[PDF]The Blanket - A Novel

TH'E BLANKET


This is the story of Lepotane^ the son of a Basuto
chief, who becomes innocently involved in a ritual
murder^The killing goes wrong and at the resulting
trial Lepotane turns King’s Evidence without
understanding what he is doing. When his father
and friends are sentenced to death, he is allowed to
go free and return to his village. He reaches home
with two burdens: that of guilt and shame for
having, so he thinks, betrayed his father, and that
of a new undei standing of the consequences of
cruelty and violence. The crux of the story lies in
his choice. Will he accept the role of traitor, as he
appears according to the beliefs of his people, or
will he take up that of leader and reformer? It is a
dramatic story, full of excitement and suspense, and
A. A. Murray’s knowledge of Basutoland gives it
great authority.




A. A. MURRAY


THE BLANKET

A Novel




ANDRE DEUTSCH



FIRST PUBLISH E^O ^ 9 1 2 BY
ANPRE DEUTSCH LIMITED
12-14 CARLISLE STREET SOHO SQUARE
LONDON


PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
CLARKE DOBLE AND BRENDON LTD
CATTEDOWN PLYMOUTH



T O B CZ> B




CHAPTER I


Lepotane reached behind him to the pile of dry brush-
wood’ and thfew another branch onto the fire. It
spurted up with^ crackling sound and a show of red
sparks, lighting momentarily the blackened roof of
the cave, the pale, restless forms of the sheep, and the
dark, high-cheekboned profile of Simpi, his brother.
With a short, charred stick he cautiously lifted the lid
of the three-legged iron pot which straddled the flames.

‘It boils,’ he said. ‘Soon we shall eat.’

In tlie red light he saw the gleam of Simpi’s teeth.

‘You are a fine cook, Lepotane. You really have no
need of Mamolai.’

‘Cooking is women’s work.’

‘True enough. And some day you shall have your
Mamolai. But put her from your mind for the moment
for, ^hen a herd dreams of love, tlie porridge burns
and tlie sheep are stolen from under his nose.’

‘Did the hei ds of Musa dream of love while you and
Maburu went off \vith these, the finest of his flock?’

•Lepotane jerked his head towards the sheep at the
back of the cave.

‘You are light-headed, young brother. Who speaks
of Musa’s herds? Were we not quietly tending our
own flock at the cattle post at the very time tliat the
theft took place? We have our witness, Thebe. He

7



knows that we never left the cattle post. Besides, where
are the markings of Mus^? tThe little half-moons
clipped from the tip of the ear? These sheep have
curiously short ears, I grant you, but you will not
find the mark of Musa amon^ them.’

Lepotane smiled. ‘They are restless,^ he said.

‘They need food and water. Soo|i the moon will
climb above the Eastern mountain and we will drive
them down to the stream. We can let them graze for
some hours. When it begins to lighten we must bring
them back and block up the gateway again. This way
they will be aU right for a number of days.’

‘And after that?’

‘We will drive them to the caves on the other side of
the valley. It will be as well to keep them moving for
a time.’

‘You have done this sort of thing before?’

‘Many times.’

‘Have you never been afraid?’

‘Afraid of what?’

‘The solitude — the police — these things make one
uneasy.’

‘When you have been at a cattle post since you were
a small boy, solitude becomes an old friend. As for tfie
police, well, they are useful for tracing one’s stock
when they have been stolen. I have no quarrel with
the police.’

Lepotane looked at his brother with the wide eyes of
admiration.


8



‘You will make a fine chief when our father diesj’
he said. ‘I who am buf thb son of the second hut will
be glad to serve you. I have noticed that little men are
inclined to boast and make a big noise and grow drunk
and q.uarrelsoi:|pe. But you are always thus. Smiling,
teasing, modest, but with a suggestion of power deep
within you, so thit, even when I speak to my dear and
familiar brother, I am aware that I speak also to my
chief.’

Simpi laughed and, leaning over, he touched Lepo-
tane lightly on the wrist.

‘First your brother,’ he said. ‘But let these things
remain unsaid. There is no need of them. Between us
there has always flowed the unspoken language of
brothers.’

