A Blade of Grass (22 page)

“We don’t know him, Tembi. He seems harmless and innocent, but we don’t know anything about him. I would be nervous having him in the house while we are asleep.”

Tembi continues drying the plates without making a reply.

Märit heaves a sigh of agreement. “All right.”

From the linen cupboard Märit takes down blankets and pillows, and arranges them on the couch. On the floor of the cupboard she notices an old pair of boots that belonged to Ben. She takes these out and sets them next to the bed.

Michael is sitting in contented silence, watching the last rays of the sunset. The generator chugs to life off to one side of the house, as it does every night when the timer activates the motor. Michael looks in that direction and imitates the sound of the generator with his lips.

“I’ve made up a bed for you, Michael. You will be able to sleep there comfortably.”

He imitates the sound of the generator again.

“That’s the generator,” she tells him. “It’s a machine that gives electricity for the lights.” He tilts his head and listens, but his expression shows no understanding of what she says. “Come and see your bed, Michael. In the house. Come.”

Märit says, “I’ve found a pair of boots that might fit you, Michael. They seem to be about your size. Would you like to try them on?”

She lifts the boots and presents them to him.

Michael takes the boots and clutches them to his chest.

“Try them on. Put them on your feet, Michael.”

He beams his smile at her and nods vigorously, then reaches into his pocket and presents his old alarm clock to Märit.

Märit shakes her head. “Thank you, Michael, but I already have a clock. You keep yours. Thank you, anyway.”

A
S SHE HERSELF
prepares for bed, a soft tapping sounds at Märit’s door. “It’s me, Tembi.”

Märit turns the key in her bedroom door, which she has locked.

“Michael is gone.”

“He’s left?”

“The bedding and the boots are gone too.”

“Maybe he went out to sleep on the veranda,” Märit says.

“No, I looked.”

Darkness is not absolute yet; the silhouettes of the eucalyptus trees and the windmill are still faint outlines against the deep blue of the sky.

“Do you think he has left the farm?” Märit asks. “But where could he go in the night?”

Tembi puts a finger to her lips. “Listen.”

Faintly in the night they hear the plink, plink, plink of Michael’s music box.

“He has gone to sleep with the chickens.” Tembi says. “He is happy with them.”

T
HE GRASS GROWS
tall in the fields now that there are no longer cattle to crop it. In the orchard the fruit begins to fill the branches. The maize plants rise higher each day and the cobs thicken on the stalk. In the vegetable garden the tomato plants thrive alongside the lettuce and the carrots and the spinach.

Märit no longer wears a watch, or counts the days, but she knows by the changes in the crops that months have passed since that day when her life changed with a stranger knocking on her door.

The farm has become smaller. Around the house many more birds are visible in the trees now, and their song is a constant music. Sometimes Michael teases the birds by mimicking their calls on his music box.

At night the generator chugs gently, and during the day the blades of the windmill turn slowly in the breeze. The women do not stray far from the house and the immediate fields. By unspoken agreement there is no talk of what might be taking place beyond the confines of the farm. Both Märit and Tembi know that their position here is fragile, but because there is peace and silence and harmony, they preserve the illusion that life is as it ought to be.

In the hot afternoons, sudden thunderstorms bring a brief deluge of rain. The fruit ripens, the maize grows tall and green, the vegetables and the flowers thrive. A kind of peace has isolated the farm—the outside world no longer troubles itself with this insignificant patch of soil.

Märit stands taller now, her face and arms are browned by the sun, her muscles show beneath the skin of her wiry frame, her eyes are bright. Her
hair has started to grow out again, but she takes the scissors to it regularly so that it will remain short like Tembi’s.

In the kraal, some of the thatch on the roofs of the huts is falling into disrepair and many of the huts have that particular air of abandonment that dwellings take on so quickly when the inhabitants leave.

Once or twice at dusk, just as darkness falls, Märit thinks she has glimpsed an animal on the property, perhaps a jackal or hyena, but since she is not certain what she sees she does not mention it to Tembi. Nevertheless, she makes sure that the shotgun is loaded and accessible on the top of the cupboard in the office.

Tembi still goes often to her hidden garden behind the koppie, carrying a pail of water to moisten the growing fruits. Sometimes Tembi asks herself whether she should tell Märit about her garden, even whether she should move the plants into the vegetable patch closer to the house where it would be so much easier to care for them. But she always hesitates. She cannot say clearly why she keeps the garden a secret, only that she knows it is tied to some other, inner life of hers that has nothing to do with Märit or the farm. She only knows that she must continue to possess this secret. A secret, when shared, is a gift, but still she holds back, perhaps because it is the only gift she has, and in the giving of it there will no longer be a gift or a secret. So she holds the garden to herself.

Märit does not count the days—she lets them pass, content within the enclosure of the farm. In her body she feels a new strength as she goes about her daily tasks. Some days there is the frequent flash of aircraft high above the land, streaking north to the frontier, but here on the farm the outside world has no meaning. The telephone is silent, the radio is silent. The outside world is absent.

