Khotso, An African Tale

By Danzel Fegen

Near the end of the South African Boer War; Khotso was commissioned to bury the Kruger Millions (a vast treasure of gems diamonds and gold coins). His mission, by ox wagon took him on an amazing journey through a wild South Africa. Colonel Blake, the only American, to take part in both the American Civil War and the Anglo Dutch War, falls in love with a Boer woman. They find themselves caught up in the intrigue of the South African wilderness. This tale takes you through southern Africa of the past with the people and the feel of its war torn people. Khotso's story from his youth to his career in herbalism, his travels by ox wagon to bury the Kruger Millions and its location. Blake, from his American story to him leading troops against the British in the second South African Boer war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danzel Fegen
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732181144

Danzel Fegen

Born in Johannesburg South Africa, Danzel is a writer of screenplays, graphic novels and both fiction and historic fiction. He currently lives in Los Angeles California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Transkei – South Africa.

Young Khotso would soon weep, for by days end he would be living a life of both misery and intrigue. The boy would meet history, and its people, good or bad, and as time would pass he would be a great healer.

As he played, a dog was the furthest thing from his mind. Yet it was the barks in the distance that made him wonder, "What new animal is that?"

From the water’s edge, Young Khotso raised a stick in defiance to the new sound. He momentarily stood as a brave warrior mimicking his Zulu father. Realizing he had a lot of growing to do to reach his father’s stature, he dropped his head, and pointed the stick down the familiar meandering stream.

He heard another sound, a familiar sweet one, a song from his mother Shalani that drifted throughout the valley. It was one of the songs she’d learnt from her tribal upbringing as she carried water up a path to their home. It was something she did every day. This morning it would be the last time her six year old son would hear her tender voice.

Nearby from the stream, Shalani, lifted with ease the cluster of vine tied calabashes up to her head then steadied the bundle in a balance with her right hand. She felt a surge of joy in her heart as she momentarily looked at the boy. The infant was all bare except for an ox skin thong. The boy, a life growing bunch of play and exploration, his little muscles exploding in his arms as he lifted the stick in her direction and showed a playful smile.

Balancing the load on her way back, Shalani stepped along the white narrow sand bank closer to him. The boy’s eyes were bright and filled with mischief. Her free hand lifted his chin and said, Be strong my ‘Tata’ I’ll be back for you and for more water.

Shalani turned from him. She staggered off with her head sailing in balance of the load. Her song continued as she strut upwards on a path through a thick bush and was soon out of sight.

Young Khotso turned to play at the edge of the stream. Stooping down to his knees in the sand his fingers touched the cool water. Above danger loomed. Camouflaged against the greenery, a snake from the thick shrubs of the stream extended a long body downwards. The jungle has endless dangers to all.

The same stream’s path flowed down from nearby mountains in a continuous journey around boulders and thick bush growths towards the Indian Ocean. Teamed with wild life the stream was, and still is, the beginning of a mighty river known as the Umzimvubu River. The forty mile river stretched over a mile wide at the ocean’s gate which, later, settlers would build and call a town Port St Johns.

This homeland, the playground of Khotso’s birth place, would remain part of the boy’s memorable youth until his elder days. The homeland lay at part of the eastern quadrant of the Drakensburg South Africa. The foothills of Umlhangana Rock, also known as ‘Dingaans Rock’. Umlhangana Rock named after the Zulu chief still stands grand until this day. The rock, an African version of Rio’s ‘Sugar Loaf’ in the past held a legend to where the Zulu chiefs cast their captors to their death.

Memorable, too were the surrounding mountains the yellowed brown hanging peaks that looked to tumble at any time from their overhangs. The overhangs were reflected in the running water gathering into pools around the rocks and thick vegetation shelters an abundance of carp and catfish.

The sounds ‘chica-chica’ were of chirping guinea fowls that rang common amongst the exotic birds and the sound of odd groan of distanced lions can be heard on occasions.

Khotso once witnessed with his father a landslide that shook the earth with the noise of a thousand angry bulls and brought a cloud of yellow dust to settle over the valley and their rural mud built home.

The snake slid lower and swayed from side to side like a vine blowing in the breeze. Young Khotso turned to sit on his haunches and pushed a dry stick he’d found at a grey frog he recognized in the water resembling a stone. Feeling the gust of fresh wind on his face that blew ripples from the stream towards him, he smiled and tried again. The frog breast stroked deeper.

The Dutch settlers called the green snake ‘Boom slang’ a ‘tree snake’. Its venom is said to be potent enough to kill in minutes. The thin snake had a different meal on its mind, the frog.

