“Lizzie, all this feasting—please, no more! Can we leave in the morning? Dear Papa, he must surely be worried for us.”
They lay down for the night, Ellie close to Elizabeth, who had found she could feed little Ben with him lying on her chest.
“I too, dearest, but it may be difficult, as they wish to accompany us further. The chief of this village owes allegiance to our chief, for the stream nearby is but a tributary of the other. Perhaps, when we come to the next large river, where another chief of the same rank lives, they will stop, and we cantravel faster.”
There was nothing she could do. She feared they had moved further inland, but the mountains that loomed in that direction seemed no closer, so she assumed they were still paralleling the coast—from village to village, feast to feast. After five days, Elizabeth saw that the tributary streams now flowed to the south, away from the river of their chief. The demeanour of the villagers changed; while they showed respect, it was of a different nature. They owed their allegiance to another great chief whose territory extended over the catchment of a different river.
Two days later, they came to a wide, brown river, which they crossed at a ford, arriving at a large village where all of the villagers were turned out to greet them. There was significant tension between the two groups, but also much anticipation. It was clear that the meeting of two great chiefs was an unusual occurrence.
Elizabeth and Ellie were shown into a rondavel adjacent to that of the chief’s wife—an honoured place. A young woman entered; she knelt on the floor. Hesitantly, she welcomed them, but it was not Xhosa.
“You speak Dutch? What a wonder, here so far from the Cape.” Elizabeth could have wept with joy. At last, someone to tell them where they were. How far to a farm? How long must they endure before they could find rescue from this isolated shore?
“The farmer called me Bettie. I lived there until he sold me. For two cows—a good price, for I was still very young.
“The farmer sold you? Oh, how terrible. But why?”
“Oh, they had no food. But I didn’t like them; life is much better here. The chief of theBhishoRiver is very strong.” Bettie looked shyly at Elizabeth. “And soon, I shall be married, because the bride price,lobola, is already paid. But not as highas you, the Right Hand of the chief. Such I could never be, but belonging to your house is a great privilege.”
“My house, whatever do you mean?” There was an unsettling nuance here, for the wordhouseclearly did not mean a rondavel or even a homestead.
“But, of course, his wife will be the Great House, and you the Right Hand House. And your son will start his own house.”
“Little Ben? But he’s just born.” Elizabeth was perplexed. Whatever was Bettie talking about? It set her nerves on edge—she was truly missing some vital information.
“You call himlittle Ben—what a strange name! No, he will become a healer,igqirha, for none but the son of a chief can found a House.”
The pieces fell into place. The Right Hand son could make a House—she was to be the Right Hand of the chief. The procession, the celebrations, this rondavel to the right of the chief’s wife—all part of an elaborate wedding ceremony. How foolish of her not to see it.
“Bettie, when is the wedding to be held?” Please, please give me some time…
“There are two nights of feasting and agreeing on the bride price. The ceremony is on the third day.”
“And if I am already married?”
“You have never been married. You are the daughter of the chief of theKeiRiver, under his protection. The baby comes from the sea, from where you came, with your golden-haired sister. There is no marriage under the sea—only water people,uMamlambo,live there.”
“Am I not, then, one of the water people?”
“You were stolen and have escaped; that is a very great thing. What songs we shall sing of it. The chief of theKeiRiver shows great respect by taking you as his daughter and then giving you as a bride to the chief of theBhishoRiver. He willreceive many cattle,lobola, for the honour—perhaps six and twenty cows.”
Once again she was a chattel: in England, given away by the Court of Chancery merely for being a woman; in Sydney, importuned for her connections to trade and land; here, on the distant shores of Africa, for her coming from the sea. Only William loved her for whoshewas.
That night, she and Ellie sat alone in the rondavel, little Ben, well fed, asleep in her arms.
“Ellie, tomorrow we must flee this place. I did not know, but they intend I should marry the chief.”
“But you cannot, Lizzie. You’re Mrs. Darcy, a lieutenant governor’s wife. Should I tell them you’re already married?”
“Dearest, a very good idea, but they shan’t listen. They believe we escaped from the sea peoples and that they do us great honour by my being Right Hand of the great chief of theBhishoRiver. No, tomorrow evening, there will be much celebration, much millet beer drunk. All will sleep, then we slip away.”
“Lizzie, will they follow us, force you to return?”
“I know not, Ellie, but we will run anyway. To the coast; perhaps we can hide near the sea. That is where they believe we came from, and there we shall return.
***
They gathered their belongings, placing them inconspicuously in the rondavel. Ellie put more bread and millet into her bag and found a bag of milk left unattended—it would be missed on the morrow, but they would be gone.
