An Old Transvaal Story - Revisited

by Hugh Sutherland

An old Transvaal ghost story – revisited by Hugh Sutherland

Neels Koekemoer knew well enough the story he was in. It was an old, old Transvaal ghost story; told many times around bushveld campfires or in dark voorkamers dimly lit by flickering candles that assisted twisting shadows to play tricks with the mind. In fact, according to Herman Charles Bosman, an accomplished storyteller who should know, it was the only Transvaal ghost story, differing in its telling only as to character and locale. *

It was such an old, well-known story that it could no longer raise the hairs on the back of your neck. Unless, of course, you were attempting to urge your horse through a kloof in the hills of the Groot Marico. Late at night. Under a full moon.

Neels Koekemoer had lost his way. Setting out on horseback from his father’s farm near Zeerust early that morning he had expected to reach the little hamlet of Dorsfontein by nightfall. He was anxious, very anxious, to see the lights of Dorsfontein because that was where the light of his life was to be found. Hannelie de Bruyn, his childhood sweetheart and now the new teacher at the Dorsfontein Government school. She had left the Zeerust district three years previously, travelling all the way to Pretoria to train as a teacher, leaving many broken hearts behind her, none more broken than that of Neels Koekemoer. For Hannelie had been a beautiful girl before her departure, promising much to the man who won her heart. Her absence had left Neels with an aching void where his heart should have been, a situation little alleviated by her all too infrequent and short visits to her parents’ home in Zeerust, where her father was the local dominee. Hannelie seemed to grow more beautiful with every fleeting visit, but also more distant, filling Neels with a sense of dread that he was losing her to the big wide world while he languished as a glorified hired hand on his father’s farm.

And then the news! Hannelie was returning to the District. Not to Zeerust it was true, but at least within one day’s riding distance. Neels welcomed the news, but was filled with apprehension. Hannelie was now a woman of the world, well educated and well traveled. She had visited places that Neels could only dream of. Potchefstroom, Rustenburg and that glittering city on the hills, Pretoria. She had walked where giants walked. Paul Kruger, Piet Joubert and Koos de la Rey. As was to be expected of a good Boermeisie she had avoided that modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, the Witwatersrand, where so many uitlanders despoiled the soil in their lust for gold and despoiled the fair maidens of the Transvaal in their lust for who knew what.

But Hannelie had remained pure, had returned, and now, to Neels’ unutterable joy, had bidden him to visit her at the home of the Dorsfontein dominee with whom she lodged.

Scarce wonder then that Neels, not wasting a minute, had informed his father that he was taking time off, saddled his horse, accepted the hastily but lovingly prepared bundle of padkos from his mother and turned his face towards the approximate direction of Dorsfontein. With a song in his heart he urged his horse onward; onward to where his love lay waiting.

All went well at first. His horse was an old campaigner who knew his master well and had often carried him the many miles between Zeerust and the farm without strain or mishap. But as the day wore on two things became apparent. Neels did not have the faintest idea where Dorsfontein was. Nor did the horse.

Neither had ever ventured further afield than Zeerust, except for one memorable occasion when Neels had carried a message for his father to a trader in Mafeking, the Engelse dorp to the south of Zeerust. Neels had not enjoyed the experience and resolved to stay close to where his own people lived and the blacks knew their place.

And so, despite calling at farms along the way to ask for directions, as night began to fall Neels Koekemoer found himself as separated from his heart’s desire as when he had set out that morning.

He watched the sun sink in the west and with an equally sinking heart he contemplated stopping for the night, making camp in the lee of a large tree and enduring an impatient night out in the open. Spying a likely looking tree on a slight ridge before him he urged his horse towards it.

Imagine Neels’ joy as he crested the ridge and saw the lights of a farm-house some distance from him. Surely he would find people who could either put him on the right track or offer him shelter for the night! He put his horse to the gallop, his high spirits quite restored.

Very soon he clattered up to the house to find the farmer, alerted by the noise of his arrival, already standing outside, upraised lantern in hand, to greet his visitor. Neels brought his horse to a halt, pleased to see that the farmer appeared to be a jovial type of fellow, smiling warmly up at him. The farm-house was well lit with candles and lanterns and sounds of revelry came from within.

‘Good evening, young man, and what brings you to my home tonight?’ cried the farmer, indicating that Neels should dismount. But Neels was too buoyed up at the thought that he might yet win through to Dorsfontein and bask in the warm sunshine of Hannelie de Bruyn’s smile to want to linger.

‘Thank you, Oom, but no. I must get to Dorsfontein tonight and cannot stop. Can Oom direct me to the dorpie?’

‘Ja, seun, that I can do. But you must ride through some dark places to get there. It would be better for you if you stay the night with us, and tomorrow in the light of the sun you can seek what it is you desire.’

‘My heart is too full to rest, Oom. I must press on and take my chances with the dark. What ill can befall me on the road?’

‘The way is dark and treacherous. You must follow the path beyond the dam behind this house, through the copse of trees on the other side and then ascend the ridge. From there you will travel three miles towards a kloof in the hills.’

‘Thank you, Oom. And then?’

‘You must go through the kloof because Dorsfontein lies five miles on the other side. But you will not be able to enter the kloof tonight.’

