Highly Commended 2 - Short Story Competition 2015

"Rider at Sunset" by Tom Serengeti

The mounted horseman stood off the rough track under the trees while looking at the country around him. He was not wholly unfamiliar with his surroundings, yet he kept up his steadfast observation as if details of the land would relieve a confused memory.

He listened intently but there was no sound of human or animal activity that he could detect.  That was strange because just a few minutes ago his pursuers were close behind him. Thudding hooves, yelling, the crack of gunfire - these must have been, but he could not recall the details. But where were the horsemen? Had they perhaps lost him in the trees by the stream?

He knew the veld and its seasons. There was something wrong. For winter, the sun was setting too far to the south. And turning his head, in the east a full moon was rising in the wrong quadrant. He wrestled with his thoughts he knew not how long before he saw a man approaching on foot across the veld, unarmed and alone.

Dr Ryno Graham, archaeological historian, had been criss-crossing the veld on foot for the last few hours, as was his wont on field trips when piecing a story together. He was researching the history of the Boer War in the lakes district - and the story he was following that day was a particularly hostile incident that took place outside Chrissiesmeer.

After some difficulty, he had found the memorial half overgrown in tall grass on the bank of a strongly-flowing stream. Time had blunted the sharp edges of the hewn sandstone blocks and the surface was pitted and blackened by coursing water. He stooped to read the inscription: '…In memory … Lydenburg Commando … July 1900…'  

The English must have marched through the night to catch the burgher camp unawares in the early hours of a new day. He could imagine the feverish council of the officers when the scouts reported back, the instructions, and the restrained yet impatient haste with which they must have forded the stream and mounted the other bank. Regimental records showed that the troops went through the river-side camp twice with fixed bayonets.

He didn't know how many had perished there - for that he'd have to visit the war cemetery outside the village. But perish they did and in that quiet - and what struck him as a melancholy - place, where the wind rustled the tips of tall clumps of grass and spoke whispering in the trees along the water, it was easy to imagine there was a lingering memory of the hue and cry of a long-ago battle.

He dabbed sweat from his cheeks and eyes. It had been a hot afternoon under a clear sky - maybe he should have delayed his visit to the cooler autumn and winter months. Darkness was creeping into the landscape. Dr Graham checked his chronograph - eight minutes to sunset. He struck out across the open veld towards the Landy he had pulled off the track after fording the stream.

A horseman stepped out of the shadows. Dr Graham was startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger leading a horse - without sound, without haste. He stopped more out of curiosity than apprehension. Though of rather rough appearance, the stranger clearly meant no harm for he lifted his hat and touched it to his chest.

"Sir," the stranger spoke. "You wear the colours of the enemy. Are you with the khakis?"

It was a strange question and what made it even more unsettling was the stranger's voice that seemed to lack depth and timbre that one might expect from such a large and rough- looking man. Not knowing what the stranger meant, Dr Graham replied cautiously: "These are my work clothes."

As he spoke he found his own voice strangely distant, as though there was a disconnect between his vocal cords and his ears. Now that he looked more closely at the stranger, his attire did not strike him as being particularly appropriate for a horse rider - an open-necked flannel shirt under a waistcoat and a short, high-buttoning jacket. His thick pants were rumpled, and sagged over the man's battered boots, betraying many hours of hard riding. And now that the man had replaced his headgear, Dr Graham recognized it as an Australian slouch hat, its brim pinned up on one side, but otherwise pummeled out of shape.

"Good," the stranger said. "Then perhaps you will be kind enough to answer my question. Did you see horsemen pass by on this road?"

"Horsemen? Not in the last hour or two."

"Perhaps you heard them? The horses were at full gallop and there was much noise and shouting."

"How long ago was that?"

"Not long. I can't rightly remember the exact time. Perhaps ten minutes?"

"Certainly not in the last ten minutes."

Then both fell silent as if listening to confirm the absence of horsemen. Dr Graham became aware of a deep silence around them - a silence that seemed more profound than the mere absence of bird calls or the stirring of leaves.

The stranger lifted his hat to massage his temples as if he were at a loss for words. Dr Graham was looking at him with searching eyes. Was that a line of blood showing on his cheek past the ear? In the gathering gloom and with the man standing with his back to the setting sun, he could not see clearly. The man replaced his hat and shadowed his face again.

"Have you been thrown?" Dr Graham asked sharply.

The stranger considered the question gravely. "That is not important," he said at length. "I must find the commando."

Now Dr Graham held his silence. Many thoughts went through his mind - historic reenactment, loss of memory, schizophrenia, escaped inmate…?

The stranger spoke again, not with impatience but with a certain bleakness: "I am looking for their tracks. Have you seen them by the water?"

"What is your business with the commando?" Dr Graham hoped that his blunt question might elicit some sense from the man.

"I must report to General Joubert. I have an important message for him."

Definitely delusional, Dr Graham decided. "And what is your message?"

"The English are sweeping south out of Machadadorp. I must warn the commando."

Dr Graham felt too unsettled to accommodate the stranger any longer. Not only irritated by the man's persistence with his strange story, he also no longer felt at ease with him in the deepening gloom under the trees. "Very well, then," he said curtly. "Look over there, beyond the trees." And he indicated the beacon and the direction from which he had come.

The man, now suddenly mounted, surged past him and urged his horse in the indicated direction. For the first time, Dr Graham noticed the long gun slung across the man's back. He watched the receding figure till, by a strange trick of light and dark, both man and horse vanished before they reached the dark line of trees.

He was relieved to be alone again and uttered some words to that effect. He was surprised how harsh and resonant his voice now sounded.

He drove hurriedly back to the village. All around him the countryside was wrapped in deep dusk and only tall trees stood out in dark relief against the sky that was illuminated by a rising full moon. He drove fast - historic wagon trail or not, he had had enough of this strange place.

Back at the hotel, he strode through the lobby to the bar. At that time on a Friday evening, the place was filling up. The barman was adjusting the sound on the speakers tuned to a radio station. Dr Graham interrupted him: "Whiskey on ice, please."

The barman made a final tweak and settled on the station. Then he busied himself with a glass and ice cubes. In a somewhat rhetorical way, Dr Graham blurted out his question: "Do any of you folks here know a man who rides around on horseback with a big bush hat and a gun?"

The barman snorted. "You must've been talking to the locals. This place is full of stories…maybe it's got something to do with the war cemetery down the road."

And seeing Dr Graham raise his eyebrows, he continued: "You know, spook stories to frighten kids. And it's good for the tourist business too."

A sombre thought flickered across Gr. Graham's face. He frowned at the barman. "What sort of stories?"

"Some folks say, when it's full moon on a Friday, a lone rider appears, an old burgher, still looking for his place at the cemetery."

The barman nudged the dispensing lever to drain the last few drops into the glass. "Imagine that - gone that long and you still don't know it."

"Make that a double," Dr Graham said in a strangled voice. He was staring at his chronograph. It was showing a time that was twenty minutes behind the news on the radio.

– The End –