Guilty

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MajGenl.Meade
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Guilty

Post by MajGenl.Meade »

Note: this story is based on some real events. It is NOT about me!

GUILTY

When the ostrich attacked the old woman, Uriah made no immediate movement to help. How could he? He stood on the rooftop of the orphanage, new tiles in hand, gazing over the tall wall with razor wire on top of it. She was two or three hundred meters away, down the slope of the hill by the water trough set out for the animals. It was the trough that now she clung to, crouched in pain and fear as the bird rushed in stutter-steps back and forth, contemplating its next move. Uriah knew that one good kick from those massive legs with the hammered claws would finish Mme Riana. He cried out in frustration as he clambered down from the roof and ran toward the far corner of the orphanage grounds. There the back wall had no wire. It was a long way around but he would try to reach her before the worst happened. He knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

Pulane watched him run. He was magnificent. Of all the carers, he was the best. Since the first day of his arrival, he had listened to her, believed her. Bra Sweet, she called him, because he loved to put honey in his rooibos tea. All the children called him that now. Even the white men and women on the board of the orphanage called him Bra Sweet. Pulane thought that he had started to notice her, not just as another child but as a young woman. She felt close to Bra Sweet and decided to tell one or two of the other girls that there was a special feeling between them. They might believe this story, even though they usually did not, calling out ‘o maka’ – you lie! Perhaps she must first spend time getting very close to him so that they could see she was no liar. Her head lowered and she smiled as the story formed.

Riana Becker had started her day in a bad mood. The rains and hail of the previous night had turned a dry donga into a torrent of flood water. The tall game fence that crossed it had been knocked aside like a feather and now Piet was working there, too late. She was sure that several of the buck had escaped out to the road and would be long gone, racing and leaping to join their fellows in the freedom of ordinary farm fences. She was sorry she’d purchased them. This was no longer a game farm as it had been when her father and her husband had both been alive. She’d tried to keep it up but it wasn’t in her to raise animals for slaughter. But she and Piet loved them – the buck, the zebra and the ostriches. On a whim, she’d bought a dozen impala and this morning only three were to be found. It must be that nine had gone in the night and with Piet working on the fence gap, she’d have to walk down to the trough and start the motor on the pump. She picked up a large stick and set off down the rocky access path on to the flat land below.

Bra Sweet did not like his English name, Uriah. As a child, it sounded like to him like “liar” and he was only slightly mollified when his mother told him that his brother, Jacob, had more right to complain. “Jacob” was a good Bible name but it’s meaning was “liar”, she said. Uriah? He was a soldier and a brave one. It was a long time before he found out what she had not told him. Old Uriah had been killed because King David lusted after his wife. Bra Sweet thought of his own wife. He loved her but was sure that she was safe from someone else’s lust; that would never impact his life. The skin of his right hand tore against the single weather-blunted piece of glass that remained embedded in crumbling cement on top of the wall. He hissed in pain as he scrambled across in a shower of debris and dropped to the ground on the other side; the forbidden side. Stumbling between the vicious acacia thorns, he dodged amongst betraying rocks and sudden drops, looking for the path that would take him down to the flat land ahead. He paused to pick up a fallen branch to hold up in the air; the ostrich would see him as much taller than itself and back away. I’m coming, mme, he thought. I’m coming.

Riana Becker was in better case than she had been. The ostrich had lost interest. Painfully hauling herself to her feet, Riana found her walking stick and held it upright, raised high above her head. She could not walk like that. She needed the stick. But as she lowered it to support her weight, the ostrich pushed its wings out wide and the feathers made a splendid display of masculine outrage and challenge. It moved toward her again and the stick went up. It paused, its head cocked to one side and the unfathomable black eyes between those enviable lashes revealed nothing but night. Holding the side of the trough, Riana laughed bitterly. How like a man! Ready to take advantage of the weak but afraid of a strong woman. A strong woman with a stick, anyway. Woman and bird gazed at each other. Waiting.

