The Monster's Daughter (6 page)

Sarah turned back from the door. “My people?” A perplexed frown crept over her brow.

“The
Boere
that once owned this farm. The family who fed you and gave you a place to sleep.”

“My people.” Sarah scoffed. “Let me tell you about how it was before,
Nooi
, before the doctor came here. About how the
baas
owns you, not just your labor, but your body too if you want to feed your family and keep a roof over your head. How he whipped me and my brother when we were only little children and forced himself on my mother at night. How sometimes he made us watch. How it became my turn when I was barely old enough to be thought of as a woman. How his wife and children thought it their birthright to humiliate us every opportunity they got.” A hardness had settled into Sarah's face. “One white man is as good as another to me, even if the language they speak is different.

“The day the Khakis rode in here, they tied us to the back of the ox wagon the white family rode in. Old people and small children all had to keep up, there was no mercy. I know what happens in the black camps. Native people are treated worse than animals. At least when you're white the Khakis think twice. The doctor said he'd keep me out of the camps as long as I work for him. I can do nothing about what he does here. If it wasn't me, it would be someone else. They
would be safe instead of me. My mother, my family, they're all gone, but I am alive. That is good enough for me. Death is not beautiful or peaceful, that much I know from working for the doctor. Death is ugly, and terrifying, and empty, and it means nothing—”

A scream of raw anguish interrupted Sarah. Her anger dissipated, her eyes suddenly wide and scared. “I have to go.”

“Is it Hester? Her time is near.”

Sarah nodded. “She is having trouble.” She rushed off, closing the door behind her.

Anna didn't hear the key turn in the lock. She shifted to the edge of the bed, still sore from the birth, her legs weak, the floorboards rough under her bare feet. The door opened without resistance, the hallway empty, Hester's screams the only sound. In her long white nightdress and cap, her long blond hair falling past her pale face, Anna cut a ghostly figure in the dark as she slowly made her way toward Hester's room. The rooms she passed were stripped bare, the smell of lye thick, memories of the girls that occupied them only weeks ago scrubbed away.

A baby's first screams cut through the quiet hallway. Anna froze at the sight that greeted her as she turned the corner. Sarah stood in front of Hester's open door, her hands covering her mouth, her expression one of horror. Leath emerged, his sleeves rolled up, carrying a wriggling newborn in his bloodied hands. Sarah held her hands out to take the child, but Leath ignored her.

“A male. This one must survive.” Leath headed down the hall.

Anna pressed her back against the wall, slinking into the nearest empty room.

“What about the girl, Doctor?” Sarah called after Leath. He stopped for a moment outside the room where Anna hid. She was sure that he would hear her frantic heartbeat.

“She is not needed. Do what must be done.”

Anna waited until Leath's footfalls disappeared before she left her hiding place. Sweat broke out on her brow as she made her way toward Hester's room. Sarah looked up from where she stood next to Hester, her expression when she saw Anna one of dismay rather than anger. A deep gash ran across Hester's naked abdomen, her chest rising infrequently. Anna felt dizzy. She grabbed hold of the bed to
steady herself, her hand sinking into warm wet, red seeping between her fingers. A crimson drop separated from the edge of the saturated wool blanket and fell in slow motion, spreading onto the wooden floor, its edges disintegrating. Hester turned her head slowly, recognition in her glassy eyes. She opened her mouth. A final breath escaped and she was still.

“No!”

“Shhh.” Sarah knelt down next to Anna, tears brimming in her large eyes. “You have to go. He might come back.”

“Hester, she …” The room suddenly swam around Anna, nausea rising from the pit of her stomach.

Sarah held Anna close, her brown dress full of cooking smells, a faint odor of spirits lingering on her sleeve. “There is nothing you can do.”

Waves of nausea rippled through Anna. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't hold her. “What's wrong with me?”

Sarah averted her eyes. “The doctor told me to pack everything when he came back from town. He says the ones in charge don't understand his work. They are sending soldiers.”

