The Keeper (15 page)

Len was coming along the path towards her, rod on his shoulder. She planted her shell bag between her feet, barring the path.

‘What’s in the bag?’ said Len, centring his fishing rod in opposition to her, straddling the track as if he were a soldier standing with his rifle.

‘Buried treasure,’ she said flippantly.

‘Lemme see!’ He laughed, his head thrust forward slightly, scenting her.

‘No.’

He slung his rucksack from his shoulder. ‘Forfeit – and I’ll let you pass.’

She ignored him. ‘Why are you giving Misklip drink?’ she said.

He held her gaze. ‘Who you going to tell?’

‘Hannes.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it isn’t worth it.’

He picked up his bag and rod, stepped round her and walked away so that the gannets rose in fright, screaming round their heads.

‘Shit on me and I’ll shoot you,’ Aletta said under her breath.

‘Aletta said nothing,’ Hannes says to Rika. ‘She didn’t mention the things she saw.’

‘What things?’

‘When I was asleep in the mornings after a night of duty Len would go out in the boat. After his own duties he would often disappear in search of his famous shark instead of sleeping. I had to pull him up now and then for sloppy work about the lighthouse. In another way, I was glad when he was off the island in the boat. Only thing is – he never caught his fish, or anything substantial at all.’

‘What was he doing, then?’

‘Snooping about, looking for salvage. There’s a wreck said to have a pile of gold on board.’ Hannes smiles ruefully. ‘Like with all wrecks, the old myth of treasure comes up as soon as a ship goes down. It might be full of coal or pig iron – but there will be some story of treasure if it’s more than a hundred years old! Men will go to extraordinary lengths to get the rights to salvage along the coast. I doubt that anything really substantial has been recovered, although the older wrecks give up pottery and beads and things. I suspect Len was involved with some syndicate or other and he was their man on the spot. It’s all quite illegal of course. The wrecks are government property and under the jurisdiction of the local museum. But who’s going to notice people nosing around, except the guano workers or the lightkeepers? I have always reported stray boats as a matter of course. The last person on the list of suspects is a keeper – he’s supposed to be the official watchdog. And Len was so convincing that he was after a trophy shark that I didn’t question it.’

‘Did he find anything?’

‘If he did, I never knew. But he was after information to hand on to the big
boys. There’s good pay for that kind of stuff. Exact location. Times and tides. When I wasn’t going to be on the island. All of that.’

‘How did you come to suspect him?’

‘When I found Misklip eating perlemoen.’ He turns to her. ‘He said Len had given it to him. That’s when I realised that Len had been diving rather than fishing. Then, in a roundabout way, I told Len I was
lus
for some perlemoen and would he like to go diving with me. He said he never went diving. He was too scared of the sharks.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Misklip again,’ Hannes says. ‘Long after. It was weeks since Len had left the island. Misklip thought I’d saved him from arrest when he attacked the boy. That he owed me something. Meanwhile, I’m convinced it was Len who paid off the warders. Turn a blind eye, get a cut, all that sort of stuff.’ He looks across at Rika. ‘Funny thing, but Misklip kept going on about Aletta. Fretting that she wasn’t there. As if it was his fault. He was terrified of retribution too. Not from the authorities. From God. The devil. The ghost. You name it. He kept talking about it in a muddled sort of way. Far more oppressive than the thought of a policeman in a boat with a warrant.’

‘Why didn’t you confront Len at the time?’

He shakes his head. ‘How could I?’ He looks down at his hands.

‘Aletta?’

He gazes off along the veranda.

‘Was she part of it?’ Rika persists.

‘Not exactly. But she knew – and she wouldn’t betray him.’

‘Who? Misklip or Len?’

‘Len, of course.’

Rika hesitates. ‘What makes you so sure?’ she says.

‘It’s obvious.’

Rika dares – ‘Maybe you’re wrong.’