‘Why not, Oom?’

‘It is haunted. By a ghost. The ghost of a murderer.’

Neels battled to restrain himself from laughing. Ja, he knew the story, knew it well. It was the Transvaal’s only ghost story. A traveler is warned by a local farmer about a ghost that haunts a kloof, or a poort, or a drift and manifests only at full moon. The traveler ignores the warning and continues on his journey, his horse refuses to enter the kloof, poort or drift and, chastened, he is forced to return to the farmer who then tells him of the circumstances that led to the haunting. Neels had heard the story so often in so many forms it had no power to scare him.

But he did not want to appear to mock this friendly farmer so he looked solemn as the man continued, ‘A mass murderer. A madman who many years ago burnt down a house full of people at a party, killing them all. And his soul is imprisoned there, released for a little while whenever the moon is full. And then it is wise not to enter the kloof for the murderer is abroad, still with death in his heart.’

Neels considered this. He had heard many variations of the story but a mass murderer was a new one. He admired the farmer’s cheek in coming up with such a new version and also for his timing. Neels could now see for some distance around him as the bushveld lay revealed in the reflection of the rising moon.

A full moon.

Still, he was wasting valuable time. ‘Thank you Oom, for the directions and the warning. But I must hurry because I must reach Dorsfontein tonight.’

‘You will not, my friend. Even if you feel no fear, your horse will not enter the kloof. They know, these animals, they know and they will not go where they fear to tread.’

‘Not this horse, Oom. He and I have traveled far together. He goes where I go.’

‘We will see. I will keep a place for you so that you too may know a warm fire when you return.’

‘Thank you, Oom, but I will not be coming back. Totsiens!’

And so Neels continued his journey. He made his way past the dam, rode through the copse of trees and ascended the ridge. In the distance he could make out a line of hills and, in the light of the full moon, a shadow that indicated a kloof. It seemed to hold no terrors.

While his horse ambled towards the kloof, Neels fell into a reverie, recalling many happy moments spent with Hannelie when they were childhood sweethearts. How much more tender would his memories be in the future he mused, quite forgetting where he was or what he was doing. The future memories he was creating in his mind had distracted him so well that it was some time before he realised that his horse had halted and was standing still.

They had come to the entrance of the kloof.

It was now that Neels Koekemoer understood what story he was in. The old, old Transvaal ghost story. The one that had long ago lost its power to scare.

But this was different. This was reality. Here he sat, facing the opening of a kloof through the hills, under a full moon, astride a horse that refused to advance one more step. He tried coaxing the reluctant beast, ‘Kom, Satan, kom. There’s nothing here to frighten us. Those were only bangmaakstories that farmer told; he was having some fun.’ Neels dismounted, took the horse’s bridle and tried to pull it forward. The horse would not move, almost as though it was glued to the ground.

Neels could see no reason for the horse’s fear, he himself felt no sense of danger, but it soon became apparent that Satan would not enter the kloof that night. With a sigh of frustration Neels decided to make the best of a bad situation. He would not reach the object of his desire, but at least a warm welcome and good company awaited him back at the farm-house. He would have to endure some good natured mocking from the farmer, and no doubt the other revelers, but there was nothing for it. He was stuck in the old Transvaal ghost story and would just have to play his pre-ordained part.

And so he remounted, turned the horse’s head around and set off back to the farm, Satan showing more urgency than was normally the case. After a while Neels fell to brooding over what he had just experienced. He realised that those who told the Transvaal’s only ghost story had not done it justice. They never really explained why the kloof should be haunted, why the ghost only manifested at full moon and, most intriguing of all, what the ghost tried to achieve. Well, Neels would find out. The farmer lived hereabouts, he told the tale; surely he knew more than he was telling? Neels would extract that from him.

He reached the top of the ridge. The light of the full moon bathed the scene before him - the path leading through the copse, the dam and then … …

No lights. No sounds of gaiety emanating from the farm-house.

No farm-house.

Surely a trick of the light hid the farm-house from view? Not more than a couple of hours ago Neels had sat astride his horse talking to a man holding a lantern while light and the sounds of revelry had streamed from a farm-house nearby. And now … nothing.

This time the horse showed no sign of fear as it made its way past the familiar landmarks. But Neels’ feeling of dread increased as he marked the copse of trees, noted the dam and, with a flash of perception, knew what he would see next.

The burnt out remains of a farm-house.

Words he had heard a scant few hours before now returned to haunt him, ‘A mass murderer. A madman who burnt down a house full of people at a party, killing them all.’ And then other words, ‘I will keep a place for you so that you too may know a warm fire when you return.’

Was it his imagination, or were there embers smouldering in the ruins?

Neels did not delay to find out. Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, he leant across its neck and whispered fiercely, ‘Ry, Satan, ry! Ride like the Devil!’

And so, ja, Neels Koekemoer will tell you, if you buy him enough brandy and Cokes, and sit with him well away from the revelries at a party, he will tell you that it is true that the Transvaal only has one ghost story.

But it is never properly told.

 

 

Footnotes

* See ‘Old Transvaal Story’ by Herman Charles Bosman, from the collection ‘Selected Stories’, Human & Rousseau, Cape Town and Pretoria, 1980.