Chapter 15

Pilgrim’s Nest, Gauteng Province.

Ronny and Leon looked at me with gaping mouths and expressions of surprise on their faces.

“But we don’t want to cremate the steaks! We need no flames, only coals...” Ronny managed to blurt out. I sighed.

“What’s wrong, Alex?” Leon asked. “Something is radically wrong with you.”

“This crap with Sloan, Andreotti and Borrelli is getting to me. Sorry guys...” I apologised.

“Here, get a beer...” Ronny cut in and handed me a cold brew.

“Thanks...” I said and sat down on the cement bench next to the fire pit at the boma.

The night settled around us, thick and warm, as the fire pit crackled softly, the coals glowing with a quiet intensity. A faint breeze whispered through the tall grass and trees, carrying the earthy scent of the bushveld. The low hum of insects filled the air, their steady rhythm interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a cricket or the distant call of a nightjar. Above, the sky stretched wide, dotted with stars, as the moon began to rise, casting a silvery sheen across the landscape.

The moonlight crept over the horizon, soft and pale at first, before growing brighter as it climbed higher, illuminating the acacia trees and the open veld. Its light shimmered off the leaves, casting faint shadows that danced with the flicker of the dying flames.

The bushveld felt alive yet calm, as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for the night to fully embrace its silence. I sat quietly, the weight of the day fading into the stillness, the soft rustling of leaves and distant animal sounds grounding me in the peace of the moment.

Mai-Loan came out of the house carrying a tray with the steaks and sausage in a bowl.

“Okay, here’s the yummy stuff,” She said as she placed it on the wooden picnic bench tabletop. “Do your magic. The coals look good.”

“Thanks, Mai-Loan. Alex seems to think that the fire ain’t good.” Leon replied and Mai-Loan shot me an evil-eye look.

“What’s wrong with the fire? It looks good and hot to me.”

“Never mind. I shot off my mouth before I looked at the coals,” I replied.

“Hmm...” She replied and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Perk up, Alex. Things ain’t as bad as it seems. We’ll sort this crap out and all will be back to normal.”

“I suppose so...” I sighed.

“Well, let’s get these steaks cooked,” Ronny said draining his can of beer.

“Yeah, Alex, medium to well done?” Leon asked, holding up a nice rump steak. “This one’s got your name on it...”

The rest of the gang joined us then and Ally had a surprise. She plopped down on the cement bench next to me and dropped my guitar in my lap.

“Sing for your supper,” Ally had said. I wasn’t in the mood, but I knew why she did it. She was trying to pull me out of the dark cloud that had been hanging over me since ... well, since everything. And maybe, deep down, I needed it.

Ally got up and went over to Georgie and sat down next to her.

“Not now, Ally,” I replied, a little flustered.

“Now is as good a time as any,” Ally was not easily phased. “Get going.” Then she turned to Georgie, “You should hear his playing and singing.”

“Yeah, Buddy, Alex old Pal! Like the good old days,” Leon chuckled. “Let’s see how rusty you are.”

“You are all going to pay for this...” I replied and picked up my old guitar. The tuning was still good, so I strummed a few cords. I knew that this was Ally’s way to get me out of my foul mood. Or maybe she just wanted to show Zara and the rest that I could play the guitar.

The first few chords filled the silence around the fire, and suddenly, it wasn’t just me any more — it was all of us. Leon grinned, Ronny stopped mid-turn with the steaks, and Georgie, well, she was watching me closely. Her eyes, curious and intent, caught mine for a moment before I shut them, sinking into the song.

“In the twilight glow I see her, blue eyes crying in the rain... ” I started, my voice low and steady, each word carrying the weight of the melody. Ally’s whisper to Georgie, about Mockingbird, barely registered. But I heard it.

“That’s one of the songs Mockingbird sang the other night...” Ally whispered to Georgie.

I knew Ally was showing off a bit, trying to connect dots, maybe even impress Georgie. For some reason, that made me smile, just a little.

