Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Part Two- Chapter 5

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Rising of the Moons
Chapter 5

       Claire settled the tea tray carefully on the wicker table, her blond and grey streaked hair falling forward as she reached over to hand the boys their cups of sweetened tea, her blue shawl slipping gently off her shoulders. The long shadows cast by the swaying blue gums had cooled the afternoon sun as new voices filled the outer courtyard and long wooden corridors with young laughter and bravado. Each story trying to out do the other as young banter challenged to impress her out on the veranda.

Their antics at trying to impress her, left Claire with a knowing smile. She listened to their tales of true and imagined conquests, a raised eyebrow indicating when the line had been crossed, the rest of their likewise stories to be held in reserve for themselves. Like young cheetah males, they seemed to bound from whicker chair to the outer wall of the veranda as stories and laughter wound them up making sitting virtually impossible.

It was wonderful to hear laughter rolling down the corridor, until the stern clash of pots from the rear told them all that Mavis had had enough and that her charge needed further quiet while he worked.

Jeremy did not come out to join them.

He preferred to remain in his quiet study when the young men had come and poured out of the Land Rover when it stopped in a new hail of dust. Wide smiles and bear hugs had Claire's white hat falling to the ground, her own laughter mingling with theirs as faces peered at each other remembering the small differences between their visits. Christopher eagerly shaking hands as introductions were made amid quick stories of their long friendship.

Claire excused away Jeremy's reluctance to greet them.

Overdue farm paperwork had him unfortunately cloistered for the rest of the afternoon. He would be joining them for evening dinner when he had completed the unavoidable tasks that required his attention. A lifetime growing up in their respective families made Claire's slightly embarrassed excuse more familiar than she would have realized.

Jeremy seldom greeted any who came to visit. The daylight not able to hide the twitching hand that could not sit idle on his lap. His hand held beneath a folded newspaper fared no better. It waved to all as he sat miserably in the middle of their quick stares.

Close friends who dinned with them at night enjoyed a rare smile as wine and food helped forget the teeth that tore into him repeatedly since he had come home.

Jeremy seldom spoke, and when he did his voice carried the weight of his nightmares. The small circles under Claire's eyes an indication the long silences had begun to drain her life. She found the idle chatter in the kitchen did little to fill the long stillness out here in the vast open plains and hills of Africa.

Claire turned to the books that lined their small library. In them, the everyday voices of its characters spoke of their dreams and desires, allowing her own smiles to join theirs as they walked through the simple dramas that shaped their everyday lives.

Her days were filled tending to the farm and the million details that were the necessity of managing a farm. Jeremy had long given up any interest in it. He would walk out with his cane, limping slowly out past the tall trees towards the Kikuyu compound at the end of the driveway. He would sit and watch the children play as they rolled wire wheels around in the dirt, the older children out tending to their small herds that provided their families' own means of barter and trade.

Jeremy would return at the end of day and silently return to his darkening study. A tray of food delivered to him at his desk while the night sky came to hide another tear as Claire stared out over the bush that had stolen her husband.

He had left one day to teach a young man to hunt and returned bloodied and silent, in a far place she could never reach.

Sometimes his warm hand holding hers while they are enjoying a "day's ender" on the cooling veranda brought the colour and smile back to her face. His troubled eyes searching for hers as he squeezed his silent love into her palms which gave her the strength to carry on an extra day.

Most of the old farm hands had left.

Mavis and Joshua all that was left of their original farm family.

Her eyes dimmed as she remembered losing Kashezwe and Thomas. A few months after Jeremy had returned wounded, they had both been killed poaching or so the authorities said. They had tracked them tracked them after the carcasses of two male elephants had been found minus their great tusks. Expert trackers had picked up their spoor. The weight of the tusks unable to be hidden, their sandals dug deep into the earth as they sped towards the markets where each long ivory would have been carefully weighed and shipped to the east where the great masters carved the ivory into priceless works of art.

It had taken a team of trackers three days to find them. Cornered, they had tried to fight their way out. After a handful of returned shots finally petered out, they were rushed and in the ensuing tussle, they had both been shot.

No weapons where found at the scene, or ivory for that matter. However, this discrepancy in the official logbook was never explained. This was Africa and she had her own rule sof play.

