A Light in the Dark

[A Yorks]

A LIGHT
‡‡ in the ‡‡
DARK

SOUTH AFRICA
1861—1936
A character-driven AAR

Part I — Origins
Chapter I — A New Arrival
Chapter II — The Anvil
Chapter III — In Taberna, Quando Sumus
Chapter IV — Land van Melk en Heuning​

 

[A Yorks]

‡‡ CHAPTER I — A NEW ARRIVAL ‡‡

​

Cape Town, British Cape Colony
Monday, July 1st, 1861
​

Aaron Rice awakened to a cold draught swirling through the open window of his rented room. Instinctively drawing the woolen blankets tighter around himself, he opened his eyes to see the light of the African sunrise filling the room, the luggage bag in the centre casting a long shadow against the far wall. Turning his head slightly to view the window above him to note that the shutters were wide open to the outside, and that there was no glass pane in the frame. With a whistling sound, another gust of cold air came pouring in, and Aaron pulled the woolen blankets even tighter, causing them to spring from around his feet, leaving them bare to the winter air. Of course, he thought to himself.

With a third gust of bitter wintery wind, he threw aside the woolen blanket and sat up on the edge of the bed in a single, rash motion, cupping his face in his hands and rubbing over his eyes with his palms. Without looking, he reached over to feel around the top of the small end table — the only piece of furniture in that little rented room outside of the bed and the washstand — until he found his eyeglasses where he had left them the previous night. Face down, he observed, brilliant. He had slept in his trousers and muslin undershirt. He stood up on the cold wood floor, pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders, adjusted his trousers, and stepped over to the pair of gray woolen socks that had been carelessly strewn aside the night before. Hastening for the cold upon the soles of his feet, he snatched them up and then flopped back down to his seat on the edge of the bed, sliding one on, then the other. His shoes lie elsewhere in the room — one upon its sole, the other capsized. They can wait, he thought, as he stood and stepped over to the luggage bag. He knelt and popped the top open, and drew out a blue-gray vest with a notched collar and a matching flat bonnet and jacket. Left-arm, then right-, the vest went on, although he did not button it straight away. Tossing the bonnet and jacket onto the bed, he drew out a small kit of shaving tackle.

Within the course of a few minutes he had shaved himself up as he saw fit — he kept no beard upon his chin nor moustache upon his lip, but side-whiskers spared, as per la mode for young British men — and he washed his face once more over in the basin of the washstand. Like the air that poured through the window, the water of the basin was akin to the ice of the antarctic so near. He flicked the cold water from his hands and buttoned his vest up, then went to the bed and put on the bonnet and the jacket which he had previously cast aside, leaving the front of the jacket open. Reaching out, he pulled his shoes to the front of the bed, placed them upon his feet, and in a minute had them laced up.

Standing once more, he glanced to the window. It overlooked Table Bay, in which Aaron could see half a dozen or so merchant ships floating lazily in the morning light, banners fluttering in the wind. Some of them were on their way back to Britain; others, like the one he had arrived upon last night, were headed for India, Australia, or China. He lingered for a moment before turning towards the door. Kneeling, he closed the top of his luggage bag, affixing a lock to the small latch between the handles, before lifting it from the floor and walking through the door.

Out into the hallway and to the left he walked, his shoes clopping against the wooden floor as he went. As he drew nearer to the staircase, the sounds of life in the lower storey of the inn became more pronounced. The staircase was split in the middle, where it turned a corner before it continued its descent. Coming around that corner, the muffled hum of activity broke into the low roar of a crowd, as the dining area was populated to near half-capacity with jovial souls sating their appetites for a hearty breakfast. The air was noticeably warmer downstairs, and the mingled scents of bacon and sausage grease, coffee, and tobacco smoke hung weighty in the atmosphere. Aaron hesitated in the landing of the staircase before venturing into the crowded room, crossing it slowly with his eyes lowered. Approaching a seat at an empty table at the far end of the room, he slid his luggage bag underneath the chair and sat down, glancing around the room at the commotion. The room was one of mixed company, where British sailors mingled with the local townsmen (particularly the lower echelons) in the spirit of relative and tentative amity. In any case, they all shared a certain appreciation for the local maids.

