The Land Between Seasons

The seed store held the family’s planting stock: mealie seed wrapped in sacks, beans saved from the last harvest, pumpkin seeds tied in cloth, and a small tin of sunflower seed Ma had guarded through the dry months. If the water reached the shelves, the coming season would be lost before it began.

Ma caught Zanele’s arm. “The crossing is dangerous.”

“So is leaving the seed there.”

A crack of thunder rolled over the hills. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

Sibusiso looked at the river. “The bridge will hold.”

“It is already moving,” Zanele said.

One of the bridge’s ropes had pulled loose from its post. The planks tilted toward the current, slick with rain. On the far bank, the path to the seed store had become a wide brown strip of mud.

Ma disappeared into the house and returned with two empty grain sacks, a coil of rope, and a red scarf tied around her waist. “We go together,” she said. “No one crosses alone.”

Zanele took the rope. Its rough fibres bit into her wet palms. “We need something to carry the sacks.”

“Use the wheelbarrow,” Sibusiso said.

“The wheelbarrow will sink.”

“Then we carry them.”

Ma looked from one child to the other. “Sibusiso, stay close to the bank. Zanele, you lead until the ground rises. I will bring the seed.”

Zanele wanted to argue. She knew the crossing better than either of them. She had carried washing across the bridge, led goats over it, and raced Sibusiso from one side to the other when the river was no more than a clear ribbon. But this was not that river. This water was loud enough to swallow a voice.

They moved down the slope. Rain struck Zanele’s cheeks like thrown grains. The grass brushed her knees, cold and heavy, and mud pulled at her shoes.

At the bridge, Sibusiso reached for the first plank.

“Wait,” Zanele said.

A dark line of water slid over the wood.

She picked up a long branch and pressed it into the riverbank beyond the bridge. The soil gave way under its tip.

“The bank is hollow,” she said. “We cannot use the middle.”

“Then how do we cross?” Sibusiso asked.

Zanele looked upstream. A fallen fig tree lay across the narrowest part of the river, its roots tangled in the bank. The trunk was wet, but it reached almost to the far side.

Ma followed her gaze. “That tree is not a bridge.”

“It is stronger than the bridge.”

“Zanele - ”

“I will test it.”

Before Ma could stop her, Zanele stepped onto the trunk. Water roared below, tugging at the exposed roots. The bark was slippery beneath her soles. She lowered herself and moved on her hands and knees, keeping her body close to the wood.

“Slowly,” Ma called.

“I am going slowly.”

The trunk dipped near the centre. A wave slapped against it, spraying Zanele’s arms. She froze until the water passed, then reached forward. Her fingers found a branch jutting toward the far bank.

The last step dropped into mud above her ankle. She pulled herself up and turned.

“Come!”

Sibusiso climbed onto the trunk. Ma tied the rope around her waist and held the other end while he crossed. Halfway over, his foot slid.

“Do not look down,” Zanele shouted.

“I am not!”

“You are shouting like you are.”

“I am shouting because the tree is moving!”

Ma tightened the rope. “Sibusiso, put your knee down.”

He did. Zanele crawled back and caught his wrist. Together they pulled him toward the far bank.

When Ma reached them, she pressed one hand to the trunk and looked back at the bridge. “We must return before dark.”

“We will,” Zanele said, though the bridge gave a long, low groan behind them.

The seed store door was already wet at the bottom. Muddy water seeped beneath it in thin brown fingers.

Zanele drove her shoulder into the door. It stuck, then opened with a sharp crack. Inside, the room smelled of damp wood and grain. Water covered the floor beneath the lowest shelf.

“Take the sacks from the top,” Ma said. “Not the loose ones.”

Zanele climbed onto a wooden crate. She lifted the mealie sacks one at a time and passed them to Sibusiso. He dragged them toward the doorway, slipping twice in the wet mud.

“Put them over your shoulder,” Zanele said. “Do not pull them.”

“They are heavy.”

“So is a failed harvest.”

He frowned but obeyed.

