Page 76 of Lizzie’s Spirit

They stayed two nights by the river, restoring their spirits and gaining some equanimity.

There was a baby to care for, and, of course, Elizabeth named him Bennet —little Ben.

She wished to stay longer, but there was scarcely any food remaining, though Bumper proved an excellent hunter, catching another hare for their dinner.

Her back ached, everywhere was sore—but they had to continue, even with her fatigue.

A faint trail led from the beach, which they followed up the incline.

Little Ben was wrapped in the blanket, held firmly to her chest, the guitar and knapsack slung across her back.

Proceeding very slowly, Ellie took the lead, often missing the trail and forcing them to backtrack, unwilling to force her way through bushes, which frequently blocked their path.

The scrub cleared, and their progress picked up when, inevitably, Ellie screamed.

Standing directly in front of her was an enormous bull, its wide horns a yard across from black tip to black tip, a shoulder hump—typical of beasts of the Orient—behind the head.

Angry, snorting, stamping its feet. Its mouth was frothing, pinkish drool dripping to the ground.

“Stand still, don’t move!” Elizabeth screamed. “Don’t run.”

The terrified girl turned towards her, panic writ across her face, which was contorted with fear. She had lost all rational control.

“No!” cried Elizabeth again. “Ellie, please, oh please, don’t move.” But there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even pull the girl to her and offer the scant protection of an adult—perhaps tall enough to deter the enraged animal. She could see blood on its head, a wound on its side.

The eyes stared malevolently, a cunning, almost-intelligent hatred. Once aroused, nothing—nothing—would stand in its way.

A flash of black, leaping, white hackles raised—Bumper gripping the bull’s nostrils with his teeth, hanging from its nose as he was swung around—ninety pounds, nothing to that hulking head and shoulders.

Angrily, the bull flicked him to the ground.

Bumper fell, rolling some five yards away.

Without hesitation, he once again leapt in the air, again grabbing the bull’s nostrils.

Again, thrown carelessly into the brush.

“Lizzie, the bull will hurt him ever so much!” cried Ellie, now clinging tightly to Elizabeth.

“Bumper is the cleverest dog.” But Elizabeth was full scared—if Bumper were injured, there was nothing they could do for him.

The game went on. The bull swung its head violently, tossing the dog to the ground.

Again and again, Bumper leapt, nipping its nostrils, gripping them with bared teeth.

Always silent; never growling, never barking.

Never giving the bull any respite; never any chance to turn and kick.

The horns too wide to contact a leaping dog.

But one nudge from that great forehead and Bumper would have had broken and bruised ribs.

But he continued, always returning—to leap, to nip, to hang off the bull’s nose, now bloodied by his teeth.

Bumper was slowing; the exertion taxing even his hunting-enhanced stamina.

But the bull was perplexed—never had it encountered such ferocity, such bloody-mindedness, such determined, insistent attacks.

All the while, paradoxically, its temper calmed—initially angry, blind to all around it; then annoyed; now merely irritated and disgruntled.

Abruptly, it turned. Bumper came in behind, following the bull as it walked back along the trail.

Perhaps, a half hour had elapsed. Bumper, at ninety pounds, had worn into submission thirteen hundred pounds of pure spite and malice.

The bull never looked back, now dominated by the dog walking close by its heels. Elizabeth and Ellie followed.

They wound up a scrubby ridge for two or three miles before breaking out into open country.

Walking towards them was a group of men, likely tracking the bull from where it had escaped its kraal.

Their chatter turned to exclamations of astonishment upon seeing Bumper driving the bull towards them, followed by Elizabeth and Ellie.

All of the terror of being accosted by spear-boy once again threatened to overwhelm her; she clutched little Ben closer.

But there was naught else to do but to follow Bumper and the bull as it walked past the men, heading towards the huts of the homestead.

As she came closer, she saw it was more than just a family—a village.

Women, children, old men, and young boys came to watch the procession. They parted to let the bull, now completely insouciant, walk directly into its kraal. Bumper, oh, ever so proud, scarcely gave it a backward glance as he came and sat beside her.

She tousled his head, “You clever dog.”

