The Raft: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

I’d made about anyone up until that point in my life. What was most clear was that I needed to know more. I decided then I would return to the brook the following day.
    But in the morning, I was less enthusiastic. The previous day seemed like many weeks before. I couldn’t trust my earlier opinion, that he was nothing more than some harmless woodland curiosity, but the weather was beautiful and sunny, promising a day of good things, so I grabbed my notebook and pencil, ignored my concerns, and set off to find him—not that there was any reason for him to be in the same spot.
    At first, I struggled to retrace my steps. It wasn’t often that I felt the need to take a route I’d previously taken. I liked to set out and see where my feet would lead me. That day, I tried to remember where and when I had turned. I found it surprisingly difficult. It didn’t really concern me though; whether or not I found the brook, I was in good company. The birds chirped and the leaves rustled. Small creatures scurried beneath the dried leaves on the forest floor. Above, trunks creaked and teetered in the wind like old men with bad joints. I found a large stick and used it to plough my way through bushes, through small swarms of miniature flies that did little but tickle my face. It was not long before I felt warm and needed a drink of water.
    I heard the chatter of water on stones and stepped through the bushes. I hadn’t spent any time exploring the edge of the stream the previous day. I was longing to see a frog or toad out in the woods and hadn’t yet been lucky. Perhaps today would be the day …
    He was there. The man. It had momentarily slipped my mind that I had set out to find him, and yet there he was. Standing just as before, in his long coat, his hands in his pockets, still on the other side, but a few metres closer. He was no longer high up on the bank but right at the water’s edge. I could now see his face. He had a long head, like a horse’s, but his features were sharp and lizard-like. His pale skin was stretched too tightly over his skull, his ears too big and his neck a little too long. Now that he was closer I could see that he was, in fact, very tall—taller than anyone I’d ever met. He was hunched over slightly, his long wizened neck undulating. He cocked his head to the left like a nosy bird. His face was expressionless, his lips taut and thin, indistinguishable in colour from the rest of his skin.
    I said hello. He said nothing in return. He cocked his head to the right. I sighed and looked away.
    His lack of reaction disappointed me. I asked why he wouldn’t speak. He didn’t reply. I asked if he could, in fact, speak at all. He shook his head, no. Without thinking, I stood a step forward, but he became agitated and stepped back, shaking his head violently. I said there was no need to be scared of me, that I wouldn’t hurt him, but he did not seem convinced. For a few minutes we simply stood there, our eyes fixed on each other.
    I pointed at a green bird in a tree. I told him it was a Knysna loerie. It didn’t seem to interest him. I looked down at the water and saw a small shoal of silvery fish whip between the rocks. I asked him if he liked fish. Nothing.
    Frustrated, I said if he wouldn’t speak, I’d leave. Still, he offered only silence. I waited for him to signal that he wished for me to remain. Nothing. Fed up, I turned and headed back into the woods. As I did, though, for reasons I could not—and still cannot—fully explain, I looked over my shoulder and promised I’d visit the following day. Then I left.
    As promised, I returned the next day and met him at the brook. He was closer still than the day before. In fact, he was in the middle of the stream now, unperturbed by the water sloshing about his knees. He simply stared as I talked on and on, about my father, my mother and sister, our house in Kroonstad, and what had brought us out to Tsitsikamma in the first place. I told him about the