"G'môre, m'neer," he heard a voice nearby him. He turned his attention away from the crowd to see a caramel-skinned young woman standing over his table, holding a serving tray in one hand over her shoulder. Her dark hair hung in loose, kinky strands around her face, even pulled back into a great and messy bun as it was. "Wat kan ek dan vir U doen?"

"Ik, erm—" Aaron had learned Dutch while apprentice to a man from Utrecht, but he struggled to formulate the words — and this was not quite the Dutch he had learned in Europe. "Ik wil graag Koffie alstublieft."

"Net 'n koffie? Een koffie?" asked the woman, squinting. "Dis als? Wil U nie graag 'n bietjie ontbyt hê nie?"

"Ik, erm— kunt U wat langzamer praten, astublieft? Ik kan niet veel Nederlandsch praten."

Her expression went through a smooth, unbroken flow of confusion first, then realisation, then of mild annoyance. "Or I could speak English to you. You're not the first Englishman to wander into our midst."

"Welshman," Aaron corrected. "I do apologise, I thought-"

"Bacon or sausage?" she interrupted, shifting the serving tray down to her side, holding it against her hip.

Aaron at first reeled in mild offense, but then realised that she must have other clients to attend to, and flushed a bit with embarassment. "Bacon," he replied.

"Coffee and bacon with your eggs," she said, tapping her right temple with her index finger. "About ten to fifteen minutes," she said, and she darted off towards the kitchen. It was only then to see her walking away that Aaron noticed that she was barefoot as she disappeared through the kitchen door.

Once again, he turned his attention to the room. In the commotion, it was not easily determinable who was speaking Dutch and who was speaking English. Hell — given the habit of the British sailor to take ale with his breakfast, a few might even be fuddled enough already to understand the Dutch without issue (at least in their own mind). His eyes fell upon a man at a table at the far end of the room; he hand curly blonde hair past his shoulder and a terrible hooked nose like the beak of an eagle, bright red cheeks and a buck-toothed smile. He had a Dutch girl upon his knee, and Aaron could make out some of the words on his lips: If I could take you back to England with me...

"You speak Dutch like they do back in Holland" another voice, this time a somewhat haggard male voice. Aaron turned to see a slightly hunched man of a short and stocky build helping himself to the seat across the table from him. "Not often I hear that. You from up that way?"

"Not nearly," said Aaron. "Wales."

"I'm from Southampton myself," said the older man. Moustachioed and with tired eyes, he scratched the side of his head and ran his fingers through his ash-gray hair. "Was in the Dutch army for a time though. I was there during the Ten Days' Campaign. Bloody mess of an affair, that one." He coughed into his fist. "So what brings you down to this godforsaken place, then, hm?"

"Looking for some work," replied Aaron. Looking for my fortune, he might have said, but he didn't want to sound naïve.

"If that's the case, you might should have gone to Port Elizabeth or Durban rather than here," said the older man. "Still, might be that there's some work around. There's an old Boer what has a farm out by Stellenbosch to the east. Gent by the name of Van der Kamp. He comes into town on during the first week of every month to buy supplies down by the waterfront. I'll see if I can spot him around town if you like."

"That would be most appreciated," said Aaron, as a plate of eggs with charred bacon was plopped down in front of him. A tin cup of coffee soon appeared alongside.

"Enjoy" said the young woman, smiling politely. She nudged the older man on the shoulder, looked back at Aaron, and said "And don't let this old fool fill your head with ideas, alright? There's only room enough for one Ian in the Kapstadt."

"And don't you forget it, Saarie," said Ian, pointing his finger and raising his brow in a pseudo-serious gesture before breaking into a chuckle. Saarie rolled her eyes and retreated once more to the kitchen.

"Real pleasant, that one," said Aaron, poking a fork at the charred bacon.

"You'll get used to her if you end up a fixture around here, such as yours truly" replied Ian.

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[Twighlight Array 17]

Wonder where this will go, I like your inclusion of different languages, and your descriptions. Subbed!

