The Monster's Daughter (3 page)

“It looks like a man or a flat-chested woman to me,
Mies
. I can't say.” Jakob's gaze drifted back to where the body lay, his eyes glassy. “All curled up like.
Mies
, you know, like a baby. Like it doesn't want to show its privates or something. You then saw it with your own eyes.”

Alet nodded. “Did anything else happen?”

“We waited for you,
Mies
.”

“And that shiner? Looks fresh to me.”

The foreman fixed his gaze on the ground. “
Ag
, it's nothing,
Mies
.”

“Jakob, I'm not in the mood for this. Tell me what happened. If not, I'll take you to the station and ask there.
Baas
Boet won't like it. And you'll lose the day's wages.”

“
Ai
no,
Mies
. That's not right.”

“Then tell me.”

Jakob glanced over at Boet before he spoke, his voice low. “I
checked
the smoke,
Mies
. I'm old but my eyes are sharp-sharp. None of the others saw, just me.” Jakob's tongue dashed between his missing front teeth. “So I tell the
baas
and he says it's
skollies
and that we have to go chase them before they steal cattle. But when we get here, there's nobody. Just that black thing, still smoking. I went over to it and
Baas
Boet, he looks sick, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. It looked like the wings of a million black butterflies. Like if I touch it, they will all
chaile
and the thing will vanish.”

“Okay. So you found the body. Then what?”

“I'm sorry for it,
Mies. Ag
shame, I think.
Ag
shame.” Jakob folded his hands.

“You still haven't told me why your eye looks like that, Jakob.”

“
Mies
, I'm coming to that, see? I reached to touch it. I didn't mean anything or nothing, honest. But
Baas
Boet, he goes ape, yelling at me.” He shook his head. “So I go back to the truck, but the
baas
he says no, I gotta stay.”

Jakob reached for the half-smoked cigarette behind his ear, rolled it nervously between his thumb and forefinger. “
Mies
, right then I get scared. I don't want to be alone with that thing, hey. And the
baas
he says we cannot just leave it there. But me stay alone and that black thing checking me? No ways! It's bad,
Mies
. I feel it. The
baas
, he feels it too, that's why he wants to get away. So I say, “No,
Baas
, man, not that. I go with you.” Then the
baas
hits me, see? Square in the eye.
Baas
Boet, he's a big man. It was like my eyeball went poosh! Like there's too many things trying to be in my head and there's no room no more.”

“
Baas
Boet hit you?” Alet frowned. This didn't meld with the Boet Terblanche she knew.

“
Ja, Mies
, like I said, but don't tell him I told you. I don't want no trouble.”

“Has he done this before?”

“No ways. Never did the
baas
hit anybody that I know of,
Mies
. Maybe when he was a small
boytjie
did he rumble with the other
laaities
. Boys do that you know, but not when he got to be boss. He's okay. Just had a fright. I don't want no trouble with him.” Jakob pulled a book of matches from his pocket and lit his cigarette with a shaky hand.

“And then?”

Jakob hesitated, as if he had forgotten. “My eye hurt like
mampoer
on a raw sore,
Mies
, but I run till I get on the truck. I say, I'm sorry,
Baas
. I'm sorry, my
Basie
. I just say it over and over again until the
baas
starts driving and then I feel better. 'Cause I'm away from that thing, see? That thing lying there, bad, dead, like a hole in the world.” Jakob looked back at the body again, his eyes wet.

“And you waited at the bottom. You didn't come back up here, right?”

“Ja, Mies.”

Jakob ran to the pickup as soon as Alet told him it was okay to go. He huddled in the back, clinging to the guardrails, shaken about by the truck backing up and turning around. He lifted a weathered palm to her as the pickup descended, no bigger than a child's toy in the distance.

Pritchard sprawled sideways over the train tracks, black lines of ants pulsating across his pale face like throbbing veins. His khaki helmet lay next to him, useless against the bullet hole in his forehead. Large curved tree branches, piled in as levers to dislodge the rails, stuck in the air like the ribs of an animal carcass.