‘Why would she bother with Misklip?’ Hannes says with a touch of impatience. ‘You don’t cross the line. There are the keepers. There are the guano workers.’

‘And you live on a quarter of a square mile of land cut off from the world,’ she retorts. ‘Are you really that ignorant of each other?’

He is silent.

How can she know about Len?

Nor had she seen the furtive torch beam flitting from the lighthouse on the night that Witbooi laughed.

–
Why did you go to the lighthouse, Aletta?

–
The lighthouse? I never go to the lighthouse, Hannes. People fall.

She had lied. And that could only mean one thing.

Why would she bother with Misklip?

Because, but for her, Misklip would never have struck the guano worker with the shark hook. He would have had his wits about him.

And now, here was Riefaart, the guano headman, shouting at her door, ‘
Waar’s meneer
Harker?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Aletta cried.

‘I think Misklip killed a boy.’

That morning Aletta had finished the lighthouse. She had placed it on the table in her dancing room and gazed at it. She had chosen a record, put it on the turntable and wound the handle. The needle slid a little until it found its groove.

She danced: a strange elation, her gestures grave and grand like the music.

Each time she passed the model, poised in a pool of light from the window, she circled it. With that small, awed smile of creation, both intimate and self-deprecating, she examined it as if it were a relic and she its devotee.

True, the odd shell was slightly misplaced. She did not have the precision of Louisa Harker: was it all those years of doing fine needlework that had made her so adept? Or a Christian patience that Aletta could not match?

She held it aloft, turned slowly with it in her upstretched arms. She saw the light catch the red bulb of the dome and spark, as if from fire.

Then she had heard a voice – someone calling, ‘
Meneer
Hendricks?’

She went along the passage and into the yard. There was Misklip.

‘Misklip?’ Aletta said, startled.

He touched his forelock. ‘
Ek kom vir die seur.
The boat is ready.’

‘What boat?’ Aletta said.

‘Mr Hendricks said I must tell him when Riefaart is finished with the boat. He wants to go fishing.
Maar hy’s nie by die huis nie
.’

‘He’s in the lighthouse with Mr Harker,’ she said. ‘Just wait. They will come down now.’

He grinned anxiously. A shifting of his shoulders, the clumsiness of his boot against a stone.

‘
Kom kyk
?’ She gestured with her head. ‘I have something to show you.’

Misklip followed her into the building and down the passage.

The music was still playing, the needle bouncing on a scratch. Over and over. Aletta flicked it gently so it gathered itself and played on.

She went to the table and she picked up the shell lighthouse. She turned and came slowly towards Misklip, holding it out triumphantly. ‘This is what I was making with the shells you brought me,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to see it.
Mooi, nè
?’

Misklip turned towards her as she spoke.

His eyes rested a moment on the lighthouse in her hands.

Then he looked up at her. Stricken.

He said, ‘
So het die kind gesterf.
’

Thus did the child die.

He turned from the room, his arms out, fingers sweeping the walls of the passage at either side as if he was pushing his way up out of the ground into light.

‘Misklip?’ Aletta called, putting the model down and starting after him.

When she reached the yard, she could see him, half running along the path, his cap swinging wildly in his hand.

She returned to the room and closed the gramophone. She swept up the shawl which lay crumpled on the floor and wrapped the lighthouse in it. She put it in a cupboard, making a space between old tools and jars of nails. She closed the door and turned the key, her heart beating strongly.

She started suddenly and glanced behind her. ‘Who’s there?’

Nothing. Just the sly wind fretting in the passageway.

She hurried back to the house, pulled the kettle on to the stove and made a cup of coffee. When she lit a cigarette she had to hold her wrist to keep the flame steady.

Later, when Hannes was asleep, she had seen Len launch the boat, his fishing rods stowed. Misklip had been standing nearby, helping him push it into the water. The wind was gusting in from the south-east, the water breaking white. Len was carrying something heavy. He held it across his shoulder, moving slowly. Then he heaved it from him and it arced and fell into the boat.