Khotso, with his thoughts on play, brushed the reptile aside with a right hand thinking it’s a tree branch. That was not the single peril of the area. Swimming in a swirl towards him, a crocodile. The crock, twice the boy’s size logged its way towards him from the deep opposite end rocks.

Khotso caught a glimpse of his face in the water’s reflection. His head appeared larger than normal, and he admired his puffy cheeks. He loved the red wood pieces his mother inserted to enlarge his earlobes that looked like little drums on both sides. He saw another striking oddity that alarmed the native tribe of the area. One of his eyes was grey and the other brown.

The grey eye brought an outcast life for him and his parents. For the tribes of the area, the strange eye meant taboo. The taboo labeled and revered them as the evil ones. Having no other choice, his folk endured their ridicule, for they loved their only child despite the isolation. The tribes also feared the Big Man, young Khotso’s father, named after the black snake Mamba.

The snake persisted over the boy’s right shoulder with a red fork tongue flickering. It pushed itself down towards the water, eyeing the frog. Khotso brushed it aside once more, and the crocodile’s eyes remained steadfast, calculated and timed.

Nearby on the thick lichen strewn branch, a fish eagle pruned above a nest with its two white lipped bobbing chicks. Below it, a group of Ibis drank from the stream with their long beaks dipping into the water. The frog settled deeper in the stream camouflaged next to a rock.

Khotso reached towards it again. He needed a longer stick.

Unbeknown to the boy and his folk, in the bush nearby, one of two Dutch hunters pulled a trigger. The hunter knew he’d missed even before the shot was fired. ‘Boom.’ The sound struck the area like a ‘God’s thunder’ that brought panic and flee to the wild life and a retort of canine excitement from their dog. The two men had earlier harnessed their horses, tied the dog and entered the bush. A day before they were sent to find game for their fellow scouts that camped in another valley. The two hunters were a poor choice and defeated by the elements of the bush. Their noisy horses alerted the wild life long before they entered the patchy bush valleys they hunted.

The second shot from his partner Greenbeck Potgieter, a pepper bearded trooper brought a distinctive thud and a deep groan. Beyond the trees young Khotso’s mother, in a dying spasm, fell to the ground. The hunters had no clue.

Pete Sonefeldt in a stagger fumbled at his powder sack tied to his side. It slipped through tobacco stained fingers and thudded to the wet slosh beneath him. As he bent under a branch riddled with ants to pick it up, he heard the bush buck they’d missed crash through the thick African bush. They needed the kill, and Pete feared the animal could turn back and take them on if wounded.

Pete spat a wad to his side and reloaded as fast as he could. His sparse black hair, not combed in months, looked to fest lice. The other hunter, Greenbeck who paralleling him twenty yards away to his right, treaded on dryer ground. Greenbeck’s brown felt khaki’s looked as greasy as a whalers deck pants.

The result of the gunfire brought alarm to the valley. The snake fell onto Khotso and tumbled into the water, and the crocodile snapped at it. The eagle, crouched unsure for a few moments. Pushed with a flurry of heavy beating wings to gain height. It then took flight abandoning the chicks.

In a volley of birds bursting into flight and a chorus of chirps and protests from an unseen world of wild animals that headed off in all directions, and with nature exploding around, young Khotso ran.

His barefooted legs prodded the red soil up the worn foot path towards his home. He tore through thorn trees and grass that reached his own height of four feet. His heart racing faster than he thought. He realized these cracks as not to be a rock fall. This is something else. He sensed it not to be good.

With another crash, the white spotted bushbuck lunged through the thick bush. Pete re-loaded, turned and aimed in time to see it jump through a thicket and disappeared. Following the sound of the animal, he kept a mental note of its whereabouts.

Still beyond that same thicket young Khotso’s mother, Shalanie, lay sprawled in front of their home, kicking in the red dirt. The water she carried pooling from the pitcher above her head. Her singing song and happy smile were now a convulsive salivating drawl.

And as if by fate, the buck leaped out of the bushes in front of her and snorted as Shalanie’s sight darkened.

In desperation Pete Sonefeldt fired toward the snort. Again, the valley reverberated with the powder crack with the sound distancing in an outgoing wave.

To Khotso ears, he heard an angry unseen rain God throwing a white rod of light onto the rocks with rain to follow and the howling of some animal in its excitement. And the rain that never fell. With heightened fear and confusion his young mind raced to be with the safety of his parents.

The bullet after pealing through Shalanie had continued through a hut wall, struck a spear; fell in front of nDebulani, the boy’s father, Mamba. Cutting meat, Mamba squatting in the traditional Zulu manner reached for his spear’s wooden shaft as he heard a sputtering outside. He saw through the open entrance, his wife, on her knees, her anguished face clutching her chest. He saw, too, the colored beads she liked, scattered on the ground amongst the water from the urn above her head. Her arms were spread out in front of her clasping as if for life.

nDebulani, O’ Mamba… I'm killed She called, her voice rasping blood. I'm dying … help!