When they bad eaten their stiff porridge of mealie-
meal and water, and the thin, half circle of the moon
had climbed above the dark outline of the mountains,
they drove the sheep down the steep, ziz-zagging path
th&t led to the stream below. Their bleating seemed
to swell the silence, to plumb the very depths of their
aloneness. There was a strange pulsation in the rushing
sound of the water, as though it drank from the little
streams that fed it with uneven gulps.

The sheep settled down to grazing on the short,
green grass flanking the stream. The two young men
sat on a rock and watched them. Presently Lepotane
said softly; ‘The grain is finished 'and there is only
enough mealie-meal for another three days.’


9



‘You had better ride down to the village in. the
morning,’ Simpi replied.

‘I can be bacjk the same night.’

‘Don’t hurry yourself. Rest down there for a day
or two. I can manage alone for a short time. Besides,
Mamolai will be looking at the youn|; schoolteacher
if you do not remind her from time |o time that a fel-
low named Lepotane is doing a man’s work up at the
cattle post.’

‘You have a good heart, Simpi.’

‘But I am wiser than you. I keep my good heart to
myself.’

‘What about Maiede?’

‘She is to be my wife of the first hut. Phiri, our
father, has arranged it. It is well known that the second
hut holds the true love. My second hut is likely to re-
main empty for a long time — perhaps for ever.’

‘You love no one?’

‘No one.’

‘Heh! You will fall in love yet. You don’t leave. the^
cattle post for long enough to give yourself a chance.’

‘Women bring trouble. That is all I know of them.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It is a simple statement.’

‘I thought it might be Siloane you had in mind.’

‘What is the meaning behind your words, young
brother?’

‘Last time I went to the village I had a feeling — a
sort of uneasiness — I can’t describe it exactlv.’


10



‘Speak out, Lepotane.’

‘It is that fellow Mslbulxi. I don’t trust him. I don’t
like his manner with Siloane. I am afraid that it is
going to bring trouble.’

‘There is no harm in Siloane. She is a fool. But that
IS so with most women.

‘She is a grcatifavourite with my father.’

‘Of course. When one pays a big price for a cow
one values it accordingly.’

‘She is young and beautiful. That could be a reason
too, don’t you think?’

‘When a man feels youth slipping away from him
he tries to grapple it to his person in the body of a
young wife. Unfortunately the spirit of self-sacrifice
is never very strong in young female flesh. Well, Lepo-
tane, let us take comfort. The women who will one
day betray us are not yet bom.’

‘Then you too think that Siloane will betray our
father?’

••‘Qur father is an old man. Siloane is a young
woman. Young, comely and a fool. I do not expect a
stream to flow anywhere but in its natural course.’

‘But my father will never submit to such a betrayal.
I have seen ice in his eyes when he looks at Maburu. I
wish he would dismiss him. I wish that he had never
hired him as a herd.’

‘How could he know that Mabum any more than
anyone else would be tempted by Siloane? It is a risk
he takes every time he hires a young man. And, if he


11



should dismiss him now, the little sheep here might
talk. There is never any simplethis nature. Come. It is time to gather the flock* to-
gether and take them back tp the cave.’

Simpi stood up and stretched hin^self. Lepptane
watched the tall figure of his brother moving slowly
across the sward. He was only two ye&rs younger than
Simpi, but he felt as a child in the presence of a man.
A man who looked life in the face and laughed at it.
A man; a stock-thief; a chief. His heart swelled with
admiration.

Before them, with an undulating flow of movement,
the sheep moved back towards the cave. Their feet
pricked into the soft earth with the sound of rain.


12



CHAPTER II


Dawn came ^to a clear sky, grey at first, with the
little, raw wind of the mountains creeping through the
blankets of the 1»vo men as they lay side by side, tightly
wrapped from head to foot, no part of their bodies
showing anywhere. And, with the first light, as at a
summons, Lepotane woke, and yawned, and rubbed
the sleep out of his eyes. Then, still with his blanket
round him, he threw sticks into a pile and kindled
them with dry grass, and carefully lighted one match
from the dilapidated match box that had served them
now for more than a month.

