my pocket. I was sure that I could feel his miniature heart drumming through the coat.
“I won’t let her give it to the
nganga!
”
“Please yourself — but get rid of it. I don’t care how.”
Gert followed me to the thornbushes, where I gently tipped the mealie corn into the pocket where my monkey had curled himself into a tiny ball.
“Ma will kill you when she finds out you stole from the mealie sack,” said Gert.
“I don’t care.”
“Can I see it?”
I held the pocket open for my brother to peer inside. The vervet had already devoured most of the corn, greedily cracking each kernel between its teeth. My brother grinned.
“You know, Corlie,” he started. “Ma only said you couldn’t keep it
in
the wagon.”
I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The jockey box is empty. I looked.”
The jockey box was a small wooden crate that hung off the back of the wagon. Usually it was used to carryextra supplies, but Tant Minna considered that an invitation to thieves and curious children.
“We could pad it out with straw and take turns feeding it. Ma won’t suspect a thing.” He had a point: as far as Ma was concerned, neither Gert nor Hansie could do wrong. I was the one who had to be watched. Since Pa’s death, it seemed the boys had become that much more precious to her. Because they were precious to me, too, I suppose I forgave her.
“What if he makes a noise?” I asked.
“We’ll take him out during the day — you can say that you’re going back to the forest to look for him. We’ll leave him with lots of food at night.”
We both considered the monkey, which was backing out of the pocket so that his spindly tail shot up straight in the air. He began to chatter busily, tugging at the buttons on my father’s coat as if they were playthings.
“What will you call him?” asked my brother.
“Monkeys don’t have names. He’s just that, an
apie
.”
“Hello,
apie. Hoe gaan dit?
” Gert gently stroked the back of its head, provoking the vervet to twist around and grasp my brother’s finger with tiny paws. “
Ag
, you’re strong!”
“We mustn’t tell Danie or Andries; they’ll only tattle to Tant Minna.” The creature had begun to coo with pleasure as Gert scratched it gently up and down its back. “The little one isn’t out of danger yet.”
In the
laager
, each morning began with an impromptu prayer service: one of the women read from the book of Psalms and one of the men led a hymn on a battered banjo. As far as the
Boere
were concerned, worship was never to be neglected, no matter the circumstances. My father had once told me about the Voortrekkers who had been so devoted to their church that they’d taken it along with them into exile. Dutch faithful had dug it up by the foundation, lifted the clapboard frame onto sturdy runners, and hauled the whole thing twelve miles north to build a new Jerusalem farther inland.
After the service that first morning, I took Hansie to join the other kids, who were told to gather firewood and stuff thornbush branches between the spokes of the wagon wheels. The wagons had been chained together to form a ring, and any gaps between the wheels had to be filled to stall potential raiders. I wasn’t sure that thornbushes would do much to deter khaki soldiers, but I kept this opinion to myself. Lindiwe and her girls were put in charge of tending the goat that the Van Zyls had brought along: feeding and milking in the mornings, picking its hooves in the evenings, and packing the dung into bricks for fuel. Gert and Sipho were bade to perch on the wagon steps to clean the saddles and harnesses with polish from Oom Cronje’s work chest, and I was to sweep the campsite or help Ma with the washing.
These tasks kept us busy until lunchtime, when everyone would gather around for ash-bread or sweetpotatoes roasted in the fire. According to Danie and Andries, there had been horse meat for a week after one of the Cronje’s mares was
“I won’t let her give it to the
nganga!
”
“Please yourself — but get rid of it. I don’t care how.”
Gert followed me to the thornbushes, where I gently tipped the mealie corn into the pocket where my monkey had curled himself into a tiny ball.
“Ma will kill you when she finds out you stole from the mealie sack,” said Gert.
“I don’t care.”
“Can I see it?”
I held the pocket open for my brother to peer inside. The vervet had already devoured most of the corn, greedily cracking each kernel between its teeth. My brother grinned.
“You know, Corlie,” he started. “Ma only said you couldn’t keep it
in
the wagon.”
I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The jockey box is empty. I looked.”
The jockey box was a small wooden crate that hung off the back of the wagon. Usually it was used to carryextra supplies, but Tant Minna considered that an invitation to thieves and curious children.
“We could pad it out with straw and take turns feeding it. Ma won’t suspect a thing.” He had a point: as far as Ma was concerned, neither Gert nor Hansie could do wrong. I was the one who had to be watched. Since Pa’s death, it seemed the boys had become that much more precious to her. Because they were precious to me, too, I suppose I forgave her.
“What if he makes a noise?” I asked.
“We’ll take him out during the day — you can say that you’re going back to the forest to look for him. We’ll leave him with lots of food at night.”
We both considered the monkey, which was backing out of the pocket so that his spindly tail shot up straight in the air. He began to chatter busily, tugging at the buttons on my father’s coat as if they were playthings.
“What will you call him?” asked my brother.
“Monkeys don’t have names. He’s just that, an
apie
.”
“Hello,
apie. Hoe gaan dit?
” Gert gently stroked the back of its head, provoking the vervet to twist around and grasp my brother’s finger with tiny paws. “
Ag
, you’re strong!”
“We mustn’t tell Danie or Andries; they’ll only tattle to Tant Minna.” The creature had begun to coo with pleasure as Gert scratched it gently up and down its back. “The little one isn’t out of danger yet.”
In the
laager
, each morning began with an impromptu prayer service: one of the women read from the book of Psalms and one of the men led a hymn on a battered banjo. As far as the
Boere
were concerned, worship was never to be neglected, no matter the circumstances. My father had once told me about the Voortrekkers who had been so devoted to their church that they’d taken it along with them into exile. Dutch faithful had dug it up by the foundation, lifted the clapboard frame onto sturdy runners, and hauled the whole thing twelve miles north to build a new Jerusalem farther inland.
After the service that first morning, I took Hansie to join the other kids, who were told to gather firewood and stuff thornbush branches between the spokes of the wagon wheels. The wagons had been chained together to form a ring, and any gaps between the wheels had to be filled to stall potential raiders. I wasn’t sure that thornbushes would do much to deter khaki soldiers, but I kept this opinion to myself. Lindiwe and her girls were put in charge of tending the goat that the Van Zyls had brought along: feeding and milking in the mornings, picking its hooves in the evenings, and packing the dung into bricks for fuel. Gert and Sipho were bade to perch on the wagon steps to clean the saddles and harnesses with polish from Oom Cronje’s work chest, and I was to sweep the campsite or help Ma with the washing.
These tasks kept us busy until lunchtime, when everyone would gather around for ash-bread or sweetpotatoes roasted in the fire. According to Danie and Andries, there had been horse meat for a week after one of the Cronje’s mares was
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