Michael sleeps every night in the kraal and appears at the kitchen door each morning, announced by the tinkling of his music box. And each morning Dik-Dik follows Michael to the house.

“I think they have adopted each other,” Tembi comments as she sits next to the window cradling her morning coffee.

When Michael enters, the rooster tries to slip in as well, and Märit has to shoo him away with a dishcloth. “Out, out,” she admonishes, flapping the cloth at the rooster.

Michael collects his bowl and spoon from the counter.

“Did you sleep well?” Märit asks him. “Are you comfortable in the kraal?”

He sets the bowl down and puts his hands together in a pillow shape against his cheek, and his round face breaks into a particularly radiant smile.

“You are happy this morning, Michael,” Tembi observes. “Why are you so happy?”

His reply is a mischievous chuckle. As soon as Märit serves the porridge, he grasps the bowl from her hands and sits quickly at the table. The porridge is spooned into his mouth rapidly, and when Märit places a cup of tea in front of him, Michael gulps it down just as fast, then moves to the door and beckons eagerly to the women.

“What is it, Michael?” Tembi says. “Do you want to show us something?”

His head bobs up and down.

“Can it wait a minute?” Märit asks. “At least until we finish breakfast?”

Michael giggles and shakes his head. He advances and grasps Märit’s arm in a light tug. When she rises from her chair, he reaches over and urges Tembi from her seat as well. As the women follow, Michael darts ahead, turning every few moments to make sure they are behind him, gesturing for them to hurry on.

When the procession reaches the chicken coop, where the hens are milling about in the dirt, Michael unlatches the wire gate and hurries into the shed where the chickens roost at night.

He emerges almost immediately and beckons for Märit and Tembi to enter. Märit follows Tembi, keeping an eye out for the rooster. Michael crouches down and crooks a finger at Märit. He pats the sand, indicating that she should kneel next to him. With another glance around for the rooster, she does so.

Now Michael reaches with both hands into the straw and brings them out cupped together. Pursing his lips, he holds his hands out towards Märit and makes a high peeping noise with his mouth. When he opens his hands, a small fluffy yellow head appears and a peep, peep, peep comes from the little beak of a chick.

“Oh,” Märit exclaims. “Oh, look at the little thing!”

Michael offers the fuzzy little chick to her, and she cups her hands to receive the warm, soft body, closing her fingers gently around the yielding down. The little chick nibbles at her finger and peeps up at her.

“How sweet!” she murmurs. “How lovely it is. Oh, how sweet.” Lifting the tiny creature to her lips she plants a gentle kiss on the diminutive head. “Tembi, come look!”

A hen appears at the entrance to the shed, and when Michael makes the clucking sound that he uses to talk to the chickens, she waddles towards him, and from behind her four more yellow balls of fluff hurry after.

“Look at the little babies!” Tembi exclaims as she kneels in the dust with her hands extended, and the chicks come to her with a quick, darting motion, hurrying on their spindly legs. The mother hen hovers solicitously around the chicks, but she lets the women handle her brood.

The chick in Märit’s hand struggles to join its siblings, but she is reluctant to let the warm creature out of her grasp. Raising it to her lips she kisses the soft head again. “There, there,” she murmurs. “Mother is nearby. There, there.” And the chick makes a peep, peep, peep sound in reply.

Märit holds the tiny beating life in her hands. So soft is the fluff, and the small body, and the beating of the new life in it. So soft and eager for life. Then she releases the chick gently to the ground, and the hen bends herself low, spreading her wings to enfold the small creature, which immediately huddles into the welcoming feathers.

Märit’s heart breaks with tenderness. The tears fall from her eyes and splash into the dust. “Mother wants you,” she murmurs to the small yellow face that looks out at her. And the mother hen clucks from deep inside her breast.

Suddenly, Märit is jealous. Jealous of the mother hen, jealous of her protective love. She has what Märit does not have. If she only had her own child to love now, her heart would not break so. The tears fall from her cheeks onto the dust as she stretches her hands with longing towards the little yellow chicks.

“Go to Mother,” she murmurs to the chicks as they nibble at her fingers. “Mother wants you.”

Then, from the doorway to the shed, rises the angry crowing of Dik-Dik. He catches sight of Märit and spreads his wings, rushing at her, but Michael is quick to intercept him, scooping the rooster up into his arms.

Märit retreats behind the wire-mesh fence. Even this little bit of tenderness is denied her by the possessive rooster. She hates him. She kicks at the fence, then wipes the tears from her face and walks back to the house.

A
T NIGHT
, when the chickens have been rounded up and closed into their pen, and when Michael and Dik-Dik have retired to the hut in the kraal, and the chicks are safe with their mother, Märit and Tembi sit together in the living room of the house. The generator chugs with a comforting rhythm, the night air is mild and sweet, the lamplight falls in yellow pools on the heads of the two women. Sometimes, in the evenings, Märit tries the radio, longing for music. But there is never anything but static.

