The Aged Goat Of Middle Post

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~ THE AGED GOAT OF MIDDLEPOST ~ ANNA AND MALIBONGWE LEFT SUTHERLAND IN THE MORNING. A well-graded gravel road runs north towards the Hantam where the spring flowers are at their best. They went at a modest pace along the winding browntop road, deeper and deeper into broad high regions far from hearth and home. Here and there were melting snowdrifts from the last fall of the season – but the sun shone down and the veld was gay with scattered flowers. Two hours of careful going took them to a tiny hamlet, Middelpos, a low-slung comfortable country hotel, a farmyard, post office, telephones and some broad-veranda’d houses. This was once a valued staging post for commercial travellers and smouse in the days when country networks were fine-grained – when travel was leisurely, and commodities were traded off the backs of trucks by salesmen with their wares. Now it serves the local farmers as a place to meet and have a beer or coffee and catch up with the news – but most of all it serves the tourists. Tourism is big in the Cape’s economy and the spring flowers are an international drawcard. Malibongwe smiled, recalling the three Harley jesters and their spa tour – they’d got him and Anna out of hot water at any rate. Funny geezers. The shaman and his apprentice joined the burly sheep farmers in the Middelpos hotel. It was a dark and spacious interior with dated décor. Anna pulled a face. Heavy imbuia and mahogany along with formica veneer, and plastic upholstery. There were the country things – brass ash trays, old kitchenware on walls, mounted hunting trophies, dried flowers in wicker baskets, and airbrush paintings of prancing horses. A three-legged dog came wagging as they placed their orders. The regulars were genial but disposed to pass comments on the pair – townsfolk on motorcycles from another gene pool are a topic of interest in far-off places. ‘Môre, môre’, the farmers greeted them. ‘Morning to you both. Welcome! Everyone is welcome. Where are you headed, friends?’ and ‘Molo-molo, boetie, sissy’ – Is that now right? You speak Xhosa, né?’ Malibongwe smiled politely and said hello. ‘What do you do? What brings you to the Hantam?’ they pressed on with enquiries.

2 ‘I’m – um – I’m a sangoma, a traditional healer. This is Anna, my apprentice. We’re taking a vacation.’ ‘Né? Now there’s a thing! Attie! This oke’s a witchdoctor! Koos! Magriet!’ ‘Tell us, can you fix arthritis?’ ‘And skaapsteekte?’ ‘And boils? And toothache?’ ‘Nee man, let them be. Their coffee’s getting cold. He said they’re on holiday.’ ‘Ja but ….’ Magriet the manageress came up. ‘Men, never mind your health. Let’s ask him what he thinks of you-know-what.’ ‘Hey!’ they cried, ‘now there’s a good idea!’ So the company escorted Malibongwe and Anna to the rear of the hotel. ‘Look’, they said. ‘Oh’, said Anna. There was a great stone cross, and a cement apron, and a plaque that read ‘For King and Country’. It was the grave of half-a-dozen English soldiers from the bitter war of 1899-1902. ‘Oh, how sad.’ ‘Ja nee,’ said the farmers, ‘but they’re all at peaceful rest.’

3 Malibongwe raised his eyebrows. ‘You – er - ?’ ‘No!’ they answered, ‘Nee Meneer, not these ones. Not the Ingelse. They’re OK. No, it’s over here please – die bok. The goat.’ ‘The goat?’ And there it stood, a large billy goat with yellow eyes that raised its bearded head and turned a scornful gaze upon the group. ‘Hau! So what’s the matter with this goat?’ The farmers shuffled their feet and looked up and down and at the distant mountains. Magriet took charge. ‘Sir, the goat is bewildered in its mind.’ ‘Aha. Let’s take a closer look. In what way bewildered?’ The goat rolled its eyes. ‘This goat is very old. It’s been here for decades, ever since the rinderpest, the floods, the great drought, the day (they say) that Oom Hannes went up north to fight in the Second War, the – oh my goodness, it’s an old, old goat.’ The goat pawed at the ground. ‘Ewe. That’s most unusual.’

