Taemane - Diamonds

1

Prologue 1957

With his head and lips hanging to one side, drool pooled in the corner of his mouth. Like a confused glistening thought, the saliva oozed, then extended, and stretched down to splatter on the banister of the witness stand. The fluid contracted into a tiny puddle of emotion or a memory, on the sleek, polished railing. Regardless of the distance, she rounded the banister and strode across the floor. The clatter of her heels ricocheted challenges at the dark suits and brooding scowls. Try to stop her if they wanted. Their voices echoed in the recesses of her conscious. There were barks and shouts, the judge was demanding she sit down, the lawyer was protesting, all far away. Two guards yelled at her, their bulk moving towards her on the periphery of her sight, two beige bustling elephants of stupidity. She reached him and gently wiped the drool from his lip with her handkerchief. She heard their embarrassed silence. At her touch his eyes moved to her. It was his first movement, a flicker of understanding. The whites were washed scarlet, and one eye, a purple, swollen slit barely opened, but his gaze held her like the unending evening sky — just held her.

His arm winched up, towed by the chewed wrist, to her ear. The thumb and forefinger rubbed her earlobe. That touch rippled through her. It numbed her face; her thoughts grew vague, drifting. She squeezed his limp forearm. The muscle was gone; his arm fell away. The powerful man she loved had been beaten out of the being now closeted in the rumpled suit. His battered head drooped forward, cocked to one side, one arm broken and useless, ribs were broken, his jaw and teeth long since splattered on an unforgiving cement floor. He shuffled, just able to keep balance with a grinding gate. His once massive frame now a cacophony of screaming bruises draped on the hanger of his pride. Still, in that flicker of his eyes, he struggled to be a man, her man. She squeezed the two wooden rings into his palm and tried to close his fingers around it. There was a tensing of muscles, a spasm of understanding. He held the small wooden pieces for a few moments. Her heart knew he held them before they fell from the broken fingers and clattered to the floor. The crack of the tiny charm bounced back at them, shredding meaning, leaving emptiness and confusion. His dazed look turned to his feet. The floor gave way and the rush of wind struck her face as he plummeted.

She shot up, gasping. She was awake but still saw his eyes. They seemed to swell out; unblinking marmoset eyes. Always the last things she saw were his searching, vapid eyes hoping for an answer, for some justification. Every dawn, for four years, she woke sweaty and gasping.

It was her last night in this bed, then she would be gone forever, and then at last freshness could flow into their lives. She could hear the steady breaths beside her. She stroked the coffee cream skin. Memories of him washed through her, warming her, banishing the nightmare. Her head fell back across the pillow and she forced pleasant images to tumble through her memories. She knew their presence and welcomed him into her thoughts as she always had. The torment had passed. She felt his warmth wander through her mind, sifting out all harm. She cuddled the little figure beside her, pulled the crisp linen tight up under their chins and snuggled in the warmth of his dreams for a few more moments.

2

Burnt orange and amber shafts poked around the swaying shadows of the broccoli-like Baobab tree. Like a giant fern coral, the Baobab beckoned the sun to break the horizon and shatter the last dregs of evening calm. As the sun pierced the branches it welcomed the men as they walked below the familiar sign - ‘Ostenstaad Mine’.

Carl Ostenstaad stood at the base, a fixture, as sure as the posts that held the sign. He greeted many of the men, some by name, others with just a nod or wave. It had become a tradition, every three-week shift change for the past thirty years, and the men, though downtrodden in many respects, had come to admire the old man. Several had spent their entire working lives with him. He treated them and their children well, with an element of dignity. That in itself, was unusual. His was one of the best run, kimberlite pipe mines in the South. Perhaps the blue soil did not yield as many gem quality diamonds as other corporate mines, but the conditions were fair and the output admirable. Good men came and stayed, returning the respect and fair pay they received with honesty. Others, hungrier ambitious men, moved on, always restless and searching for the next dream to grasp. Hungry men drop the dream in their hand, hoping to grasp another.

Carl watched as a gangly young boy swished through the tall elephant grass down the sleepy knoll to his left. He was making his way in a zigzag thoughtless drift toward the main gate. Carl knew the boy well and treated him like a son. Alex, the son of his housemaid, gazed down, attempting to play a small lyre, lost in his own world. As Alex drew closer, the white haired old man could hear him pluck away at the lyre’s metal fingers.

Alex glanced at the old man, who shook his head pretending to cover his ears. Alex laughed, Mr. Ostenstaad always made fun of him.

Alex. He waved the tall boy over.

Yes, sir. He romped over the tall grass to the burly figure, who placed a huge paw around his shoulders.