As the song carried on, the bushveld seemed to grow quieter, the night animals falling still, their sounds replaced by the rhythm of my guitar and the crackle of burning wood. The fire cast a soft, orange glow on everyone’s faces, but no one spoke. I could feel the heat on my face, but the air beyond the fire was cooler now, the rising moon casting long shadows across the veld. There was a sort of stillness that fell over everything — one of those moments where time feels suspended. It felt right, somehow, like this was exactly what the night needed.

I moved into the next verse, keeping the song steady and simple, just like Fred Rose wrote it, and Ken Mullen sang it, no frills, just pure and honest.

“Now my hair has turned to silver, and my eyes no longer shine. In my heart I’ll always love you. I know you’ll always will be mine. Oh, love is like a dying ember, only memories remain. I can see your star in Heaven. Blue eyes crying in the rain.”

Then I lapsed into the guitar solo. Picking the strings, and then followed with the last verse. The words hung heavy in the air, and I could feel their weight settle over the group.

Georgie still watched me, her eyes narrowed at the third verse. Mouthing some words, keeping time with her foot. She knew the song, or at least parts of it, which didn’t surprise me. She always seemed like someone who knew things.

Ronny had stopped turning the steaks altogether, his eyes glued to the fire as if the song had him in a trance. Leon, too, was quiet, leaning back with his arms crossed, the grin on his face replaced by something softer. The only sound, aside from the song, was the soft pop of the coals and the occasional whisper of wind in the trees.

When I finished the last line, “Blue eyes crying in the rain,” I let the final chord linger, fading into the night like a memory slipping away. There was a long pause before anyone spoke. The kind of silence that’s full, not empty, where everyone’s just ... sitting with it. I opened my eyes, looking at the fire, feeling the weight of the song settle over me too.

“Hell of a tune,” Leon said finally, breaking the silence. He gave me a nod, his voice low and appreciative. Ronny, still holding the tongs, remembered the steak and turned it with a bit of a sheepish grin.

Georgie didn’t say anything right away, but I saw the way she looked at me, like she was seeing something new, something deeper. Then she just smiled softly, “Well, Mister Jet Pilot ... I wasn’t expecting that.”

Ally nudged Georgie with her elbow, a smirk on her face. “Told you, Georgie.”

I couldn’t help but smile back at her. “You’re all going to pay for this,” I said, but my voice didn’t carry the usual edge. It felt lighter, like the night had given me something back I didn’t realize I’d lost.

“Now it’s your turn, Leon,” I said. “Sing for your supper!” And I chuckled. General laughter sounded up and calls of; “Hey Leon, Sing!”, and “Let’s hear it!” came out.

Leon submitted and got up. “Here, hold my beer,” he said to Ronny.

“I’m braaing!” Ronny protested.

“I’ll hold your beer, Daddy,” Ally offered. “I promise I won’t snag a sip!” Giggle.

Leon smirked. He knew Ally too well. “Yeah, making a wolf, a sheep herder. Here, Alex. I’ll trade you the beer for the guitar.”

Later that evening, I found myself alone on the patio. Leon had departed, and the rest of the crew had gone their separate ways after the big clean-up, all heading for a well-deserved night’s rest. Zara, now giggling with her newly dyed brown hair, and Ally had gone off to their shared room. It was time for the little mice to hit the sack.

Ally had finally cracked the riddle of Don and Dave’s “three wives” situation and, to everyone’s amusement, even solved the puzzle of “Uncle Dan.”

“You know Uncle Dan’s real name is Louis, right?” Ally had asked earlier, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Yes, pumpkin, I know. ‘Dan’ is just a nickname Don and Dave gave him,” I replied with a grin. “They pronounce it as ‘Dun,’ and they spell it like in the Afrikaans word for ‘then.’”

“The Afrikaans word for ‘then’?” She raised her eyebrows. “But why that stupid nickname?”

“It’s got to do with his flying,” Leon had explained to her. “They say he’s here one minute, then there the next, so in Afrikaans, it’s, ‘Dan’s hy hier, dan’s hy daar.’ That’s why they pronounce it as ‘DUN’, the same sound of the Afrikaans word.”