 

[A Yorks]

‡‡ CHAPTER II — THE ANVIL ‡‡

​

Cape Town, British Cape Colony
Friday, July 5th, 1861​

The arrival of ox-drawn wagons from the east piloted by bearded men in wide-brimmed hats marked the first Friday of every month in the Cape Town. This was the weekend when all of the Boers that were still near the Cape came into town to buy up whatever supplies and niceties were unavaliable in the more local markets of the inland towns. They built campsites on the Flats, entering the town on foot — some to buy whatever supplies they could before the Saturday market, some to partake in some day-drinking.

Aaron found himself wandering the afternoon crowd with Ian Hawke, the man he had met a few mornings prior.

"Aye, the market's on Saturday every week. First one of every month is the biggest one, though," explained Ian. "They come from all over the western part of the Cape to snap up whatever comes on the merchant ships. Some get tools and textiles and other practical what-have-yous, coffee and tea, tobacco, gunpowder, little things. Sometimes you can buy up a head of cattle from Ireland or Australia, you know. Some go for the higher luxuries, when they come around — medicines, ointments, finer cloth, books..."

To say that Ian was loquacious was a gross understatement; it might not be such a horrible fate to suffer if not for his habit of drawing out his syllables to unnatural length. Aaron's eyes floated around the market square as they meandered, catching glimpses of trades and barters in progress, British coins being exchanged (indeed a source of pride), and people gathering in little circles here-and-there just to chat about the little thisses and thats of their week. And how conspicuous am I in this crowd? Aaron asked himself. Wearing a black double-breasted frock coat with velvet trim over a burgundy brocade vest with a near-gleaming white undershirt and cravat, he most certainly stood out against the masses wearing earthy colours, unbleached shirts and great floppy broad hats. In the commotion, it was again hard to determine whether he was hearing English or Dutch — or perhaps a mixture of both or neither at all — being spoken back and forth between the stallholders and their patrons.

"Now let me tell you about that Van der Kamp, just in case we run into him today" Ian rambled onward. "Now, Bertus van der Kamp, or Hubertus if you want to be overly formal, you know, he's an old Boer from out Stellenbosch way, I think I might have said, you know. Now, that farm of his was his fathers and grandfathers before him. If I know that Van der Kamp, he's probably travelling with his neighbour from the next farm over, Jacques de Kloos. That's a French name, Du Clos, but they changed it when they picked up the Dutch language."

"Mhm," Aaron nodded.

"Now that De Kloos, his father and grandfather were actually slaves of the Van der Kamp family. Ain't that one hell of a thing, aye? But when Slavery—"

"Slaves?" questioned Aaron. "So De Kloos is—"

"Coloured? One-hundred per-cent damned right he is," explained Ian. "Descended from Huguenots and their own slaves back far enough. Anyway, Bertus's father was Floris van der Kamp, and Jacques' father was named Ruben. Now Ruben and Floris had grown up together, since their fathers were slave and master. And when Slavery was abolished in the Cape back in '33, Floris made a deal with the Governor that the next farmstead over, which had been abandoned by some Voortrekker on his way out, Floris made a deal that the next farm over would be granted to Ruben. Never talked about it, but I'm sure that Floris, he had to line the Governor's pockets a bit in order to swing that deal, you know."

"Sounds like it," said Aaron. "And the mix— the coloureds, they're just allowed to own property like that, hm?" It was a question of genuine curiosity on his part.

"Things are a little bit looser here in the Cape, lad," explained Ian. "Although, even if they weren't, it's quite a bit harder to quantify race down here. Any old blood in this place is mixed blood. Some of it is just a little more diluted than the rest." They walked on a bit further. The crowd was kicking up quite a bit of dust in the uncobbled streets, which was beginning to show on the velvet accents of Aaron's coat. He held out his arm, observing the little specks of dirt on his cuff. Fantastic, he thought.