You play that thing all day and never get any better.

One day, Mr. Ostenstaad, I’ll show you.

The old man just laughed at the bravado of the youngster. Run along to the house, I’m sure Mary will be looking for you. It’s too early to be frightening the birds with your musical talent.

Alex’s bony, but broad shoulders shrugged, and he beamed back. One day, sir, one day.

A hand touched Carl’s shoulder and he turned. It was Justice, a good man and the sole being who really understood the workings of the mine’s finicky old generator. Justice and the generator were of one mind.

Boss, my wife is not well. She needs a doctor.

Then why are you here?

If I start the generator and set it up for the week, I thought I might go into hospital.

If it’s that serious you better get George to take you.

We can walk that is not—

He will be making a run in for some supplies and if you go with him, you can visit the hospital then. Justice protested, but the wave of a wrinkled palm stopped him. If she’s ill she can’t walk, no? It makes sense even if it is George driving. Justice nodded with a smile. Old George’s driving was notorious. Catch George later and go when you need to. You have money for medicine?

Yes. Thank you.

Good. Do what you must. He slapped Justice’s back as he crossed up to the mine. The last thing he needed was to lose a crafty old mechanic like Justice. Beyond Justice, Carl glimpsed Alex as he slipped through the parade of men and ran up to the main house. All the men knew the boy and teased him. He was a popular lad. Mary would be toiling away in the kitchen no doubt and would scold him for fooling about and being late. Carl was fond of the family. Tragedy had slapped both he and Mary in the same week. Her husband, Thomas, was killed down the mine in a freak accident and shortly after, his own wife, Beth, had died a few days after their second child was born. Mary had been the midwife during the births of both his daughters. Mary never spoke of either loss but the attention she paid to Kate, his youngest, reflected the love she’d had or guilt she bore, for the loss of Beth. Mary was a big, powerful woman with a heart and love as mammoth as her frame. She had stepped in and become a wonderful surrogate mother to the two feisty girls.

George was approaching the gate and Carl walked with him back toward the main pit. George tended to be the last in all activities, but happily so. He was one of those characters who was last in – last out, last to get a beer – last to finish it. He had also been slow to trust Carl but now they had spent thirty years together it was a trust that would survive them both. After they exchanged pleasantries, they walked in silence. George’s, was a hard life, and he was a proud man. Carl respected him for that. Though his goatee was getting frosted, he could not imagine the mine without the bandy-legged old fart, pottering around.

Fifty yards from the mine elevator Carl pulled away from George and headed toward the mine office as the trusted old driver crossed toward the other waiting miners. Behind him, he heard the generator fire up and match the purr of the winch. The gas driven winch elevator had been a good purchase, but Carl still hated seeing the cage door draw shut on the miners, before they dropped the hundred feet to the shaft entrance. The previous array of rickety ladders propped against the shifting walls of the open pit made entering it a circus act. The elevator had eliminated the injuries resulting from the slips and falls off the ladders. He wasn’t getting any younger or lighter either, and the ladders were a nightmare for him too. Though necessary, the drawing closed of the elevator cage door always made him uneasy. It had a rattling finality, a reaffirming separation between him and the men he employed. It was a distinction he maintained but didn’t enjoy.

Once in his office he settled at his desk and glanced out the window at two shapes outside the perimeter fence. He knew them in an instant. The carefree spirits of the two figures were a joy that trundled through the mine compound . One was carrying a small cloth sack, a lunch snack for the two of them. It would be Alex along with Carl’s youngest daughter Kate, off exploring the grounds near the camp. They could spend hours together. It amazed him. The closeness of their friendship crossed all the divides that existed in and around the South Africa of 1951, and Carl didn’t care. It was the same friendship he had shared with Beth. Not really even friendship just a oneness like a raindrop in a puddle; dissolved into the other. His jaw tensed when he thought of how it would end. He fiddled with the pencil in his fingers. The lead nib broke. A tedious breath drew across his thoughts washing any immediate decision from present reality. He opened the ledger before him.

The heat of the day was all they could hear. The sleepy dust of the road watched their day together. They were washed in a drowse of relaxed ease. The road knew the two children well; they were familiar, innocent friends. A pair of dusty, black, pink-rimmed feet scuffed along the road’s ochre surface. Little puffs of red powdery sand wafted up like brief mushroom shaped thoughts, but were soon stomped aside by another pair of skipping, dainty, white feet. The black pair were broad and flat with a wrinkled, callous edge. The bulbous toes shot a confidence and strength into the dry, warm dirt. The white feet were narrow, with petite toes and a high arch. There was an ankle-high collar of smudged dirt cloaking the dainty white feet. The dust had dried on the cream skin forming a sock, like a fog or scruffy cloud. The black feet stopped and the white ones ran around to face them. The white feet arched up on their toes, stretching for something. Then satisfied they turned away.

