‘I’m the son of the man who killed your people.’
‘You are Eyes of the Sky.’
He looked at the small, delicate head, the sensual mouth, the sun glistening on the tips of her breasts. There was something that he liked about Zokho, much more than her physical beauty and her innocence. He turned his eyes to the horizon beyond, to the road he must travel. What did it matter now? he asked himself. He was what he was and Zokho was what he wanted.
‘What will you do with me, Zokho?’
‘I will go where you go. Be your shadow.’
‘You like me, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It will not be easy. People will not accept.’
‘You accept, Eyes of the Sky.’
‘I’m still Roeloff Kloot. Never let that be far from your mind.’
Twa walked up towards them, shaking his head at the silliness of young people.
‘And now, Kudu? Now we are three without food.’
Chapter Nine
Wynand Roos was resting his foot on the shovel, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand when he saw the horse and three strangers in the distance.
‘Looks like we have visitors.’
Neeltje stopped what she was doing and put her hand to her brow under the brim of her kapje, to look. Neeltje, a sixteen-year-old girl of great common sense, with a straw-coloured plait down her back, had been raised by her father to do the cooking and cleaning and pasture the sheep when there was no one else to do it. She had no friends except a one-eared mongrel called Boet who had been left behind by a trader, and although her father had paid for lessons for Neeltje from a travelling teacher, the closest she had come to a kinship with someone her own age was with one of the Hottentot children. But the year had been bad on the farm, money was scarce, and the Hottentots had all gone somewhere else.
‘One be an Africaander and two bosjesman.’
They watched in silence as the small party drew up.
Roeloff took off his hat, grateful to be finally at some destination. They had spent a gruelling week crossing the red-stoned Cederberg mountains, taking their chances with snakes and wild animals, but there was more chance of securing a meal in the mountains. The farm, nestled unobtrusively in a kloof, had only been spotted because of the smoke spiralling up from a chimney. It was sheltered from the wind, and there was a good deal of green land on either side of the dwelling. He had noticed the change in terrain as they travelled south. Hope surged in his breast.
‘We saw the smoke from the kloof. I am Roeloff Kloot.’
‘Wynand Roos,’ the farmer greeted. ‘This is Neeltje. Her mother’s dead.’
Roeloff noted the calluses on the young hands, the clean eyes. She reminded him of Vinkie.
‘This is Zokho and Twa. We’re looking for work. I see you’ve had some damage here to your fence. Jackals?’
‘Elephants. Two of them. They pass through every year. I hit one of them in the trunk, but he charged off as if nothing happened. They’ve ruined everything as you can see, eaten all the mealies and pumpkins. Completely flattened the tobacco plants.’
Roeloff looked around at the devastation.
‘A stone wall would keep them out.’
‘It is costly. There’re no bricks.’
‘There’s a lot of stone in these mountains. It would take time to cut enough, but it’s not impossible if you have the right tools. Still, if they only pass through once a year, a guard with a gun is perhaps all you need. A stone wall would be better, though. Protect the animals a lot better, too.’
Wynand looked at him. He had already measured Roeloff’s character: upright, used to work. He’d probably built just such a wall where he’d been before.
‘What kind of work do you have in mind to do?’
‘Anything. Build a fence if you want. Till some of this land. Twa can pasture the sheep and set traps for the jackals. He’s good at trapping.’
‘A jakkalsjagter.’
‘A bit of everything. I also have knowledge of reading, writing and arithmetic, if you have children you want taught.’
‘Neeltje’s my only child. Where do you come from?’
‘Ten days north. We could have come faster on the mare, but there are three of us, so we walked. The mare also had a sore on her back. My father’s Willem Kloot. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.’
‘Herman’s son?’
‘You knew my grandfather?’
‘My father did. He talked often of how they travelled together from the Cape. My father didn’t want to go as far north as the others, so he broke away and headed for Stellenbosch. We lived there until his death ten years ago. I came here for the land. I thought it would be better.’
‘There are trees here, at least, and grass for the sheep.’
‘Yes. I believe it’s much worse where you are. Who are these bosjesmans, then?’