"There they are now," said Ian, pointing to two rather unremarkable looking men near the Blacksmith's stall — one white, one coloured. They wore the same combination of brownish trousers tucked into their boots, suspenders over cotton shirts — the coloured man, Jacques, wore a plain unbleachd shirt; the white man, Bertus, a red plaid — with long beards and broad hats. They were apparently giving the blacksmith quite the rebuke, though they were not near enough that Aaron could pick their individual shouts from the crowd noise. Their arms flailed wildly, intermittently indicating a large object in a handcart — an anvil, or, rather, two halves of an anvil in twain split. As they drew nearer, the cacaphony of their exchange in Dutch became more and more apparent against the background noise, until they were but a few steps away and all that Aaron could hear.

"Die fout's nie myne!" the blacksmith defended, holding up his hands and reeling back. "Het julle nie die gewig daarvan opgelet nie?"

Bertus had the blacksmith's collar in his left fist and held the accusing finger of his right to the man's chin. "Die gewig daarvan is—"

"M'nere!" Ian shouted, interrupting the scene. All three men's heads turned to face Ian and Aaron. The anger quickly melted from the two Boers' faces, and Bertus released his grip on the relieved-looking blacksmith, who plopped back onto a sitting stool, eyes wide, breathing deep.

"M'neer Hawke!" exclaimed Jacques. He pronounced Hawke with a strong accent, rather like HOW-k. "How does fortune find you this month?" he asked, taking Ian's hand and shaking it with both of his own. He had a great wide diastema between his two front teeth, well exposed by his toothy, ear-to-ear smile.

"Fortune finds me the same as it did last month, and the month before," Ian replied, as Jacques released his hand. Bertus then took it in the same fashion, shaking it in the same fashion (albeit with a much less expressive face — Bertus was the type to smile with his eyes and little more). "I would ask you fellows the same question, but — erm," his eyes shifted to the two halves of the anvil as he trailed off.

"Yes, yes, the anvil," said Bertus.

"Didn't you fellows just buy this only last month?" asked Ian. Aaron observed, not interrupting.

"Yes, yes," Bertus replied. "Now, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes — Jacques was hammering out some nails in the toolshed."

"You'd think a six-inch nail and a two-pound hammer wouldn't do a thing like this," Jacques added.

"Bad iron," said Bertus. He knelt down to the one half and ran his finger along it, indicating the peculiar texture. "See this? Bubbles." Standing back up, he continued, "You can understand the problem."

"Not enough to throw off the weight of the anvil," explained Jacques, "but—"

"Just enough to compromise the integrity of the piece," observed Ian. "I'd say this anvil ought to be replaced, on account of its exceptionally poor and careless craftsmanship," he emphasized, looking at the blacksmith and raising his brow.

"Okay, fine!" said the blacksmith, springing to his feet. "Heavens, you'd all like to bleed me dry, wouldn't you..." he muttered, trailing off as he disappeared inside his forgehouse.

The two old Boers looked at each other with a smirk of satisfaction, gave each other a single, simultaneous nod, and then turned to Ian. "Just in the nick of time," said Bertus. "So, who's this gentleman you've brought along with you?"

"This gentleman here," began Ian, placing a hand on Aaron's shoulder. Aaron fidgeted and cut a grimace at this unwelcome intrusion, but bore with it for the time. "This is M'neer Aaron Rice, just off the boat. I've already told him a bit about the two of you. Looking for a bit of work, so I hear."

"Work, hm?" said Jacques, eyeing Aaron up and down. He looked over to Bertus, who looked back at him, and they exchanged a series of wordless expressions that apparently had some meaning to the both of them. It seemed they had a nonverbal language all their own — the mark of old friends, for sure. "You don't quite seem like the type to come all this way just to work on a farm. You a tradesman by chance?"

"Millwright," replied Aaron. "Looking to make some honest wage in order to put towards my own business."

"Seems like an honourable enough aim," said Jacques.

"Tell you what," Bertus added, "How about you meet us at the Publick Winehouse tomorrow at the noon gun, and we'll talk it over. Sound good?" he said, looking over at Jacques and nodding, lips pursed. Jacques nodded back with an mhm.

"Sounds excellent," replied Aaron. He offered out a hand to shake. Bertus shook it first, and then Jacques. "Tomorrow at noon, then."

