The Burning Land

by Fire-Storm

Chapter 1

Vendetta

the year 1900, War between the british and the ‘boers’, the Afrikaans Nation who had settled in Southern Africa generations earlier, had been raging for almost a year now, with great losses to both sides. But that could not be further from the mind of one ‘boer’ in particular: Jakobus Van de Merwe.

The dry grass rustled about him as he shuffled through the long, dry grass towards the tall fence before him. Sounds of bustling activity and muted conversation reached his ears, but he ignored them. The only thing he could focus on was the gaudy white hat floating above the crowd, the man wearing it perched cockily astride his horse, knocking aside the women and children beneath him.

That hat...that uniform, had come to represent everything he hated. He fumbled tiredly for his rifle, the weathered butt of the old mauser sliding up to press comfortingly against his cheek, the sights barely wavering from the British officer sitting tall on his spitefully white horse.

Jakobus felt the press of papers in his back pocket, and wilfully ignored its presence. His order, to retreat and regroup yet again, to capitulate to the evil invaders’ demands, to run and keep the families of the country safe in these horrid ‘concentration camps’. No. Jakobus had run. He had retreated with the promise that his family would be safe.

It had been lies. The stories he had heard from escapees... no human should have to endure such horrific circumstances. Certainly not his own family. And certainly not at the hands of that monster.

Captain Allan Luck.

He was the meat-grinder, the caretaker of the death camps, the man in charge of looking after and protecting the innocents. But he failed. He failed willingly, and by now his head was marked by every fighting Boer in the war. And one set of sights in particular. All Jakobus had to do was squeeze the trigger, and his hunt, his fight, his war would be over.

he took aim, his hair trigger ready to snap under his finger.

“This is not the way.” A voice like music. His head flew around of its own volition, staring to his left, the direction of the voice, and now nothing but empty wind-swept plain. Gah, his mind was playing tricks on him! He swung back to his rifle, just in time to see the ludicrously feathered hat disappear behind a thread-bare canvas tent.

“fokken khaki hond!”

He threw his rifle over his shoulder and shimmied back from the grassy knoll near the barren prison-ground. The second he was far enough away to be inaudible, he crouched and dog-trotted away through the short scrubby bush. He couldn’t be hearing voices now, not when he was so close...

“Why are you doing this? Why not be peaceful?”

He froze dead. This time turning slowly to his right. there, through the thin brush, he saw a flash of white.

His rifle hit the ground as he ran towards it. That voice...it was real. That colour had to be real, there in the trees, it had to be. It had to be!

Please be real.

he tripped and fell into to the clearing, but scrambled up, ignoring the grazes carved into his palms by the rough ground, just trying to catch a glimpse of that white, beautiful sound. Instead, he was met with the sole of a boot.

*****

jakobus woke up, and tried to hold his aching head but he could not move, he then realised that he had been captured and was about to be interrogated. Though his vision was blurred he could still see that fucking hat as clear as day.

“ahh you're finally awake Jakobu...”

“Mr Van de Merwe to you, Khaki!” snapped Jakobus.

“Ho ho, looks like my men didn't kick you quite hard enough” Captain Luck sneered,

“According to this little piece of paper we found in your back pocket you are not even supposed to be here, oh no, YOU are supposed to be back at base.” Captain Luck jeered as he motioned to the door, which opened to let in a british soldier. “Jak... ehem, Mr Van de Merwe, I would like you to meet private Reedclithe, he will ‘assisting’ me with asking you a few questions.”

“Do you smoke Mr Van de Merwe?” Captain Luck enquired.

“well seeing that I seem to have lost my pipe, you already know the answer to that, don’t yo...” Jakobus was interrupted by the private’s fist. “Now now Mr Van de Merwe, let us not get hostile.” cooed Captain Luck “Reedclithe!, fetch this mans pipe!” Luck ordered.

*****

for the second time that day Jakobus woke up in a strange place, however this time he found himself in what seemed to be the camp’s infirmary. Surrounded by the wounded and sick wives of his fellow countrymen, Anger rose in his throat along with bile at the stench of festering wounds and the disease spread amidst the dying. Jakobus was thus very surprised when he noticed a lady walking towards him through the haze of infection.

Her midnight blue dress was marred only by the white armband she wore, marking her as neutral in this brutal conflict. A veil even concealed her face, but her long dark hair swayed as she bent next to each bed, words of comfort being given to each and every soul, man, woman and innocent child.

she arrived next to Jakobus’ bed and introduced herself “Hello, my name is Emily Hobhouse. What is yours, soldier?” the words flowed like milk and honey from her lips, calming Jakobus as if it was his own mother speaking. He was so entranced by her voice he almost forgot to reply. “Ja... Jakobus Van de Merwe, madam, but you can call me Kobus.”

Her perfect smile remained unchanged, frozen and immobile. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Kobus. I hope to see you well, when next we meet. Have a productive evening.” And just like that, she glided silently away, leaving her odd wording and taking with her the quiet comfort of her presence, and Jakobus once again found himself surrounded by the death of his countrymen.

The destruction of his country.

He looked down at his body. Bruised, beaten, burnt, but not defeated. He looked out of the tent flap, left slightly open to expose him to the lowering twilight. He smiled thinly to himself. “Productive? Oh yes. Very.”

*****

Author's Note:

I would like to thank Quicksear for all his help writing this chapter. "shot buddy!"

Comments

[norwegian-brony]

nice storry