the bult again, and once more came to a halt at the veldkornet’s house. A messenger had been sent on in advance to announce our coming, and from far around the women and children and old men had gathered to welcome their victorious burghers back from the war. And there were tears in many eyes when we sang, “Hef, Burghers, Hef.”
And the moepels were ripe and yellow on the trees.
And in the dusk Neels Potgieter found Martha Rossouw and kissed her. At sundown, as the witch-doctor had said. But there was one important thing that the witch-doctor had not told. It was something that Neels Potgieter did not know, either, just then. And that was that Martha did not want him anymore.
The Love Potion
You mention the juba-plant (Oom Schalk Lourens said). Oh, yes, everybody in the Marico knows about the juba-plant. It grows high up on the krantzes, and they say you must pick off one of its little red berries at midnight, under the full moon. Then, if you are a young man, and you are anxious for a girl to fall in love with you, all you have to do is to squeeze the juice of the juba-berry into her coffee.
They say that after the girl has drunk the juba-juice she begins to forget all sorts of things. She forgets that your forehead is rather low, and that your ears stick out, and that your mouth is too big. She even forgets having told you, the week before last, that she wouldn’t marry you if you were the only man in the Transvaal.
All she knows is that the man she gazes at, over her empty coffee-cup, has grown remarkably handsome. You can see from this that the plant must be very potent in its effects. I mean, if you consider what some of the men in the Marico look like.
One young man I knew, however, was not very enthusiastic about juba-juice. In fact, he always said that before he climbed up the krantz one night, to pick one of those red berries, he was more popular with the girls than he was afterwards. This young man said that his decline in favour with the girls of the neighbourhood might perhaps be due to the fact that, shortly after he had picked the juba-berry, he lost most of his front teeth.
This happened when the girl’s father, who was an irascible sort of fellow, caught the young man in the act of squeezing juba-juice into his daughter’s cup.
And afterwards, while others talked of the magic properties of this love potion, the young man would listen in silence, and his lip would curl in a sneer over the place where his front teeth used to be.
“Yes, kêrels,” he would lisp at the end, “I suppose I must have picked that juba-berry at the wrong time. Perhaps the moon wasn’t full enough, or something. Or perhaps it wasn’t just exactly midnight. I am only glad now that I didn’t pick off two of those red berries while I was about it.”
We all felt it was a sad thing that the juba-plant had done to that young man.
But with Gideon van der Merwe it was different.
One night I was out shooting in the veld with a lamp fastened on my hat. You know that kind of shooting: in the glare of the lamp-light you can see only the eyes of the thing you are aiming at, and you get three months if you are caught. They made it illegal to hunt by lamp-light since the time a policeman got shot in the foot, this way, when he was out tracking cattle-smugglers on the Bechuanaland border.
The magistrate at Zeerust, who did not know the ways of the cattle-smugglers, found that the shooting was an accident. This verdict satisfied everybody except the policeman, whose foot was still bandaged when he came into court. But the men in the Volksraad, some of whom had been cattle-smugglers themselves, knew better than the magistrate did as to how the policeman came to have a couple of buckshot in the soft part of his foot, and accordingly they brought in this new law.
Therefore I walked very quietly that night on the krantz.
Frequently I put out my light and stood very still amongst the trees, and waited long moments to make sure I was not being followed. Ordinarily, there would have been little to fear, but a couple of days before two policemen had been seen disappearing into the bush. By their looks they seemed young policemen, who were anxious for promotion, and who didn’t know that it is more becoming for a policeman to drink an honest farmer’s peach brandy than to arrest him for hunting by lamp-light.
I was walking along, turning the light from side to side, when suddenly, about a hundred paces from me, in the full brightness of the lamp, I saw a pair of eyes. When I also saw, above the eyes, a policeman’s khaki helmet, I remembered that a moonlight night, such as that was, was not good for finding buck.
So I went home.
I took the shortest way, too, which was over the side of the krantz – the steep side – and on my way down I clutched at a variety of branches, tree-roots, stone ledges and tufts of grass. Later on, at the foot of the krantz, when I came to and was able to sit up, there was that policeman bending over me.
“Oom Schalk,” he said, “I was wondering if you would lend me your lamp.”
I looked up. It was Gideon van der Merwe, the young policeman who had been stationed for some time at Derdepoort. I had met him on several occasions and had found him very likeable.
“You can have my lamp,” I answered, “but you must be careful. It’s worse for a policeman to get caught breaking the law than for an ordinary man.”
Gideon van der Merwe shook his head.
“No, I don’t want to go shooting with the lamp,” he said, “I want to –”
And then he paused.
He laughed nervously.
“It seems silly to say it, Oom Schalk,” he said, “but perhaps you’ll understand. I have come to look for a juba-plant. I need it for my studies. For my third-class sergeant’s examination. And it will soon be midnight, and I can’t find one of those plants anywhere.”
I felt sorry for Gideon. It struck me that he would never make a good policeman. If he couldn’t find a juba-plant, of which there were thousands on the krantz, it would be much harder for him to find the spoor of a cattle-smuggler.
So I handed him my lamp and explained where he had to go and look. Gideon thanked me and walked off.
About half an hour later he was back.
He took a red berry out of his tunic pocket and showed it to me. For fear he should tell any more lies about needing that juba-berry for his studies, I spoke first.
“Lettie Cordier?” I asked.
Gideon nodded. He was very shy, though, and wouldn’t talk much at the start. But I had guessed long ago that Gideon van der Merwe was not calling at Krisjan Cordier’s house so often just to hear Krisjan relate the story of his life.
Nevertheless, I mentioned Krisjan Cordier’s life-story.
“Yes,” Gideon replied, “Lettie’s father has got up to what he was like at the age of seven. It has taken him a month, so far.”
“He must be glad to get you to listen,” I said, “the only other man who listened for any length of time was an insurance agent. But he left after a fortnight. By that time Krisjan had reached to only a little beyond his fifth birthday.”
“But Lettie is wonderful, Oom Schalk,” Gideon went on. “I have never spoken more than