The bodies had been left, too far to retrieve for their families. Their white bones scattered as the hungry lived off their defeat.

After Claire's teas and biscuits had disappeared, Matthew and Christopher were given leave to unpack their things and finally rest from their long trip. Dinner would be served in two hours as the setting sun brought the day to a close.

Happy smiles and eager farewell kisses left her to walk down the corridor alone, Claire turned and walked back to Jeremy's study door. A gentle knock, she waited for his reply that never came.

She walked back to her room where she quietly undressed, her bright dress folded over her night chair as she searched for the soft pillow to hide her loneliness.

It was going to be wonderful having the young men here with their endless energy and the clumsy male ability to fall over themselves as they fought to outmatch the others' determination for attention. Their coming and going here would bring much-needed relief no matter how tiresome it may become.

While she drifted off to a short sleep before dinner, Jeremy sat in his office holding a revolver in his hand, pointed at his chest.

The portrait of his father glared at him from across the room. The gun rack's doors ajar, a small box stood open while polished shells lay strewn across the unopened letters and scribbled notes.

He had lost count at the number of times he had come to this moment before the coming darkness of the night, the revolver bruising his chest as it pressed against him. His finger curled around the trigger that would end the nightmares that held the screams and blood.

Claire's soft eyes held his own in his mind, not allowing him to let go and fall into the darkness. Since returning home from that fateful day, her spirit was more tightly bound to his than ever, the power of her love unable to set him free.

A single tear rose and fell down his worn cheek, his hand trembling with the hidden desire that had escaped them all.

Jeremy's face fell to his chest as the last rays of daylight vanished from his walls, the windows inviting the evening's darkness to enter once again.

It was the time of hell, and he was still trapped here to remember it all.

Tears fell without counting as he fought to find the pathway to the release that never came. The beautiful eyes that held his refused to concede, the laughter that he remembered in them the last link to a time of blue skies and young dreams, of running in wide open golden fields that never seemed to end.

Somewhere in his mind he heard the laughter as playtime filled the coming night. The pain subsided for a moment as he became distracted by the sound of roughhouse playing by the young cheetahs in Grant's room. Matthew and Christopher had continued their competitive play instead of rest as had been invited. Their unpacked gear lay strewn across their room, missiles launched as they jumped from bed to bed.

A final wrestling match called to a draw as winded bodies heaved with satisfaction, the long voyage finally catching up to them.

In the dark study across the wooden corridor, a gently wavering pistol was finally laid down on the hard dark wood. A handkerchief found, then raised to wipe away the tears of bitter embarrassment at his own weakness and failure.

The failure to have died then.

The failure to have died now.

Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Part Two- Chapter 4

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Rising of the Moons
Chapter 4

       Etona walked briskly out of the rounded doorway and onto the top landing of the landing stairs. He had made sure, he was the last one off the new 747; he wanted no one to push from behind their own urgencies as he inhaled the first fresh morning air of Africa. The flight had been long and bumpy, more than once the overhead lights had come on for passengers to return to their seats, to extinguish their cigarettes and to buckle up safely. More than one found it necessary to relieve themselves just at that time, a last fevered cigarette before being left to the will of God. Once he caught the weak smile locked on a new stewardess's face as the plane shuddered through another air pocket, her youth and inexperience no match for the rumbling sky that made low the strongest heart.

He looked out over the tarmac to the main airport terminal. Behind the tinted glass and steel, the waiting eyes of Gileni faithfully searched for him as he finally disembarked.

Already the morning air began to fill with the red silt that rained on them all as it came from over the hills and open grasslands to play in their hair. He could smell the morning wood smoke from a million sleepy fires as young hungry mouths signalled their awakening. For a moment the grey skies of London were forgotten, the heartbeat of his soul finding its place among the land of his Ancestors and the Land of his Dream Visions.

From behind his mind's eye, the visions that had come in the night played out yet again for him to see. Etona had come to Nairobi to fall once again into Gileni's arms and be smothered by her wild kisses and passionate tears. The long months of separation made the first hours and days together sweeter than wild honey and rarer than silk.

Since they had left the farm together after she had arrived from the mud walled compound, their arms had been linked even when the distance between them made their beds cold. New eager words were silenced in the dark night as bodies clung together through the dawn, gentle sleep ending a young woman's tears that had came to play in her joy.

