hours Ralph had regained consciousness, in three days he was sitting up unaided and wolfing his food, in six days they could no longer keep him in his cot.
Jordan rallied briefly on the second day, becoming lucid and demanding his mother fretfully, and then remembered that she was gone, began weeping again and immediately began to sink. His life
teetered, the pendulum swinging erratically back and forth, but each time he fell back the presence of death grew stronger in the baking canvas tent, until its stench overpowered the odour of
fever.
The flesh melted from his body, burned away by the fever, and his skin took on a pearly translucent sheen, so that it seemed in that uncertain light of dusk and early dawn that the very outline
of the delicate bone structure showed through.
Jan Cheroot and Zouga nursed him in turns, one sleeping while the other watched – or, when neither could sleep, sitting together, seeking comfort and companionship from each other, trying
to discount their helplessness in the face of onrushing death.
‘He’s young and strong,’ they told each other. ‘He will be all right also.’
And day after day Jordan sank lower, his cheekbones rising up out of his flesh, and his eyes receding into deep cavities the colour of old bruises.
Exhausted with guilt and sorrow, with helpless worry, Zouga left the tent each dawn before sunrise to be the first at Market Square – perhaps there was a transport rider freshly arrived
with medicines in his chests, and certainly there would be Boer farmers with cabbages and onions and, if he was lucky, a few wizened and half-green tomatoes, all of which would be sold half an hour
after dawn.
On the tenth morning, as Zouga hurried back to the tent, he paused for a moment at the entrance, frowning angrily. The falcon statue had been dragged from the tent, and there was a long furrow
scraped by its base in the loose dust. It stood now at a careless angle, leaning against the trunk of the scraggy camel-thorn tree that gave meagre shade to the camp.
The branches of the tree were festooned with black ribbons of dried springbuck meat, with saddlery and trek gear – so that the statue seemed to be part of this litter. There was one of the
camp’s brown hens perched on the falcon’s head, and it had dropped a long chalky smear of liquid excrement down the stone figure.
Still frowning, Zouga ducked into the tent. Jan Cheroot squatted beside Ralph’s cot, and the two of them were deeply involved in a game of five stones, using polished pebbles of agate and
quartz for the counters.
Jordan lay very still and pale, so that Zouga felt a lurch of dismay under his ribs. It was only when he stooped over the cot that he saw the rise and fall of Jordan’s chest and caught the
faint whisper of his breathing.
‘Did you move the stone falcon?’
Jan Cheroot grunted without looking up from the shiny stones. ‘It seemed to trouble Jordie. He woke up crying again – and kept calling to it.’
Zouga would have taken it further, but suddenly it did not seem worth the effort. He was so tired and dispirited. He would bring the statue back into the tent later, he decided.
‘There are a few sweet potatoes – nothing else,’ he grunted as he took up the vigil beside Jordan’s cot.
Jan Cheroot made a stew of dried beans and mutton, and mashed this with the boiled potatoes. It was an unappetizing mess, but that evening, for the first time, Jordan did not roll his head away
from the proffered spoon, and after that his recovery was startlingly swift.
He asked only once more after Aletta, when he and Zouga were alone in the tent.
‘Has she gone to heaven, Papa?’
‘Yes.’ The certainty in Zouga’s tone seemed to reassure him.
‘Will she be one of God’s angels?’
‘Yes, Jordie, and from now on she will always be there – watching over you.’
The child thought about that seriously and then nodded contentedly, and the next day he seemed strong enough for
Jordan rallied briefly on the second day, becoming lucid and demanding his mother fretfully, and then remembered that she was gone, began weeping again and immediately began to sink. His life
teetered, the pendulum swinging erratically back and forth, but each time he fell back the presence of death grew stronger in the baking canvas tent, until its stench overpowered the odour of
fever.
The flesh melted from his body, burned away by the fever, and his skin took on a pearly translucent sheen, so that it seemed in that uncertain light of dusk and early dawn that the very outline
of the delicate bone structure showed through.
Jan Cheroot and Zouga nursed him in turns, one sleeping while the other watched – or, when neither could sleep, sitting together, seeking comfort and companionship from each other, trying
to discount their helplessness in the face of onrushing death.
‘He’s young and strong,’ they told each other. ‘He will be all right also.’
And day after day Jordan sank lower, his cheekbones rising up out of his flesh, and his eyes receding into deep cavities the colour of old bruises.
Exhausted with guilt and sorrow, with helpless worry, Zouga left the tent each dawn before sunrise to be the first at Market Square – perhaps there was a transport rider freshly arrived
with medicines in his chests, and certainly there would be Boer farmers with cabbages and onions and, if he was lucky, a few wizened and half-green tomatoes, all of which would be sold half an hour
after dawn.
On the tenth morning, as Zouga hurried back to the tent, he paused for a moment at the entrance, frowning angrily. The falcon statue had been dragged from the tent, and there was a long furrow
scraped by its base in the loose dust. It stood now at a careless angle, leaning against the trunk of the scraggy camel-thorn tree that gave meagre shade to the camp.
The branches of the tree were festooned with black ribbons of dried springbuck meat, with saddlery and trek gear – so that the statue seemed to be part of this litter. There was one of the
camp’s brown hens perched on the falcon’s head, and it had dropped a long chalky smear of liquid excrement down the stone figure.
Still frowning, Zouga ducked into the tent. Jan Cheroot squatted beside Ralph’s cot, and the two of them were deeply involved in a game of five stones, using polished pebbles of agate and
quartz for the counters.
Jordan lay very still and pale, so that Zouga felt a lurch of dismay under his ribs. It was only when he stooped over the cot that he saw the rise and fall of Jordan’s chest and caught the
faint whisper of his breathing.
‘Did you move the stone falcon?’
Jan Cheroot grunted without looking up from the shiny stones. ‘It seemed to trouble Jordie. He woke up crying again – and kept calling to it.’
Zouga would have taken it further, but suddenly it did not seem worth the effort. He was so tired and dispirited. He would bring the statue back into the tent later, he decided.
‘There are a few sweet potatoes – nothing else,’ he grunted as he took up the vigil beside Jordan’s cot.
Jan Cheroot made a stew of dried beans and mutton, and mashed this with the boiled potatoes. It was an unappetizing mess, but that evening, for the first time, Jordan did not roll his head away
from the proffered spoon, and after that his recovery was startlingly swift.
He asked only once more after Aletta, when he and Zouga were alone in the tent.
‘Has she gone to heaven, Papa?’
‘Yes.’ The certainty in Zouga’s tone seemed to reassure him.
‘Will she be one of God’s angels?’
‘Yes, Jordie, and from now on she will always be there – watching over you.’
The child thought about that seriously and then nodded contentedly, and the next day he seemed strong enough for
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