4 ‘And that’s not all – the goat – the goat – when the moon is full – ‘ Magriet looked at Malibongwe and then she looked away. ‘When the moon is full that goat goes round on hind legs and it peeks in windows! It’s verskriklik and not nice. And it, its ….’ The goat smirked. ‘Iets moers, iets besonders en uitheems,’ helped out the farmers. ‘Outlandish, weird and gross.’ ‘Hmm. I see. Anna? Did I bring my harmonica? The moon’s full tonight – it was just on the full when I saw it through the telescope at Sutherland.’ Did that goat wink? Anna glared at it. She dug the harmonica from their backpack. ‘Stand back, folk,’ said Malibongwe, ‘I’m going to try a tune or two.’ He improvised Arcadian panpipe airs while Anna gritted her teeth. The goat bucked and snorted and trotted to the far side of its camp. Magriet and the farmers reached out to Malibongwe. ‘Uh uh! Not like that,’ they urged him. ‘That’s not the way to play a mondfluitjie, man! Eina! Vrek! Stay here tonight and we’ll show you how – we’re having an opskop for the spring, a dinner-dance, a party. Stay on for the night!’ ‘Ja,’ Magriet encouraged him, ‘and you’ll see what this goat gets up to, as well – it’s full moon tonight just like you say.’ ‘Very well! How about it, Anna? We’ll go on to see the flowers and come back here tonight – it might be interesting, something new to learn?’ Anna didn’t trust the goat but she agreed. So off they went to see the flowers of the Northern Cape in spring. The road wound on through hill and dale toward the Hantam mountains and the far-off town of Calvinia, named for Geneva’s famed Reformist theologian. The land was profligate with a most unpuritanical and libertine display of life and

5 colour – vast carpets of gold and yellow, purple, orange, white and crimson flowers of the veld. The distant mountains held wide skirts that seemed to scatter out the colour on the middle ground before them. ‘Wow! It’s amazing!’ Anna leapt off the pillion and ran up to the roadside fence. She scrambled over and skipped out into the fields. And look, the little lambs! It’s paradise, Malibongwe! It’s fantastic!’ ‘Sure! This is something else!’ The big blue sky withdrew its tone and hue, leaving them to swell in lonesome joy before those fields of gold. They wandered, arm-in-arm, and let the red earth tease their feet – gazania and vygie, and white everlasting, and golden daisy, and slender bulbs and bluebells, colonies of flowers of so many kinds, and all ablaze for some few weeks in early spring. Anna aimed the camera. She aimed with random at vast patches of the blossom, gorging her spool with all the blended shades of colour. She photographed Malibongwe in uncharacteristic ease, grinning at the lens. He took some of her dancing among the flowers. ‘Wonderful! I hope these come out nice,’ she cried. ‘And perhaps we’ve got the flower fairies too?’ *

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Their room in the Middelpos Hotel looked out upon the war memorial and the billy goat’s camp. And a diesel tank, a water cistern and a wind pump and a tractor. ‘I wish we could just camp out among the flowers’, Anna said. ‘Beastly goat. I can smell it from here. And I bet it also eats the flowers.’ ‘Ja well. Anyway, there’s going to be a party. Could be fun.’ And so it was. Tables set out for a dinner dance, and the floor laid bare and waxed and edged with bales of hay. Streamers on the ceiling, baskets filled with flowers. The band, in embroidered waistcoats, played on accordions and guitars and saxophone. They played the upbeat tunes of the country Afrikaner, and they played the golden oldies of the sixties. People filled the ballroom, lined up at the buffet, called out, laughed, and found their seats. Magriet, with Estelle, Hanlie and their team, pressed food and drink at