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[Twighlight Array 17]

Interested to see how in game events are going to be included. Once again, we have an interesting atmosphere and a colourful, if slightly hard to keep track of, cast of characters.

 

[A Yorks]

Interested to see how in game events are going to be included. Once again, we have an interesting atmosphere and a colourful, if slightly hard to keep track of, cast of characters.

Thank you for the feedback. This is mostly a result of the exposition, so the first few chapters will likely be a revolving door of characters, unfortunately

 

[A Yorks]

‡‡ CHAPTER III — IN TABERNA, QUANDO SUMUS ‡‡

​

Cape Town, British Cape Colony
Saturday, July 6th, 1861

The two old Boers sat across the table from Aaron, each with a mug under their right hand, and Jacques with a long-stemmed pipe sticking out from the side of his mouth, bowl resting in the left hand. He took a long drag of the pipe, blew the smoke upwards into the already quite nebulous tavern air, and began:

"So, how long do you intend to stay in Africa, boy?" he asked, rotating the cup on the surface of the table with his hand.

"Well, Mr. de Kloos," said Aaron, "I've come with the intent to settle and lay down roots here."

"Is that so?" asked Jacques, eyes falling to the mug that he was still rotating slowly clockwise. Aaron kept his eyes away from the mug — perhaps this repetitive gesticulation helped the old man think, and he didn't want to come across as rude for staring. "Have you ever worked on a farm before?"

"Not to any real extent," Aaron answered. "I have worked with my uncle, a carpenter. Surely you could have some use for that skill?"

"Certainly," answered Jacques. "Wouldn't you agree, Bertus?"

"Heel waar," answered Bertus. He took a sip of the beer out of his mug, the foam sticking to his moustache. He wiped it off, cleared his throat, and asked, "I suppose that I should ask — do you speak the Dutch?"

"A little bit," said Aaron. "Although, truth be told," he began to explain, "the Dutch they speak here is not quite the Dutch that I have encountered in Europe."

"You'll find that to be true," said Jacques. "It'll take you a while to get used to it, but if you're a sharp one — and you seem to be — it'll come to you no trouble." He took another drag of the pipe, once more blowing the smoke up towards the rafters. "You said you're a millwright by trade. How old are you then?"

"Twenty-seven," answered Aaron. "Twenty-eight in October."

"Hope you weren't looking to jump straight into millwrightship coming down here," said Bertus. "There might be hope in a decade, what with that railroad they're building out from the Kaapstad."

"I suppose we can only hope," said Aaron. He took a sip of his drink — he had gotten tea instead of beer out of personal conviction.

"Well, I suppose that we have time to teach. The winter isn't quite over yet," said Jacques. "I've got room on my farmstead if you think you're cut out for the work. I employ a few other Englishmen like yourself, so you won't have to take to the Dutch right away," he said. Aaron didn't correct his error in calling him an Englishman, though it hurt his pride to swallow what in any other context might be a grave insult. "We'll be departing for home tomorrow after the Church services are concluded. Will you come with us?"

Aaron nodded. "I will."​

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[Twighlight Array 17]

I see a profession has been earned, and the story is about to begin. Shorter chapter than the last few.

 

[A Yorks]

‡‡ CHAPTER IV — LAND VAN MELK EN HEUNING ‡‡

​

Cape Flats, British Cape Colony

Sunday, July 7th, 1861

It had been some nine hours since they had left Cape Town that morning after the earliest of the church services had come to a conclusion. Jacques had said jocosely that they should have left Aaron behind, as the Anglican service at Saint George's had lasted thirty minutes past the end of the service at the Dutch church; Aaron had found this somewhat less than amusing, but the two old Boers had gotten their laugh from it sure enough.

The light of the day was beginning to falter over the Cape Flats as they rounded the north side wide base of what the two Boers called the Papegaaiberg. It wasn't a particularly large mountain to see it, compared to the Drakensbergs in the distance, but it cut a nine-kilometre swathe through what would have been the most direct path to Stellenbosch. Over the foot of the mountain, the town was now becoming visible in the distance, on the far side of which rose three ridges of peaks — the Simonsberg, Jonkershoek, and the Drakenstein. He had never imagined that the mountains of Africa would be peaked with white snow, but there they stood, white as the hide of his back.

