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IV It crept with the silence of light – then, with the speed of the wind, came rushing through the night with the sound of bones snapping clean and joints popping. The fire-bell rang, its cold vibration – solid and thick. Its tone, shivering through flesh. Its sound – filled with urgency as waves of steel panic rung off with every pound of the iron bar. Men dressed and scrambled into the night with wet sacks, stripping branches off any tree. * Like a distant nightmare it came in a dream. Fire, rising from the horizon, burning on its edge: a crown for that which will raise its fiery head and fill the dreamer with its light. At the foot of the bed it appeared: translucent, pale and heavy – garnering no fear, summoning me to where we stood out beneath the evening sky: there, it held my hand as the moon and stars orbited its head. With a long polished claw it pointed into the night – pointing far beyond reason, intellect and memory. What lay there was uncertain yet all too clear, a colourless mud; it offered to take me there, but on one condition: I shall go forever. The lemur rolled the moon on its tongue, sucked softly, waiting for my reply. Its breath smelt of aniseed. It said nothing and still pointed far beyond with its arm bridging distance – offering it all; as easy as that, as easy as crossing Distance & what lies beyond distance, and transgresses through all time. Outside, tears streamed down my face – voices, and hands on my shoulders ushering me back: But where to? Have I reached there? or still walking back, bloody and wet – my father tucking me into the standby bed. The worn mattress suspending tomorrow indefinitely. * Dancers, curtains of flames – souls burning – flushing forward, pulling back – arms flinging, bodies melting in and bursting out. We stood before the dancers – faces bronze-hot, tractors heaving up – cutting fireguards behind us. Chuff, smoke, the crackle and whistling of burning, deep in the heartland 64
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of the bush. Wet sacks and branches with seared leaves mopping up flames. A strange dance in the wind – the fire pushing forward, men shuffling back from burning arms, then at their paces – forward, back – when the wind changed. All night. Dawn finally reclaimed the land as the field smouldered. The sweet smell of ash like powdered sugar beneath our feet. Tufts of grass crumbling with each step we took, our bodies torn by the effort – clothes matted to us with sweat. All night – the dance. * No mirror apart from the effigy folding and unfolding in the basin. Ash in my palms, dusk-like and dusty. The bathroom, sombre – a distorted face undulating on the water as I stare clean into its depth. Into the eye of water, within the chipped discoloured basin, his face peering back at me, his wholesome image staring from beneath the surface. Carefully I place my hand to the reflection – lightly, so as not to cause a quiver or the slightest stir; so gently the water rises to my fingertips. I feel his cheek, an unconscious brittle sound of stubble rustling through the air, remembering I kissed him there, upon those deep eddies of dimples whenever we parted for more than a day. V For two days his coffin lay in the living room, the room saturated with chants and wails, dirges and local hymns. Hosho spraying rhythm all night, the seeds and dry gourd accompanied by beating drums and the flare of a kudu-horn. The coffin was lifted at dawn, the hearse waited in the driveway. The procession spooling out of the house like black thread, the needle the coffin. Around the household, through the yard, they carried him: through the orchard, the rose garden – past the swing, past the geyser with its metal door open, the cottage, and finally beneath the fir-tree. The starling gone. The sky swollen with clouds. Rain clouds. * 65

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of the bush. Wet sacks and branches with seared leaves mopping up flames.

A strange dance in the wind – the fire pushing forward, men shuffling back from burning arms, then at their paces – forward, back – when the wind changed.

All night.

Dawn finally reclaimed the land as the field smouldered. The sweet smell of ash like powdered sugar beneath our feet. Tufts of grass crumbling with each step we took, our bodies torn by the effort – clothes matted to us with sweat.

All night – the dance.

*

No mirror apart from the effigy folding and unfolding in the basin. Ash in my palms, dusk-like and dusty. The bathroom, sombre – a distorted face undulating on the water as I stare clean into its depth.

Into the eye of water,

within the chipped discoloured basin, his face peering back at me, his wholesome image staring from beneath the surface.

Carefully I place my hand to the reflection – lightly, so as not to cause a quiver or the slightest stir; so gently the water rises to my fingertips.

I feel his cheek, an unconscious brittle sound of stubble rustling through the air, remembering I kissed him there, upon those deep eddies of dimples whenever we parted for more than a day.

V

For two days his coffin lay in the living room, the room saturated with chants and wails, dirges and local hymns. Hosho spraying rhythm all night, the seeds and dry gourd accompanied by beating drums and the flare of a kudu-horn.

The coffin was lifted at dawn, the hearse waited in the driveway. The procession spooling out of the house like black thread, the needle the coffin. Around the household, through the yard, they carried him: through the orchard, the rose garden – past the swing, past the geyser with its metal door open, the cottage, and finally beneath the fir-tree.

The starling gone. The sky swollen with clouds. Rain clouds.

*

65

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