6 robust farmers and their wives. Toasts were drunk, to nation, past and future, spring and Middelpos and love. Couples rose to dance, and magic touched the rugged features of the farming folk, and Anna tapped her foot and Malibongwe held her hand and grinned. ‘Balke toe!’ the MC cried, ‘Kom kom manne, vat hul vas! Tant’ Sarie, kom! Tant’ Chantel kom! Ô Klaradyn, kom dans! *

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It wore a Norfolk jacket and green velvet bowtie – but alas no pants. It peered in through the windows. It winked its yellow eyes. Then it pushed the hotel door open and stood there on the threshold, grinning and obscene. It glanced with scorn at the sign that read ‘Right of Admission Reserved’. It pranced and jiggled. It raised a cloven hoof and pointed to the dancers, pointed to the bar, to Magriet, Estelle and Hanlie and the MC at his table. Cries and oaths, and dancers frozen on the hay-lined dance floor. The musicians lost their beat and faltered. ‘Sies! That blerrie goat is back!’ The barman quietly closed the cash register and put the cane spirit and the brandy underneath the counter. Oom Gerrie’s accordion bleated air into the sudden silence. Then the tappity-tap of cloven hooves as the goat advanced, and sashayed down the room towards the bar. As he pranced he twisted, turned, and gloated at the couples at their tables. ‘Ag nee! Weer daai blerrie onding! Moenie panic nie! Children, over here! Dis alweer die bokmaan, mense. Just keep still and don’t encourage the dingus, it’ll go as soon as it gets bored.’ Focus of all eyes, the goat lent against the bar and chose a crème de menthe. It swallowed the green drink and grazed at peanuts. It downed a glass of coke and chased this with a beer. Then in quick succession one more cocktail and a cabernet, and a glass of whisky. It hiccupped and turned to the anxious company. It winked and wiggled, pouted through its moist beard at Attie Engelbrecht’s plump wife Alette. She hid behind her menu and Attie rose in fury. ‘So help me!’ he shouted, ‘Bok, I’m gonna skin you well and good tonight!’

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‘Nee! Attie!’ his neighbours urged, ‘you cannot, man! The thing’s invincible! It’ll donder you! Just don’t respond; it’ll leave you be. There, there, Tant’ Alette. Tannie moenie daaraan steur nie.’ ‘Goat!’ Malibongwe stood up and raised his voice in stern command. ‘Goat! Come here to me!’ The goat looked at him and sneered. The moment seemed an age. Malibongwe held his ground, kept his eyes locked onto the goat’s, and called out once again: ‘Goat! Yes, You! Come here, I said!’ The goat sneered once more, but there seemed something craven in the sneer. He hesitated, then he rose from the bar and tottered over to the shaman. He fell against a table as he tottered and Malibongwe gathered that he couldn’t hold his liquor. And he’d been beastly with the bar snacks too. ‘Goat! Stand up man! Pull yourself together!’ The goat quivered, and came to attention before Malibongwe. Its eyes now had a kind of pleading look. Something deeply abject. Something never noticed before in that goat’s eyes by the farmers of the Middelpos district and their wives. ‘Goat! Now listen very carefully.’ It nodded. ‘I’m walking out of here; I’m going to the lounge bar, through that door. I want you to come with me. I want you to look at no-one else. Stare in my eyes, goat. Look deep into my eyes. Understand? Now, start walking. You first. I’m right behind you and I’m watching you.’ Malibongwe moved to the door, and lo! the goat came too. They passed through and the door closed after them. Was that whisky on its beard, or had a tear run down? Ja, blerrie dronkverdriet already, muttered Attie Engelbrecht. ‘Ag shame, said Alette, peering out from behind her menu, ‘the creature’s beside itself, man. It’s upset!’