The shark hook. That strange and ancient relic of another age. Sacred to the headmen and the guano workers. Their talisman – and their insurance – against the dangers of the sea and the witchcraft of the light. Iconic, it remained secured high up on the wall of the guano shed unless the headman chose to take it down and oil it.

That afternoon when he had helped Len Hendricks to carry the boat down to the water, Len had said to him, ‘Bring me that shark hook, Misklip.’

‘
Nei, seur
,’ Misklip had protested, shocked. ‘No one may touch that hook except the headman.’

‘Rubbish, man. Get it.’

Misklip had been obdurate. ‘
Kannie
,’ he said.

And so Len pushed past him and went into the shed and untied the shark hook from its place and heaved it over his shoulder and brought it to the boat and slung it in so it thudded against the bottom. He said, ‘How can I catch a decent fish if I don’t have a gaffe?’

Misklip wrung his hands. ‘It’s bad luck,
meneer. Vreeslik ongelukkig. Nei, seur. Los dit maar.’

‘Jislaaik, maar jy’s vol stront
, Misklip.’ Len put up his finger. ‘You know what happens to people who talk, hey?’ He showed the back of his hand, clenched his lower lip in his teeth.

‘And no one goes in the boat in August,
seur
,’

‘Riefaart took the boat this morning.’

‘Not out in the sea,
seur
– just to load some guano sacks and bring them round to the jetty. No one sails out in August.
Dis uit die bose, meneer
.’

‘Here, Misklip,’ Len said. He reached into his fishing bag and extracted a bottle wrapped in newspaper. ‘Catch – and shut up!’

Misklip was deft. It was a small bottle of cheap brandy.

‘It’s my nippie for the cold,’ Len said. ‘
Vat maar
.’

Misklip took it and stood watching, appalled, as Len pushed the boat out and started the motor. It puttered briefly. He tried again and again. It was as if the boat knew it must not sail. Not into that irritable, bilious swell.

Misklip went back up the beach to his hut. He closed the door and leaned a moment against it. The cat was inside, nosing at fish bones and cold mealie meal. ‘
Sien jy, Kat?,
’ said Misklip very softly and he sank down on the floor beside it, back to the wall, knees drawn up. ‘What will I do if the hook is lost?
Ek sal seker doodgaan
.’

The cat’s fur rose along his spine, a matted grey weed on his ancient limbs, as if it sensed Misklip’s thoughts and shared his fear. It looked at him with its great, wary agate eyes. And Misklip, in his turn, could smell it – the suppuration at its chin, the weeping sore. He took a sip of brandy, wiped his hand across his mouth, touched his throat where the little flame crept down.

But it was not just the hook.

It was more than that.

It was the sight of the shell lighthouse.

That other legend, spoken of down generations.

Die bose
. The devil. The ultimate fear.

A graven image.

–
So het die kind gesterf
.

Thus did the child die.

It was a Sunday and the guano workers had been drinking. Louisa was standing on the jetty, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, wishing the tug into view, bringing her sons, returning them to her.

–
Help me, God.

No tug came and the sea was sweeping in across the rocks, the cloud ragged and low, the spray wetting her hair.

She watched, heedless, conjuring a sturdy little boat from the waves. But they washed in green and relentless, trailing spume, exploding on the rocks.

–
Help me, God.

As she stood there she became aware of the voices and the music in the nearby workers’ huts. The sound of an accordion, its merry notes. A banjo and a mouth organ. There was laughter. Someone sang.

Human sounds. People talking to each other. Simple exchanges without the hidden poison of resentment, the secret anguish of words unsaid.

–
Help me, God.

She turned away and hurried back up the path towards the lighthouse. Karel would be coming off duty. He had stayed up in the lantern room an hour or two longer than he should, guiding young Cecil Beukes through his duties for the day. He would be tired and irritable and in need of a meal.