By this point in the journey, Aaron had a hand firm on the side of the oxwagon as they went. Unaccustomed to traversing such distances on foot, his legs felt as though they would collapse beneath him and his feet as though he had stepped in hot coals. He did in fact lose his footing at least once, when one of the wheels of the oxwagon dropped into a dassie hole and the wagon consequently lurched towards him.

Bertus gave a lash of the bullockwhip, redirecting the ox-team slightly to the right, around the edge of a pond surrounded by unmolested trees — a few survivors of the landtaking by the farmers over the years. Now to their left began a fence, and on their right one also at the far end of that pond with its trees; on the opposite sides of those fences lay fallow fields, and in between them a crude road (nothing more than wheel ruts with grasses growing over them). This went on for about a kilometre or so, before ending in a gate — on the other side of which lay a few snow-white buildings framed with trees. Finally, Aaron thought to himself.

"There it is," shouted Bertus from up at the head of the ox-team. "Mooihoek, our stop. 'n Ware land van melk en heuning as daar ooit een was."

"Good to see it," replied Aaron. Just how good, you may never know, he thought. The old Boers seemed to have no trouble with the journey, both walking as tall and as strongly as when they'd set out from Cape Town that morning. They walked towards the front of the ox-team, chatting to each other in the Dutch about all manner of things. Aaron tried his best to pick out what little he could recognise of their strange dialect; as he became accustomed to the difference in accent, the words fell into place, but even this was an arduous process, for whatever changes these people had made to their Dutch over the last two centuries, they seemed to have had the sole and singular goal of creating an unbreakable cipher with which to confuse outsiders.

As they drew nearer, the life of the farmstead became more visible, even in the dimming light. A lamp hung above one side of the fence gate, guiding them in. Those minutes between here and there dragged along, as they do when the end of a long journey or hardship is in sight — Aaron simply wanted to collapse, to end for the night, and perhaps to eat something that wasn't smoke-dried or rock-hard.

When finally their approach had ended, Jacques stepped forward to open the gate. They were immediately met with a shouted greeting from off by one of the smaller sheds:

"Goeienaand, m'nere!" shouted a spindly and bow-legged old coloured man. He would have been incredibly tall if not for his hunched stance. "Welkom tuis!"

"Dankie wel," replied Jacques. "Als wel by julle?"

"So wel as wat dit was toe jy gegaan het," replied the man.

"Baie goed," said Jacques. He turned back to Aaron, and said, "That man is called Claas, short for Herculaas. He works for Bertus."

The front door of the house opened, as the inhabitants thereof were most certainly alerted to their presence by the commotion that Claas had raised. Out came an older woman of lesser stature, wearing a Dutch cap and a stonely stern expression that reminded Aaron somewhat of the Queen. With slow and deliberate strides, she made her way the maybe-hundred-metre distance from the house to the gate, approaching Bertus. As she closed the last few metres, the sternness of her countenance melted away, as she placed her hands on Bertus's shoulders and gave him one curt kiss.

"Welkom tuis, liefde," she said, moving aside so that he could guide the wagon into the yard.

"Dankie mooi, my bokkie," he replied. Bokkie wasn't a term that Aaron had ever heard in European Dutch, but he could guess that it was some sort of term of endearment easily enough. Bertus halted the wagon in the open space, took off his hat, and then kissed her once more. "Liefde, ek wil jou graag bekend stel aan m'neer Rice" he said, indicating Aaron with one hand. "Hy's 'n Engelsman wat vir ons hier op die plaas wil werk." Once more he was referred to incorrectly as an Englishman, he understood, but he was growing accustomed to the title. Aaron stepped forward, anticipating his introduction. Bertus turned to Aaron, placing his arm around the woman, and said, "M'neer Rice, this is my wife, Rowena."

"Pleasure to meet you, M'vrou." said Aaron, removing his hat.