Mamba now with a spear clenched tight in his right arm exited the hut and made a dash for his wife. Crouched on his knees in front of her, he felt his heart sink and his blood boil as her eyes rolled backwards. Helpless to her demise, the warrior’s fist with spear in hand, struck the earth next to her in fury. In a killing rage the big man raised his athletic body and strutted forward. A movement in the nearby bushes caught his attention as two figures approached.

Without hesitation, Mamba stormed forward yelling. His head turning side to side, and with the rage of a charging water buffalo, he hurled his spear at the men.

The spear struck Greenbeck in the thigh and quivered as an arrow on a wooden fence. Pete, in a soldier’s reflex, lifted his gun and fired a hasty shot at the Zulu. The shot struck Mamba with a thud in the chest and expanded out his back in a mini geyser of red slush.

The Zulu collapsed gasping in an uncontrolled spasm. At that moment young Khotso exited from the trees and rushed to clutch at his dying mother.

Not knowing white people, Khotso witnessed white-faced devils walking towards him in garments and boots unbeknown. He saw one man with his father’s spear sticking out his leg, and the other with a smoking stick in his hand.

The boy pulled at his mother's bloodied arm. She did not rise to his side as she should have.

Khotso left her and rushed off towards his dad who was nearer the hunters and pulled at his twitching body. Seeing his father’s blood in the soil, the boy felt the grip of hopeless sorrow choke him as broken stuttering sobs poured from his mouth.

The hunters approached. The one with a spear in his leg hobbled trying to remove it. The man lagged and blurted out an unknown language in a devils curse. Khotso grabbled for stones and sticks and threw what he found at them.

Crouched behind his father, Khotso saw the strange clothed evil gods look and point his way. They’d brought stillness and running blood to his folks. He would not give up without a fight.

As the hunters began to coral Khotso, he scurried behind his mother and lunged at the closest evil god with a flurry of fists and kicks. In one swoop, he was grabbed and lifted off the ground by one of his swinging fisted arms.

Pete Sonefeldt, the younger trooper, held the boy upside down from his left leg to avoid the kicking.

With the boy kicking like a wild rabbit. Pete chuckled. What are we going to do with him?

Greenbeck, placed his rifle on the ground and with one hard pull and removed the spear from his thigh. He then hobbled towards the nearest clump of rocks trying to keep his balance and sat on the largest. Damn it! The bloody fool’s spear has put a hole in me the size of a shilling. After ripping a piece of linen off his torn pants and covering the wound with it, he looked up at Pete, You're the one that killed his folks, you decide.

Pete looked cornered, No way, how was I to know his mother stood behind the bullet?

Greenbeck spat a wallop to his side Pete, man, rule one, you first look before you pull the flintlock release. You idiot! Now decide.

Pete turned the kicking boy in his right hand like a prize piglet. We dump the kid by the stream, done.

Greenbeck’s mouth dropped. No. No, we will not abandon him, not alone here in the bush?

We kill him, a problem sorted! Pete drawled with a slight resolve on his face.

Are you nuts, Pete? We don't kill kids! We'll take him with us and decide later.

Pete tightened his grip on young Khotso’s leg as the boy twisted and tried to bite him. It is not that easy, we appear as Gods to this kid. He has never seen a white man.

White Devils, would be fitting, Pete. We killed his folks.

I still say we kill him for he’s going to be a problem for us, and he’ll hate white folks forever.

Not in any day, do we kill kids, Pete!

Then we should restrain him for starters.

Greenbeck gave Pete a look of distain. What are you waiting for? Do it!

Pete crossed and removed a rope from his knapsack and began to lace it around the boy. Khotso struggled like an agile cat that kicked and bit till the end. Finally, Pete forced a sack over the boy's head and tied his legs.

Let me tell you again, Pete retorted in frustration, he’s going to be a lot of trouble.

Greenbeck, watching from the nearby rocks was now concerned over the way his partner was handling things. He'll calm down soon, now get his stuff from the hut.

What stuff, Pete balked, not liking the idea of being ordered around toy spears and a shield or something?.

Look, you idiot! There must be clothes or things he needs, check it out!

Pete sighed as he steadied the boy to sit on his haunches. He reluctantly shuffled his dusty body towards the hut.

Wait! Greenbeck added. Load your gun and be careful. You never know, there may be someone else, or a wild animal in there.

