He went into the house, and there in the great heat he struggled with the church accounts, until he heard the sounds of a horse, and he heard it stop outside the church. He rose from his chair, and went out to see who might be riding in this merciless sun. And for a moment he caught his breath in astonishment, for it was a small white boy on a red horse, a small white boy as like to another who had ridden here as any could be.
The small boy smiled at Kumalo and raised his cap and said, Good morning. And Kumalo felt a strange pride that it should be so, and a strange humility that it should be so, and an astonishment that the small boy should not know the custom. Good morning, inkosana, he said. It is a hot day for riding. I don’t find it hot. Is this your church? Yes, this is my church. I go to a church school, St. Mark s. It’s the best school in Johannesburg. We’ve a chapel there.
St. Mark s, said Kumalo excited. This church is St. Mark s. But your chapel it
is no doubt better than this? Well yes it is better, said the small boy smiling. But it’s in the town, you know. Is that your house? Yes, this is my house.
Could I see inside it? I’ve never been inside a parson’s house, I mean a native parson’s house. You are welcome to see inside it, inkosana.
The small boy slipped off his horse and made it fast to the poles, that were there for the horses of those that came to the church. He dusted his feet on the frayed mat outside Kumalo’s door, and taking off his cap, entered the house. This is a nice house, he said. I didn’t expect it would be so nice. Not all our houses are such, said Kumalo gently. But a priest must keep his house nice. You have seen some of our other houses, perhaps?
Oh yes, I have. On my grandfather’s farm. They’re not so nice as this. Is that your work there? Yes, inkosana. It looks like Arithmetic. It is Arithmetic. They are the accounts of the Church. I didn’t know that churches had accounts. I thought only shops had those. And Kumalo laughed at him. And having laughed once, he laughed again, so that the small boy said to him, Why are you laughing? But the small boy was laughing also, he took no offence. I am just laughing, inkosana. Inkosana? That’s little inkosi, isn’t it? It is little inkosi. Little master, it means. Yes, I know. And what are you called? What do I call you? Umfundisi. I see. Imfundisi. No. Umfundisi. Umfundisi. What does it mean? It means parson. May I sit down, umfundisi? the small boy pronounced the word slowly. Is that right? he said.
Kumalo swallowed the laughter. That is right, he said. Would you like a drink of water? You are hot. I would like a drink of milk, said the boy. Ice-cold, from the fridge, he said. Inkosana, there is no fridge in Ndotsheni. Just ordinary milk then, umfundisi. Inkosana, there is no milk in Ndotsheni.
The small boy flushed. I would like water, umfundisi, he said. Kumalo brought him the water, and while he was drinking, asked him, How long are you staying here, inkosana? Not very long now, umfundisi. He went on drinking his water, then he said, These are not our real holidays now. We are here for special reasons.
And Kumalo stood watching him, and said in his heart, O child bereaved, I know your reasons. Water is amanzi, umfundisi.
And because Kumalo did not answer him, he said, umfundisi. And again, umfundisi. My child. Water is amanzi, umfundisi.
Kumalo shook himself out of his reverie. He smiled at the small eager face, and he said, That is right, inkosana. And horse is ihashi. That is right also. And house is ikaya. Right also. And money is imali. Right also. And boy is umfana. Right also. And cow is inkomo.
Kumalo laughed outright. Wait, wait, he said, I am out of breath. And he pretended to puff and gasp, and sat down on the chair, and wiped his brow. You will soon talk Zulu, he said. Zulu is easy. What’s the time, umfundisi? Twelve o’clock, inkosana. Jeepers creepers, it’s time I was off. Thank you for the water, umfundisi. The small boy went to his horse. Help me up, he cried. Kumalo helped him up, and the small boy said, I’ll come and see you again, umfundisi. I’ll talk more Zulu to you.
Kumalo laughed. You will be welcome, he said. Umfundisi? Inkosana? Why is there is no milk in Ndotsheni? Is it because the people are poor? Yes, inkosana. And what do the children do?
Kumalo looked at him. They die, my child, he said. Some of them are dying now. Who is dying now? The small child of Kuluse. Didn’t the doctor come? Yes, he came. And what did he say? He said the child must have milk, inkosana. And what did the parents say? They said, Doctor, we have heard what you say.
And the small boy said in a small voice, I see. He raised his cap and said solemnly, Goodbye, umfundisi. He set off solemnly too, but there were spectators along the way, and it was not long before he was galloping wildly along the hot dusty road.
The night brought coolness and respite. While they were having their meal, Kumalo and his wife, the girl and the small boy, there was a sound of wheels, and a knock at the door, and there was the friend who had carried the bags. Umfundisi. Mother. My friend. Will you eat? No indeed. I am on my way home. I have a message for you. For me? Yes, from uJarvis. Was the small white boy here today? Kumalo had a dull sense of fear, realizing for the first time what had been done. He was here, he said. We were working in the trees, said the man, when this small boy came riding up. I do not understand English, umfundisi, but they were talking about Kuluse’s child. And come and look what I have brought you.