Pulane was 17 years old now. She was failing in school in everything but English. She spoke it well and wrote stories of her own life that impressed the teachers. That almost all of the stories were fantastic inventions made no difference. To Pulane, these things, these people, were all true. Her older brother, who like her had been taken from their home by the provincial courts, really was doing so well in the correctional school. He did write to her, almost weekly. He was going get a job as a welder and rent a house and take Pulane there to live with him. Or he would be a lawyer and the house was in Gauteng. Or the Oos Kap. Her father was about to return from his six-year absence and her uncle, the one they accused of child abuse, was innocent. She and her brother were supposed to go home for Christmas. Sadly, she would not be able to bring back to the orphanage any of the magnificent gifts her father and uncle would shower upon her. O maka! As she waited for Bra Sweet to return, she imagined how glad he would be that only she had noticed his absence. Only she cared.
The ostrich, not given to much thought, had nevertheless made a good decision when Uriah scrambled down the slope and confronted it, the leafy branch held high and waving even wider than the wings of a giant bird. It ran across the flat earth, up the far slope and through a distant gate into the fenced field that bordered the river. Uriah dropped the branch and reached out a hand to Mme Riana. She shook off his touch on her arm and grounded her walking stick firmly, trembling the while.

“How did you get here?” she asked. He explained about the back wall of the orphanage – not too difficult to cross. She considered his physical presence. No doubt he could deal with higher obstacles than that with little difficulty.

“I told Piet about that,” she said, turning away. “There should be a fence, razor wire, on our side. There should be those cactus plants to grow there.” She was afraid to look at him in his blackness. She was afraid he would see her eyes, taking in his form and shaping something unimaginable in her mind. Her eyes were cloudy and grey between sparse eyelashes but there had been a different time.

Bra Sweet knew the cactus plants she meant. He even knew, as he was sure she did also, that they were dangerous and invasive, and illegal. The government would not be pleased to see what she was growing along the side wall of the orphanage. He wondered if Mme Riana would unlock the front gate and let him return to the building that way.

“Certainly not! You can return by the method you used to come in,” she pronounced, hobbling up the slope toward her own house. “And call Piet before you go. He must come to help me now. There’s nothing to be done about the fence today.”

Uriah did as he’d been told but getting back over the wall was more difficult than getting out had been. He avoided the glass but the skin on his hand split a little further and the blood flow was quite impressive. It impressed Pulane who saw him walking toward the common room, dripping. She gave several cries of horror and raced forward to seize his arm. He tried to pull away but she was insistent and he was tired of ingratitude, whether his or someone else’s. She held his damaged flesh in her own two slender hands, the fingers caressing his pulse as she bent over the wound. Suddenly, she let go of him to pull her white school blouse out from under her skirt waist, a glimpse of taut brown skin. She ripped a length of material and wrapped his hand in the soft welcoming warmth of the cloth. It bloodied at once and she ripped again, firmly winding a bandage against the flood. He mumbled his thanks.

He saw his wife standing by the door to their own unit. He saw other children, boys and girls drawn by Pulane’s shouts, staring. She took position at his side and extended her arm about his waist. When did her arm become so long and strong? He felt her small breast squeezed against his ribcage and wondered briefly about time. She held him tight and her face, wet with tears, was pressed to his stained and stinking shirt. He heard himself say, no. No. And he pushed her away, his hand leaving a red smear across her damaged blouse, her shining skin. She stumbled and almost fell. Her mouth was open in surprise. Her eyes flashed wetly and her lashes closed upon them. Go, he said, go be with the others. And he turned away to where his wife awaited him.

The investigation found no evidence that he had engaged in sexual activity with any of the girls that Pulane had named, including herself. She was taken to another youth centre, one where all the carers were women. Even so, his answers at the enquiry had been strangely evasive and uncertain.