“Maundin is going to have a
bleddie
fit,
ja
,” Jooste, one of the joiners, shouted from down the line, his English crippled by a thick Dutch accent. He was a big brute with yellow hair, eyes that sat too close together, and a ruddy complexion. He kicked at one of the erect branches, trying to dislodge it. The sound rolled across the dry open veld.

Andrew noticed the ghost of a smile on Jooste's lips. He wondered again if they had been wise to trust the man. Jooste was too slick, too easily converted to their side, too eager to participate without a hint of guilt when he sabotaged his own people. But he knew the land and spoke the language, making him a valuable asset to the British forces. And they were desperate. After two years, they were still stuck in this Godforsaken country, the easy victory promised to them made elusive by the Boers' guerrilla tactics.

Andrew dusted the red dirt from his knees. “I don't envy you, then, Mr. Jooste.”

“What do you say, hey?” Jooste walked closer to Andrew, dragging one of the tree branches, a snakelike trail waking the dirt behind him.

“You have to go report to the lieutenant. Oudtshoorn needs to be notified that the tracks are out before the supply run.”

“Why don't you do it?” Jooste looked back at the damaged track, his distaste for the task at hand clear. Andrew felt a whisper of satisfaction at seeing his distress.

“It's an order, Mr. Jooste.”

The corner of Jooste's mouth lifted, exposing crooked teeth. “Sir.” He unzipped his pants. “After this,
ja
.” His eyes challenged Andrew as he started relieving himself.

“You could do that behind a tree, Mr. Jooste.” Andrew looked away.

“I don't waste time, sir.”

The disdain with which Jooste pronounced “Sir” boiled Andrew's blood. He pretended to survey the veld. There was nothing but dry grass stirring on the plain in the biting morning breeze, but that didn't mean that they weren't being watched. Jooste finished his business and walked away without a word, starting the hour-long journey to camp with a languid stride. Andrew thought about following the joiner, but he didn't want to leave Pritchard behind. Pritchard was seventeen, had been on African soil for barely a month. He hadn't even had the time to dull his buttons and scabbard. Andrew squatted next to the body, hoping the tall grass would provide enough cover. He closed Pritchard's eyelids, the flesh cold under his fingertips, and said a silent prayer. Pritchard had family in Wales, a mother and three sisters. To his shame, Andrew felt envious at the thought of their grief. There was no one waiting for him back home.

Andrew's joints were stiff from the cold by the time Jooste came back with more men, six of them in khaki uniforms, their faces red from the sun. There was a restlessness among them, a nervous buzz of excitement barely contained by rank or protocol.

“Some action at last.” Jooste had a strange light in his eyes. “I didn't join you people to patrol railway lines,
ja
?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Jooste?”

“We're going to hit the Boers where it hurts, Corporal,” one of the privates chipped in, an Australian by the sound of him. He gestured toward Pritchard with bombastic bravado. “Those bastards will pay for this.”

“Lieutenant Maundin gave the order?”

“Scorched Earth, sir. All the way from Lord Kitchener himself. We're going to the farms.”

VERGELEGEN
. The stern letters filled the breadth of the gatepost. A curving lane led to a small whitewashed farmhouse sheltered by black mountains. Andrew knocked on the door. Next to him, Lieutenant Maundin rocked on his heels, the day's dust clinging to his red beard. Andrew braced himself, dreading the anticipated shock on the women's faces, the subsequent abuse or begging, the inevitable pattern of their raids in the week since they had found Pritchard's body. His thoughts of revenge had been crushed by the devastation they were leaving behind, their column tracing a black trail through the Dutch farms.

Maundin banged on the door with his fist when there was no immediate answer. It was opened, at last, by a small girl, no older than fourteen.

“Who are you?” Maundin's words radiated contempt.

“Anna Richter.” She tucked a stray strand of fair blond hair behind her ear, terror flaring in her sky-blue eyes.

“We are here in service of the Crown.” Maundin pushed past her into the house.

Andrew followed, venturing an apologetic look to the girl. The front room of the house was simple, but clean. A family Bible lay next to an oil lamp on a large wooden table. The hide of some sort of small native buck covered the floor next to a rudimentary couch made from wood and woven leather thongs. A young boy with short blond hair peered around the doorway of a back room, then immediately ducked out of sight again.