Okay from here, but don’t cheat. I don’t know why I say that… you always cheat. The heel of one white foot shot up, slammed down on the road and scraped a line in the soft sandy surface. The soles of the smaller feet were hard and calloused; there was nothing sweet about the underside at all.

I don’t cheat. Alex said to placate the demanding little tone. You’re just slow. I could run backwards and beat you.

Could not.

Could too... ready? I’ll start when you pass that big rock. Don’t look so worried Kate... I won’t cheat!

You always say that Alex, I shouldn’t even listen. The dainty white feet twisted and dashed off. Alex hopped eager to go and then took off.

Kate out front, had a bounty of chocolate hair and wore a simple summer dress. The dress and hair bounced in a mad swinging tail as she sprinted, desperate to beat him. Not far behind her, his arms pumping with vicious intent, was the handsome and unchivalrous Alex. Kate could run, and Alex knew it. Alex was ten but had the physique of a fourteen-year-old. Kate was only nine, and though swift and with the spirit of a terrier, she was small and fine boned. Regardless, neither wanted to lose.

He was gaining on her. Her arms pumped out in desperation as she drove forward toward the finish point. He reached to tag her and stepped on the back of her heel. She clipped her other leg and fell face first into the road. Being right behind her, he couldn’t avoid her and tumbled down on top of her. She screamed in pain and sat up crying, holding her knee.

Sorry, Kate sorry—

You did that on purpose. Ow, ow, ow.

Alex leaned into the rocking little girl. She clenched the knee hard and was trying not to cry. He saw the bloody graze covered in tawny dirt and tried to blow the dust off which caused more pain, and she slapped him hard. He then tried to brush it with his hand, and she punched him in the arm.

Ow! Alex! Stop! You’re making it worse. She rocked back and forth holding her knee.

He snatched the kerchief off her head and ran to the small stream near the road. He returned with the wet cloth. Alex propped her foot gently on his thighs so he could face the bloodied knee. This might hurt a bit, but don’t kick me. He was about to place the wet kerchief on the graze. His eyes spilled forth concern for his friend. Kate stared at him half out of anger, half out of delight at the care he was showing. He was a handsome boy and his eyes begged for forgiveness.

Alex watched his best friend, he would do anything for her but also knew she had a wild temper and it was often directed at him. He stared at the scowl on Kate’s freckled face. She had no front teeth; she hadn’t yet come into her beauty, she was still part terrier. She did however have startling hazel eyes and an impish streak that could be exceedingly demanding if she had the upper hand on a friend — like Alex.

No, Alex, don’t.

It’s alright. You’ve got to clean it. He pressed the wet cloth square onto the graze.

Ouch!

Sorry, Kate, really. I’m sorry. I—

You did it on purpose. I was going to win, you knew it too.

I would never try to hurt you, it was an accident—

Can you carry me over to that rock? He submitted without question and carried her over. Though only a year apart he picked up the petite girl like a simple pillow and walked the few steps to the flat rock. He turned left and right and then placed her on the rock. His care and somber mood made it obvious he was upset at having hurt her. Kate decided to use his repentance. My shoes are back there; can you bring them over? He rushed off and she smiled to herself. She patted the knee with the damp cloth. There wasn’t much of a scratch for the level of pain. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if she had won. As he came back, she got another idea. I should have a drink, so I don’t get sick. Will you run to the house and get me some water?

He looked at her. He knew what she was trying to do. Alex glanced at the uncovered graze. It was the size of his thumbnail. Actually it’s a pretty small graze.

What! I can’t believe you said that. You cheater. She turned away and put her socks on. Alex came and squatted on his haunches on the edge of the rock with his back to the stream. Kate pulled her boots on and laced them.

You always wear so much. I like my way better.

It’s Claire, she is always on at me. She smiled at him. I like your way too, but I don’t like the way you cheat.

I didn’t, I stumbled.

Oh right. Kate leapt up and pushed him backward. He lost balance, rolled back, and put his hand out to catch himself. He missed the rock edge and fell head over heels down the three feet into the stream below. Kate found it hilarious and howled with laughter. Alex rife with indignation jumped up and started to splash her. She screamed and ran for the mine entrance.

Serves you right, you cheater. There was no limp or pain at all. He’d been tricked and chased after her. He knew if she made the gate he couldn’t do anything to get back at her.

3

The long, blood-red