The Waterhole - Evelyn J. Steward (easy books to read txt) 📗

The Waterhole

Her tall slim body undulated as she walked along the dusty dirt track. The pot on her head rocked gently to and fro, countering the swaying of her hips as she walked towards her goal. Each measured step, shortened the distance. Her left hand held two empty goat-skin buckets, whilst her right arm was free to swing casually in counter-balance. Her arms would be full soon enough for the return journey. Up before dawn, Embale walked to the waterhole, some seven miles away. Her task must be completed before the real heat of the day began or the precious liquid would evaporate.
Embale's clan lived on the high plateau though her journey took her through sparse scrubland. This petered out into semi-desert for the last half mile to the well, a sink-hole, which delved some forty feet or more into the parched earth. The fissure was not visible from the scrub border, but mothers handed down the secret of its location for hundreds of years.
As she walked, unhurriedly but with an easy motion that ate up the distance, she heard the chorus of insects as they woke up with the dawn. The short beaded skirt she had fashioned from hand-carved bone and ostrich eggshell, clicked and clacked in counter-time to their chittering. Down below the plateau, the valley stretched far into the distance. Rising on the morning air came the unmistakable animal scents of zebra, wildebeest and buffalo, a pungent smell of urine and grass dung mixed with earthy dust that lifted far above the valley floor catching the plateau's thermal lift.
Sounds followed scents. Whinnying, neighing, grunting, and closer, the hnnca, hnnca, low and insistent, of a mother lion calling to her cubs. The deep, resonant roar of the male, voicing his right to the territory, followed the female's pleas. Closer, the squeal of warthogs, fleeing from an insistent hyena.
Over the lip, the dazzling sunlight on bare rock gave way to deep dark softness below. The precious water was invisible from the surface but an ear held close, could imagine the gentle slap of liquid against rock. When water was drawn, imagination turned to reality as buckets slipped and slapped their way to the surface of the life-preserving well, deep within the strata rock. The well had never been known to fail, even in the longest drought.
She had learned to balance weight when she was three years old. Just a flat stone at first. As she grew older, the weights became heavier. Small pots replaced stones. Pots became larger and all too soon, she was carrying mealies from the field in the large gourd balanced on her head. From early childhood, it was the way of the women. Water was essential to her family and their herd of goats. Mid-afternoon, her younger sister would repeat the journey and return just as darkness fell.
Embale was glad of her morning turn when she would feel fresh and alive, ready to start the day's hard work. Pounding the bread grains with her sister. Working in the fields. Looking after the bubbling children and weaving the baskets and mats that were customary to her clan and used as barter in the nearest town. What was not bartered for food, they exchanged for seed, or lately, rifles for the young warriors. These they took into the valley to shoot fresh meat. The goats were too important to kill for food.
At length, Embale arrived and waited her turn to draw from the Artesian well that every compound, in a radius of twenty miles, used. Her clan lived relatively close and hers was a short walk by comparison. Already drawing water for his herd was a man she recognised. His compound was not far from hers. The skin buckets he drew, collapsed as the refreshing water emptied into sunken stone troughs, then back down into the well on long ropes. The man's strong muscular arms hauled long lengths at each pull. It was hard work for so many animals.
The well was narrow, room enough only for one. The man rated seniority, he had parched goats who needed to slake their thirst. The water level having sunk in the desiccating Winter, the man took longer to satisfy his animals. The cool crystal liquid was sweet on their tongues, and Embale listened to their bleating as they fought for cool draughts, their stiffly erect tails wagging.
Her turn arrived and she let the bucket down. Then came the long hard pull, hand over hand, several feet at a time. Once her pot and buckets were full, she would start out on her homeward journey. Later in the day, her brother would bring their herds, but that was none of her business. Her brother was responsible for the goats' well-being.
She was not unhappy with her life. In less than a year she would be a bride and move to her future husband's compound. They had a tap, so close to the huts that it would be no trouble at all to draw water each day. A tap would help her mother who was ageing too soon from a life spent in hard labour.
Embale decided to speak to her mother about getting water brought to their own compound so that she and her sister might have an easier life. In a good moment, her mother could speak to her father who could bring up the matter at the Counsel of Elders Meeting
There ought to be a way to pipe the water from the well to all the surrounding compounds. Perhaps the Government would pay for it? A special Counsel could approach the Official in the nearest town.
Her containers full, Embale started the return journey, her mind full of audacious thoughts. Yes! As soon as she got back she would talk to her mother about her idea.

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. September, 1994.
Words 985

Publication Date: 03-03-2012

All Rights Reserved