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'She's sitting in silence at the foot of God.' He bowed his head for a moment, then said briskly, 'When our student group met the other day in Bloemfontein, black students, that is, we spoke nine different languages. Zulu, Xhosa, Swazi, Sotho, Tswana, Fingo, Pondo, Venda and Tonga. In self-defense we had to use English as the functional language.'

'Why didn't you use Afrikaans?'

'Could anyone use Afrikaans to discuss freedom?'

'Afrikaners do. They would die to preserve their freedom.'

'Isn't it curious?' Nxumalo cried. 'From the first day the Dutch landed at the Cape they struggled for freedom. Their whole history, as they teach it to us, was a ceaseless battle to be free. Yet when we say, "As major inhabitants of this land, we blacks would like to be free," they look at us with horror, call us Communists, and grab their guns to shoot us down.'

For some minutes they drove in silence over the veld, where tiny flowers in myriad colors looked like magical gems shining in the dust. 'Philip,' Nxumalo repeated, 'have you looked into the Laura Saltwood banning? Do you know why the government pounced on her?'

'No. All I saw was a formal announcement, then nothing.'

'That's what banning is"then nothing." She advised blacks to cling to English and not permit the government to force Afrikaans upon us.' He paused, then laughed. 'You see, that's where the dilemma stands. Afrikaans could be a useful language for us. You know, I suppose, that it's the basic language for the Coloured, too? They helped invent it, and most of them speak it.'

'Sounds confused.'

'It is, philologically, historically, socially and politically.'

'Which will win, Afrikaans or English?'

'Contests between languages are always settled by poets. Most Coloured poets write in Afrikaans, and very movingly. But what black poet would care to do so?'

They now rode along a ridge from which vistas were immense, and to the south Philip saw a small conical mountain, and it was to this that Nxumalo directed him: 'There's only a small path. If many people knew of this, the place might have to be cordoned off. This is treasure, you know.'

After a brief climb the men came to a small flat area, bounded on one side by a large overhanging rock. At first Philip assumed he was being taken to a rude cave with some archaeological significance, but he found no signs of a dig, nor any potsherds to indicate that one had ever taken place. Then, gradually, he saw on the sloping wall the distinct outline of a rhinoceros, very large, with flecks of color still marking its hide fifteen thousand years after its completion. Aridity and remoteness had protected this masterpiece, so that it looked not significantly different from what it had been originally.

Philip leaned against a rock and studied the amazing work. As one familiar with engineering, he could appreciate the exquisite manner in which the long-dead artist, Gao of the Bushmen, had used so few lines to accomplish so much: 'Look at that! One unbroken line from mouth to tail! Look how he does the whole rear ham with one sweep! This was worth the trip.'

Pushing some rocks together, he formed a kind of chair on which he could sit and view this wonderful rhinoceros, and once or twice he broke into laughter. 'Hey! Hey! Rhino! Look at him gallop!' But then, after nearly an hour of looking, he covered his face with his hands, as if he wished to see the wall afresh, with no preconceptions.

'This is amazing, Daniel. I mean . . .'

In awe he studied this other vision of Africa: the timeless beauty galloping out of dark caves, the unknown wonders of the dark human soul, the sweep of line that captivated the senses, the overpowering sensation of being in the presence of vanished people who had come this way.

'Run, you sonofabitchrun, or they'll get you!' He bowed his head again and thought of Sannie, and the placid lakes at Vrymeer, and of Daniel Nxumalo's terrifying words: 'Must I not take into account the possibility .. . that you will be required under oath to report what I said one summer morning . . .' Africa was rather