Ma reached for the small tin of sunflower seed. The water had climbed around her ankles.

“Ma, leave that one,” Sibusiso said. “We have the mealies.”

Ma held the tin against her chest. “Your grandmother saved these.”

A sharp sound came from outside. Not thunder. Wood breaking.

Zanele turned. Through the open doorway, the footbridge twisted sideways. One rope snapped, then the other. The bridge lifted, struck the current, and disappeared downstream in a storm of planks.

Ma stood very still.

“We cannot go back that way,” Sibusiso said.

Another wave pushed into the seed store. A sack slid from the shelf and fell into the water.

“Higher ground,” Zanele said. “Now.”

They carried the seed up the slope behind the store. The ground shook under each step as water cut new channels through the field. Zanele took the heaviest sack, pressing it against her shoulder. Wet cloth scraped her neck. Sibusiso carried two smaller sacks, and Ma held the tin and the bean seed.

A section of the field collapsed beside them. Red earth folded into the river, taking young mealie plants with it.

Ma cried out. “The north field!”

Zanele stopped.

Rows of green shoots bent beneath the rain. Water rushed between them, widening the channels until the field looked stitched with brown scars.

“Keep moving,” Ma said. Her voice shook, but it did not break. “The seed first.”

They reached the rise near the old cattle pen. The ground there was firm beneath the grass. Zanele dropped the sack and turned back.

The river had cut across the farm track completely. On the other side, their house stood small and grey through the rain. The cattle kraal was empty. Their father was still somewhere beyond the flooded fields.

“Baba!” Sibusiso shouted.

The rain swallowed his voice.

Ma gripped his shoulder. “He will find the high path.”

“How?” Sibusiso asked. “The path is gone.”

Zanele looked toward the hills. A narrow ridge led from the cattle kraal to the upper pasture. If Baba had seen the flood rising, he would take that way. She wanted to call again, but the river answered first, deep and violent.

“We must trust him,” she said.

Sibusiso stared at her. “Are you sure?”

No, Zanele thought. The farm had always seemed to have rules. The river stayed in its bed. The bridge connected one bank to the other. The fields waited for rain, and rain came when it was needed. Now every rule had broken.

She picked up the mealie sack. “We get the rest under the cattle shed roof.”

They made three trips through the rain. On the last, Zanele returned to the store alone for the pumpkin seeds. The water had reached the middle shelf. She climbed onto the crate, pulled the cloth bundles free, and tucked them beneath her shirt.

As she stepped toward the door, the crate shifted.

Zanele grabbed the shelf. A jar fell and broke, scattering beans across the water. The current curled around her ankles, cold and strong.

For one breath she could not move.

Then she heard Ma calling from the rise.

“Zanele!”

She pushed away from the shelf and ran.

Outside, the store wall shuddered. A plank tore loose and spun into the flood. Zanele splashed up the slope, clutching the seed bundles beneath her shirt.

Ma pulled her onto the grass. “Are you hurt?”

“My ankle.”

“Can you stand?”

Zanele tested it. Pain flashed, but the joint held. “Yes.”

Ma wrapped the red scarf around the ankle and tied it firmly. Sibusiso brought a blanket from the cattle shed, and together they covered the sacks.

The rain softened near dusk, changing from a roar to a steady hiss. Beyond the rise, the river continued to spread across the farm. The footbridge was gone. The track was gone. Even the familiar fence posts leaned at strange angles in the mud.

Sibusiso stood beside Zanele, watching the water.

“Will we plant?” he asked.

Zanele looked at the sacks beneath the blanket. They were wet on the outside, but still tied. The seeds were safe.

“Yes,” she said.

“How will we get help?”

She turned toward the house, where a lamp had appeared in the kitchen window. Their father’s figure moved behind it. He had found the upper path.

“We will find a way,” Ma said.

Across the darkening fields, the river cut the Mthembu farm in two. Zanele rested her hand on the sack beside her and listened to the water carry the bridge away. The seed was safe, but the road home was no longer there.

End of chapter one. 7 more chapters in the full book.