Chapter 8

Night settled over Levubu the way it always does in the bushveld—quietly at first, and then all at once. One moment the last copper glow of sunset lingered behind the distant hills, and the next the world had slipped into that deep blue twilight that lives somewhere between day and true darkness.

I stood on the wide stoep of the Fourie house, leaning against one of the wooden posts, looking out over the yard and gardens. The lights from the house spilled softly across the grass, but beyond that the land faded into darker shapes—the shadowed outline of the macadamia trees, the faint line of the wind pump, the long low bulk of the shed.

The night wasn’t truly dark. Out here it never is.

Above me the sky had opened into a cathedral of stars, so many that they seemed to press down toward the earth. The Milky Way stretched across the heavens like spilled silver dust, and every now and then a satellite crept silently across the constellations, pretending to be a wandering star. Somewhere far off a jackal called, answered by another farther down the valley.

On the horizon the half-moon had just begun to crest the distant ridges, rising slowly behind the dark humps of the Soutpansberg. Its pale light spilled across the land in thin silver sheets, catching the tops of the trees and turning the gravel road into a faint ribbon.

A warm breeze drifted across the stoep carrying the smells of the farm—dry earth, cut grass, and the faint lingering aroma of Amelia’s potjie still clinging to the night air. From somewhere near the dam a frog croaked lazily, joined by the rhythmic chirp of crickets that seemed to fill every corner of the darkness.

I watched it all without really seeing any of it.

My mind was somewhere else entirely.

A few days ago, my life had been simple. Predictable, even. Fly the helicopter, deliver the teams, sleep wherever the day ended, and start again the next morning. It was a life made of rotors, maps, and horizons.

Now there was Kaitlyn.

The thought alone shifted something deep inside me. The memory of her laughter, the way she talked in fast, tumbling sentences when she got excited, the warmth of her hand finding mine at the dinner table like it had always belonged there.

It felt like standing at the edge of a runway I hadn’t planned to use.

Exciting. Terrifying. Necessary.

Somewhere behind me the old farmhouse creaked softly as the night settled around it. A light switched off in one of the bedrooms. Another followed. Soon the house would sleep.

I stayed where I was on the stoep, looking out into the Levubu night, listening to the quiet breathing of the land and wondering how a man who had spent his whole life flying alone had suddenly found himself charting a course for two.

The night had deepened while I stood there thinking. The moon had climbed a little higher above the distant ridges, washing the farmyard in a pale silver light that softened the edges of everything. The macadamia trees cast long black shadows across the grass, and the wind pump stood like a silent sentinel against the sky.

“Son,” Hannes said quietly beside me.

I hadn’t heard him approach. One moment I was alone with my thoughts, the next he was leaning against the stoep railing a few steps away, his silhouette framed by the moonlight.

“I suppose you are looking for a chart?”

I let out a slow breath. “There’s no chart or navigational map for the course that I’m on ... But the VFR landscape looks good. Dead reckoning is the key.”

Hannes nodded slowly, as if that answer made perfect sense to him.

“I do not know what or how you did it,” he said after a moment, “but you brought my little princess out of her rut. For that I thank you from the deepest of my heart.”

I shook my head gently. “She did the same for me. Made me see that there is a life to live besides aviation fuel, dew-points and density altitudes.”

Hannes chuckled softly. In the low light I could see the familiar creases appear at the corners of his eyes.

“You know that Amelia was an air hostess for the SAAF VIP flights?”

“I did not know...”

“Yes,” he said, settling a little more comfortably against the railing. “I found her on a flight to Grootfontein in the then South-West Africa. I was the navigator, and she served drinks and food platters to the generals that were going to do what generals do at a front-line. We had a layover for three days and I sort of ... guarded her during that time.”

He smiled faintly at the memory.

“Then we got back to Pretoria and I thought that was it. I’ll not see her again. Just another face on a long list of flights. But I did see her again ... and here we are, thirty-four years later. Still together.”

“A lifetime,” I said quietly.

“A good life together,” he replied. “She’s still as pretty as the day I met her on that DC-6.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. The night filled the silence between us with the rustle of leaves and the distant chorus of insects.

“When we pulled Kait out of that flood,” I said eventually, “I did not know that the path would lead me back to her.”

“You must have felt something other than just checking up on a patient you pulled out of the mud?”

“Maybe ... I don’t know.” I looked out across the dark garden where the moonlight pooled around the flowerbeds. “But fate seems to run unpredictable paths with us.”

Hannes nodded slowly.

“Kait is a wild one,” he said. “Always up to something. Her ex could not keep up with her and abandoned her. Now I see she might have stumbled onto someone that would not only keep up with her ... but maybe tune her down a bit.”

I smiled faintly.

“I can’t see myself without her friendship.”

“Take it slow,” Hannes said. “Don’t rush. You’ll know how. Just don’t hurt her.”

The words weren’t a threat. They were a father’s quiet truth.

“Hannes,” I said, turning toward him, “I don’t know how this is going to pan out, but I will never hurt her. Never abandon her.”

For a long moment he said nothing. We simply stood there side by side on the stoep, two men looking out into the same dark garden, each thinking our own thoughts.

The moon climbed a little higher and somewhere far down the valley a jackal called again, the lonely cry echoing across the fields. A second call answered it from another direction.

Hannes tilted his head slightly as he listened.

“It seems that one found his mate,” he said quietly. “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow will bring its own solutions and problems.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“You go to church, Adrian?”

“Yes, I do. Not every Sunday ... but when time allows.”

“Good,” Hannes replied. “Tomorrow is our ‘off’ day, but next time—pack your suit.”

“I will.”

We stepped back into the house together. The warm glow of the interior lights replaced the cool silver of the moon. Hannes moved through the hallway switching off lamps one by one, the farmhouse settling into sleep behind us.

At the passage junction I turned toward the guest room on the far side of the house.

“Good night, Hannes.”

“Good night, Adrian,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

The house went quiet again, and somewhere beyond the walls the Levubu night carried on under the watchful stars.

It was still early by city standards when I decided to turn in. The clock on the bedside table had just clicked over to 20:00, but farm time runs on a very different schedule than the cities. On a working farm the day begins when the sky is still black—around four in the morning if the cows have their way about it. Sunday or not, there are always chores waiting. Cows don’t take a Sabbath from being milked, and tractors don’t magically service themselves.

The guest room was quiet and cool, the faint scent of clean linen and furniture polish lingering in the air. Through the sliding door I could see the pale wash of moonlight on the stoep and hear the distant night sounds of Levubu—the endless cricket chorus and the occasional bark of a jackal far down the valley.

I had just reached for my towel, preparing to take a quick shower before bed, when there was a soft knock on the door.

I walked over and opened it, half expecting to see Kait standing there with another late-night thought she needed to share before sleep.

Luckily, I was still dressed.

Because standing there was not Kait.

It was Louise.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

Something in her tone made me pause. The sharp edge that had been present all day was gone. She stood a little differently too—less rigid, less confrontational. Her shoulders weren’t squared for battle anymore.