Shooting Snakes

Maren Bodenstein

Description

An old man is woken up by the wailing of a prophetess. Sitting on the veranda and staring into the dry veld he is beset with images of snakes hiding in the cellar beneath him. His peace is further disturbed by visits from his angry daughter, Susanna. Memories of his childhood on a remote mission station in Venda come flooding in. Johannes remembers his father�s internment at Koffiefontein during World War II, leaving him and his sister free to make friendships, explore the mythical forests that surround their house and to connect with the spirit world of the Bavenda . On his return, the missionary tries to impose order on the mission station with tragic consequences.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Modjaji Books
• Date de parution: 15 mai 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781920590659
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

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For Lizzi, Joppie, Trudel and Hans Dieter

“And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, Ƶƚ ĞǀĞŶ ƐŽ͕ ŚŽŶŽƵƌĞĚ ƐƟůů ŵŽƌĞ That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth.”

from ‘Snake’ by D.H. Lawrence

1

.

The prophet was calling from the hills. All night long he could hear her singing and praying. Calling and crying out, God knows what. It was enough now. Right in front of his house. He would have to go outside and tell her to stop. She could not carry on so. Not so near his house. Could she not think that he was trying to sleep? Johannes sat up stiffly and fumbled at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Five-to-five. He sighed and lifted his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling for his worn-out slippers with his feet. Slowly he pushed up his body until he could feel his legs steadying beneath him. It was going to be a long day. He shuffled along the dim passage and into the lounge. The room was still hot from yesterday. He squeezed his way through the thickset furniture and pushed aside the brown velvet curtains. Just as he had thought - she had made a fire in the dried-up riverbed. It was dangerous to make a fire in this drought – all you needed was a sudden gust and there would be a helluva veld fire. He had seen it happen often enough in the plantations around Witrivier. At least the singing and praying had stopped for a bit. Leaning against the old car wreck, she was holding her face up to the red- brown dawn, the flames leaping towards the lower branches of the old blue gums illuminated her body. Johannes turned around and walked towards the large sideboard. Avoiding the stern gaze of his parents from the picture on the wall, he rummaged in the drawers for the binoculars. That was the thing about getting old, you could never find anything. By the time he got back to the window the woman was prostrating herself towards the rising sun, her black mourning cloth fluttering around her shoulders. Probably had lost her husband. Or her sister. She slowly lifted her strong torso against the firelight. Johannes held his breath. Her breasts were firm and round, he shouldn’t be looking at her like this. But it was not as if he hadn’t seen this kind of thing before, the heathen women in Venda often wore only a cloth wrapped around their waists.

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