Etona had stood beneath the limbs of a lone tree that had trembled before the laughter and final scream of a dying hyena and watched as the wind came to play in the mane of a proud lion that had taken Etona's father to his Ancestors. A grieving sandal turning the red earth gave up the ivory kudu horn found in the bloodied sand that he wore against his dark skin, a last link to his father.

A last link to the White Eyed Woman that stalked his dreams.

Etona and Gileni had both been sent to a missionary school outside Nairobi for a year, where outdoor classes and extra tutoring began Etona's climb up into the white man's world. The chalk letters on simple black boards letters came easily to Etona, quickly outstripping Gileni as she laboured over her words and signs. It was easier to find her wondering the surrounding fields searching for the herbs and leaves her Mother had taught her to gather. Her bunk room became filled with the healing salves and ointments of her days studying under the watchful Milk Eye of Majura.

In time, while her letters and numbers failed to mature beyond the classes of third or fourth graders, her simple proud signature became no more than a child's scribble.

From her bunk in the girl's dormitory, Gileni dispensed traditional remedies to those that came to her, the new local center for those in need. Her medicines healed fevered bodies and cleared unwelcome spirits that had come. Those medicines that healed the spirits, she hid from the missionaries. There was a limit that they had for accepting the ways of her People. Better to leave matters of the spirit to the Reverend or Priests. Only God and the Blood of the Lamb could heal a spirit wounded by life, or the jealous curses of an enemy.

At night, while the stars blinked above their secret meeting place, hands were held as they spoke of their dreams, the morning light separating their final kisses as they hastened back to their rooms before the scowling glances of their dormitory mothers hauled them out for rule violations.

Etona's eyes burned with a silent fury as a thin cane brought soft whimpers from the offices as Gileni was taught the ways of the white man's love. Her palms were beaten until the bruises finally yellowed in the sun. Etona was told to bend over a strong wooden chair. History had taught those that preached the Gospel, it allowed for a taught rear to receive the punishment with better results. His continued violations brought out the very best of his educators. The mandatory ceiling of six stokes was often forgotten. His legs and lower back often receiving the marks for his forgetfulness and of their devoted dedication.

Etona focused on the tasks ahead of him, the words of challenge that had brought him here never forgotten. While the whistling cane brought no change to his discipline, the new words of the white man came and flowed easily as he began to speak the language of power and shame. At the end of his first year, he had mastered the basics of numbers and calculation. Burns and Shakespearean sonnets were remembered easily by walking them side by side with the great poems and war songs of his People.

At the end of that year, he was sent to the same school in England as Jeremy's own son Grant had graduated.

Gileni was left behind to complete another year with the missionaries, but since she never developed anything past the frustrations of her educators, it was finally agreed her schooling had come to an end, and that she was free to go. The sisters were relieved that the fragrant aromas and incantations that they heard in the night, would be finally gone. They were sure the young innocence that smiled at them as she prayed with them in the sandstone chapel, housed the devil.

Gileni brought her ointments and salves to the old market place at the southern part of the local suburbs, where her simple wooden stand brought her new patients from every quarter. Her remedies became known far and wide as news travelled of a young Healer that had come.

In the quiet nights that followed Etona's departure, she would fill her night time by painting the colours of her People on the simple clay bowls and lids that housed her healing. Carefully painted lines and splashes of colour that marked her own feelings of loneliness created new textures and songs that remained bold in the day.

Brave tourists that had ventured out past the daily certainties of their guided excursions found a young smile perched behind a simple sun cloth, where the marking of her heart on simple clay blazed in the sun. Silver coins were quickly exchanged where these new creations disappeared beneath colourful travel bags and grateful smiles.

In time, love potions and dreams adorned her simple booth, child like inscriptions written on brown paper attached to each gourd or pot telling of its hidden mystery.

