Joshua The Age of Miracles

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY

It was hot, not just hot, it was so hot the road was melting and the smell of hot asphalt was heavy on the air. Birds refused to fly; dogs sought shade wherever they could find it and the population of Jagerspoort stayed at home with heavy drapes drawn and waited for the sun to set. Jagerspoort, population one thousand permanent and a couple of hundred transient souls had been the agricultural and social hub of the area for at least three generations. Founded late in the 1820s by four families of English settlers who lost their way in their search for the Promised Land, they met up with three Dutch families who had left Cape Town searching for independence.

At first there had been great animosity between the two groups, but years of fighting off common enemies like the local indigenous people and the invading British Armies drew them together into one bicultural group. They even managed to weather the Boer war without taking sides. Over the years as the community developed, others joined them and they almost developed their own language. Predominantly English but with a strong flavouring of Afrikaans.

Fed by a rail spur for the deliveries of seed and heavy machinery and a gravel road from the N1, the main road from Johannesburg to Cape Town, it was pretty isolated. Over the years, the inhabitants had become used to adversity and hard times but now the land was baking and had been for three seasons. The farmers were in trouble, as their crops had failed and if it did not rain this year, they would lose everything. If the farms went belly-up so would the whole town. The town relied on the local farmers for its livelihood. It was so dry that the frogs had learned to swim by correspondence course.

A typical small farm town in the Free State, It was at least 100 kilometres from anywhere. When times were good, on a Saturday, all the farmers for kilometres around used to gather at the pub and beer garden attached to the only hotel in town. They’d wash away the week’s dust with a few beers and catch up on the latest gossip or, in season, watch the rugby matches on the big screen TV, while the wives and family went shopping at the local CO-OP. On Sundays, they would attend the Church, service, pack out the small Church and dutifully listen to sermons preached by the energetic Dominee David Delport. Afterwards they’d all descend on the hotel for lunch.

However, since the drought had started the farmers had stopped coming to town, unless it was absolutely necessary. There was no spare cash lying around for such frivolities. The hotel was starting to look a bit weather beaten and the Church’s congregation had slowed to a trickle. The town was dying! Dominee Dave as he was affectionately known had led the local Church for the last eight years and all the single ladies in town had been jockeying for his affections for the full eight years. When times had been good, he would have been considered a catch, but now it was just too darn hot. Besides, there were reports on the gossip line that he had started to partake in alcoholic beverage on occasion. On the other hand, who could blame him? The congregation had shrunk because the farmers weren’t coming to town anymore; they needed a miracle.

Next door to the hotel was the only tearoom for a hundred kilometres. It served tea, coffee and cold drinks as well as sandwiches, light meals and on a good day, even hamburgers. All made by the local ladies who took it in turn to supply the shop. The tearoom was owned and run by Tannie Koekie Barkhuizen, a matronly fifty-year-old widow who had been in Jagerspoort all her life. She was a pillar of what could loosely be called local society; she was also leader of the local branch of the vrouefederasie, which she ruled with an iron hand. She was assisted in the tearoom by her nineteen-year-old niece Dottie Dewdrop Henning; so called, due to being narrow at the shoulder and wide at the hip.

As per normal, Dottie was wiping all the tables and setting tables for the customers who were not going to come. She could not see the sense in cleaning, dusting and vacuuming when they knew that there would be no customers until the rains came.

Nobody knew this Monday morning that in the next seven days things were going to happen in this town that were going to affect the fortunes of seven people for ever.

Tannie, why am I bothering to do all this cleaning and setting tables? We know that other than the Dominee, nobody's coming, asked Dottie.

Sies, Dottie, jy's nie so groot gemaak nie. As n plek vuil is, moet dit skoon gemaak word. We will not let our standards slip; the people will come.

Ja, saam met die reën, she muttered under her breath.

Across the road, Dottie could see the police station, further up the street on the left was the post office ably manned by the postmaster mnr. ‘Popeye’ Barnard, so called because of his uncanny resemblance to the cartoon character. Nobody had the courage to ask him if he liked spinach because he had a shotgun. The postmaster doubled as the stationmaster of the rail spur. He was assisted by his twenty one year old niece, Tanya. Tanya had been with her uncle for just over a year and to the locals she was a bit of a mystery. She was the epitome of the modern miss. Refined, beautiful and well spoken. However, people soon noticed that she never smiled. She carried with her an aura of someone who had experienced something dark and painful. The Dominee had tried valiantly to get her to open up, to no avail. The thing that he found most disturbing was her eyes. They were dead and she showed no emotion. Her only friends were Cora and Elizabeth de Wet and she spent most weekends with them on the farm when the girls were home from university.