Pete reloaded and entered looking up at two large menacing colored button spiders that hung in thick webs outside the door.

Inside, Pete stopped a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before he moved deeper and looked around. At one corner next to a few round boulders he identified a pile of sticks and spears propped up against a mud wall. He moved a few steps and found a few large dried-out pumpkin shells, known as calabashes filled with water. He continued stooping under a row of stretched skins hanging from below the upper wooden beams that held the grass thatch roof. In another corner were woven straw mats, he figured were the parent’s beds, and a few feet away, a smaller pile of the same grass that he figured was the kid's bed. He fumbled through the boys' stuff and found large colored stones from the stream. Amongst them was a red stinkwood carving of a wild pig and skins. The skins were the boy's clothes.

Hurry up! Greenbeck yelled from outside. The boy’s toppled and is gagging.

I'm busy, you see to it!

Good, let him die of suffocation in the sack, while you diddle doddle in there.

In the garments, wear Pete wrapped some of the stones and the carvings. Relieved, he exited into the bright sunshine.

Outside, young Khotso had indeed toppled. With his hooded head face down, he was wriggling trying to sit up. Pete rolled him upright and turned to Greenbeck, still sitting on the rock.

I repeat. Pete sneered. Bringing the boy with us is not a good idea.

The boy comes, live with it.

Pete did not answer and threw young Khotso's things at him. Here, catch. The bag sailed through the air and struck the hooded boy toppling him again.

Greenbeck’s look was of a warning. That is not nice. You are proving to be more uncivilized than he is.

Pete held up his rifle. Says you; the other devil.

Now Pete, what are you doing with that? Off to shoot his uncles and aunts?

I am going to finish what we started out to do. You are not following our orders.

Greenbeck reached for his rifle and covered Pete with it.

I said no more killing!

I thought you said no more killing and now you’re pointing a gun at me. What’s with you man? I'm heading off to fetch that buck out there.

Go ahead and do your deed, Pete! Thirty minutes is about all the time we have left to get out of this valley. If not, we’ll never make it to camp by sunset, understand?

Pete shrugged, I will be back when I want.

By sunset or we’re lion food.

Pete was already off into the bush disappearing amongst the thick shrub. After another thirty feet of thorny growth that walled his path he located the animal’s tracks.

Like a man walking on egg cases he followed the blood droplets as he peered through the branches trying not to make a noise. He pushed the rifle in front of him to break the tiny spider web trails that were common in the bush.

Soon he heard a snort and heard hooves that struck deep as the buck sprung through the thick leaves. He spotted a movement ahead and strained his eyes through the branches to find a path to a clear shot in a bush so thick that he could not level the gun.

It was a godsend as the sound of the running buck faded in the distance. It made him pause. To his horror, camouflaged five feet in front of him, he saw a spider the size of a football in a web with threads pencil thick. Whoa! He blurted backtracking. His heart pounding.

Bang! A loud shot rang out. Pete sprung back two feet. The shot at a close range that, for a moment, he was certain his gun backfired. Not sure, he turned and ran fearing he had shot another Zulu.

I missed! Greenbeck’s loud scream burst out from all around him. I missed the bugger!

Pete tore through the shrub and onto the clearing he’d left minutes earlier like a mad man from sanity, rifle first and eyes open wide. He saw young Khotso sitting where he had left him mouth open, frozen, somehow the hood was off. Greenbeck was pointing a smoking gun at the boy.

You scared the sheets out of me, man!

Khotso sat still as a possum. The rod that cracked loud death was unbelievable. Its sound was still ringing in his ears when a stunned looking Pete pointed at the boy, You shot the kid!

It will live. Greenbeck said and turned his gun to his left. It came through the trees over there, it passed across the clearing in front of the kid. A beautiful thing, horns two feet long, color gorgeous. I missed.

Are you sure?

Look for yourself, the hoof marks. Greenbeck pointed a shaking finger towards the markings on the ground.

Pete inspected the trail, his jaw relaxed, How’d you miss, you never miss?

Greenbeck looked sorry, I don't know maybe I wanted to. Sometimes one needs to let things go.

We needed that buck.

It’s over the hill by now, out of sight and history. The damn animal was lucky. Greenbeck paused to reminisce. Come-on, let's head on back to camp.

Pete replaced the bag over young Khotso’s head and turned to his partner. You’re good to ride?

Greenbeck nodded, Just get and set the horses, I’m okay.

After rounding up the horses, Khotso was strapped onto one of them they’d brought along to carry their kill. The hunters and young Khotso moved off.

The boy, hooded, never having seen a horse his entire life, figured to be riding on an amazing slender cow with no horns. He wondered what animal this was. It felt to have a lot of agility and wondered