As she left her dripping shawl on the porch and unlaced her sodden boots, she could hear that he was already in the house. She swiftly made him tea and served a bowl of porridge at the kitchen table. She ran his bath and folded back the sheets and blankets on the bed, ready for his rest. When he had finally closed the bedroom door, she went to the kitchen to bake bread, careful to make no noise that might disturb him.

Later, she went out in the yard to collect a pail of water from the tank. She could hear the guano workers still, the wind bringing the sounds more clearly. The laughter had stopped, the music was sporadic. Both had given way to voices raised. The notes of aggression and dispute.

Above the quarrelling of gannets, the quarrelling of men.

When she went back into the house the bedroom door was open and Karel was pulling on his trousers and his shirt.

‘What’s wrong?’ Louisa said, alarmed.

‘How can I sleep with that infernal noise going on?’

‘They were only being convivial,’ she said.

‘Convivial?
Convivial
? They’re drunk!’ He went to the cupboard and took out his sjambok. A rawhide whip with a plaited thong.

‘No, Karel, no!’ Louisa cried, going to him and gripping the end. ‘Don’t raise a hand in anger. Leave them be. You must not interfere.’

‘How dare you tell me not to interfere! You are the one who always wishes to interfere!’ he said, pushing her away. ‘Who has always gone on about having communal church services, teaching the children and I don’t know what other nonsense? Interfere? How dare you mention interfering!’

‘God says, Love thy neighbour …’ she began.

‘And God also says that man should honour the Sabbath. Drinking liquor is not honouring the Sabbath and someone will be killed. You mark my words.’

‘Let the headman deal with it,’ she said. ‘They are his people. It is his duty.’

‘Do not talk to me of duty!’ He half raised the whip in her direction. ‘I am the senior man on this island and I will do what I see fit.’

He went from the house and she ran after him. ‘Karel, you will be hurt. Karel it is
not
your duty.’

As she reached the gate she saw the child coming up the path on his thin, frail legs.

She put her hands up to her mouth to stop the shout.

But he had seen Karel and he sank down in the vegetation at the side of the path, not hidden, but unnoticed, a still, small creature in its burrow.

When Karel had passed, the child came on and she stood, frozen with fright that Karel might turn and see him. When he reached her, she pulled him behind the yard wall, out of view.

‘
Nee, seuntjie
,’ she said. ‘I have told you not to come to the house. Never, never, do you understand?’

She glanced up across the wall, scanning the path for Karel.

‘
Huis toe, huis toe
!’ she said, turning him around by the shoulders. ‘But you must go
that
way,’ and she indicated to the right – the other path leading down to the shore and along the shale beach to the huts.

He looked up at her, alarmed. Alarmed by her voice, her roughness. He held out a shell in his palm, damp with his excitement. It was a perfect red.

‘
Huis toe
,’ said Louisa, barely glancing at it. She shook him slightly and the shell rolled from his hand and was lost somewhere in the weeds growing near the wall.

‘
My skulpie
?’ he cried softly, bending down to search for it.

‘
Los dit, kind
,’ she urged. ‘You can find a better one.’

She might as well have struck him.

He turned away, taking the path she had shown him. She watched him, the tears gathering, an anguished little cry stifled in her throat. It was if she had crushed a fledgling.

Fear had been in the ascendant.

It always conquered right.

She searched for the shell, frantic to find it. At last, as she was about to return to the house, there was Karel striding up the path, striking the sjambok briskly against the side of his boot as he walked.

He saw her almost crouched beside the wall. That look – that haunted, half-submissive anguish. It made him want to strike her.

And she, turning, fled towards the house.

Thus the child died.

He, with his gift of shells, the small red dome like the one that Hannes had given to his mother once.

–
Oh, Hansie, this is beautiful.

That small brown child.

He took the path that she had shown. Intent on his course – that delicate neck, those small spindle legs – he was blown like spume along the track at the edge of the sea.

The tide was coming in. Every now and then a wave came surging up the beach.

–
Do not be afraid.