Opposite the post office, was the CO-OP where you could buy anything from a pair of socks to a tractor. If one went further into town, one would in fact be going out of town but one would still pass the blacksmith and the service station. A short way out of town was the small school where Miss Gardener taught all grades. Next to the post office was Tannie Smit’s hair salon that nowadays only opened once a week, on a Saturday.

The town was split in two by the only intersection in town. If you turned right, you went up a slight rise and ended up in the affluent part of town, with big houses and green lawns, watered from their own boreholes. If you turned left, you ended up in the not so affluent area where they endured water restrictions and dust gardens.

CHAPTER 2

The police station was ably manned by Sergeant Colin ‘Rooikop’ Minaar, a short rotund man in his late forties with a ginger toothbrush moustache that matched the colour of his hair. He was assisted by the most eligible bachelor in town, Constable Brian ‘Blikkies’ Botha. Blikkies, was so named due to his habit of leaving empty coke cans rolling around under the seat of his vehicle.

Sergeant Minaar was sitting in the charge office with his feet up on the front desk, idly flipping through an old copy of Farmer’s Weekly. He had set up the one and only fan in the station, so that it blew air over his chest and head. Not that it gave much relief from the blinding heat. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the melting road that ran through the centre of town. The only bit of tarmac for a hundred kilometres.

Nothing stirred. Constable Botha had his head on his desk and was snoring quietly. Hey, word wakker jong, jou lui ding! How can you sleep in this heat? He threw the magazine at the poot-uit Constable Blikkies, who woke with a start, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth.

Wat! he said reaching for the phone. Hullo, hullo, wie praat? Once his eyes got opposite the holes, he realised he was talking to dial tone and he sheepishly replaced the phone in its cradle and said, Jammer, Sarge.

Bly wakker man, I can't have you in a dwaal in case someone comes in. Go across to Koekie's place and buy us a couple of cokes. He tossed a twenty rand note on the table. Nice big cold ones hey. And don't you dare leave the cans in the vehicle.

Ag, Sarge can't I go to the hotel and buy for us?

Hoekom? asked Minaar surprised, as Koekie's place was closer.

Blikkies went a bit red in the face and said, Ag, it's, Dottie, Sarge, she always wants to go somewhere and 'kafoefel'.

Minaar's feet crashed to the floor, rocking the fan and he looked at Blikkies aghast.

KAFOEFEL! KAFOEFEL! He said the word like he was, tasting it for the first time. Jy's bang vir ‘n bietjie kaffoefel? Hoe oud is jy, Blikkies?

Twenty two, Sarge.

Twee en twintig ‘n groot polisieman, Bloemfontein se beste, die terror from the outback en jy is bang vir n bietjie kaffoefel. Ek is verbaas. Nou, vat jouself, my geld en gaan haal die Cokes.

Blikkies shambled off on his mission.

Minaar propped his feet back up on the desk and reset the fan. 'Well,’ he thought, ‘at least we are in the shade.’ He spared a thought for ‘Blackie’ Swart, the local blacksmith cum general repairman. He had his fire going and worked under a corrugated iron 'afdak'. Minaar shuddered to think what the temperature was in Blackie’s workshop. At least Blackie was busy; the farmers were bringing in their farm implements for repair rather than buy new ones, which had always been the case before. If Minaar listened carefully, he could hear the pounding of the hammer on the anvil. He made a mental note never to make Blackie angry. The man’s biceps were bigger than Minaar’s thighs and anyone who could pound away in this heat had to be tough. He wondered what the Dominee was doing, most probably preparing for the meeting on Sunday. He had sent out a message to all the parishioners for a prayer meeting for rain and out of desperation, most had agreed to come.

Back at the tearoom, Dottie was just finishing her pointless dusting duties, when she looked up to see Blikkies crossing the road, heading in the direction of the tearoom. Her heart skipped a beat, 'Oh, he looked so handsome in his uniform,' she thought. She quickly finished the last table and patted her hair and tried to look alluring. Blikkies warily opened the door and stepped in. His heart sank as he spied Dottie leaning on the counter looking at him the way a cat looks at a mouse.

Dag sê, Tannie Dottie. Ka...Ka...Kan ek twee Cokes hê asseblief, he stuttered. He did not make eye contact with Dottie, for fear of having to talk to her.

Of course, Brian, help yourself, said Tannie Koekie from behind the counter. How’s the heat in the station? Must be bad hey?