Her heart was beating so strongly, but she was so fatigued, so weary. Ellie clung to her, peering apprehensively at the dark-skinned people clustered around them.

“Oh, Ellie, perhaps we’ll meet a king or queen.” If only she could calm herself as easily as she reassured Ellie that all was well.

A tall man who displayed much authority approached, likely the chief of the village, and addressed her, speaking that impossible click language.

Beside him, a woman adorned with many multicoloured necklaces gently pulled aside the blanket that covered little Ben’s face.

He was squirming, his unfocused eyes and wrinkled skin so typical of a newborn.

Her eyes widened. She looked with admiration at Elizabeth.

Excitedly, she called to the women, pointing to the babe.

Taking Elizabeth’s arm, she led her to a large round hut, a rondavel, where she was seated on a woven mat, one of many spread across the earthen floor.

A young girl entered carrying a bowl of milk and placed it beside her.

Putting Ben to her breast, the letdown was exultant.

But whether it was due to the babe suckling or the relief of finding sanctuary, she knew not.

They were safe, at least for the moment.

***

Elizabeth awoke feeling wretched. Everything was aching. Her head—must she feed little Ben every two hours?… her womb—cramping painfully as she suckled… her sheaf and muscles sore, so tender… her toe, still throbbing. She was so very tired. Uncontrollable tears cascaded down her face.

“Lizzie, whatever’s the matter?” Ellie was sitting beside her, holding her hand. “Is little Ben alright?”

“So sorry, dearest, so sorry to bring you here; so sorry to bring Ben into this world.” Her mind spun—remorse, guilt, anxiety—a knot in her stomach. She clutched Ellie’s hand—cut where her nails had dug into the palm during her travail. Abruptly… dizzy, then falling into a deep, dark pit.

She dreamt of Italian arias, Spanish coplas, English nursery rhymes, Irish reels, and Gaelic airs. Waking, she took up her guitar and, ever so softly, began singing to little Ben. She was lost in the music, the perfect foil to her anxiety and worry.

Opening her eyes, she found the hut filled with women, young and old, sitting on the mats and listening to her singing.

They were humming, moving their bodies in time to the rhythm.

She switched to a cante chico , a simple Spanish song of love and gaiety, based on the pulse of the flamenco.

Soon, the rondavel was filled with clapping, laughter, and improvised melody.

There was much excited chatter as the women returned to their chores—tending the gardens, cooking meals, grinding millet and corn, gathering firewood, and weaving rush mats.

The next day, grateful for the occupation, Elizabeth was invited to join the chief’s wife in her activities.

Gradually, over the course of the next week, her melancholy lifted—enough sleep, for the chief’s wife insisted she retire early each day; enough nourishing food for both herself and little Ben; and work enough to keep her busy.

The lifestyle was seductive: while the women did most of the chores, the men were solely occupied with milking and herding their cattle. There were no other responsibilities.

The rondavels of the village were laid out along both sides of a meandering river, near which well-tended gardens were established, barricaded with mimosa bushes protecting them from the browsing cattle.

The land was intersected with small ravines filled with forest trees of all varieties.

In between, interspersed with scrubby plants, was an extensive verdure of sweet grasses, irrigated by the summer rains.

The language no longer felt strange to her, and Elizabeth began to distinguish the different clicks.

The language’s tonality—that a rising or falling, high or low, intonation could change meaning—was so different from the European and Indian languages she knew.

Over the week, she learnt many words, including sister, usisi, and baby, usana, which were used to talk of Ellie and little Ben.

As her ear adjusted to the sounds and tonal variations, she could appreciate its soft, agreeable consonance, which was uncommonly musical.

As she learnt the language, she began to understand some of the soul of the Xhosa people .

But her comprehension was limited, and she knew much nuance escaped her .

“Lizzie, you’re so much stronger. Can we start again for Cape Town? It must be really close, and I miss my father very much.” Ellie looked to Elizabeth with so much hope. Her eyes were red; she had been rubbing them to prevent herself from crying.

“Ellie, my sweetest, whatever is the matter? You’ve been such a help to me and to the other women.”

“It’s a girl, Nceba , who’s ever so mean, pushing me around, telling me what to do. I’m the daughter of a viscount, but she doesn’t understand. No one understands.”