He had become an exceptional pet, perhaps the finest animal Adriaan had ever known, placid as the best ox, brave as the strongest lion, playful as a kitten, and of tremendous strength, like a grown rhinoceros. He enjoyed playing a fearsome game with Adriaan, taking the trekboer’s forearm in his powerful jaws and pretending to bite it in half, which he could have done. He would bring his teeth slowly together and impishly watch Adriaan’s face to see when pain would show. Tighter and tighter the great teeth would close until it seemed that the skin must break, and then, with Adriaan looking directly into the animal’s eyes, Swarts would stop, and laugh admiringly at the man who was not afraid, and he would release the arm and leap upon Adriaan’s lap and cover him with kisses.
At times Adriaan would think: These years can never end. There will be enough land for everyone, and the animals will multiply forever. When he and Dikkop left a carcass it was good to hear the lions approaching, to see the sky filled with great birds waiting to descend and clean the feast.
They came at last to the river, not the Zambezi, as Adriaan had promised, but the Limpopo, the sluggish stream that marked the natural northern borders of the subcontinent. Portuguese explorers had said the natural border was the Zambezi; anyone who had a map, rude and rough, saw that the Zambezi was the natural boundary, but reality dictated that this boundary be the Limpopo. South of here, the land was of a piece; north of here, it altered radically and could never be digested as a coherent part of a manageable unit.
Perhaps Adriaan realized this in December 1767, when he stood at the Limpopo beside his irreparably broken wagon and his oxen and horses that were dying of disease. ‘Dikkop,’ he said, ‘we can’t go any farther.’ The Hottentot agreed, for he was tired, and even Swarts seemed relieved when the three started south on foot. It was as if the hyena had a built-in compass that reminded him of where home had stood; he seemed to have known that he was heading away from where he ought to have been, and now that he was homeward bound he manifested his joy like a sailor whose ship has turned into a proper heading.
They formed a curious trio as they came happily down the spine of Africa. Swarts, with his big head and small bottom, took the lead. Then came Dikkop, with a small head and enormous bottom. Finally there was Adriaan, a lean, white-haired trekboer, fifty-six years old and striding along as if he were thirty. Once Swarts insisted, upon leaving the trail made by antelope and heading to the west, and when the men followed they found a small cave, which they were about to ignore until Dikkop looked at the roof and discovered the images of three giraffes being stalked by little brown men; they had been painted there millennia ago by the ancestors of the Bushmen they had met. This way and that, men and animals moved, colors unfaded, forms still deftly outlined. For a long time Adriaan studied the paintings, then asked: ‘Where have they gone?’
‘Who knows, Baas?’ Dikkop replied, and Adriaan said: ‘Good boy, Swarts, we liked your cave.’
Summer that year was very hot, and even though the trio was moving south, away from concentrated heat, Adriaan noticed that Dikkop was exhausted, so he looked for routes that would keep them away from the hot and dusty center and lead them out toward the eastern edge of the plateau, where they were likely to encounter cooling rains. On one such excursion they came upon that quiet and pleasant lake where the little brown man had hunted his rhinoceros.
It was at its apex now, a broad and lovely body of water to which a thousand animals came each evening in such steady profusion that Swarts was benumbed by the possibilities he saw before him. Lurching here and there, chasing birds and elephants alike, he watched for any weakling, placing himself well back of the lions that were also stalking it, and ran in for bits of meat whenever an opportunity arose. When the bigger predators were gone, he would waddle into the lake to drink and wash himself, and he obviously enjoyed this part of the trip above any other.
Dikkop was faring less well. It was 1768 now and he was sixty-three years old, a tired man who had worked incessantly at a hundred different tasks, always assigned him by someone else. He had lived his life in the shadow of white men, and in their shadow he was content to end his final days. He was not indifferent about his fate; eagerly he wanted to get back to the farm to see how Seena was doing, for he loved her rowdy ways and usually thought of himself as ‘her boy.’ He would be very unhappy if anything happened to him before he saw her again.