Other symbols of Africa's spirit world began to adorn her booth. Masks and statuettes from all over Kenya, carvings from the hill people of the north, to the far west, from Cameroon and its Bamoun peoples, to the small bronze Benin works from Nigeria, past the Congo and its Chockwe Peoples who had settled as far south as Angola, past all these lands she had never seen, their art works of their Spirit World found a place in her booth that the white visitors came to give their bright shillingi and their thank-you smiles. She developed a keen eye with the traders, waving away those pieces that had been carved for the tourists in remote villages, she selected only those that her hands could feel their energy that flowed from the sharp steel that had carved their stories, or the hands that had sculpted the clay and brought within it, the spirit of cleansing, or dark curse.

The migrations of the great clans and people had brought new artistry and cultures that Majura had revealed in the many night times around her sacred fire. Sometimes an ornament from her own hair from her life of travels through all the Peoples became the item of study. Each colour and style of carving spoke of the Spirit World revealed through the dreams and sacred smoke from the Ancestors and the God who walked in the stars, whatever her or his name. Many stories were told of the Dark Spirits that stalked the land waiting to catch the unsuspecting in the darkness and shadows, holding their minds and spirits captive until a cleansing incantation broke the curse that had come to destroy their lives.

The white man called such words prayers while he kneeled in the stone houses of his God. To him, the black man's words to the heavens were evil and offered only superstitions to the uneducated and primitive mind.

The eyes of the black skinned hopeful that followed the smoke to the heavens knew God walked in the different words of many cultures and tongues. It was foolish to think God belonging to one people and lived in only one book.

Like the glistening waters of a flowing river, God came with many voices to all the Peoples, where they came to drink from the Words revealed on hilltops and sacred fires and lived in the Light of the Great One.

Gileni learnt that tourists and patients loved the stories that came with the herbs, painted pots and carvings that came with the packets of herbs and ointments. A second booth was opened beside her where the healing salves were separated from the dour masks and carved figurines that stood ever watchful. Petty theft was rampant in all the marketplace of Africa, while her small collections were never touched. Monies left out in the open remained there until sunset. The power of the young Medicine Woman left unchallenged.

Returning at the end of Etona's first school year in England, he found a smiling Gileni standing in a sea of painted faces and statuettes, the aromas of her healing all around them.

The money that was sent every month from the farm for her maintenance began to look small while the money earnt by her salves and trading allowed them to buy their own wooden hut at the edge of the marketplace. Their first night there was spent walking together in their dreams, later, the air filled with the scent of their loving while new pride slept in his arms, a way for their future born through the healing touch of a single twin.

Etona had yet to grow to be a senior warrior, but already he had travelled further than any in his village could have imaged. The stars that shone beneath his windows at the old school could only be seen on the horizon here as young cattle herders watched over their cows while the night skies drifted away to the morning.

Etona had arrived in the cold January to begin his second year of schooling. In a few months his grade levels indicated his hours of late study with his tutor and firm determination, his seemingly amazing ability with multiple languages and mathematics, had paid off.

A young boy's open smirk challenging him to join him at his school never forgotten. It paved the steps before him, as surly as the paws of a lion marked the trail for the hunters to follow.

Here at the public school, the shower time laughter brought no invitations. His muscled body and smokey eyes met their sexual curiosity, and was left alone. Their white superiority left unchallenged, he was left to study his assignments while their lazy weekends were filled with rowing, cricket and weekend furloughs filled with the latest film blockbusters from Hollywood.

The Beatles still topped the charts along with The Rolling Stones and the Bee Gees. On weekends, local dance floors were filled under the bright lights and booming black amplifiers, from Liverpool to London as Carnaby Street became the centre of the English Invasion.

Etona returned in the New Year having learnt the seductive art of barter and trade from Gileni.

Find what your customers wanted, and supply them with as much as they could afford, or not afford. In doing so you would tally your profits and promised favours.

It was that simple.

He did not care for the drugs that were sweeping across all social levels, this, he deemed unworthy of the son of a chief. Only sacred cows were deemed worthy of bartering from a carved throne, to trade or purchase a wife. Etona chose the only form of barter in the white man's world that did both.

Young masters of the elite, whose erotic dreams flourished while the sexual revolution gathered momentum all around them, found bedding their female blue blood counterparts a little more difficult. Small glittering gifts that found the way to their ears and necks, silent promises of glories and riches yet to come, made short work of white blouses and ever-shorter skirts and panties.