The acrid smell of wood smoke filled the cave and
the sheep stirred and milled, jostling each other for
warmth. The desolation of their bleating drifted out
into the morning, thin and blue as the wood smoke,
climbing towards a sky that was now as pink and in-
nocent as a sea shell. Then, slowly, hke the spreading
of a stain, the pink deepened to red until, with a burst
of yellow light, blinding and straight-shafted, the sun
Arust its head over the crest of the mountains.

Lepotane went to fetch his horse from where, its
head hobbled to its foreleg, it was grazing on the
mountain side. When he returned, Simpi had made
the porridge and they ate and talked and sat a while,
stretching their hands to the fire, feeling the warmth


13



and the smoke seeping into them, into their clothes,
their blankets, their very beihg,* so that wherever they
went there would be this pungent smell of smoke,* ly-
ing like another blanket over the acridity of their sweat.

They had planned that Lepotane wo^ild leave early,
but early was when you werfe ready to go. There was
no urgency, no pressing sense of time.*They lived close
to the earth, to the rhythm of the earth, unchanging,
immutable. Yesterday was but a day like today. And
what was today but another tomorrow? Where then
lay the sense in hurrying? So they remained in the
cave, sitting and talking, until Lepotane rose in leisurely
fashion and stretched and walked out slowly to saddle
his horse.

His long legs straddled the tiny, brown pony. It
leaped forward willingly, nostrils flared, black mane
rippling and tossing with every step over the uneven
ground. Lepotane looked back once to where Simpi
stood at ease, watching him go with careless, affection-
ate interest.

‘Sola hantle/ (remain well) he called, and Simpi
answered him: 'Tsamaea hantle. Tsamaea ka khotso/
(Cto well. Go in peace), sending his voice out in a call
that travelled on and on, echoing down the long,
steep-sided valley.

Lepotane carried the empty grain sack over his
shoulder. In one hand he held his reins and in the
other his lesiba. This was a stick about a yard in length
with a strand of twisted gut stretched down it and


14



pegged at one end with an eagle’s quill. He had made
it when he was quite *a. Anall herd boy and it served
him equally well to chastise an ox or to supply him
with music. From time to time he placed one end to
his lip and bl^w on the quill, producing two notes of
curious sweetness that went up and down and up and
down like a see-dhw. Eea-ooa, eea-ooa.

It cheered him on his way and kept him company.
Not that he was conscious of loneliness, any more than
he was conscious of the sense of habitation with which
crags and mountain face, shadowed gorge and rushing
water are strangely imbued. To him, by reason of long
familial ity, all around him was home, simple, out-
ward, accepted. He did not see the world of men re-
flected in the upheaval of earth and stone; could not
trace the outlines of castles, fortresses and sky-scrapers,
ais the white men from the cities must surely have
done. Lepotane had never seen a city, or any build-
ing much bigger than the little mission church outside
jhis awn village. To him, a stream was a place where
one’s own horse might drink, or where, lying flat on
the stomach, one might drink oneself and splash water
over the head for refreshment, A mountain was some-
thing to be climbed, or descended with care, and grass
and trees were pasturage and fuel and shade from the
hot sun of summer.

Yet he was not wholly untouched by inward things.
In him spiritual awareness took the form of pleasant
well-being. It had been a good season. There had been


15



rain and, in his heart, was peace. Khotso, pula. Peace
and rain, the slogan of his people. He did not express
it so much in conscious thought as in the jaunty, .off-
key refrain on his lesiba. Eea-ooa, eea-ooa.

The evidence of a good season lay all around him.
In the dark, glistening strekks of wet rSck high on the
mountain side, where fountains hadr hurst out of the
earth. In the strong flow of the streams he crossed, and
in the ripening maize standing high and lush and
yellow in the lands past which he rode. A few late cos-
mos were still blooming, flecking the yellow lands with
white and pink and lilac. The little horse was well
trained to respect the lands beside the path, but every
now and then the temptation would be too much for
him and he would stretch out his neck to grab a cob
of maize. But always Lepotane was too^ quick for him.
‘Heh! Heh!’ he would yell and smack his feet into the
horse’s flanks and whack him sharply on the side of
the neck with the lesiba.

The sun had still some hours to go when he sajv the
grey aloe fences and the red huts of his home village
lying below him on the steep mountain side. Much of
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