There outside the door was the milk, in the shining cans in the cart. This milk is for small children only, for those who are not yet at school, said the man importantly. And it is to be given by you only. And these sacks must be put over the cans, and small boys must bring water to pour over the sacks. And each morning I shall take back the cans. This will be done till the grass comes and we have milk again.
The man lifted the cans from the cart and said, Where shall I put them, umfundisi? But Kumalo was dumb and stupid, and his wife said, We shall put them in the room that the umfundisi has in the church. So they put them there, and when they came back the man said, You would surely have a message for uJarvis, umfundisi? And Kumalo stuttered and stammered, and at last pointed his hand up at the sky. And the man said, Tixo will bless him, and Kumalo nodded. The man said, I have worked only a week there, but the day he says to me, die, I shall die.
He climbed into the cart and took up the reins. He was excited and full of conversation. When I come home in this, he said, my wife will think they have made me a magistrate. They all laughed, and Kumalo came out of his dumbness and laughed also, first at the thought that this humble man might be a magistrate and second at the thought that a magistrate should drive in such a car. And he laughed again that a grown man should play in such fashion, and he laughed again that Kuluse’s child might live, and he laughed again at the thought of the stern silent man at High Place. He turned into the house sore with laughing, and his wife watched him with wondering eyes.
32
A CHILD BROUGHT the four letters from the store to the school, and the headmaster sent them over to the house of the umfundisi. They were all letters from Johannesburg, one was from the boy Absalom to his wife, and another to his parents; they were both on His Majesty’s Service, from the great prison in Pretoria. The third was from Msimangu himself, and the fourth from Mr. Carmichael. This one Kumalo opened fearfully, because it was from the lawyer who took the case for God, and would be about the mercy. And there the lawyer told him, in gentle and compassionate words, that there would be no mercy, and that his son would be hanged on the fifteenth day of that month. So he read no more but sat there an hour, two hours maybe. Indeed he neither saw sight nor heard sound till his wife said to him, It has come, then, Stephen. And when he nodded, she said, Give it to me, Stephen. With shaking hands he gave it to her, and she read it also, and sat looking before her, with lost and terrible eyes, for this was the child of her womb, of her breasts. Yet she did not sit as long as he had done, for she stood up and said, It is not good to sit idle. Finish your letters, and go to see Kuluse’s child, and the girl Elizabeth that is ill. And I shall do my work about the house. There is a
nother letter, he said. From him? she said. From him.
He gave it to her, and she sat down again and opened it carefully and read it. The pain was in her eyes and her face and her hands, but he did not see it, for he stared before him on the floor, only his eyes were not looking at the floor but at no place at all, and his face was sunken, in the same mould of suffering from which it had escaped since his return to this valley. Stephen, she said sharply.
He looked at her. Read it, finish it, she said. Then let us go to our work. He took the letter and read it, it was short and simple, and except for the first line, it was in Zulu, as is often the custom:
My dear Father and Mother:
I am hoping you are all in health even as I am. They told me this morning there will be no mercy for the thing that I have done. So I shall not see you or Ndotsheni again.
This is a good place. I am locked in, and no one may come and talk to me. But I may smoke and read and write letters, and the white men do not speak badly to me.
There is a priest who comes to see me, a black priest from Pretoria. He is preparing me, and speaks well to me.
There is no more news here, so I close my letter. I think of you all at Ndotsheni, and if I were back there I should not leave it again.
Your son,
ABSALOM.
Is the child born? If it is a boy, I should like his name to be Peter. Have you heard of the case of Matthew and Johannes? I have been to the court to give evidence in this case, but they did not let me see it finish. My father, did you get the money in my Post Office Book? Stephen, shall we go and work now? Yes, he said, that would be better. But I have not read Msimangu’s letter. And here is a letter for our daughter. I shall take it. Read your letter first then. And tell me, will you go to Kuluse s? I shall go there. And would it tire you too greatly to go up to the store? He looked out of the windows. Look, he said, look at the clouds.
She came and stood by him, and saw the great heavy clouds that were gathering on the other side of the Umzimkulu valley. It will rain, he said. Why do you want me to go to the store? It is something you need badly? It is nothing I need, Stephen. But I thought you might go to the store and ask the white man, when these letters come on His Majesty’s Service from the Central Prison to hold them privately till we come. For our shame is enough. Yes, yes, he said. I shall do that for a certainty. Read your letter then.
He opened Msimangu’s letter, and read about all the happenings of Johannesburg and was astonished to find within himself a faint nostalgia for that great bewildering city. When he had finished he went out to look at the clouds, for it was exciting to see them after weeks of pitiless sun. Indeed one or two of them were already sailing overhead, and they cast great shadows over the valley, moving slowly and surely till they reached the slopes to the tops, and then they passed up these slopes with sudden swiftness and were gone. It was close and sultry, and soon there would be thunder from across the Umzimkulu, for on this day the drought would break, with no doubt at all.
