The Crescent Moon

by Francis Brett Young

I

How many hours Eva lay alone under the thorn-tree I do not know. For a great part of the time she slept or fell into an uneasy dream that hung midway between sleep and waking. Now that her hope of water had been renewed her thirst became a torment even greater than before. Once again, in the middle of the hot noon, she thought that she heard a train moving on the line; but by this time the wind which had brought the noise to their ears had dropped, and it sounded very far away. In the intervals of waking, and even in her dreams, her mind seemed marvellously clear. She found that she wanted to talk of the ideas which whirled about it. She even wanted to laugh, although she could not imagine why. And then, in her weakness, she would topple from this pinnacle of exaltation, feeling her actual and appalling loneliness, thinking miserably of James and of any catastrophe which might have befallen him. At other times she would surprise herself, or rather one of the innumerable selves of which her personality was compact, engrossed in the contemplation of some minute part of the multitude of silent life which surrounded her. At one time, moving rapidly in the red dust at her feet, she saw an expedition of black ants, many thousands of them, extended in a winding caravan. She saw the porters stumbling under their loads, the shining bellies of their attendant askaris, and the solitary scouts which they had thrown out on either side. She could not guess where they had come from or where they were going, but the way which they had chosen, and from which no obstacle could dissuade them, happened to lie over the ragged edge of her skirt. She dared not move, for she feared that if she disturbed them they would swarm upon her with innumerable stings; so she lay very still and watched their column move past until the head of it wheeled away beneath a fallen bough; and the thought invaded her brain, now so perilously clear, that she and M‘Crae, in their long adventure, had been no less tiny and obscure in comparison with their surrounding wilderness than this strangely preoccupied host. In all her life she had never been given to such speculations; but that was how it appeared to her now. “We are just ants,” she thought. “God cannot see us any bigger than that.” A strange business. . . . Very strange. It was hard to believe.

When, in another interlude of her dream, M‘Crae arrived, the shadow of the acacia had moved away from her, and she found that she was lying in the tempered sunshine of late afternoon. He brought her water. That was the thing which mattered most. And when she had drunk she found that she was ready to tackle another plug of biltong. Little by little the dream atmosphere faded.

“I’ve been a long time,” he said, “but I wanted to make sure of everything. I can tell you we’re in luck’s way. We slept within a couple of miles of water. To think of it! The railway lies over the brow of the hill on our right. I made a false cast for it at first. And there is not only the railway there, but a sort of station. Now you can be sure of safety. I can leave you happily.”

Their eyes met, and both knew that he had not spoken the truth; but she also knew that his mind was already made up on what he still conceived to be his duty and that, however tragically, leave her he must.

“I found a man there working in the rubber. A Greek I took him to be. And I told him about Godovius and his levies at Luguru. They can’t send help from here: but the stationmaster has sent a wire through to Kilossa. Probably they thought I was mad. He was old and very fat; but I saw his boys washing a woman’s clothes, so I think you will be safe. So now I shall take you to the edge of the bush above the station. After that you will fend for yourself. It may be difficult . . . but I know how brave you are, you wonderful child.”

“It is only a little way,” he said, “and you must let me carry you. I know that you’re done, my darling. No other woman could have stood what you have stood already. If I put everything else aside I should have to have loved you for that. You know how I love you?”

“Not well enough. You must keep on telling me. . . . But now,” she said, “I can walk. Do they know that I am coming? Does that Greek woman know?”

“They know nothing. Only that a madman out of the bush has brought a message from Luguru and has gone again. When you get there you know that you will be a prisoner.”

“But the Germans are not at war with the women,” she said.

“No . . .” he said. “I am sure that you will be safe. A white woman is safe anywhere in Africa with white men. If it were not so it would be impossible for women to live here at all. But we must not waste time. You’ll put your arms round my neck and I shall lift you.”

“I will put my arms round your neck, and then I will kiss you; but I shall not let you carry me. You must be more tired than me. I’ve been resting all day.”

“Then you shall try,” he said solemnly.

He lifted her to her feet and the trees swam round her. She clutched at him, and it seemed as if he too were part of the swimming world.

“Now you see . . .” he said.

“It was getting up suddenly. Now I’m better,” she protested; and so he let her have her way, and they set off slowly together in the cool evening. For a little way she would try to walk, and then, having confessed that she was tired, she allowed him to take her on his back and carry her.

In this way they passed through a narrow belt of bush and descended to a valley. Here, marvel of marvels, ran a little stream, where water, coloured red with the stain of acacia bark, flowed over a sandy bottom. They halted there for a moment, and Eva bathed her face, her arms and her bruised feet. In all her life she had never known water so wonderful; but they could not linger there, for already the sky was beginning to darken. So at length they came to the edge of the bush, and saw beneath them the valley in which the railway ran, an ordered green plantation of rubber, some fields of sisal, a cluster of homely, white-washed houses, and a little compound in which stood a group of paw-paw trees burdened with gourdlike fruit.

“Now you have only a little way to go,” said M‘Crae.

There, on the edge of the dry bush, they said good-bye. In the story of their strange courtship I have imagined many things, and some that I have written were told to me, so that I know them to be true. I have imagined many things . . . but for this unimaginable parting I have no words; for, as you may guess, they never met again.