While the long hair and psychedelic colours redesigned the world in fashion and the arts, such changes came slowly to the rich. Expensive cars remained humbly conservative, a few venturing out brightly coloured sports cars, they were the exception to the rule. The sexual revolution had made little headway through the front door of the old mansions and castles, even the old families of modest means saved the chastity of their daughters as rigidly as the Bank of England saved the remainder of their once proud holdings.

While at the end of his third year in England, from the hollow carved in the center that normally housed a soul or prayer to the spirit it was carved for, Etona poured out his first small uncut diamonds that the customs' X-Rays had not found in the Konde or Nkisi statues that Gileni had traded for in her marketplace. The nails and other metal objects that adorned the statue, each nail driven into the hard wood an appeal to the spirit it contained, hid the diamonds as preying eyes searched through the wooden crates filled with straw that protected the Spirit Statues during shipping. The sudden uneasiness of the custom agents faced with the visual world of the Demon and Spirit World added to the haste in which they were searched. Even here, the white man avoided the unknown Black Power that came from Africa's heart.

Close inspections ended early or were avoided altogether.

An Iranian student at the school whose father had managed to build his own financial empire in the heartland of English pride, found the contact Etona needed to walk through the back rooms of London's traders, until he had found the man he could trust was found. A homesick Angolan with a wide smile saw the natural strength of a young chief in Etona's eyes, a firm handshake made their dealings complete.

Through a series of intermediaries, contact was made where unpolished stones made their way to Gileni in her marketplace, where she carefully hid them in the bellies of carved wood and hand forged nails, then packed them in wooden crates and shipped them to Etona via the seaport in Mombassa. The dull stones poured out into Etona's steady palms which were in turn mailed to a new contact through the Royal Post, who never lost a package. Antwerp in Belgium returned the now polished glittering stones where the slender necks of English gentry warmed to their cool touch.

The war that Angola was fighting against her own people and South Africa had made the primitive diamond mines the cash cow for their armies. These uncut diamonds were finding their way to the leading diamond houses of the world. The unknown dead in the caved in mines and sloughs were not counted, only the carrots weight they had mined and what had been stolen from their crushed bodies was of any consideration.

His dormitory room became filled with carvings from around middle Africa. Some he gave away as barter for tuck, extra clothing, sport gear or a favour that might be needed in the future. Like a personal savings account, these were tallied at each terms end, and filed away.

A private bank account opened at Barkley's stored the future dreams Etona polished through his nights.

During a weekend furlough and a trip to London, where he walked and studied the endless miles of stores and apartments, while passing a dimly lit shop with a For Lease sign, where a mock collection of African art and culture was displayed to an unwary public, Etona realized there was a market here in London for the unique collection Gileni had so painstakingly collected in her small market booth on the outskirts of Nairobi.

While he was negotiating with a unshaven landlord that did not have any confidence in a tall young African fulfilling the lease contract, the entire first year's payment in cash cast aside his last objections, and a new art gallery was opened. Weekends painting and adding the extra touches to give it a more authentic feeling filled his loneliness as Gileni shipped the first crates directly to the gallery from Mombassa.

The end of the fourth year had come. He had graduated with distinction, the faculty smiling broadly with personal pride and satisfaction, having brought a backwoods African son to the seemingly equal education level and manner of an English young gentleman. He had completed the twelve years of education in a total of five, including the first year's education done under the open African skies, completing the last three years of high school in a single year.

Caps were touched with the scrolled certificates that hailed his accomplishments, the letters of introductions to the universities of their fathers.

After the back slaps of congratulations and smiles from fellow students after the graduation ceremony had faded in the afternoon sun, there were no invitations to country estates or white washed townhouses in central London. They were reserved for personal friends and family. Etona spent the rest of the day packing his dormitory room, sending the filled boxes ahead to the newly furnished apartment above the gallery.

Etona stepped out of the plane into the African sun; the rolled certificate with the golden ribbon in his hands the only hand luggage he had brought onto the plane. It had lain on his lap during the trembling flight, the storms in the air not able to dislodge it from his lap or dreams.

The years it had taken to earn the white man's certificate of praise belonged to the gentle eyes he sought behind the glittering glass and steel. She had given him the strength while the black nights faded under the wet skies of London, his night-light illuminating the thick open books that had paved his journey to this day. It was the courage she bore him and pride of her love scribbled like a child on the endless notes she had mailed to sustain him, that had made him the senior warrior that had now stepped off the polished 747 where the bright red blood of his Ancestors ran proudly in his veins.

