Provocations Part 8

Till every spook had vanished. Slink had gone To make a longer trek, where plains were dim.

And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done, Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of him She loved, the smoking weapon in her hand To scare the scavenger of carrion brand.

The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rains She kept her vigil, loosening her hair In shining ma.s.ses o'er him. Wild refrains Of piteous croonings and of vague despair Crept to her lips, then died away, unsung, Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among.

Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a day To Cellier's farmstead more. The patient team Of oxen, plodding slowly on their way, Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleam Of curling whip flicked at the leader, clean, Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean.

The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boys Marched to the rhythm of a sing-song chaunt To ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise, The cheering of the oxen, stormed the haunt Of nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and square Sat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care.

Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet!

The Dutchman whistled as he jogged along In leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wet To loose his tune. A heavy winging throng Of gorging vultures, black as devil's brood, Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude.

Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyes To watch the swart aasvogel[B] in their flight, Cracking his whip to dissipate the flies That swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! Right Where his oxen wended, straight in front!

He clambered from his seat with angry grunt,

And pious prayer politely blended, sure The Powers above would note the quoted text, Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore!

His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed.

Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned, A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand.

Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard.

The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brown That stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared.

A woman in the burning dust stooped down Over a crumpled figure; and a sheen Of golden tresses veiled it, like a screen.

She rocked her too and fro, a little breath That might be song, or might be strangled word Broke from her now and then; but only death Lay in her arms and answered not, nor heard.

"Come away, come away, Come, come, come away, For the moon, for the moon Made a shroud in the day.

Come away, come away, come, _come_, the moon, The flowers are calling, d.i.c.k--my love, come soon."

Some hundred yards--Pah! Jan felt strangely sick-- _She_ must have dragged that fearful thing away, The devil's brood had claimed. The Rooinek Was safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray!

The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too well Her awful battle with those fiends from h.e.l.l.

He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand; She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smile Babbled in words he could not understand, Nodding her head towards the plains the while.

"The other one is dead. He was so black.

He killed my husband, so I killed him back.

"I want to lay the moonflowers on d.i.c.k's breast, They told me he was calling, so I came; They kept on nodding, nodding to the west, I want to have those moonflowers, the same That told me. d.i.c.k is dead. So cold and dead I don't remember all the flowers said.

"But if we are not very quick, the shroud Of silver cross-st.i.tch, woven star on star, Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud, It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar."

"Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead."

"One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said.

They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed, Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys, Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaid But beating at her throat, no word that cloys Or mars itself in speech--Beth flung the sod Over her love--and left him there--with G.o.d.

Only a dusty mound to mark his grave, A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried cross From off her neck. The Lord had called, who gave His rich Acceptance that the world deems loss!

Father, forgive us! For our eyes that see Only our sorrows--when we should see Thee!

To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn.

The English girl lay sleeping in his cart Clasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer torn By grief and pa.s.sion, human fears, her heart Was now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace, Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release.

[B] Aasvogel--vultures.