I remember a heavy snowfall one night during that winter after Mother’s death. Snow was not a rarity to us and there was no reason why I should remember that particular fall, except that it was heavier than usual, and I was still unused to my newfound freedom. When I awoke that morning I was instantly aware of my deeper isolation from the silence in which even the scattered sounds of the village were muffled; the cleaning woman did not come and the townspeople remained indoors and made no effort to call; no one thought of coming over to find out how I was doing, and I spent the entire day alone in the house without speaking, or having to speak, to anyone, without duties to take care of or expectations to live up to, the first day of complete freedom I had ever known in my life.
Outside the entire world was white, and the vegetable patch, the narrow flowerbeds and the street in front of the house were covered and obliterated; the snow lay on the stone walls and the roofs, the grey veld on the outskirts was a pristine snowfield and the low ridges to the east were softened by the thick layer of snow on the rocky ledges. The day was grey and colourless, the clouds low over the hills, and the snow had not melted, so that the landscape retained its whiteness all day long. As I moved from room to room inside the house, the empty rooms were lit up by the bright reflection from outside, and when I looked out, the familiar scene of street, houses and church was unrecognisable. I moved through the endless space of the house, from room to room, almost noiselessly as was my custom, not even my dress swishing or a floorboard creaking under my foot, and from window to window I surveyed the new world in which I found myself so unexpectedly. That was all; that was all it was, a heavy snowfall and my isolation in the empty house, for during the night the snow began to melt and when I awoke the next morning I heard it dripping from the thatch in front of my window, and I saw the familiar outlines of road, rock and ridge reappear once more from the melting snow and mud. I treasured the silence of that day, however, and the long silence I had experienced remained a part of me, regardless of the numerous conversations I had again afterwards. What do I mean when I say this now? I do not know, for I did not understand it then and even now I am still unable to explain: that is how it was for me that day and that is what it meant to me. No, I am not trying to justify myself — to whom, and what for? I remember, that is all, and these are the things I remember, alone in the dark at the end of my life, all the small and simple things I cannot explain to anyone, I who do not even remember the birthdates of my brothers and the dates of my parents’ deaths. As I lie here in the dark, I remember the empty rooms filled with the bright white glow of reflected light.
During that winter I naturally visited Mother’s grave in the graveyard on the outskirts of town, and I was aware that people were staring after me, invisible behind the windows of the houses I passed. In their eyes, to see me walking down the front street to the graveyard in my black dress alone probably made up for my lack of words and tears and other visible signs of grief. Why did I go? Mother was dead and though I did not miss her or grieve for her, it was more than mere duty. I could visit and have coffee with the handful of women in town, I could go to the store on weekdays and to church on Sundays; I could walk down the front street, past the last scattered houses where people were observing me from behind their curtains without showing themselves, and past the last cultivated plots, to the graveyard with its stone mounds and soil and its few chiselled headstones. The grass was dead and white, the veld colourless; the clods of the heaped soil over Mother’s grave were frozen solid and when I stooped to touch them, the earth itself was hard as rock. There were no flowers to lay down on the bare earth and no wild flowers could sprout or take root in that frozen earth; there was nothing I wished to say, no feelings I wanted to express or memories I wanted to relive. What was I doing there? I remained at the grave so that I did not have to return home, and with my back to the town I looked in the direction of the road leading through Rooikloof to Verlatekloof and the Karoo, climbing over the rise at Groenfontein to Driefontein and Vloksberg Pass. No roads were visible from where I stood, the cart and wagon tracks among the rocks and shrubs had been half-obliterated by the winter storms, but I knew their course and my eyes traced their lines, through the faded, undulating veld and up the rocky ledges, up to the edge of the escarpment where the sparse snowflakes came whirling upon the wind. After a while I would turn and walk back. On the way back from the graveyard it might have been possible to take a right-hand turn and follow the twin tracks of the cart and wagon wheels through the veld; but I turned left instead and headed back to town.
I might have set my course for some unknown destination like a trekboer family with their wagon and handful of sheep, or a farm-hand looking for a new master, his bundle over his shoulder, and if I saw a rider in the distance, I might have crouched among the low renosterbos like a fugitive, until he had passed. Ahead of me I saw the scattered houses of the town waiting for me, the stone walls and the whitewashed walls, the thatched roofs, the bare limbs of the fruit trees and the high white ridge of the church roof. The coloured women gathered harpuisbos in the veld for firewood, the girls tended the goats where they were grazing and in summer they sometimes wandered far, looking for veldkos; there were white women who went to Ouplaas with the washerwomen to do their own laundry there. I could only visit Mother’s grave, however, and stand there, looking out over the veld, my back to the distant houses of the town. After a while the young minister came to see me and gently and lovingly and very earnestly pointed out that it is not good to grieve too deeply or to mourn for too long, and that we should not cling to our loved ones or to our memories of them. Even in my loneliness, he said, stuttering slightly, for he was young and still had much to learn, even in my loneliness life still had much to offer and I had a task, no, a duty to fulfil, a solemn duty, here in the congregation where as a member of a respected family I held such an honoured position and was so highly esteemed. Neither would my mother have wished for me to become so absorbed in my loss, he assured me fervently; and after that I did not go to the graveyard so often.
What prevented me from following that white road, those twin tracks among the stones and shrubs, up the slopes to the edge of the mountains and the farm? Mother was no longer there to forbid the journey and no one had remained behind on the farm that winter to whom I would have to explain my sudden arrival; the house was deserted, the kraals and stables empty. I lay awake at night, as happened more and more often during that time, watching the moonlight move across the floorboards and considering the possibilities of my newfound freedom. My shoes stood in front of the bed, my clothes were on the chair where I had folded them on taking them off, my shawl hung over the back of the chair; I only had to get up and reach out my hand, for there was no longer any reason to be quiet, afraid that a creaking floor or a rattling doorknob might betray me. The town slept, its empty windows dark, and the barking of the dogs had died down; where I lingered on the stoep for a moment, the white street before me was as bright as day.
I followed the front street, past the last houses and the stone mounds and the scattered rocks of the graveyard until it stopped pretending to be a street and became a mere road again. Clouds moved past the moon and the pattern of track, shrub and stone flowed together before my eyes, so that I had to wait, light-headed and breathless with excitement. There is no hurry, I told myself, for no one will have noticed my flight, and it will be a long time before they become aware of my absence and begin to search: there is a long road ahead, and there is no sense in breaking into a run yet in my impatience to arrive. When it dawned on me what I was doing, however, I picked up the pace again. The moon had disappeared, its light dimmed, effacing the white track before my eyes, but I did not hesitate, for how could I not know the road home after all those years, and alone and on foot I could travel faster tonight than ever in the past by cart or wagon. Past Groenfontein and up the sloping ridge behind the homestead, suddenly surrounded by whirling snowflakes, icy against my face in the dark. I saw no lights at the farms I passed now and again, their buildings dark and deserted, and nothing was visible save the dark, rolling veld outlined against the murky horizon, nothing could be heard save the beating of my heart and my rasping breath as I hurried along, my shawl wrapped tightly around me against the cold, as I pressed on blindly, my feet finding their own way without waiting for memory to guide them. I stumbled over rocks but soon found my way back to the beaten track; I raced across the miles without wearying, until I could make out the hazy glitter of the dams in the half-light, and the dark buildings of our own farm took shape in the distance amid the surrounding gloom. The doors were closed, the shutters closed, the beams in front of the kraal gates fixed in their slots, but house, stable and kraals lay waiting, and if the doors were locked I could force open the shutters from the outside and hoist myself up over the window-sill into the familiar darkness of the house. I was back. And then?