'Here lies a brave burgher.
He moved along the line of crosses and on each he read those same
words. On some of them the printing was irregular, on one the 'r- in
burgher had been replaced by a 'g.' Sean stopped and glared at it,
hating the man who in his haste and unconcern had made the epitaph an
insult.
'I'm sorry.' He spoke aloud, apologizing to the man who lay beneath
it. Then he was embarrassed, angry at himself for the weakness. Only
a madman speaks aloud to the dead. He strode away towards the second
row of crosses.
'Leading Seaman W. Carter, RN.' The fat one,
'Corporal Henderson CFS. ' Twice in his chest and another in the
belly.
He walked along the line and read their names. Some were just names,
others he saw instantly and vividly. He saw them laughing, or
frightened, saw the way they rode, remembered the sound of their
voices. This one still owed him a guinea, he remembered the bet.
'Keep it. ' He spoke and immediately checked himself again.
Slowly he went on to the end of the line, his momentum running down as
he approached the grave that stood separate from the others-the way he
had ordered it.
He read the inscription. Then he squatted down comfortably on his
haunches beside it and stayed there until the sun settled and the wind
turned cold and plaintive. Only then he went to his saddle and
loosened the blanket-roll. There was no firewood and he slept fitfully
in the cold of the night and the icier cold of his thoughts.
In the morning he went back to Saul's grave. For the first time he
noticed that grass was growing up between the stones of the cairn and
that the cross sagged a little to one side. He shrugged off his coat
and went down on his knees, working like a gardener over the grave,
weeding out the grass with his hunting knife, making certain the roots
were removed. Then he went to the head and lifted the rocks away from
around the cross. He tore the cross from the ground and re-dug the
hole for it, setting it up again carefully, plugging the base with
pebbles and earth and at last packing the whitewashed rocks firmly
around it once more.
He stood back, brushed earth and flakes of whitewash from his hands and
surveyed his handiwork. It was still not right, there was something
missing. He thought about it, frowning heavily until he found the
answer.
'Flowers,' he grunted and lifted his head towards the aloes on the
kopJe above him. He set off up the slope, picking his way through the
litter of boulders towards the summit. His knife slipped easily
through the soft thick stems and the juice oozed heavily from the
wounds. With an armful he started back down the slope. Out to one
side a patch of colour caught his eye, a sprinkling of pink and white
among the boulders. He detoured towards it. Hottentot Daisies, each
one a perfect trumpet with a pink throat and a fragile yellow tongue.
Delighted with his find, Sean laid aside his burden of aloe blooms and