He came not to visit once again the warm arms of his beloved Gileni at term's end. He was here to collect all her things in the wooden shack beside the marketplace and take her with him.

The Art Gallery in London waited for her while he was to continue his studies at Cambridge. His bed no longer under the watchful eyes of prefects or housemothers. The growing account at Barkley's made any further separation a thing of the past. Their love was now free to live in each other's hearts under the open stars that guided their destinies.

His eyes did not see the lone falcon feather that drifted past his face from the morning's bright skies above. He had shielded his eyes as he watched the new sun glittering off the tinted panes of glass. It was whisked away by a sudden breeze and was carried out over the open fields between the runways.

Etona coughed briefly as a distinctive fragrant dust enveloped him, his mind not registering the familiar echo from his Dream Visions.

Majura's Milk Eye watched his return home through the Crystal Waters in the blue mountains.

Another of Africa's Sons had returned.

Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Part Two- Chapter 3

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Rising of the Moons
Chapter 3

       Conrad looked down the dusty dirt road that led away from the family wine estate. Between the sun catching him below the rim of his wide hat, he could just make out the blood red colour of Matthew's new sports car beneath the billowing dust as it approached the white washed walls of the entrance gate. The oak trees that lined the old road seemed to wave their greetings as they drove past, keenly aware the young duo were speeding. Despite the sudden mood change to remember to reprimand Christopher for allowing Matthew to drive too fast on the back roads, he felt the swelling pride as his son returned home to their farm.

Christopher had inherited his own mother's beauty, classic French features from the Lombardi region with flawless alabaster skin.

Instinctually he looked over to the large oak tree perched on a low hill past the out buildings that overlooked the famous wine valley.

He had buried her tired smile under her favorite tree on the land she had inherited as single daughter to one of the oldest families in the area. Conrad's father had planted it before leaving for his tour of duty in North Africa. Rommel's retreating Panzer's had blasted their way out of certain defeat that Montgomery had laid. The resulting barrage had left his father lost in the hail of searing metal and fire from hell. His body never found, a single stone was erected beside the small tree he had planted, with his name and date of birth.

When rolling skies brought the strong winds that came howling from the south west and the evenings darkness had come, the stinging droplets found her alone under the old oak tree with the simple inscribed stone, her soft blue eyes filled with salty tears that melted in the coming rain. The years could not stitch close what bled from the soul.

A whispered love never returned is mourned forever. She never wrote the name of his death on the cold stone, for her, it remained a time known only to God.

Now she lay with him in spirit beneath the planted dreams of their tomorrows and the ribbons of brilliant sunshine that broke through the grey clouds bringing the living rains to the wine region.

The farm had come down a long line of French Huguenots that had come from Europe and settled throughout the southern valleys. Serious about keeping their new faith away from the hot branding irons and tall fires of the Inquisition, they came to plant their beloved vines as they had done for centuries.

What the dark red ground gave them for their endless back breaking work, their glistening wines sparkled under the hot African sun on the way to new markets that now lined up to enjoy some of the best wines in the world.

Conrad looked back over to the house, he could hear the tables being cleared and set up for their friends' coming for the afternoon braai - outdoor cooking over an open fire.

To the side of the old family house with its typical white and blue French architectural detail silhouetted against the greens of the surrounding trees and wide blue sky, stood the white washed stables his mother had so loved, a love which he had inherited with great passion. The paddocks allowed a few of his favorite horses to graze near the house on Sunday afternoons while he enjoyed the wide tables covered with sumptuous food prepared for their guests.

He sighed at the thought of his chequeing account that had all but disappeared over the years carrying the farm and the house that he stayed in during the week. It had been their home before his mother had died. All three of the children had been born while they lived in Rhondebosch, the wine farm visited on weekends to ride the horses and visit their grandmother whose blue eyes had slowly dimmed over the years.

The wine farm, although it paid its own way with its harvest of wines, improvements to the old house and ever growing stables and expensive horses had diminished a once proud inheritance.