“I still say it’s stupid. Just call him by his real name.”

We’d all laughed, promising to start calling him by his given name, although we knew it wouldn’t stick.

“Ally, you know that in the martial art karate they show your black belt rank in dan?” I smirked.

“Yes, there is first to tenth dan and is shown on the belt with coloured stripes,” She replied. I chuckled.

“You know your dad has his tenth dan in karate?”

“No, he has not!” Ally replied giving me the evil eye, and I switched to Afrikaans:

“In ‘n geveg is hy dan op die grond, dan is hy op sy voete, en dan weer plat... ” (In a fight he gets knocked down to the ground, THEN he’s up on his feet, THEN he gets knocked down again. THEN he gets up again... )

“But in karate they call it ... dan...” And Ally caught the joke. The Afrikaans word for THEN is DAN and pronounced “DUN” Leon chuckled. The others tried hard to suppress giggles and laughter.

“That’s a bad joke,” Georgie admonished me. “Poor Ally. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I just gave her the explanation of how some words in one language means the same or something else in another language,” I defended.

“It’s okay, Georgie,” Ally replied. “I’ll just put a tablespoon of salt in his coffee tomorrow instead of sugar.” And she smiled like the cat that ate the canary. I know I was forgiven.

Now, sitting alone, I ran through my plans to outwit Borrelli and whatever counteractions he might devise. Darya, Nadia, and Mai-Loan had expressed interest in helping, but those details were still being finalized. Plans could go awry with unforeseen variables, which is why I needed the three Angels to cover all my bases.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice Georgie until she spoke beside me.

“I thought you’d be snoring away by now,” she said softly.

Startled, I turned to see her standing barefoot next to me. She must’ve been walking quietly across the slate-covered patio, blending into the night.

“I thought the same of you,” I replied.

“I don’t snore.”

“Neither do I.”

“What’s up? It’s nearly midnight,” she asked, sitting down across from me and tucking her feet beneath her.

“I’m just enjoying the quiet.”

“I hear crickets and all sorts of things you don’t hear in the city,” she said, her voice soft in the stillness.

“Ambient symphonies of the African bushveld night,” I mused. “I’m used to it.”

“Hmm ... That brings me to a question.”

“Smoke on, go,” I replied with a teasing grin.

She giggled. “Here we go again, Mister fly boy.”

“What’s your question?” I chuckled.

“Do you know a lot about music?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, though her tone was casual.

“No, just bits and pieces I pick up here and there. Why?”

“Where did that third verse you snagged tonight come from? Did you write it?”

“For a journalist, you should know that Fred Rose wrote ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,’ and it originally had that verse. Since Elton Britt first recorded it in 1946, many artists have covered it. But Willie Nelson, when he recorded it for his Red Headed Stranger album in 1975, left that verse out and replaced it with a guitar solo. Since then, everyone else followed suit, even Elvis Presley, and the third verse got lost.”

“Interesting...”

“Charley Pride recorded the full version in 1971, which helped introduce the song to a younger crowd, but Nelson’s version is the one everyone remembers, mostly because of his guitar work. Slim Whitman did in fact record the song with both the guitar solo and the lost verse in. But tonight I did Ken Mullen’s version. I like it better. It tells the story with more soul.”

“And you don’t like Willie Nelson?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Sometimes he just ... bends songs to fit his style. Take his rendition of Kristofferson’s ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ — I prefer Kristofferson’s original version. It’s got rhythm and flow. Besides Shania Twain sang Blue eyes crying in the rain together with Willie Nelson, well she mostly sang and Willie only sang some low-key words here and there, but it was Nelson’s version and that missing third verse was well, still missing.”

“Are you moonlighting as a music teacher?” she teased.

“Nope, I’m just me.”

“I like that. A man with opinions,” she replied with a small smile. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, and I respect that.”

“Do you like Willie Nelson?”

“I do. I think he sings with great emotion.”

“Good. I respect that too.”

A comfortable silence settled between us, only the sounds of the night filling the air—crickets, the soft breeze rustling the trees, and somewhere in the distance, the low, haunting call of an owl.