Tembi is reading a book, and Märit has some sewing in her lap, but her hands are still and her attention is elsewhere. She is remembering the feel of the delicate, fuzzy little chick in her hands, and she feels in her heart an obscure sensation of loss.

Tembi sighs and closes her book, stretching out in the chair. “It is so peaceful here. We are like a family now. The three of us. Even Dik-Dik is part of the family. And now we have some babies!”

Märit composes her face and tries to smile. “Yes, they’re so beautiful.”

Tembi studies Märit across the lamplight, her brown eyes inquiring.

“You are sad, Märit?”

Before Märit has a chance to answer, the lamplight flickers, then dies, casting the room into sudden darkness.

Tembi reaches for the switch next to her chair and flicks it back and forth. “What happened?”

“Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“The generator. I don’t hear it.” Märit rises and goes to the window and listens for the chug, chug of the generator motor. “It’s definitely stopped. I’ll have to go and see what’s wrong.”

“But it’s late now. You can do it in the morning.”

“No. There is food in the refrigerator that will spoil by morning.”

Märit finds the flashlight in a drawer and when she turns it on its white beam lights up the room. “Will you come with me?”

Outside, the night is cool. There is no moon, but the stars are a dense weave of sparkling points, flickering in the velvet sky. The white beam of the flashlight cuts a path through the darkness.

When they reach the generator shed and enter it, Märit plays the light over the engine. “I don’t really know how it works. This is the fuel tank, for the diesel”—she taps the container—“but there is also a battery that is charged by the turning of the windmill. Ben always took care of it. I never learned how it works.”

“Maybe there is no fuel. Shine the light here.” Tembi unscrews the lid of the tank and Märit shines the beam down. “No, it’s got fuel. There must be some other problem.”

They spend the next minutes tracing pipes and wires, but to no avail. The workings of the generator remain a mystery.

“We’ll have to leave it for the morning,” Märit concludes.

As they walk back to the house, the chirping of crickets is as dense as the stars overhead. From the direction of the river a chorus of croaks and warbles competes with the crickets. And beyond that is a vast silence.

M
ÄRIT WAKES
to happiness, because she remembers the little yellow chicks, and she wants to see them again, and she wants to hear the small music that Michael makes on his music box, and she wants to hold the sweet, soft life in her hands again.

But she also remembers the generator failing in the night. She doubts that either she or Tembi will be able to fix it, and now, without electricity, without a telephone, without a radio, their lives will be that much more difficult. Will they even be able to remain on the farm?

She rises quickly, hurrying to stoke the kitchen stove into life.

Tembi stretches like a cat when Märit brings the breakfast tray to her room. “You bring me breakfast again! You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I like to. Stay in bed a little longer.” Märit takes pleasure in this occasional ritual, when she can sit on the edge of the bed and watch
Tembi sip her tea. These moments of intimacy give her comfort and a sense of normalcy.

“I didn’t hear Dik-Dik this morning,” Tembi says. “He usually wakes me up with his crowing.”

“Perhaps Michael has taught him to sleep a bit longer in the mornings.” Märit sits a while longer, then says, “We have to see about the generator. The food is going to spoil in this heat.”

Tembi throws back the sheet. “I’ll get up now.”

“I want to go and look at the chicks first.”

“Yes! I love those little babies.”

Outside, the blades of the windmill turn in the warm breeze as Märit makes her way to the chicken coop. She pauses when she notices Michael, sitting with his back against a tree, in the same place where she first saw him. On the ground at his side is his music box, his old alarm clock, and the pair of boots that he never wears.

“Good morning, Michael. Where is Dik-Dik today? I didn’t hear him when I woke up.”

Michael barely glances up as she approaches, and as she steps closer Märit sees the lines of tears etched on his dusty face.

“Michael! What is it? Is something wrong?”

Märit crouches down next to him. There is mucus gathered in his nostril, and she wants to reach across and wipe his nose, as one would for a child.

“Michael, what’s wrong. Is it Dik-Dik? Has something happened?”

Michael looks up at her and tries to speak, the words not forming on his damaged tongue. A groan escapes from his throat.

Märit stands slowly and stares in the direction of the chicken coop. “You’re frightening me, Michael. What has happened? Is it the chickens? Is it Dik-Dik? The babies?”

Michael tilts his head and wails at her, showing the stump of his tongue in his open mouth.

Märit sets off at a run.

The breeze lifts and blows around her, and she sees the white rose petals blowing in the wind, and her mind refuses to believe what she knows is coming, and she sees white petals in the wind—and the white feathers that rise on the wind are stained with blood. The wire gate to the
coop is wide open, and everywhere are white and red feathers and the smell of blood, and she sees the carcasses, entrails spilling onto the dust.