Maundin turned to Anna. “Where are your parents?”

“My mother is
baie
sick,” Anna said in broken English. “She is
by
the other farm.”

“And your father?”

“He's gone away.”

“Is that right?” Maundin sighed, catching Andrew's eye, sarcasm twisting his lips. “Your father is Christiaan Richter, a Boer commander, is he not?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Don't bother denying it.”

Anna's bottom lip quivered.

“We know you aid the Boers who kill our men.” Maundin spat each word out as if it was a piece of chewing tobacco. “Therefore, all
property will be seized and destroyed under order of Her Majesty.” He took a dramatic pause, his pleasure in this piece of theater not lost on Andrew. “You have ten minutes.”

Anna's eyes wandered from Maundin to Andrew, silently pleading with him. Andrew felt embarrassed and looked away.

“Ten minutes!” Maundin shouted over his shoulder as he strode out of the house. Anna stood dazed in the middle of the floor as if she couldn't make sense of what just happened.

“Please. Hurry,” Andrew whispered. “Take what you need and get out.” His words seemed to break her spell.

“Hansie!” Anna's voice broke as she ran to the back room.

The boy left his hiding place. He was small, too young to ride out on commando with his
pappa
. Anna stroked his shoulders gently as she spoke. Andrew had trouble understanding their rapid exchange, recognizing only a few of the Dutch words. The boy nodded, tears and snot streaming down his face as he followed Anna into the bedroom. They returned, pushing a large wooden dowry chest into the front room. Anna disappeared into the kitchen while Hansie held on to the chest as if his life depended on it. The commotion in the farmyard brought a new wave of tears to his eyes. Anna cradled dried meats, fruit and a metal tin in her arms when she returned. She opened the dowry chest lid and made room for the provisions among bed linens and clothes.

Jooste barged into the house, shouting something in Dutch. He grabbed the tin from Anna. She tried to resist, but Jooste shoved her with his free hand, scattering the bottles of Lennon's home remedies it held all over the floor. Anna scrambled on all fours to pick them up. Andrew made a move to help, but soldiers swarmed into the house, kicking the small bottles in all directions.

“Get out,” Jooste shouted in a grandiose show for the others. “Your time is finish,
ja
.”

Anna pushed the big wooden box out of the house, straining to navigate it through the doorway. Hansie cried hysterically, clutching her long gray dress. Khaki uniforms shoved past them as if they weren't there, heavy boots kicking dust up from the dry dung floor. Soldiers marched through the scant rooms, taking what they wanted, smashing mirrors, stomping on toys. Clothing and shoes ended up in
tangled bundles on the ground. A rednecked soldier banged on the keys of the small house organ with the butt of his rifle, while others broke off its wood panels. As the men took turns smashing its innards to pieces, the notes that rang out sounded like wails of desperation. They dragged the fodder outside, then used it for fuel to boil water for their tea.

A couple of the soldiers used the pictures on the walls for target practice. Shots, accompanied by laughter and cheers, rang through the house as glass shattered on the ground. Once they were done, they emptied cans of paraffin, dousing the floors and walls. Jooste scraped a torch along the edges of the roof outside. Everyone looked on as flames crept along the thatch, seething, writhing, devouring. Black smoke rose, blemishing the clear winter sky. In the distance, on the nearest high ground, troops guarded against an attack from the Boers, who, even farther away, camouflaged by trees and foliage, watched the destruction helplessly.

Andrew stood before the blaze, flames licking the modest pieces of furniture on the porch—a rocking chair, a straw mattress, a baby cradle. His cheeks burned, sweat running down the side of his face. Behind him, the bleating of sheep rose to a crescendo. Soldiers sank their bayonets into the livestock, striking repeatedly until the animals fell, their white coats matted with blood. Men chased poultry in the farmyard, throwing stones and flinging themselves at chickens and ducks whose anguished squawks filled the air. Soon the farm was littered with carcasses, to be left behind to rot. Everything would be looted or destroyed, leaving no sustenance for the enemy.