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The glazen atmosphere was broken and the farmers and their wives renewed their animated conversation. ‘Phew! Jirre! Dankie tog! Die nare skepsel! That witchdoctor knows his stuff, né?’ Anna felt a glow of pride. ‘But what’s happening in the next room? Should I go and help?’ She didn’t have a chance. Ruddy Manie Moolman swept her to her feet and to the dance floor. The music started up again. Vastrap and Tiekiedraai, foxtrot and boogie till the room reverberated and the rush of feet across the shining floor, the swirl of skirts, the cheers and laughter and the flush of glad faces with the concertina and the sax and drums and banjo and guitar, and clink of glass and clash of plates and party joy that overcame the panic and the fear. Midnight came and still the dancing rocked the old hotel. Unnoticed, Malibongwe slipped back into the ballroom. He sat down and wiped his brow. ‘Hau! That wasn’t easy. But if I’m not mistaken, these good folk will have no more goat to trouble them in time to come.’ ‘Hey!’ said Anna as they prepared at last for bed. ‘Ooh! Now that was fun! Look at the time already! These people know how to party, né?’ ‘Ewe my dear. Glad it worked out in the end.’ Malibongwe pulled off his socks and flung himself onto the bed. ‘Ai! Now I’m really tired!’ ‘What happened?’ ‘Well. The goat can’t speak, but it does understand English. It’s clearly not a happy goat. Its exhibitionism is most likely ego compensation. Or a means of getting its own back. Or it’s just grown over the years into bad habits. Too long in one place, you know how one begins to take advantage of others ….’ ‘Sure! But what about this full moon thing? Going round on two legs with a jacket and all that?’ ‘I tried to get the clearest picture. There’s something else – out there – behind this, Anna. That I know. I did the twenty questions game with it. You know the drill? You try to narrow down what’s in its mind by posing questions – animal, mineral or vegetable? And so on, until you get some kind of pattern.

9 The goat answered yes with one knock of its hoof; no with two knocks. So we proceeded. And you won’t believe (unless of course my method’s wrong) – that beast was once a man! At each full moon it reverts to atavistic kind, or partly so, assuming human stance and tastes and appetites. There’s a most unusual pattern of shape-shifting going on, against the normal run of things – and with it a preternatural prolongation of the lifespan. This goat’s really old! Seems to have come from overseas, was born in the later nineteenth century, has English antecedents, came out to the Cape on some kind of mission, got in a nasty brawl I gather. With a most peculiar person. Really very strange. More than this I cannot say.’ ‘Sure! Amazing! But – what now?’ ‘As I said, it’s not a happy goat. It wants to get away. The behaviour’s all an act. The goat wants to return to London to its home. It’s really very awkward. I managed to persuade the thing to accept a higher kind of London – the etheric city, if you follow me? All its erstwhile friends’ll be there now. Too many years have passed. I put it to the goat that he could be released – but only if he went across the Threshold. Remove the spell or whatever happened to it in that brawl, and the goat would go to higher pastures. ‘Bokveld’ as they call it hereabouts. And did you know, the creature was pathetically eager for release.’ ‘Oh no! You mean – you slagged it? Surely not?’ ‘No. That would be gross. I burnt the Norfolk jacket in the fire. Same with the bowtie. The goat went and fetched some other stuff – bits of paper, notes, a fountain pen (he must have been a journalist back then). I cast these to the flames as well. I sat with him and watched them burn. No further questions sought nor answers given. I reckoned the destruction of the vestiges of its mortal past would close the book on his sad double life. As we sat and gazed into the flames so the goat began to shrink and return to normal scale. It bleated. It nuzzled my hand and lay down on the floor. And then it started fading, there before my eyes! Even the smell began to fade. Next thing there was nothing. Niks. Zero. Just the fire and myself and the empty room. And warmth and peace. The goat of Middelpos has gone, my dear. But what ever was it that the creature got entangled with back then? There are mysteries out here; deep mysteries, Anna. And who knows the source and outcome of these things? But enough of that. It’s time to sleep. It’s nearly dawn!’