They wound up a scrubby ridge for two or three miles before breaking out into open country. Walking towards them was a group of men, likely tracking the bull from where it had escaped its kraal. Their chatter turned to exclamations of astonishment upon seeing Bumper driving the bull towards them, followed by Elizabeth and Ellie.
All of the terror of being accosted by spear-boy once again threatened to overwhelm her; she clutched little Ben closer. But there was naught else to do but to follow Bumper and the bull as it walked past the men, heading towards the huts of the homestead. As she came closer, she saw it was more than just a family—a village.
Women, children, old men, and young boys came to watch the procession. They parted to let the bull, now completely insouciant, walk directly into its kraal. Bumper, oh, ever so proud, scarcely gave it a backward glance as he came and sat beside her.
She tousled his head, “You clever dog.”
Her heart was beating so strongly, but she was so fatigued, so weary. Ellie clung to her, peering apprehensively at the dark-skinned people clustered around them.
“Oh, Ellie, perhaps we’ll meet a king or queen.” If only she could calm herself as easily as she reassured Ellie that all was well.
A tall man who displayed much authority approached, likely the chief of the village, and addressed her, speaking that impossible click language. Beside him, a woman adorned with many multicoloured necklaces gently pulled aside the blanket that covered little Ben’s face. He was squirming, his unfocused eyes and wrinkled skin so typical of a newborn.
Her eyeswidened. She looked with admiration at Elizabeth. Excitedly, she called to the women, pointing to the babe. Taking Elizabeth’s arm, she led her to a large round hut, a rondavel, where she was seated on a woven mat, one of many spread across the earthen floor. A young girl entered carrying a bowl of milk and placed it beside her. Putting Ben to her breast, the letdown was exultant. But whether it was due to the babe suckling or the relief of finding sanctuary, she knew not. They were safe, at least for the moment.
***
Elizabeth awoke feeling wretched. Everything was aching. Her head—must she feed little Ben every two hours?… her womb—cramping painfully as she suckled… her sheaf and muscles sore, so tender… her toe, still throbbing. She was so very tired. Uncontrollable tears cascaded down her face.
“Lizzie, whatever’s the matter?” Ellie was sitting beside her, holding her hand. “Is little Ben alright?”
“So sorry, dearest, so sorry to bring you here; so sorry to bring Ben into this world.” Her mind spun—remorse, guilt, anxiety—a knot in her stomach. She clutched Ellie’s hand—cut where her nails had dug into the palm during her travail. Abruptly… dizzy, then falling into a deep, dark pit.
She dreamt of Italian arias, Spanish coplas, English nursery rhymes, Irish reels, and Gaelic airs. Waking, she took up her guitar and, ever so softly, began singing to little Ben. She was lost in the music, the perfect foil to her anxiety and worry.
Opening her eyes, she found the hut filled with women, young and old, sitting on the mats and listening to her singing. They were humming, moving their bodies in time to the rhythm. She switched to acante chico, a simple Spanish song of love and gaiety, based on the pulse of the flamenco. Soon, therondavel was filled with clapping, laughter, and improvised melody.
There was much excited chatter as the women returned to their chores—tending the gardens, cooking meals, grinding millet and corn, gathering firewood, and weaving rush mats.
The next day, grateful for the occupation, Elizabeth was invited to join the chief’s wife in her activities. Gradually, over the course of the next week, her melancholy lifted—enough sleep, for the chief’s wife insisted she retire early each day; enough nourishing food for both herself and little Ben; and work enough to keep her busy. The lifestyle was seductive: while the women did most of the chores, the men were solely occupied with milking and herding their cattle. There were no other responsibilities.
The rondavels of the village were laid out along both sides of a meandering river, near which well-tended gardens were established, barricaded with mimosa bushes protecting them from the browsing cattle. The land was intersected with small ravines filled with forest trees of all varieties. In between, interspersed with scrubby plants, was an extensive verdure of sweet grasses, irrigated by the summer rains.
The language no longer felt strange to her, and Elizabeth began to distinguish the different clicks. The language’s tonality—that a rising or falling, high or low, intonation could change meaning—was so different from the European and Indian languages she knew. Over the week, she learnt many words, including sister,usisi,and baby,usana,which were used to talk of Ellie and little Ben.As her ear adjusted to the sounds and tonal variations, she could appreciate its soft, agreeable consonance, which was uncommonly musical. As she learnt the language, she began to understand some of the soul of the Xhosa people.But her comprehension was limited, and she knew much nuance escaped her.
“Lizzie, you’re so much stronger. Can we start again for Cape Town? It must be really close, and I miss my father very much.” Ellie looked to Elizabeth with so much hope. Her eyes were red; she had been rubbing them to prevent herself from crying.
“Ellie, my sweetest, whatever is the matter? You’ve been such a help to me and to the other women.”
“It’s a girl,Nceba, who’s ever so mean, pushing me around, telling me what to do. I’m the daughter of a viscount, but she doesn’t understand. No one understands.”
She burst out crying. Elizabeth cradled the girl in her arms. “Oh, you poor dear. Of course, they’ve never heard of a viscount. Today, stay with me, for I’m collecting firewood, and I’ll need help carrying it.”
“Is that a proper task for a lieutenant governor’s wife? Surely, they should bring the firewood to you?”
How to explain to a young girl, brought up with rank and consequence, with servants to always do her bidding, that she could not expect such here among the Xhosa. On the trail, with just the two of them, Ellie was always helpful. But life in the village was too different. Her independent spirit, which Elizabeth had come to love, was being crushed.
The past week of good food and welcome sleep had restored Elizabeth’s spirits, regaining her health. She still had aches and pains, and cramps as her womb shrank. But, it was time to resume their journey down the coast.
***
With much signing and a little language, Elizabeth was able to communicate her intent to resume their journey. She learnt that, were she to delay her departure for two days, people fromthe village would accompany her. The night before they left, a bullock was killed, and with much singing, dancing, and feasting, the village celebrated her journey to the south.
She was surprised when, the next morning, a great crowd had gathered. Not only were the chief and his wife travelling, but much of the village was to accompany them. The women stacked many items on their heads, including mats, blankets, earthenware pots, and the chief’s iron cooking pot. The men carried very little, apart from their spears and shields. Elizabeth wrapped Ben in her blanket and carried him close to her chest. With the guitar and knapsack on her back, she was almost as laden as the village women. In addition to the waterskin, Ellie carried a basket containing bags of mealie-meal and hulled millet—enough, Elizabeth hoped, to get them to a European settlement.
The entourage moved on, ever so slowly. She was tempted to stride ahead but resisted, as they were surely following the most direct route southwards. Their progress was so slow that travelling five miles took them into the early afternoon, when they came to another village.
Again, a bullock was killed, followed by more singing, dancing, and feasting. The women came to gaze at her, some even touching her long, braided hair falling down her back, twisting like a serpent. Likewise, Ellie’s golden hair was viewed with amazement.
