Walshe whistled for us to rein in.
Where the road became a dead-end we dismounted and secured the horses to a dilapidated split-pole fence. Tied our riding caps to the stirrups.
Not everyone wished to go up the hill to the paintings. Most preferred to stay with the horses and talk to Mr Walshe. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, removed his bush hat and lit a Gunston Plain. Only Ron and Gerhand, two Standard Fives, followed Lukas and me along the short path up through the shrubbery.
‘Not past the front ones, Lukas,’ we heard from behind.
‘Of course, Mr Walshe.’The first overhangs, where the rock paintings could be seen, led to a narrow ledge, completely overgrown, behind which we knew were more overhangs. Somewhere back there, so one of the stable boys had told Lukas, was a real cave, or a series of caves. None of us had seen the cave and we never had enough time to bash through the bramble tangles, old yellow-woods and thick foliage that obscured the ledge where we thought the cave may be. Our party of four, with Lukas ahead, moved on to where the rock face was broken and rugged, overgrown with bramble and monkey ropes, before opening into shallow rock overhangs. Streaks of bright sunlight dappled through the shrubbery, illuminating the smooth walls. A smattering of ferns and moss dung to the rock; from somewhere a trickle of water made damp stains like maps down near the floor; we guessed at the source. Underfoot, sand, refined as white powder, was covered in spoor and droppings.
‘They look like raisins.’
‘Taste one, see if they taste the same.’ Our laughter running along the cliff.
‘This is klipspringer. Look at the spoor,’ I said, going down on haunches and pointing to the tiny imprint of deft tracks.
And dassie over here,’ Lukas said. Ron and Gerhard moved to the sand beneath the opposite wall to look at Lukas’s find. Ron said something about having read on the back of a Chappies paper that elephant are dassies’ closest relatives.
‘Durrrrr . . . Steve,’ I hissed inadvertently and the du, and the sss, and the tt returned.
‘Here’s the giraffe.’
They crossed over to me standing with my neck thrown back, face turned up to where the rock folded back to make the ceiling. They chatted while we stared at the fading yellow drawing of the long-neck with the dark markings. The legs were faded, like natural shades in the sandstone. How quiet I wanted it to be. Like in a museum or at a grave site. This, I thought, is sacred ground. I wanted the others to shut up; to hear nothing but silence and feel the spirit of the place. In another lifetime, before any of us were born or even before we’d arrived in Africa, people lived here, ate here, fought and mated — made love — here. The further back into the dusk, the brighter to my eyes seemed the red, yellow, brown and orange drawings. Most were of small stick figures on the hunt: bows and arrows at the ready to release at a young eland grazing to one side of the herd. Deeper we moved, towards the ledge’s tangled obstruction. There the drawings made up a dense montage of paintings over paintings of human activity around fires and scenes of the hunt, less visible as the sun was absorbed by the dark. Not a montage, I thought, no, I’m sure this is what Ma’am would call a palimpsest. A palimpsest of imagery. Now beside myself with excitement, I wanted only to go deeper along the ledge.
‘Wait,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask Walshe for his lighter so we can see better.’ I moved back to the entrance and out into the sun.
‘You’re not smoking up there?’ Mr Walshe asked even as he was taking the plastic Bic lighter from his pocket. I grinned. On impulse I turned to the cliff and belted what I imagined a high G. The dart of sound carried up the gullies, seemed to swirl against the stone and thendisappeared somewhere in a faint echo, leaving only us, the grasshoppers and the birds.
‘Sound like a smoker, Mr Walshe? You have
Where the road became a dead-end we dismounted and secured the horses to a dilapidated split-pole fence. Tied our riding caps to the stirrups.
Not everyone wished to go up the hill to the paintings. Most preferred to stay with the horses and talk to Mr Walshe. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, removed his bush hat and lit a Gunston Plain. Only Ron and Gerhand, two Standard Fives, followed Lukas and me along the short path up through the shrubbery.
‘Not past the front ones, Lukas,’ we heard from behind.
‘Of course, Mr Walshe.’The first overhangs, where the rock paintings could be seen, led to a narrow ledge, completely overgrown, behind which we knew were more overhangs. Somewhere back there, so one of the stable boys had told Lukas, was a real cave, or a series of caves. None of us had seen the cave and we never had enough time to bash through the bramble tangles, old yellow-woods and thick foliage that obscured the ledge where we thought the cave may be. Our party of four, with Lukas ahead, moved on to where the rock face was broken and rugged, overgrown with bramble and monkey ropes, before opening into shallow rock overhangs. Streaks of bright sunlight dappled through the shrubbery, illuminating the smooth walls. A smattering of ferns and moss dung to the rock; from somewhere a trickle of water made damp stains like maps down near the floor; we guessed at the source. Underfoot, sand, refined as white powder, was covered in spoor and droppings.
‘They look like raisins.’
‘Taste one, see if they taste the same.’ Our laughter running along the cliff.
‘This is klipspringer. Look at the spoor,’ I said, going down on haunches and pointing to the tiny imprint of deft tracks.
And dassie over here,’ Lukas said. Ron and Gerhard moved to the sand beneath the opposite wall to look at Lukas’s find. Ron said something about having read on the back of a Chappies paper that elephant are dassies’ closest relatives.
‘Durrrrr . . . Steve,’ I hissed inadvertently and the du, and the sss, and the tt returned.
‘Here’s the giraffe.’
They crossed over to me standing with my neck thrown back, face turned up to where the rock folded back to make the ceiling. They chatted while we stared at the fading yellow drawing of the long-neck with the dark markings. The legs were faded, like natural shades in the sandstone. How quiet I wanted it to be. Like in a museum or at a grave site. This, I thought, is sacred ground. I wanted the others to shut up; to hear nothing but silence and feel the spirit of the place. In another lifetime, before any of us were born or even before we’d arrived in Africa, people lived here, ate here, fought and mated — made love — here. The further back into the dusk, the brighter to my eyes seemed the red, yellow, brown and orange drawings. Most were of small stick figures on the hunt: bows and arrows at the ready to release at a young eland grazing to one side of the herd. Deeper we moved, towards the ledge’s tangled obstruction. There the drawings made up a dense montage of paintings over paintings of human activity around fires and scenes of the hunt, less visible as the sun was absorbed by the dark. Not a montage, I thought, no, I’m sure this is what Ma’am would call a palimpsest. A palimpsest of imagery. Now beside myself with excitement, I wanted only to go deeper along the ledge.
‘Wait,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask Walshe for his lighter so we can see better.’ I moved back to the entrance and out into the sun.
‘You’re not smoking up there?’ Mr Walshe asked even as he was taking the plastic Bic lighter from his pocket. I grinned. On impulse I turned to the cliff and belted what I imagined a high G. The dart of sound carried up the gullies, seemed to swirl against the stone and thendisappeared somewhere in a faint echo, leaving only us, the grasshoppers and the birds.
‘Sound like a smoker, Mr Walshe? You have
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