He was to be disappointed. As the summer waned, so did his health, and it became apparent that he would not be able to endure the long return journey: ‘My chest, he hurts, he hurts.’ Adriaan berated himself for having brought so old a man on so perilous an expedition, but when Dikkop saw this he said reassuringly: ‘Impossible to come without me. But you get back safe, I think.’
He died before the chill of winter and was buried beside the lake he had grown to love; it was when Adriaan collected the stones for Dikkop’s cairn from the ruins of an ancient village dating back to the 1450s that he began talking seriously to his hyena: ‘Swarts, we’re piling these stones so your filthy brothers don’t dig him up and eat him, you damned cannibal.’ Swarts showed his enormous teeth in what could only be a grin, and after that whenever Adriaan consulted with him about which eland path to follow or where to spend the night, Swarts bared his teeth and nuzzled his master’s leg.
Adriaan now had every reason to pursue vigorously his way homeward, but for reasons he could not explain he lingered at the quiet lake, not exploring its hinterland but simply resting, as if he realized that this was a place to which men fled for refuge. From his sleeping place he studied the low mountains to the east, the twin peaks that looked like breasts, and the flatlands hungry for the plow. But, most of all, he kept his eyes on the rim of the lake, where animals came to drink and across whose placid surface the flamingos flew.
‘Vrijmeer!’ he cried one day. ‘Swarts, this is the lake where everything that moves has freedom.’ That night he could not sleep. Restlessly he stepped across the inert body of his pet to stand in moonlight as undisciplined thoughts assailed him: I wish I were young again … to bring a family here … to live beside this lake.…
It was not easy for Adriaan to admit that he was growing lonely. He had never talked much with Dikkop, nor looked to him for intellectual companionship. He was not afraid of traveling alone, because by now he knew every trick for avoiding dangers; he sensed where the kraals of the black people lay, and he swung away from them; he slept where no lion could reach him, relying upon Swarts to alert him if unusual developments occurred. The hyena was not really a good watchdog, he slept too soundly on a full belly, and with his master’s constant hunting he had a good supply of guts and bones to gorge upon, but he had a marked capacity for self-defense, and many animals that might have attacked Adriaan sleeping alone would have had to think twice before risking a hyena’s great jaws and flashing teeth.
The loneliness came from the fact that he had seen Africa, had touched it intimately along the mountains and the veld, and had reached the point where there were no more secrets. Even the fact that a majestic waterfall lay only a short distance to the northwest would not have surprised him, for he had found the continent to be greater than he had imagined.
Again the vagrant thought struck, this time with pain, and he said in a loud voice: ‘God, Swarts, I wish I were young again. I’d cross the Limpopo. Go on and on, past the Zambezi, all the way to Holland.’ He had not the slightest doubt that given a good pair of shoes he could walk to Europe. ‘And I’d take you with me, my little hunter, to protect me from the dik-diks.’ He laughed at this and Swarts laughed back at the idea of anyone’s needing protection from the tiniest of antelope, who leaped in fear at the fall of a leaf.
Perhaps this recurrent loneliness was a premonition, for as they came down off the spacious central plateau to cross the Great River, he saw that Swarts was becoming restless. The hyena was two and a half years old now, a full-grown male, and as they came into territory where other hyenas hunted in packs, Swarts became aware
of them in new ways, and sometimes at dusk gave indications that he wanted to run with them. At the same time he knew deep love for his human companion and felt a kind of obligation to protect him, to share with him the glories of the hunt.
So he vacillated, sometimes running toward the open veld, at other times scampering back in his lurching way to be with his master, but one night, when the moon was full and animals were afoot, he suddenly broke away from Adriaan, ran a short distance into the veld, stopped, looked back as if weighing alternatives, and disappeared. Through his sleepless night Adriaan could hear the sounds of hunting; when day broke, there was no Swarts.
For three days Adriaan stayed in that area, hoping that the hyena would return, but he did not. And so, with regret almost to the point of tears, Adriaan set out for the mountains that protected his farm, and now he was truly alone and, for the first time in his life, even afraid. From the latitude of the stars he calculated that he might be as far as three hundred miles north of his destination, with a diminishing store of ammunition and the necessity of covering that expanse of open country when he was not quite sure where he was.