Being headmaster at Bishops gave him the connections to the best stables in Constantia, the beautiful mountain slopes south of the Mother City where the first Dutch farms were hacked out of Africa's wildness. Now owned by the blue blooded estates of the English elite. His mother had enrolled him in an Anglican private school, knowing the English liked to have only their own in their ranks. For them, Franschhoek was a million miles away and a place of interesting architectural settings and great wines estates that one visited when out of town guests came to see the fabled meadows.

Blasting dust suddenly rained on him as Matthew tore into the driveway. His mind wondering over the images in his mind's eye had made the approaching convertible able to catch him by surprise.

"Do you mind!?" he scolded the dust raining around him, his hat brushing away in vain what was now making his eyes tear up.

"Damn!" he swore again, this time walking away to the house. If he spoke now, the last visit he had with his son before they embarked on their trip would begin with the a gentle reprimand he had reminded himself to share when they were still down the road. Now words would betray the fury he felt at their returning home with the antics of young schoolboys.

Christopher remained sitting in the car as his father walked away. The fun filled drive here had ended in shamed silence. He looked back at the house and decided it was best to stay here for a while until mother and sisters could retrieve him and walk him back into the house with the usual laughter and merriment that announced his return. His father's scolding perhaps forgotten by then.

Matthew's reserve was less than Christopher's. Today he felt the sunshine on his face and the strength in his blood as flickering images of erect nipples and the sweet smell of love filled his nostrils. The remembered aroma enough to bring a sudden hardness to him that he had to turn away from the car and walk to a tree and its shadows. There he sat while he forced his mind to think of dreams less arousing. His heart returned to its regular pace, the trembling in his veins finding their own place of quiet.

A sudden shriek from the house, blue jeans, white shirts and bouncing hair dashed out the door, the extra padded feet of a favorite collie joined the mix bringing quick chaos to the remaining dust still lingering in the air.

"What are you doing here? Why haven't you come to the house?" his younger sisters spoke together.

"Did you bring anything for us?" came the wishful chorus.

A mother's smile emerged from the house, her hand covering her eyes as she looked for the source of the girl's merriment. A prim pattern dress and short hair greeted the sun as she walked towards the noise that had erupted on their arrival. Conrad's knitted brow and heavy footsteps down the long wooden passage way to the rear of the house had announced their arrival. Chores were laid down to welcome her first born.

Marie Pienaar's maiden family hailed from the Stellenbosch area, a family dynasty as old as her husbands' but who had never lost the religious fever that had arrived with the original settlers.

The De Groot family, were known for their bible thumping certainty that governed the family business and personal lives. Sons learnt the power of hard toil under the blistering sky, holding the leather reins that tore at young calloused hands as virgin soil was turned behind teams of oxen driven with the crack of exploding whips. Their champion bulls filled the wood panelled study with blue ribbons and bronzed trophies that stretched back generations.

Marie had enrolled at the University of Stellenbosch to take on a career in Farm Business Management. Her own youthful beauty had allowed her friends on campus to convince her to enter the Stellenbosch Wine Festival Beauty Pageant, a decision that had brought quick condemnation from the rest of her patriarchal clan. Beauty was a gift and curse from God, and not to be boldly traipsed before a gym hall full of whistling boys and lusty old men for the sake of personal vanity.

The crown that was won that night never fitted comfortably as the family's dark words she carried on the bright stage echoed endlessly in her heart. Instead of glowing in the moment of a young girl's dream, her heart was reminded to pray for cross borne forgiveness at her weakness.

The devil had seduced her and made her lustful for praise and glory.

It would be the last time she wore her beauty with pride.

Later on that same year, a chance meeting with a handsome teacher and weekend wine maker at a social function, changed her life forever.

While a whole sheep was turned and basted over glowing coals at a family function to mark the end of harvest on the family estate, wine poured from solid oak kegs served plentiful to one and all, shy smiles met under the shade of gnarled oaks that hid the probing sun from blushing dreams.

As night fell, the affects of more than enough wine and laughter had lowered both their reserves to a place where the true wishes of dreams cast aside the rigid indoctrination of their youth. A late walk to the edge of the farm and the cooling waters of the estate dam; a sudden dare had them both swimming while the darkness hid their nakedness from their family's shame.