“Georgie, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah...” She tilted her head slightly.

“Do you know who Mockingbird is?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something — hesitation, perhaps — cross her face.

“I ... I might know her,” she replied carefully.

“Is that why you were able to get Ally and me tickets for her show?”

“I sort of emailed her.”

“So, you have her contact details. But do you know who she really is?”

“I interviewed her once for an article. Her real identity though ... I don’t know.”

“Interesting,” I echoed her earlier words, narrowing my eyes slightly.

“Why do you think I know who Mockingbird is?” she asked, a little defensive now.

“Because you two look alike. The same red hair, the same build, the same blue eyes. And your voices sound the same.”

“How can you say that? You haven’t spoken to her in person.”

“I heard her speak to the audience.”

“Through a sound system! Sound systems distort voices.”

“And how would you know? You’re a journalist and TV news anchor, not a sound engineer.”

“I ... I...” She stammered, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice.

“Georgie, could she be your sister?”

Her eyes flashed for a moment, then she sighed, as if realizing she couldn’t dodge the question any longer and grasping at a straw.

“Okay! Enough!” she said, throwing her hands up. “I do know Mockingbird, and I know her real identity. But can we just leave it at that?”

“Sure, Georgie. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just don’t get it why such a talented artist would want to keep her identity a secret.”

“She’s shy. Vulnerable. She doesn’t want to be mobbed by fans or have her life turned into gossip fodder for tabloids,” Georgie explained, her voice firm but gentle. “You should know how it goes. She doesn’t have a boyfriend or is in any relationship, therefore the tabloids would label her as lesbian. Or if she is seen with her agent, the tabloids would label them as a couple.”

“Okay, I said I’d leave it.” I smiled softly.

“Are we still friends?”

“Yeah,” I replied, a little quieter now.

“You sound ... a little miffed.”

“No, I’m fine, Georgie.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the night wrapping us in its stillness once more.

“Maybe...” she began, her voice soft, “one day you can meet my sister. My twin sister.”

I blinked. “You have a twin sister?”

“Yes. An identical twin sister.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Georgie. I won’t breathe a word of it. I know now that you are just protecting your sister.”

“Thank you, Alex.”

“It’s what friends do.”

“What’s her name?” I asked after a while.

“Mockingbird,” Georgie answered softly, the single word drifting between us like it carried a secret.

I tilted my head, not quite satisfied. “I mean her real name, not her stage persona.”

Georgie hesitated for a moment, her lips curving into a sly smile before whispering, “Gabriella ... Gabriella Harper. I call her Gabi for short...” Her eyes twinkled with just a hint of mischief, as if she enjoyed being the keeper of something so personal.

“Thanks, Georgie,” I said. “Tell her ... tell her she has nothing to fear from us. And if she ever needs to escape, she’s welcome to come out to Pilgrim’s Nest. This place can be a good refuge for when life gets too heavy.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly. “Do you mean that?”

I nodded. “Absolutely.”

A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I’ll tell her, next time I see her ... Thank you, Alex.”

Just then, the eerie cry of a jackal pierced the night air, its call echoing across the plains. Georgie tensed a little, her eyes searching the darkness beyond the porch.

“Was that a hyena?” she asked, her voice curious but cautious.

I shook my head, grinning. “No, just a regular black-backed jackal, probably looking for its mate.”

“I didn’t realize jackals could sound like that. I thought a jackal was just ... well, a jackal.”

“There’s actually three kinds around here,” I explained, enjoying the shift in conversation. “You’ve got the black-backed, which is the one you just heard, the side-striped jackal, and the golden jackal. But here on the Springbok Plains, it’s the black-backed ones that rule the roost.”

“Are they a nuisance for you?” Georgie asked, still staring out into the night as if she could catch sight of the animal.

I shrugged, leaning back against the porch railing. “Not really. We don’t have much for them to go after except the chickens and the geese. But we lock them up tight at night. The coops are jackal-proof, so there’s not much for them to bother with.”