‘Swarts,’ he shouted one night, ‘I need you!’ And later, as he lay fitfully sleeping, he heard the sound of animals, many of them, trampling near to where he was hiding, and he began to shiver, for he had not heard this noise so close before. Then slowly he came awake and was aware of something pressing upon him, and it was Swarts, snoring in the old manner.
Now he talked with the animal more than ever, as if the hyena’s return had laid bare his need for companionship; Swarts, for his part, kept closer to his master, as if after tasting the freedom of the wild, he realized that a partnership with a human being could have its rewards, too.
Down the long plains they came. ‘It must be over this way, Swarts,’ Adriaan said, looking at the last line of hills that rose from the veld. ‘The farm is probably down there, and when you meet Seena, you two are going to have fun. She’s redheaded and she’ll throw things at you if you don’t look out, but you’ll like her and I know she’ll like you.’ He was not at all sure how Seena would take to sharing her hut with a hyena, but he kept assuring Swarts that it would be all right.
But the hyena’s recent experience in the wild had revived animal habits, and one evening after Adriaan shot a gemsbok, a beautiful creature with a white-masked face and imperial horns, a lioness thought it safe to move in and command the kill, whereupon Swarts leaped at her and received a horrible slash of claw across his neck and face.
When Adriaan, screaming at the lioness, reached his companion, Swarts was dying. Nothing that the man might do could save the beast; his prayers were meaningless, his attempts to stanch the blood fruitless. The great jaws moved in spasms and the eyes looked for the last time at the person who had been such a trusted friend.
‘Swarts!’ Adriaan shouted, but to no avail. The hyena shuddered, gasped for air, got only blood, and died.
‘Oh, Swarts!’ Adriaan moaned repeatedly through the night, keeping the misshapen body near him. In the morning, he placed it out in the open, where the vultures could attend it, and after an anguished farewell to a constant friend he resumed his journey south.
Now he was truly alone. Almost everything he had had with him at the start of his exploration was gone: Dikkop the trusted Hottentot, ammunition, horses and oxen—lost to the tsetse fly—the wagon, his shoes, most of his clothing. He was coming home bereft of everything, even his hyena, and his memories of the grandeurs he had seen were scarred by the losses he had sustained. Most of all he mourned for Swarts; Dikkop, after all, had lived his life, but the hyena was only beginning his, a creature torn between the open veld and the settled farm that was to have been his home.
As he slogged his way south Adriaan began to feel his age, the weight of time, and idly he calculated the farms he had used up, the endless chain of animals he had bred and passed along, the huts he had lived in and never a house: ‘Swarts, I’m fifty-seven years old and never lived in a house with real walls.’ Then he braced his shoulders, crying even louder: ‘And by God, Swarts, I don’t want to live in one!’
He came down off the great central highland of Africa—not defeated, but certainly not victorious. He could still walk many miles a day, but he did so more slowly, the dust of far places in his nostrils. From time to time he shouted into space, addressing only Swarts, for now he was truly Mal Adriaan, the crazy man of the veld, who conversed with dead hyenas, but on he went, a few miles a day, always looking for the trail he had lost.
* * *
When he broke through the mountains into unfamiliar terrain, he calculated correctly that he must be a fair distance east of his farm, and he was about to turn westward to find it when he thought: ‘If they had any sense, they’d have moved to better land over there.’ And like earlier members of his family, he headed east.
But when he reached the new territory that ought to have contained the new farm, he found nothing, so he was faced with the problem of plunging blindly ahead into unknown territory or turning back, and after long consultations with Swarts he decided on the former: ‘Stands to reason, Swarts, they’d be wanting better pastures.’
At the farthest edge of where he could imagine his family might have reached, he came upon the shabbiest hut he had yet seen, and in it lived a man and wife who had taken up their six thousand acres, with only the most meager chance of succeeding. They were the first white people Adriaan had seen since setting out on his journey, and he talked with them eagerly: ‘You hear of any Van Doorns passing this way?’