"Papa!" the voice of a young woman rang out from the house door. Aaron looked over to see a young woman — perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age — standing in the doorway. She, like Rowena before her, stepped out to cross the yard, although her stride was much more lively and with a longer and more vivacious gait as she approached. "Papa, welkom tuis. Hoe was julle reis?"

"Goed gegaan," replied Bertus. "And you're just in time that I can introduce you to Mr. Rice," he said, once more indicating Aaron. "An Englishman who will be working for us.
​

The Wily Farmer's Daughter​

"An Englishman?" she questioned, eyeing him up and down. A look of disdain crept across her face as she did. "Haven't we got enough Englishmen as it stands, then?"

"Fortunately, miss," Aaron began —

"Isabeau," she cut him off. "En as jy met my wil praat, moet jy praat met my in Duits of glad nie."

"Ey, hou op!" snapped Bertus.

"As jy wil, Papa," said Isabeau with a dismissive shrug. She turned back towards the house and walked away, looking back at Aaron with disapproval over her shoulder for an instant as she went.

Aaron was taken aback by her fervent and fiery hostility when she learned of his nationality. He had certainly expected remnants of the old Anglo-Dutch rivalry to surface, but he had not seen it in Cape Town or even in the actions of the old Boers with whom he travelled. "Does she hold some ill-will towards the English, then?" he found himself asking half-reflexively.

"Her elder brothers have gotten ideas in her head that Britain means to come and take our lands and our homes from us," explained Bertus, scratching his head and looking off in the distance. "I've got three living sons before her, and all three of them packed up and left for the Transvaal when they came of age."

"I assure you, sir," Aaron said reassuringly, "I mean to do no such thing."

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[Twighlight Array 17]

I like the use of Africaans to alienate the audience, as well as transmitting Aaron's isolation. Seems like he is having trouble adjusting to the Boers, and they to him. They mistaking him as a Englishman seems a running joke. A question, why does the farmer's daughter asked to be talked to in German, and not Dutch? This could be a case of a malfunctioning google translate however.

 

[A Yorks]

A question, why does the farmer's daughter asked to be talked to in German, and not Dutch? This could be a case of a malfunctioning google translate however.

The reason for this is contextual — in both English and Dutch (and by extension, Afrikaans), the word Dutch (nl: Duits) could refer to either the Dutch language or the German language (compare to the German endonym Deutsch). When they needed to be distinguished, Dutch and Low German would be referred to as Low Dutch. This is why the German dialects spoken in the northeastern United States are called Pennsylvania Dutch, and why the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa is officially named the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk (literally "Low-German Reformed Church").

In English, the word Dutch was already being used increasingly to refer to Citizens of the Netherlands rather than Dutch/German Speakers by the 17th century. In Dutch and Afrikaans, this distinction wasn't hard and fast until the 20th century. For the same reason, whenever standard European Dutch appears in the story, I've been using archaic "German-like" pre-reform spelling and grammar.

 

[Twighlight Array 17]

The reason for this is contextual — in both English and Dutch (and by extension, Afrikaans), the word Dutch (nl: Duits) could refer to either the Dutch language or the German language (compare to the German endonym Deutsch). When they needed to be distinguished, Dutch and Low German would be referred to as Low Dutch. This is why the German dialects spoken in the northeastern United States are called Pennsylvania Dutch, and why the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa is officially named the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk (literally "Low-German Reformed Church").

In English, the word Dutch was already being used increasingly to refer to Citizens of the Netherlands rather than Dutch/German Speakers by the 17th century. In Dutch and Afrikaans, this distinction wasn't hard and fast until the 20th century. For the same reason, whenever standard European Dutch appears in the story, I've been using archaic "German-like" pre-reform spelling and grammar.

Good on you for putting so much research into your story.

 

[El Pip]

Ridiculous effort being put into a very minor detail, sounds like my kind of writing style.

There are many ways this one could go I look forward to seeing which one you pick.

 

[TheExecuter]

Indeed...a most excellent beginning.

I'll think I'll set up camp here, and then join the trek into the depths of the story. Perhaps this modest beginning will bring riches...

 

[Herbert West]

Subbed, as they say.