Mrs. Becker, in her position as representative of the home’s Board of Directors, had told the investigators to question him about walking too closely beside the older girls. She had seen it. They should find out if he had acted inappropriately in entering the girls’ side of the house. She had heard his voice there in the early morning. He stammered and refused to look any one of the panel in the eye. The eyes accused him and he could not reject their argument. He received a formal warning. He would not lose his job.

As he walked toward his own unit, bringing this uncertain news to his wife, he imagined how she might look at him from now on. Those eyes he so admired, how would they see him now? He wished he had a leafy branch to hold above his head for he felt alone and small. Somewhere even deeper inside, he felt smaller.
Last edited by MajGenl.Meade on Fri Mar 10, 2017 5:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
For Christianity, by identifying truth with faith, must teach-and, properly understood, does teach-that any interference with the truth is immoral. A Christian with faith has nothing to fear from the facts

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RayThom
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"GUILTY"

Post by RayThom »

MGM, as you know I can be somewhat slow on the uptake. Although well written is there some relevance to this story? The only thing I can think of is that you know the author and you're helping out with a trial read of some kind.

So, it there more to it?
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Econoline
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Re: Guilty

Post by Econoline »

Ray - The relevance, I think, is that this particular forum here is "All our own work", and the General has presented us with a well-written and engaging short story that is all his own work. (So yes, I guess you're right about Meade knowing the author...)
People who are wrong are just as sure they're right as people who are right. The only difference is, they're wrong.
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RayThom
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"GUILTY"

Post by RayThom »

Econoline wrote:Ray - The relevance, I think, is that this particular forum here is "All our own work", and the General has presented us with a well-written and engaging short story that is all his own work. (So yes, I guess you're right about Meade knowing the author...)
Alrighty then. See, I am getting better. I assume MGM is writing the story in character and the reason I didn't recognize his usual style. He's making J.M. Coetzee proud.
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Econoline
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Re: Guilty

Post by Econoline »

FWIW, Ray, here are a couple of his earlier efforts: "Ballerina" and "Reconciliation". I see from the comments below "Reconciliation" that there were also three stories he posted even earlier: you could probably find them if you're interested, or if you're interested but can't find them I'm sure Meade (or I) will help. (There are also several chapters of his "missing 'Flashman' novel" [set during the US Civil War] laying around here in various nooks and crannies...) Don't let those 2 stars on his shoulder fool you, Meade's literary efforts are 4 or 5 star material (depending on the rating scale used), and also too :ok :ok
People who are wrong are just as sure they're right as people who are right. The only difference is, they're wrong.
God @The Tweet of God

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MajGenl.Meade
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Re: Guilty

Post by MajGenl.Meade »

Thanks for the explanation, Econo. And the kind words.

Ray, Coetzee? I only wish! Perhaps it is my style though, for some things. "Reconciiliation" for example which appears somewhere in this very forum.

But you have a point; my usual style in SA stories is based on Herman Charles Bosman, a rascal whom I greatly admire but not for being a rascal. And a murderer.

In non-SA fiction thus far it's a combination of G MacDonald Fraser (I wish) and er... me. In non-fiction, it's me which makes it rather dull.

What is real? The woman, the ostrich, the trough, the attack, the cactus, the man, the girl, the wife, the accusations, the evasiveness, the verdict. Also good advice on how to deter ostrich attacks - that's very true and it works, experience shows.

What is not real; the characterization of the woman (although once there was a time.....) and the inner voice of the man. Also not real, the connection between the two major events; the real Bra Sweet did not enter the forbidden territory and fend off the real ostrich when Mme Riana was hurt and on the ground. He would have been that helpful though, if he'd been here then
For Christianity, by identifying truth with faith, must teach-and, properly understood, does teach-that any interference with the truth is immoral. A Christian with faith has nothing to fear from the facts

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Long Run
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Re: Guilty

Post by Long Run »

Good work, MGM!

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