Laughter and bashful smiles rose up to meet the new night's sky. Searching hands touched beneath the cool rippled waters, unsure as fingertips found shivering breasts and hidden passions.

The sandy beach and tall reeds received their newfound love while probing kisses and whispered promises of care swept passed her last reserves.

A new son was conceived that fateful night while the twinkling eyes that lived in the shadows giggled as the destinies of two lives changed forever.

Dreams stolen from the night's darkness was paid for in the light of the new day.

At the end of the year, it was not a graduating gown and gold leaf certificate that she brought home to proud smiles at the farm. A simple white veil and hand held yellow and violet flowers from the house garden all she had as the two families gathered at the private chapel on the De Groot estate grounds to bless the tainted union.

Named for the Messiah, Christopher came into the world a forever reminder of her original sin, one which she never forgot to mention to Conrad during the course of their long marriage.

Ruth and Sarah followed after a few years, her dutiful bed never denying her husband his rights but never again did she invite the warm kisses and whispered poems that had promised so many new dreams as their first love lay christened under the African night.

Marie stood back as her daughters danced around Christopher who had by now stepped out of the car, his smile infectious as he learnt forward to kiss the cheek of his mother.

"I thought you said you were going to arrive earlier." she said after the welcoming kiss disappeared beneath her scowl.

"Matthew arrived late, there was not much I could do but wait." came the replay.

"I don't have a car yet, remember?" he jabbed gently back.

"Come," she said, ignoring his teasing. "Let's get back to the house. The other guests will be here shortly, and I want to have a little time with you before you go."

"You are always late." a last comment signalling yet another disappointment in her life.

Christopher had long found his mother's reluctant approval could be found with long lists of A's attached to his report cards, her returning signature was always coupled with tight scribbled comments on how his school marks could be improved.

Marie reached down and took her son's hand, and slowly led them all back to the great house over looking at them all.

So many dreams had died here.

Hers was only the latest that had arrived here still born.

As the sun turned in the sky, pushing the afternoon shadows ever longer, the first evening stars appeared in the sky. Conrad had by then forgotten the shower of dust that had rained on him. The warm glow of a fine Claret had returned the warmer earlier emotions that had been the cause of this invitation to the closest of his friends and son who had completed his matriculation with high distinction.

Conrad watched the easy laughter and when needed, serious contemplation as his son talked to friends gathered for his farewell. His heart grew in pride at what life had produced from a love barren marriage. Christopher had grown to be a strong man, full of the youthful determination that comes with inexperience and endless hope for the future.

Later in the evening, Conrad turned to Matthew who had filled the empty chair beside him, "Have you all finished your packing yet," he asked absentmindedly continuing the last conversation he had with him at the school.

Matthew looked at him through the cooling night air, and with a new sense of himself replied, "Yes I have thank you."

"How was lunch?" he asked with an open smile

The air stilled as the hidden truth of the previous chance meeting lay between them. Conrad glanced momentarily to the side where Marie and the girls were talking together. He thought Matthew's open question had not reached their ears, provoking the feminine love to fill in the missing details of an overheard conversation.

Conrad looked hard at the young smile that greeted his silence.

"It was fine, thank you. As a matter of fact I took the opportunity to go over the details of the upcoming semester, particularly where Miss Watkins' classes might be affected by the upcoming budget cuts." his stern formal tone returned as he assumed the headmasters role.

"I thought so." Matthew said his smile widening. 'You must have had lots to talk about."

"She is quiet beautiful." he said at last.

Matthew watched as night sweat appeared on the forehead of his former headmaster, last night's scented lessons making him overtly bold. "Don't worry, I won't say anything," he said with a wink, enjoying being part of a silent conspiracy.

Conrad threw him a hard look and with a sudden ferocity that stopped Matthew's cold, said gruffly, "There's nothing to say anything about."

Matthew stared after the departing Conrad who had suddenly remembered a detail requiring his attention down that stables.

Marie stared over at the retreating Conrad who was disappearing away from the house lights and glowing night fires. The slight wind had carried Matthew's words and Conrad's clear retort up and over the idle chatter of the evening.

Her eyes filled with hard tears as the missing words formed in her mind. After all the years of long prayer and self-torment, her first love branded with her terrible sin was to be punished yet again.

For it was written.