Ja en Sarge het die enigste waaier in die plek gekommandeer. But never mind, one day I will be the Sarge and we will have air-conditioning, he said with a broad smile. He paid for the Cokes, opened the upright fridge and took out two. I had better get these to the Sarge before they get warm, I don't want a klap. Totsiens julle. Blikkies beat a hasty retreat. Tell me, Dottie, why is Brian so bang of you? Ek hoop jy krap nie waar jy moenie krap nie, said Tannie Koekie wagging her finger.

Dottie giggled and with an impish look on her face said, Oo nee, Tannie, ek het die jeuk, maar Brian wil dit nie krap nie.

Koekie recoiled from Dottie and exclaimed, Don't you dare talk like that in this place! Ons werk hier met kos. I did not bring you up like that; you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I just don't know you anymore. Koekie turned and stalked off to the kitchen.

Jammer, Tannie, said Dottie, admonished but she still kept her eyes on Blikkies as he crossed the road.

CHAPTER 3

Allan 'Popeye' Barnard sat at his desk in the small post office going through the mail. The air conditioner was cranked up to full and it barely succeeded in cooling the room. Despite the heat, he was dressed in the regulation attire of dark trousers and a snow white shirt with a dark grey tie. On his forearms he wore plastic slip-on covers that his wife, Olive, had made for him out of an old plastic shower curtain. This protected his shirt sleeves from the eternal dust that permeated the place, no matter what they did. He glanced up and saw that his niece Tanya had stopped polishing the counter top and was just staring blankly out of the window. Sadness came over him. 'She's such a sweet girl but my goodness she carries a heavy burden,' he thought to himself.

Tanya had been abused by her father and her elder brother from the age of sixteen. It had come to a head two years ago ending in a tragic death and a much traumatised Tanya. She left the city and came to stay with her only living relative, her uncle in Jagerspoort. Allan Barnard and his wife Olive welcomed her with open arms. Tanya never spoke of the trauma she went through but she carried the scars both emotional and physical wherever she went. Allan hoped that with time and a loving environment she would mend.

In the Church rectory, Dominee Delport was staring at a blank piece of paper in his ancient typewriter. What could he say to the people that would give them hope? He looked at the sadly depleted bottle of Vodka on the desk and felt the sick lead weight of failure in his chest. He stared at it for a while and thought, 'How low have I sunk?' These people looked to him for guidance and hope but he was just burned out. He had written to a potato farmer in Natal who was also a preacher. He had had much success praying for rain all over the country. Unfortunately, the preacher was booked up and would be so for some time. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks; he had never felt so alone in his life. Had he lost his faith? Had they all done something wrong to be punished like this? He had prayed long and hard for direction and nothing had happened. He was a strong believer that God would test a person only as far as he could handle. Well, in his opinion, he and his flock had reached rock bottom and they were fast reaching the stage of giving up.

We need a miracle. We need someone to show us what to do, he said standing up. He staggered through to the Church and stood below the pulpit looking up at the big wooden cross on the back wall. He remembered the good years and how he was on fire for the Lord. His sermons flowed like quicksilver and the congregation loved every word he spoke. 'Where did it all go wrong?' He stared at the cross, fell to his knees, raised his hands in supplication and said aloud, Lord, why have you forsaken us? Why have you turned away from us? Show us, Lord, what we have to do to right this wrong. We have nothing left to give, Father. We are finished and now I find myself with an absolute loss of understanding. I am empty. With that, he collapsed to the floor and went into a deep sleep. He slept for the rest of the day, right through the night and awoke at 09:00 the next morning.

TUESDAY

CHAPTER 4

The Dominee opened his eyes and waited for the sickening lurch of the hangover to hit him. It never came. He explored his other senses and found that he felt remarkably well. He stood slowly and felt fine. He walked around in a circle like a person trying out new legs; they were strong. Then he noticed a smell in the Church, it was a beautiful sweet smell as if a thousand flowers had just opened. It was the smell of rebirth and for the first time in a long while, he smiled. Then he remembered his dream and went weak at the knees. He made it to a pew and he sat down with a thump. ‘What had he done?’ He started shaking. He had challenged God. The dream rushed back to him with remarkable clarity and slowly he began to understand. This was no ordinary dream, this had been a message. He knew where he had gone wrong; he knew where the whole district had gone wrong. He went and knelt on the steps under the cross and prayed like he had never prayed before. He purged himself of all depression and negativity and repented.

Eventually he stood and with new resolve walked back into the