Here the little Bushman signalled to François to be silent and come to his side. He whispered to François for help saying he wished to climb up the boulder. Instantly François assisted him and, on the top, the Bushman lost no time in sliding over it and vanishing down the far side.
François and Hintza followed quickly, just in time to see the Bushman once more down on all fours and crawling underneath some more bushes along the cleft. They all continued thus, took a sharp right turn, followed it away from the river for some fifty yards and came to an abrupt stop against another cliff face, with both trees and bushes of thorn as well as wild raisins growing thick and tall at its base.
Without hesitating again the little Bushman crawled on his stomach straight into this formidable undergrowth. François and Hintza followed. The undergrowth was so thick that after the broad sunlight outside François could hardly see his way ahead. But after a minute or two he found himself facing a round hole at the base of the cliff, just big enough to crawl through as the Bushman was doing. He followed, Hintza panting at his heels, and then stood up in one of the widest and deepest caves he had ever seen. The little Bushman was sitting back against a wall within, gasping for breath but obviously well content, as François could see, because some hundreds of feet away there were several narrow openings through which shafts of light struck into the cave, illuminating the yellow sandstone surfaces until they glowed like honey and making the level, soft sandy floor of the cave like an orange coloured mat.
But what really excited him was when he saw that the smooth walls of the cave were completely covered with the most wonderful paintings he had ever seen. One was of a whole herd of eland in full flight, running with such speed that watching them he felt he could almost hear the wind of their speed sing like violins in his ears. Another large slab carried a lovely conversation piece with a couple of tall giraffes standing tenderly over a baby giraffe crouched at their feet. Another had a painting of a lion with its claws in the back of a giant sable antelope which it was in the process of pinning down to the earth, and so on and on until most of the animals of the Africa he knew and loved were represented on the walls, in one characteristic role or another. But the greatest panel of all seemed to be reserved for something that had never been seen on land or sea as far as François knew. It was of an enormous serpent wriggling out of a gigantic shell, and a tiny Mantis with a small mongoose at its side, sitting calmly in front of the serpent, as if telling it. ‘Now you had better behave yourself or you will get into trouble.’
Over praying mantis, mongoose and serpent there was unmistakably the arc of a rainbow. Below the rainbow, as if belonging to it, was a delicately drawn and painted porcupine and beside the porcupine, two little hands obviously imprinted on the canvas of stone after having been dipped in red paint.
François could have gone on staring for hours at all this, feeling not only as if he were in an art gallery but in some kind of a church as well, but he was interrupted by the Bushman saying to him, in a voice blurred this time not with pain but with great emotion: ‘This is my place and the place of all my people.’
François would have loved to have asked the little Bushman the many questions that were welling up in him, but the sound of a human voice had brought him back to immediate realities. He had already been over-long. He must lose no time getting home if he were not to be missed and people come searching for him. He hurriedly explained all this to the Bushman, made him lie down on his back, undid his improvised dressings of the early morning and explained that he was now going to apply the most magic of all medicines to the wound. He warned that it would hurt as even the trap itself had not hurt. He poured
François and Hintza followed quickly, just in time to see the Bushman once more down on all fours and crawling underneath some more bushes along the cleft. They all continued thus, took a sharp right turn, followed it away from the river for some fifty yards and came to an abrupt stop against another cliff face, with both trees and bushes of thorn as well as wild raisins growing thick and tall at its base.
Without hesitating again the little Bushman crawled on his stomach straight into this formidable undergrowth. François and Hintza followed. The undergrowth was so thick that after the broad sunlight outside François could hardly see his way ahead. But after a minute or two he found himself facing a round hole at the base of the cliff, just big enough to crawl through as the Bushman was doing. He followed, Hintza panting at his heels, and then stood up in one of the widest and deepest caves he had ever seen. The little Bushman was sitting back against a wall within, gasping for breath but obviously well content, as François could see, because some hundreds of feet away there were several narrow openings through which shafts of light struck into the cave, illuminating the yellow sandstone surfaces until they glowed like honey and making the level, soft sandy floor of the cave like an orange coloured mat.
But what really excited him was when he saw that the smooth walls of the cave were completely covered with the most wonderful paintings he had ever seen. One was of a whole herd of eland in full flight, running with such speed that watching them he felt he could almost hear the wind of their speed sing like violins in his ears. Another large slab carried a lovely conversation piece with a couple of tall giraffes standing tenderly over a baby giraffe crouched at their feet. Another had a painting of a lion with its claws in the back of a giant sable antelope which it was in the process of pinning down to the earth, and so on and on until most of the animals of the Africa he knew and loved were represented on the walls, in one characteristic role or another. But the greatest panel of all seemed to be reserved for something that had never been seen on land or sea as far as François knew. It was of an enormous serpent wriggling out of a gigantic shell, and a tiny Mantis with a small mongoose at its side, sitting calmly in front of the serpent, as if telling it. ‘Now you had better behave yourself or you will get into trouble.’
Over praying mantis, mongoose and serpent there was unmistakably the arc of a rainbow. Below the rainbow, as if belonging to it, was a delicately drawn and painted porcupine and beside the porcupine, two little hands obviously imprinted on the canvas of stone after having been dipped in red paint.
François could have gone on staring for hours at all this, feeling not only as if he were in an art gallery but in some kind of a church as well, but he was interrupted by the Bushman saying to him, in a voice blurred this time not with pain but with great emotion: ‘This is my place and the place of all my people.’
François would have loved to have asked the little Bushman the many questions that were welling up in him, but the sound of a human voice had brought him back to immediate realities. He had already been over-long. He must lose no time getting home if he were not to be missed and people come searching for him. He hurriedly explained all this to the Bushman, made him lie down on his back, undid his improvised dressings of the early morning and explained that he was now going to apply the most magic of all medicines to the wound. He warned that it would hurt as even the trap itself had not hurt. He poured
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