The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay Page B

be right as rain,” he said in English.
    â€œCan I go home, please?”
    â€œNo need for that, old son. You’ll be brand new tomorrow.” He dug into his bag and produced a yellow sucker. “Here, this will make you feel better, you get stuck into that while I fix up these stitches.”
    He must have seen the look on my face. “Ja, it’s going to hurt a bit, but you’re not going to cry on me now, are you?”
    â€œHe’s a brave boy, Doctor,” Mevrou said, relaxed now that the truth had remained concealed.
    Later, dabbing my stitches with Mercurochrome, Dr. Henny said, “Well done. No need for a bandage, we’ll be back in a week to remove the stitches.” He turned to Mevrou. “Let me know if he complains of backache.” He took a second sucker from his bag and handed it to me. “That’s for being extra brave.”
    â€œThank you, sir. Dr. Henny, are you English?” I asked, taking the second sucker.
    His expression changed, and I could see that he was upset. “We are all South Africans, son. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He spoke with a quiet vehemence, then repeated, “Don’t let anyone ever tell you anything else!”
    I had certainly had better days, but a two-sucker day doesn’t come along very often, so it wasn’t all bad.
    Despite my prisoner of war status, the kids were pretty good for the next few days. My stitches made me a hero in the small kids’ dormitory, and even Maatie de Jaager kept his loose mouth buttoned for a change.
    We had a new teacher, Mrs. Gerber, who turned out to be the wife of the government vet who had once come out to the farm to check Granpa’s black Orpingtons for Newcastle disease. Mrs. Gerber wasn’t nervy and I don’t think she even knew I was a rooinek. She wasn’t a real teacher, so she was quite nice.
    There was a rumor going around that Miss du Plessis had suffered a nervous breakdown. I knew, of course, that I was to blame and it struck me with dismay that I had probably been “the direct cause of my mother’s nervous breakdown as well. I must be a nervous breakdown type of person. First my mother, now Miss du Plessis, and, while I hadn’t given Mevrou one yet, I had caused her to piss in her pants, which was probably the next best thing.
    Granpa Chook and I discussed our predicament at some length but were unable to reach a useful conclusion. After all, Granpa Chook was a kaffir chicken and they don’t have such a good life. One minute you’re walking along scratching about and the next you’re dinner for a jackal or a python, or bubbling away in a three-legged cast iron cooking pot. Granpa Chook, a proven survivor, worked on the principle that if anything bad could happen it would. A five-year-old isn’t much of a pessimist, though we agreed that one thing was for sure, something pretty bad was bound to happen.

Chapter Three
    THE night after I had my stitches out I was summoned to appear before the Judge and jury.
    The Judge had been quite nice to me over the past week and, because of my sore shoulder, hadn’t required that I carry his books to school each day. In fact, because Miss du Plessis was generally disliked, I’d become a bit of a hero.
    But rooineks in this part of the world are not designed to be permanent heroes. I knew it would soon come to an end: when the stitches were out, my temporary reprieve would be over. So here I was again, being marched straight into another calamity.
    â€œStand to attention, prisoner Pisskop,” the Judge snarled.
    I drew myself up, my arms ramrods at my side. “Bring your stupid legs together, man!” one of the jury shouted.
    â€œName?”
    I was confused. Everyone knew my name.
    â€œWhat is your name, Pisskop?” the Judge asked again.
    â€œPisskop?” I ventured, still not certain what he meant.
    â€œWhat does your name mean?”
    Again I