While he stood there he saw a motor car coming down the road from Carisbrooke into the valley. It was a sight seldom seen, and the car went slowly because the road was not meant for cars, but only for carts and wagons and oxen. Then he saw that not far from the church there was a white man sitting still upon a horse. He seemed to be waiting for the car, and with something of a shock he realized that it was Jarvis. A white man climbed out of the car, and he saw with further surprise that it was the magistrate, and the foolish jest of the night before came back to him at once. Jarvis got down from his horse, and he shook hands with the magistrate, and with other white men that were climbing out of the car, bringing out with them sticks and flags. Then lo! from the other direction came riding the stout chief, in the fur cap and the riding breeches, surrounded by his counsellors. The chief saluted the magistrate, and the magistrate the chief, and there were other salutes also. Then they all stayed and talked together, so that it was clear that they had met together for some purpose. There was pointing of hands, to places distant and to places at hand. Then one of the counsellors began to cut down a small tree with straight clean branches. These branches he cut into lengths, and sharpened the ends, so that Kumalo stood more and more mystified. The white men brought out more sticks and flags from the car, and one of them set up a box on three legs, as though he would take photographs. Jarvis took some of the sticks and flags, and so did the magistrate, after he had taken off his coat because of the heat. They pointed to the clouds also, and Kumalo heard Jarvis say, It looks like it at last. Now the chief was not to be outdone by the white men, so he too got down from his horse and took some of the sticks, but Kumalo could see that he did not fully understand what was being done. Jarvis, who seemed to be in charge of these matters, planted one of the sticks in the ground, and the chief gave a stick to one of his counsellors, and said something to him. So the counsellor also planted the stick in the ground, but the white man with the box on the three legs called out, Not there, not there, take that stick away. The counsellor was in two minds, and he looked hesitantly at the chief, who said angrily, Not there, not there, take it away. Then the chief, embarrassed and knowing still less what was to be done, got back on his horse and sat there, leaving the white men to plant the sticks.
So an hour passed, while there was quite an array of sticks and flags, and Kumalo looked on as mystified as ever. Jarvis and the magistrate stood together, and they kept on pointing at the hills, then turned and pointed down the valley. Then they talked to the chief, and the counsellors stood by, listening with grave attention to the conversation. Kumalo heard Jarvis say to the magistrate, That’s too long. The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, saying, That’s the way these things are done. Then Jarvis said, I’ll go to Pretoria. Would you mind? The magistrate said, I don’t mind at all. It may be the way to get it. Then Jarvis said, I don’t want to lose your company, but if you want to get home dry, you d better be starting. This’ll be no ordinary storm. But Jarvis did not start himself. He said goodbye to the magistrate, and began to walk across the bare fields, measuring the distance with his strides. Kumalo heard the magistrate say to one of the white men. They say he’s going queer. From what I’ve heard, he soon won’t have any money left. Then the magistrate said to the chief, You will see that not one of these sticks is touched or removed. He saluted the chief, and he and the other white men climbed into the car and drove away up the hill. The chief said to his counsellors, You will give orders that not one of these sticks is to be touched or removed. The counsellors then rode away, each to some part of the valley, and the chief rode past the church, returning Kumalo’s greeting, but not stopping to tell him anything about this matter of the sticks.
Indeed it was true what Jarvis had said, that this would be no ordinary storm. For it was now dark and threatening over the valley. There were no more shadows sailing over the fields, for all was shadow. On the other side of the Umzimkulu the thunder was rolling without pause, and now and then the lightning would strike down among the far-off hills. But it was this for which all men were waiting, the rain at last. Women were hurrying along the paths, and with a sudden babel of sound the children poured out of the school, and the headmaster and his teachers were urging them, Hurry, hurry, do not loiter along the road. It was something to see, a storm like this. A great bank of black and heavy cloud was moving over the Umzimkulu, and Kumalo stood for a long time and watched it. Out of it the thunder came, and lightning shot out of it to the earth below. Wind sprang up in the valley of Ndotsheni, and the dust whirled over the fields and along the roads. It was very dark and soon the hills beyond the Umzimkulu were shut off by the rain. He saw Jarvis hurrying back to his horse, which stood restlessly against the fence. With a few practised movements he stripped it of saddle and bridle, and saying a word to it, left it loose. Then he walked quickly in the direction of Kumalo, and called out to him, umfundisi. Umnumzana. May I put these things in your porch, umfundisi, and stay in your church? Indeed, I shall come with you
, umnumzana.
So they went into the church, and none too soon, for the thunder boomed out overhead, and they could hear the rain rushing across the fields. In a moment it was drumming on the iron roof, with a deafening noise that made all conversation impossible. Kumalo lit a lamp in the church, and Jarvis sat down on one of the benches, and remained there without moving.
But it was not long before the rain found the holes in the old rusted roof, and Jarvis had to move to avoid it.
Kumalo, nervous and wishing to make an apology, shouted at him, the roof leaks, and Jarvis shouted back at him, I have seen it.
And again the rain came down through the roof on the new place where Jarvis was sitting, so that he had to move again. He stood up and moved about in the semi-darkness, testing the benches with his hand, but it was hard to find a place to sit, for where there was a dry place on a bench, there was rain coming down on the floor, and where there was a dry place on the floor, there was rain coming down on the bench. The roof leaks in many places, Kumalo shouted, and Jarvis shouted in reply, I have seen that also.