took you further. Madam’s words had taken me to Ireland and a blue stream that tumbled over cliffs to the sound of Grieg …
At first I asked him nothing. I cared for him quietly, and cut his once-bright hair, and shaved his thin face when he was too weary to do so, and held his hand while he fell asleep, and waited in the chair across from him so he wouldn’t be alone when he woke.
Then he began to talk about it. And so I discovered the desert from Master Phil, a desert that made our Karoo with its struggling bush seem rich by comparison. The Sahara he spoke of was a place where life had given up trying. Not even a bony thorn tree found the will to grow. Brown sand dunes, bare of plants or animals, smothered the land and rose higher than our koppies. Yet what the dunes lacked in inhabitants they made up for in movement of their own. They moved, Master Phil told me, his face for once keen. Whole dunes moved!
‘But how?’ I gasped, peering at him through the gloom of the dark bedroom, dark on account of the sun hurting his eyes.
‘Why, it’s the wind, Ada,’ he said patiently, like his patience had once explained words with strange meanings, or numbers I’d not yet understood. ‘Wind shears the top of them, you see, or shifts them sideways. Into a new place, a new shape.’
He grimaced a little, and I wondered whether the inside wounds became sore if he spoke too much. It would be a pity if the first time he’d shown some spirit was to be the cause of more pain. After the tears over the apricot trees, I’d been careful not to ask too many questions. I waited for him to tell me things while we sat together in the fading afternoons, or over the midmorning cup of tea I brought him during my daily chores. Sometimes he talked, like today, sometimes he stayed quiet for days at a time. In this respect, Master Phil was very changed for me. Gone was the laughter, the keenness, the energy he’d had as a young man, even the fear he’d been able to confess before he went away. What was left was as empty and as dry as the place he described.
‘There’s a strange beauty,’ he once said of the desert, when I risked a further question. ‘But it’s cruel, Ada.’ He stared down at his fingers in surprise as they fidgeted on the bedspread, almost as if their movement was happening outside his control, like the sands of the desert had no control over where the wind sent them.
‘What’s beautiful about it?’
Were the dunes purple at sunset, was the sky coloured more vividly than I saw above Cradock House each evening? Or did the beauty come from the hardness of the place, from the power of the wind to lash sand into new shapes?
‘There’s no shade,’ I heard Master Phil say, drawn back to the cruelty. ‘Flies on your face, in your hair, sand stinging your eyes, scratching your throat till it bled.’ He lifted one of the restless hands and put it against his neck as if the dryness still held him in its grasp. ‘Half a cup of water to shave in, no way to get clean. Heat dried you to a crisp, cold froze you as soon as the sun went down.’
‘Where did the water come from, sir, that you were given?’ For there could have been no rain in such a place, no Groot Vis winding between sand mountains to bring relief.
‘They carried it in trucks,’ he said, smiling for once all the way to his light blue eyes. ‘From miles away, where there was a river, or an oasis.’
‘An oasis?’
‘A spring in the middle of the desert,’ he lifted himself up a little against his pillows, ‘a place where water from deep down bubbles to the surface.’
‘Did you see such a place?’
‘Yes,’ he said, before putting his head back and lifting a thin arm across his face. His hair was no longer wavy, and lay pale and flat against his head. He spoke again with his eyes covered.
‘When I was injured. It had palm trees, and there was shade.’
‘Like our palms? In the Karoo Gardens in Market Square?’ I broke in, excited
At first I asked him nothing. I cared for him quietly, and cut his once-bright hair, and shaved his thin face when he was too weary to do so, and held his hand while he fell asleep, and waited in the chair across from him so he wouldn’t be alone when he woke.
Then he began to talk about it. And so I discovered the desert from Master Phil, a desert that made our Karoo with its struggling bush seem rich by comparison. The Sahara he spoke of was a place where life had given up trying. Not even a bony thorn tree found the will to grow. Brown sand dunes, bare of plants or animals, smothered the land and rose higher than our koppies. Yet what the dunes lacked in inhabitants they made up for in movement of their own. They moved, Master Phil told me, his face for once keen. Whole dunes moved!
‘But how?’ I gasped, peering at him through the gloom of the dark bedroom, dark on account of the sun hurting his eyes.
‘Why, it’s the wind, Ada,’ he said patiently, like his patience had once explained words with strange meanings, or numbers I’d not yet understood. ‘Wind shears the top of them, you see, or shifts them sideways. Into a new place, a new shape.’
He grimaced a little, and I wondered whether the inside wounds became sore if he spoke too much. It would be a pity if the first time he’d shown some spirit was to be the cause of more pain. After the tears over the apricot trees, I’d been careful not to ask too many questions. I waited for him to tell me things while we sat together in the fading afternoons, or over the midmorning cup of tea I brought him during my daily chores. Sometimes he talked, like today, sometimes he stayed quiet for days at a time. In this respect, Master Phil was very changed for me. Gone was the laughter, the keenness, the energy he’d had as a young man, even the fear he’d been able to confess before he went away. What was left was as empty and as dry as the place he described.
‘There’s a strange beauty,’ he once said of the desert, when I risked a further question. ‘But it’s cruel, Ada.’ He stared down at his fingers in surprise as they fidgeted on the bedspread, almost as if their movement was happening outside his control, like the sands of the desert had no control over where the wind sent them.
‘What’s beautiful about it?’
Were the dunes purple at sunset, was the sky coloured more vividly than I saw above Cradock House each evening? Or did the beauty come from the hardness of the place, from the power of the wind to lash sand into new shapes?
‘There’s no shade,’ I heard Master Phil say, drawn back to the cruelty. ‘Flies on your face, in your hair, sand stinging your eyes, scratching your throat till it bled.’ He lifted one of the restless hands and put it against his neck as if the dryness still held him in its grasp. ‘Half a cup of water to shave in, no way to get clean. Heat dried you to a crisp, cold froze you as soon as the sun went down.’
‘Where did the water come from, sir, that you were given?’ For there could have been no rain in such a place, no Groot Vis winding between sand mountains to bring relief.
‘They carried it in trucks,’ he said, smiling for once all the way to his light blue eyes. ‘From miles away, where there was a river, or an oasis.’
‘An oasis?’
‘A spring in the middle of the desert,’ he lifted himself up a little against his pillows, ‘a place where water from deep down bubbles to the surface.’
‘Did you see such a place?’
‘Yes,’ he said, before putting his head back and lifting a thin arm across his face. His hair was no longer wavy, and lay pale and flat against his head. He spoke again with his eyes covered.
‘When I was injured. It had palm trees, and there was shade.’
‘Like our palms? In the Karoo Gardens in Market Square?’ I broke in, excited
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