Sarah wrapped both arms around Anna's waist and lifted her off the ground. She forced Anna out of the room and back down the hallway. Anna's heart pounded, each short step paid for in agony. Edges became soft, colors blending, the house suddenly unfamiliar. Faces of girls peered from the corners, their hands reaching, trying to hold her back. Sarah dragged Anna the last few steps. Crippling pain ripped through Anna's stomach as she doubled over on the bed. The baby cried, distressed by the commotion around her.

Anna grabbed Sarah's wrist. “He's going to kill Baby too.” Sarah tried to pull away, but Anna held on with all her strength. “You have to save her.”

“Aikona.”
Sarah struggled against Anna.

Pain rippled through Anna's body. She fought against the darkness pulling at her. “Take her to the Khakis.”

Sarah stared uncomprehendingly at her. “They will be here tomorrow.”

“No. There is a soldier. He was stationed near George. He will help.”

“Why would he? The Khakis are not your people.”

“Ask for him. Tell them she is his.”

“It's been a long time,
Nooi
.” Sarah's voice softened as she freed herself from Anna's weakening grip. “He won't be there anymore.”

“You have to try. Please …”

Sarah could barely hear Anna's plea, the lights rapidly fading from her eyes. She backed away. Leave these white people to themselves, she thought. They brought this war, soaking the land in blood. All this suffering for the love of yellow metal. Boer or Brit, no matter, they cared about little else. She had to get away before the troops arrived. She had siphoned money and supplies from the household over the past two years, enough to get her to the border. But with a white child? Never. They would shoot her on the spot.

“She's done nothing.” Anna reached for a torn page under her pillow, her movements painful to watch. “Andrew Morgan. Give him this. He was kind to me once. Maybe he will be again.” Anna's words slurred, her tongue thick. “Ask him to remember Anna Richter of Vergelegen.” Her body slackened against the pillows, the page still clutched in her hand. Her crusted lips had a bluish tint, her eyes staring at nothing, as if she was surprised to find it there at the end of her days. The baby cried, somehow understanding that there was no hope for comfort left to her, her face turning red, her limbs fretting loose from the blankets.

Sarah reached for the child.

The figure of a woman merged with the shadows of vines and trees, enveloped by night, a complicit friend, a small bundle tied in a blanket to her back. She stayed away from the road, her movements furtive, only stopping once she had crossed the river that bordered the property. Daylight sauntered steadily over the hills ahead, where shelter lay in hidden places, only known to people who lived on this land long before any white faces forged their way in blood. Only once she was far enough away from the house did Sarah dare to look back. The thick white walls betrayed no sign of the turmoil inside, but in the distance, the dust of approaching horses billowed. Sarah wondered what the soldiers would make of the things they found within those staid walls,
the earth mounds among the grapevines, the bloodstains between the floorboards that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

Sarah touched the front of her dress, comforted by the piece of paper hidden next to her skin. She had read the sparse words scrawled on it over and over, struggling with her decision, while the baby cried against her chest.

Dear Anna
, it read in thick lines,
I will pray every night that you can one day forgive me for what has been done to you and yours
. It was signed
Lance Corporal Andrew J. Morgan
.

In the end, Sarah had known that leaving the child behind would haunt her forever. She adjusted the bundle on her back before continuing her journey. For the first time in her life she felt like she had power—to change something, to choose.

“There you are.” Captain Mynhardt stood in the archive doorway, coffee mug in hand.

Alet turned, knocking her pen off the desk. “What is it, Captain?”

“I forgot to tell you, a call came in this morning.” Mynhardt bent down to pick up the pen. He studied the silver engraving for a moment:
To Alet from Pa
.

“Graduation present.” Alet took the pen from him.

“You made the old boy proud when you decided to follow in his footsteps, you know.”

Alet bit her lip. “
Ja
. I know.”

“I sent him the parade photos I took. There's a few good ones of you with the children.”

