I walked in a fine dress beneath a giant hat alive with ostrich plumes; I would blink at all who passed. I ambled beside Maples, arm-in-arm. I pointed at the Tower Bridge, my hand heavy with the ring he’d given me—a diamond sunk in a gold band. It sparkled like a star. Schalk had joked at my expense, but he supported my decision to move to England and marry Maples. Willem tried to kill my new husband but his slingshot broke. Moeder and Vader? Well, they only wanted me to be happy.
IT WAS A THICK night that never cooled. There were fewer people in the tent now, but it felt tighter from the heat. I fought to take in air. I had to be free from the tent—to walk, to stir the air around me.
Moeder heard me.
“Lettie?”
I left without answering, and if she asked more of me, I did not hear. I walked to the nearest fence line. I leaned my face close so that my eyes were inside a wire square, so that no fence was visible. It was like being outside. I could see the shape of a black kopje against the blue-black sky, like the head of some giant emerging from the ground. I wanted to walk there and climb to the top and look down on all this. But standing so long had become an effort and I leaned into the fence for support, and my face ached from the pressure against the wire.
A breeze fluttered tent canvases, but it just carried more heavy air. I started to look up and scolded myself for my lack of discipline. I didn’t want to think about Oupa, and Orion would force me to. I resented the stars for being so predictable, following their paths as if nothing had happened, and the moon for showing its smug unchanging face.
“Peace.”
Would I think of Oupa every time I smelled a pipe, too? Or ate rusks dipped in coffee? My throat swelled and burned, making it harder to manage the thick air. I’d been light headed for weeks, without focused thoughts. I should have prayed but didn’t. Moeder prayed for us and the men every morning and night, but I only mouthed the words.
“Peace, Aletta.”
The voices again.
“I don’t sleep now . . . like you. . . . I walk the camp . . . like you. . . . I hoped I’d find you.”
“Maples?”
“I’ve been lonely.”
“I have, too.”
“Tell me about your grandfather,” he said. How nice that he wanted to know.
“My oupa—a great man.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
“I know you didn’t.”
“You miss him already?”
I leaned toward him; it was him, not a phantom voice. He put his rifle on the fence and pulled me in. I cried a wet spot onto his shoulder. I leaned back, but he held tight. It was wonderful, like riding the horse, but too warm, too close.
“Your hair did come back thicker,” he said. “I told you.”
He kissed the top of my head.
“Maples . . . ,” I said.
“Tommy . . . ,” he said.
My head felt light again, and breaths were gained only with struggle. He held me too tight.
“Maples . . . ,” I said.
“Call me Tommy,” he said.
He leaned against me harder, and the wire bit into my shoulder bones.
“Maples . . . ,” I said as he pressed against my chest.
“You’re fine . . .”
He squeezed the breath from me, raising a groan I could feel at the back of my throat.
“Quiet now,” he said, placing a hand to my mouth, calluses scraping my lips, his hands tasting of metal and rifle oil.
“I want . . . ,” he said.
I twisted my head away from his hand. “Maples . . . please stop, you’re hurting me.”
“Tommy . . . Tommy,” he said, pressing so hard my head went back. Pleiades above . . . which turns the shadow of death into the morning . . . my pinafore pulled aside . . . air swept across my legs . . .
“Betty,” he said. I couldn’t breathe. A whistle blew. I bit his hand and tasted blood and meat. He backed a step. I bent deeply for air.
He looked up, his eyes reflecting night light. He groaned now. I followed his eyes as they dipped toward his stomach. His tunic was dark, then darker. He stood tall, then arched. And from his chest came the scrape of metal against bone, as when the men butchered game. With a gurgling sigh Maples slumped.
A sharp edge reflected in front of me, glinting and glinting, reflecting the moon. The steel point tilted upward and away from my vision, and the person behind the bayonet, holding the rifle, took shape in the darkness.
“Are you all right?”
“Moeder?”
My legs gave out, and I fell on Maples. He flexed with a jolt, and I shouted, and he went still. I shook him. He didn’t move. I punched him on the back with my right hand, then both hands.
“Get up . . . Maples . . .”
I punched his shoulder blades, my hands wet and sticky.
“Moeder, you killed Maples.”
“Lettie . . . stop . . . quiet. . . . I know who it was. I saw what he was doing. I heard you tell him to stop. He was not about to stop. He was crazed.”
She leaned his rifle on the fence and came to me. I punched at her, too, then wrapped my arms around her waist. They encircled her. I shook so hard I nearly pulled her over.
“Dear merciful God, forgive me,” she whispered. “We have to plan, we have to get rid of him.”
“Get rid of him?”
“Lettie . . . they know you were close. . . . They’ll come for us first thing.”
She was right. And if he simply disappeared, they’d think he had gone off—exactly as he was planning.
“Get back to your tent . . . both of you. . . . I’ll take care of this.”
A man snatched the rifle from the fence.
“Go . . . now . . . go . . . ,” he insisted in a harsh whisper.
“You . . .” Moeder inhaled the word.
“Go . . . Lettie . . . take her. . . . Go now.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“I follow her . . . on her walks . . . many nights . . . to look out for her in case anything . . .”
“Oom Sarel . . . you followed me? Why didn’t you . . .”
“I didn’t want to frighten you. . . . You made it clear you didn’t want to see me. . . . Now hurry. . . . I’ll get rid of him. . . . I’ll take him on my cart and burn him in my barrel. . . . No one goes there. . . . No one ever comes near me. . . . No one ever asks questions. . . . But you have to go now.”
“Wait.” Moeder tried to take the rifle from him.
“Go, Susanna. Think—they’ll hang both of you if they come . . . and shoot me. This will work. But you have to go now.”
His appearance had stunned us, so that I hadn’t thought of what trouble we’d face being rid of Maples’s body.
“Sarel . . . ,” Moeder said, “are you certain?”
“Ja, go. They’re used to seeing me go out there with my cart and barrel day and night. . . . No one wants to come near me.”
Moeder scanned the darkness, took my arm, and pulled me to the tent. My chest ached from the pounding of my heart. I strained for air, as if underwater.
“Settle,” Moeder said calmly. She petted my head as we clung to each other on her cot. I pulled tight against her. I was breathing three times to each of her breaths. Lighted flecks flashed when I closed my eyes. I slowed my breath to match hers, and the storm in my chest stilled.
I was to blame for it all. For talking to Maples in the first place. For leaving the tent. For not following the rules. I would take responsibility before she could start.
“I know . . . it was my fault,” I said. “All of it . . . Maples . . .”