‘They went.’
‘Which direction?’
‘East.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Before I got here.’
‘But you’re sure they went?’
‘We stayed in their old huts. Four months. Trekboer came through, told us they had gone.’
Since Adriaan needed rest, he stayed with the couple for a short time, and one morning the woman asked, ‘Who’s this Swarts you keep talking to?’ and he replied: ‘Friend of mine.’
After two weeks, during which the trekboer gave him a supply of ammunition, which he used to bring meat to the hut, Adriaan announced casually that he was about to try to locate his family.
‘How long you been gone?’ the woman asked.
‘Three years.’
‘Where’d you say you were?’
‘M’popo,’ he said, using a name the blacks had taught him.
‘Never heard of it.’
For a moment Adriaan felt that he owed it to his hosts to explain, but upon reflection realized that to do so adequately would require another two weeks, so he departed with no further comment.
On and on he went, and one morning as he reached the crest of a substantial line of hills he looked down to see something that disturbed him greatly; it was a valley covering some nine thousand acres and completely boxed in by hills. ‘It’s a prison, Swarts!’ he cried, alarmed that people would willingly submit themselves to such confinement.
What dismayed him especially was that at the center, beside a lively stream that ran from the southwest to the northeast, escaping through a cleft in the hills, stood not the usual Van Doorn huts but solid buildings constructed of clay and stone. Whoever had planned this tight enclave intended to occupy it not for the ordinary ten years but for a lifetime. It represented a change of pattern so drastic that in one swift glance Adriaan realized that his old trekboer days were ended, and he groaned at the error these people were making: Stone houses! Prisons within a prison! To reach this at the end of three years on the most glorious land in Africa was regrettable, to say the least.
But he still was not certain that this was his new farm until an older woman with fading red hair came out of the stone house and walked toward the barn. It was Seena. This stronghold was her home, and now it would be his.
He did not call out to his wife, but he did say to Swarts, ‘We’ve come to the end, old fellow. Things we don’t understand
…’ Slowly and without the jubilation he should have felt at reaching the end of so long a journey, he came down the hill, went to the door of the barn and called: ‘Seena!’ She knew immediately who it was and, leaving the gathering of eggs, ran to him and hugged him as if he were a child. ‘Verdomde ou man,’ she cried. ‘You’re home.’
After the children had screamed their greetings and Lodevicus, now a solid thirty, had come forth with his wife, Rebecca, Adriaan asked the adults, ‘How did our farm get to this place?’
‘We wanted security,’ Lodevicus explained. ‘The hills, you know.’
‘But why the stone houses?’
‘Because this is the last jump that can be made. Because on the other side of the Great Fish River the Xhosa wait.’
‘This is our permanent home,’ Rebecca said. ‘Like Swellendam, a foothold on the frontier.’
‘I saw a place up north. It had hills like this, but they were open. There was a lake, and it was open too. Animals from everywhere came to drink.’
The younger Van Doorns were not interested in what their father had seen in the north, but that night when Adriaan and Seena went to bed after the long absence, she whispered: ‘What was it like?’ and all he could say was ‘It’s a beautiful country.’
That had to stand for the thundering sunsets, the upside-down trees, the veld bursting in flowers, the great mountains to the east, the mysterious rivers to the north, but as he was about to close his eyes in sleep he suddenly sat upright and cried: ‘God, Seena! I wish we were twenty.… We could go to a place I saw … that lake … the antelope darkening the fields.’
‘Let’s go!’ she said, without hesitation or fear.
He laughed and kissed her. ‘Go to sleep. They’ll find it in time.’
‘Who?’
‘The ones who come after.’
NERKA THE SALMON
East of Juneau, Alaska, was Taku Inlet, a splendid body of water that in Scandinavia would be called a fjord; it wound and twisted its way far inland, alternately passing bleak headlands and low hills covered with trees. One all sides mountains with snow-covered peaks rose in the background, some soaring more than seven or eight thousand feet.