“Thanks.” Alet wasn't sure what pictures of a parade would do to mend her relationship with her father, but it was kind of Mynhardt to try.

“Ansie and I are heading to Port Elizabeth early Saturday. You need a ride?”

Until she transferred to Unie, Alet didn't even know that her father knew Captain Mynhardt, never mind well enough for Mynhardt to get an invitation to his wedding. She imagined the uncomfortable conversation in the car on the way to PE, arriving early, dealing with the faffing women and the tipsy old men, being forced to stick around at the reception, making small talk with strangers about how she fit into the new family dynamic. “Thanks, Captain,” she said. “But I'm on shift till noon. I'll drive myself.”

“Don't be late, hear. He doesn't tolerate that
kak
, not even from you.”

Alet nodded. “You said there was a call?”

“
Ja
. Right. Teacher from the farm school. Something about a girl saying the Thokoloshe came to her house. Nonnie Kok. Her mother is the local working girl.”

Alet sighed. The Thokoloshe was a myth, a tiny evil sprite possessed of a voracious sexual appetite. The older black people still raised their beds on bricks so he couldn't assault them at night. Kids talking about the Thokoloshe visiting was usually a sure sign that something bad was going on at home. None of the men at the station wanted to deal with domestic cases, especially if abuse was suspected, so they always got relegated to her.

“Shouldn't social services deal with it, Captain?”

“We don't need another child in the system unless we're sure there's really a problem. Go pay the mother a visit tomorrow. Feel things out. But go home now. There's no overtime in the budget.”

“I'm just finishing up.” Alet pushed her chair out from the desk.

“What's this?” Mynhardt stepped closer, squinting at the computer screen.

Alet felt like she had been caught with her hand in the till. “I thought I'd go through missing persons, Captain,” she said nonchalantly. “See if we can identify the victim on the mountain.”

“This isn't your case, girlie. You're still on probation.” Mynhardt had chronic halitosis. His lunch of stale coffee and sausage pie had made it worse.

“It happened in my patrol area, Captain. I know the people.” Alet balled her fists in her lap, wondering how long she would have to do penance with traffic duty before she would be trusted with real police work again. She needed to get the hell out of Unie, get her career, her life, back on track. Solving a murder could be her ticket to a transfer.

“You think the coloureds up there will give you anything?” Mynhardt put his coffee cup down on the desk. “Let me tell you something, my girl. You're an outsider, white police, and a woman. They will lie to your face and sort things for themselves.”

“They won't talk to Mathebe, you know that. Please, Captain. I already spent the whole bloody day on that mountain bagging evidence. I might as well work the case.”

“Find anything useful?” Mynhardt sat down on the desk, the grip of the Rap 401 on his hip disappearing beneath a fold of flesh.

“Rubbish. Bags full. It'll take days to sort through it all.”

“Catalog that if you want to help, then.”

“Give me a chance, Captain. I did the detective training, I can handle this.”

Deep lines formed a fleshy M between Mynhardt's eyes. “When I started in the force there was no detective training at college, girlie. You learned the job by doing the
kak
work like fingerprints and worked your way up to robberies and the serious stuff. That's how your dad and I did it. The old-fashioned way. The right way. Don't think you're too good for it.”

“
Ja
, but—”

“These days you young
laaities
want to start at the top. Think you know everything because you read it in a manual. You know nothing. You don't understand about seeing evidence for what it is, sniffing out witnesses and working them. No book teaches you that.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“Evening, Captain.” Sergeant Hein Strijdom stood at the door. He was a sturdy middle-aged man with a buzz cut, a thick, boorish face, and a permanent scowl.

“
Naand
, Hein.”

Strijdom briefly looked in Alet's direction and dipped his head slightly before returning his attention to Mynhardt. “April books off at five. We're waiting for briefing and parade.”

“
Ja
. Right.” Mynhardt picked up his coffee cup, leaving a wet ring on the desk.

“Captain?” Alet smiled, aware that Strijdom was watching them. “Think about it?”