Read Online These Are the Names by Tommy Wieringa - Free Book Online

He and the black man had agreed wordlessly on that. Instinctively. The dangers of the wilderness seemed greater than those of the group.
    Long ago they had heard wolves. They’d never seen them, only found their spoor the next day. On a few nights the wolves had circled their camp, they’d shivered at the prolonged howling, the growling and yelping just beyond their field of vision. The poacher said that they were little wolves, that they had little to fear as long as they stayed together.
    Now each of them knew what his fate would be if he fell by the wayside. No one wanted to lag behind.
    The tall man felt light in the head; he had dizzy spells. The other one gave him some water, and waited until he could move on. He always wanted more, but was no longer allowed to hold the bottle.
    They walked until it grew dark and the footprints dissolved before their eyes. On the ground, the black man spread the plastic sheet he used to catch rainwater with. Pointy sticks held the corners on high, and the water collected in the middle.
    He built a little fire and drove a sharpened stick through the lizards. He turned them over and over above the flames until their skin turned black. The meat on the inside was white. The charcoaled skin crackled between their teeth. They ate them up, from head to tail.
    The tall man looked at his hands in mild surprise, as though wondering where his portion had gone so quickly. The hunger growled in his stomach. He watched the black man eat. Even his lips were black. He was sunk in thought, his face shining in the glow of the low flames. Scars seemed to have been chiselled into his skin. The black man was a human like him, only it seemed as though the being-human had expressed itself with a difference, like that between a donkey and a horse.
    His desperate gratitude had shrivelled, so that in the hidden place of his thoughts the black man had become more and more a personal servant, a slave; a haze of injustice hung around the last half-lizard he had kept for himself.
    The malformation of his thoughts went creepingly. Yes, the black man fed him, but because he also took his own share, he was to blame for there not being enough left over. The black man helped him move along and supported him when he could go no further, but that also meant he was to blame for the way his earthly suffering dragged on. Gratitude and hateful contempt chased each other like minnows at the bottom of a pool.
    How could he bear the black man’s self-sacrifice? How could you come to terms with owing your life to someone? How could you acquit yourself of that debt?
    The flames sank slowly into the ashes; the wood and plastic were almost consumed. The black man thrust the sharpened stick among the coals, and a flame leapt up. He cleared his throat and spat. The gob shrivelled and hissed in the embers.
    In the light of the silent, white moon, the tall man awoke. He held his breath and listened — what had awakened him? He stuck his head out from under the plastic. The earth smelled of rain. Slowly he rose to his feet; the cold had crept into his bones.
    The black man was asleep in his circle of grass. The tall man crept toward the plastic sheet; the moon glistened in the black water. Quietly, he dropped to his knees. He pulled down a corner of the sheet, so that the water flowed to one side. His lips to the plastic, he drank the sweet, cold water until it was almost gone. He swept away his tracks as he went back, and slipped into his lair. Only when the pounding of his heart died down did he close his eyes.
    At first light they were already on their way to follow the thread that the darkness had severed. The tall man saw the faded footsteps that the others had left behind in the sand; behind him, the black man let the paltry remains of rainwater flow into the bottle. A cold, white mist hung over the land.
    By midday they had found the others’ camp: a little ring of blackened stones and the loose sand where their