that his gunpowder hadn’t been wasted, but none too pleased at Roeloff’s decision to leave the bull alone, when it was so close by.

They took turns guarding the fence, but the night passed without incident. In the morning Roeloff picked up a pumpkin and set off by himself for the hill. The bull was still there, standing solemnly near the carcass. The scavengers hadn’t been allowed near, and the sky broiled with vultures, the squawking of jackals and hyenas jockeying for position, testimony to the clamour-for-carcass warfare of the veld.

He walked slowly up to the bull and, ten feet from the massive animal, placed the pumpkin on the ground. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew; the elephant had wounded feelings, but something in the beast’s demeanour told him he was safe.

The black eyes turned to look at him.

Roeloff’s heart pounded. He was close enough to see the nicks and tears along the edges of the ears. A side swipe could catapult him clear across the veld, and no gun would save him if the bull attacked.

The elephant’s trunk reached out and sniffed at the pumpkin. Cracking the shell with a delicate pressure from his foot, the bull curled his trunk around the pumpkin and lifted it to his mouth. Then the trunk unfurled and reached out, and Roeloff’s heart froze in his chest. He would be seized by that powerful cylinder of muscle and flung to the ground. He waited for the attack, feeling the rush of blood in his ears. It came, in a wave of rotten breath as the hairs at the tip of the trunk brushed gently over Roeloff’s face. Stunned by the gesture, he opened his eyes. The trunk was poised over his head. Then the bull gave a low rumble, and showered himself with a spray of dust. Fanning himself with his great ears, he raised his eyes to the distance and swayed majestically past Roeloff in the direction from which he had come.

The harvest had been good, and a tired Wynand sat at the table waiting for Neeltje to serve up his food. The work of the day was behind him, and he sat with his arms resting on the table, wondering what his daughter had concocted for supper. Supper was a surprise every night; sometimes a stiff porridge with two soft-boiled eggs on top, other times, mealies and cabbage, or beans and rice. Sometimes she took so long fiddling over the pots that he was asleep before the food came. But he was wide awake this evening, his thoughts on the pumpkins and tobacco he would trade with other farmers in Roodezand. There was no doubt that Roeloff had helped to change their luck.

His eye was caught for a moment by the glittering beads on Neeltje’s dress. He’d seen her and Zokho talking and laughing in the kitchen, heads bent over ostrich eggshell beads they were sticking onto things with tree glue. He hadn’t known his daughter cared for such things, but then, there were other things he hadn’t known about her, things he started noticing soon after the arrival of young Kloot; the high colour in her cheeks, her neatly brushed hair left loose on Sundays and, once, he’d seen her looking out the window at Roeloff washing beside the barrel when he’d thought he was alone. Wynand had said nothing; things had a way of working out. But Roeloff’s half-year was up and that was foremost in their minds. Neeltje didn’t want him to go. Wynand didn’t want him to go. What the boy did with the Bushman girl after he closed his door at night, was his own business. He did a good day’s work and he was trustworthy. The rest was unimportant.

‘I’m spanning in for Roodezand tomorrow,’ Wynand said.

‘I saw you getting things ready. How long will you be?’

‘No more than a week.’

‘We need a good stock-up, Pa. We’re almost out of sugar, coffee, flour, beans—everything with Stoffel not showing his face. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, staying away like this. We ran out of rice weeks ago.’

Wynand smiled. It was strange that a girl who could shoulder a gun and put her weight behind a shovel, hadn’t worked it out. The smous with the soft lips and the stutter was confused. He’d seen Roeloff on the premises and lost his nerve. Had Stoffel asked, he would have discovered that Roeloff was with someone else, but he hadn’t.

‘I also need some cloth, Pa.’

‘Cloth? What for?’ She’d never made such a request before.

‘I’ve worn the same dresses now for three years. I’ve let them out and let them out, but I’ve grown. There are patches on the elbows, and the hems are in tatters. I need at least one dress that fits. For special.’

Wynand looked genuinely surprised.

‘For special? What special occasions do we have?’

‘Well, Pa, maybe not for special, but for every day. Here,’ she plonked his plate down in front of him.

He looked at the food on his plate.

‘Where did this meat come from?’

‘Roeloff shot an ostrich. Twa cleaned it, Zokho cooked it. I fried four potatoes in that bit of chicken fat we had left.’

‘Everyone has his hand to my supper now?’

‘No, Pa, but I thought it was good of them to consider us. If you like it, there’s more for tomorrow.’

He tore off a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. It had been roasted dark brown on some sort of spit, judging by the ash still sticking to it—too wild-tasting for his liking, but tasty. Neeltje was at his side, waiting for the verdict.

‘It’s good.’

She relaxed. ‘It’s not bad, is it, Pa?’

‘No.’

She sat down with her own plate and started to eat.

‘If we can eat this, maybe we can eat other things and save the chickens. One gets tired of pumpkin and potatoes all the time. Zokho says tortoise is good. And you can use the shell afterwards.’

Wynand looked up from his plate.

‘Don’t put anything that drags its belly on the ground on my plate, Neeltje.’

‘I’m just mentioning it, Pa.’

‘Mention it. Just don’t go thinking on it.’

They ate for a few minutes in silence.

‘What’s this cloth you want? Maybe we should just ask Faan’s wife to get it and make you a dress.’

‘We want to do it ourselves.’