Dandelion Diary. Marguerite Black

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      Malcolm and I

      I remember a blistering December afternoon with the mid-day sun beating down on us. Malcolm and I dawdled towards a yesterday-today-and-tomorrow bush at the bottom of the garden. My mom called out in a far-away tone of voice: “Peanut-butter sandwiches for you two. You need some flesh on those bones, sweeties!”

      In a flurry of arms and legs, we scuttled to the kitchen and came back, trying to balance trays filled with thickly sliced sandwiches and glasses of icy orange cordial. Starving, we sat down under the shrub, where we attacked the food with a vengeance.

      From the tomato box of secrets that we kept under the shrub carrying small purple and white flowers, we unearthed a book called It’s a Wonderful World. I had hidden it there and told Malcolm: “Cross your heart and hope to die. If Ma finds out, she’ll take it to the stuffy study again.”

      I couldn’t find it in my heart to force it in between other dull books in a dark bookshelf. Malcolm giggled, but made a solemn promise. The spine of the book was unravelling and the pages had begun to fade, developing a yellowish tinge. In bold letters it proclaimed: “A treasury of knowledge all in colour”. I turned to page five, unable to contain my excitement, and shoved the book onto Malcolm’s lap so he would read to me. He put on a tour guide demeanour and started reading: “The Gypsies’ homes on wheels … Five hundred and fifty years ago there appeared in Europe wandering bands of a handsome, independent race, fond of music, dance and song: the Gypsies.”

      Abruptly I interrupted him: “You know, we’ve got Gypsy blood. Grandma has been to all four corners of the earth. And one day I’m going to marry a real Scandinavian prince …”

      As if entranced by my words, Malcolm sprang to his feet and cried: “Well, I’m going to search for enemies on the hill.” We always imagined hordes of neighbourhood children threatening our gang’s fort on the hill.

      He left me gazing into the turquoise sky, imagining how different my life would be as a Gypsy: I would rub noses with an Eskimo, swing wildly on the arms of a windmill and follow the great herds of reindeer with the Lapps, all in one week.

      The sun started mellowing and a lonely bateleur eagle flew over me in its quick and quiet way, crying out sharply. I got to my feet and went to look for Malcolm who was still playing on the hillside. Dusk, a charcoal cloak, was rapidly enfolding us, but despite the stillness I could feel a thunderstorm approaching.

      During the day time there was always a sense of control, but at that moment we were like thistledown going on an unknown journey, being tossed around by air currents. I felt deeply unsure, as if I were blindfolded, but the air was bustling with activity. Lizards were scurrying in the undergrowth and a spotted eagle owl was frenetically flying about. It settled in a Jerusalem thorn tree, coldly peering at me. The rims of its eyes were red and the centres were intensely black, drawing me into its binocular-like vision. Then Malcolm tugged at me from behind and I quickly swirled around, looking into his relieved, but frightened eyes.

      It started to rain and we scrambled towards the house, picking up speed and huddling closely together in a mutual attempt to seek a bit of warmth. Suddenly, a vacant look crossed Malcolm’s eyes and, as if besieged by an electric current, he started dancing wildly, catapulting through the veld towards home, with arms and legs flapping in all directions. I also started dancing a shamanic earth dance and joined Malcolm in his trance-like state through the shrubs.

      In the east, more dark thunderclouds gathered in a furious display. Varicose veins of lightning traced the sky and mapped out hitherto undiscovered ways and routes. It was as if this celestial spectacle was nature’s way of alleviating the earth’s tension. As we passed, a bull terrier dropped its tail in submission and whimpered at a back door.

      At last, we’d made our way to the garden gate, the earthy smell of the compost heap intermingling with the nocturnal scent of petunias. Miriam was standing under the loquat tree, frantically stripping clothes off the washing line. She looked up at the sight of two delicate children standing forlornly under the livid skies, and in a blind maternal rush she darted towards us. Her hips swayed from side to side while she took turns at piggybacking each of us to the porch. We threw ourselves over the threshold, drenched and bedazzled. We felt a sense of pride as if we’d just successfully completed an integral rite of passage, but my parents were beside themselves with worry. My mom dried us, dressed us warmly and tucked us into bed with hot chocolate and pancakes. I felt warm and sheltered: I wished for this bliss to last forever.

      Even the thunderstorm was safely out there. Through the window I could see the lightning or the impundulu as it was known around those parts. Miriam once described it: “It is a white bird with bright red marks on it. when I was a child, men in my village sometimes tried to kill it with assegais before it could get to the earth.” As I thought of imaginary assegais protecting us from all extraneous elements I fell into a deep sleep.