The Cane Field Gospel

I never believed in ghosts, not really. But there are things that happen on the old van Wyk plot that make a person question what they know. My name is Elias, and I moved to the Karoo, to a stretch of land called Klipplaat, to be closer to my aging parents. The plot was twenty-five acres of dust, thorn trees, and a dry riverbed that only ran during the floods. We had three houses on the property: the main farmhouse, a small worker’s cottage, and the old homestead that had been abandoned for decades.

The old homestead was a skeleton of its former self, with cracked windows and a stoep that sagged under the weight of years. Dad said the previous owner, a man named Koos, had gone mad and hanged himself in the barn. We didn’t pay it much mind, until the summer I turned sixteen. It was then I noticed the cane field.

From the kitchen window, I could see a stretch of wild sugarcane that had taken over the old irrigation channel. It grew tall and thick, a green wall that seemed to breathe in the heat. One afternoon, as the sun sank low, I saw a figure moving through the stalks. It was a woman in a long white dress, her hair black and loose. She didn’t walk; she drifted, leaving no trail. I blinked, and she was gone.

I told my mother, who crossed herself and said it was the heat. But I knew what I saw. The next day, I mustered up the courage to go into the cane field. The stalks closed over my head, and the air was thick and humid, the smell of rotting sweetness suffocating. In the center, I found a clearing with a ring of stones, and in the middle, a small, weathered doll. Its porcelain face was cracked, and its dress was the same white as the woman’s.

I picked up the doll and felt a chill despite the heat. That night, I heard a faint humming coming from the field. It was a child’s lullaby, soft and off-key. I couldn’t sleep. I went to the window and saw the woman again, this time cradling the doll, rocking it back and forth. She looked up at me, and her eyes were dark pits, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

I wanted to tell my father, but he was a practical man, and I feared his ridicule. Instead, I confided in the old farmhand, Piet, who had worked there for decades. He grew pale and said, ‘That is the ghost of Marie van Wyk, Koos’s wife. She drowned in the irrigation canal, they say, but her body was never found. She mourns the child she lost.’

Piet told me that Koos had been a cruel man, and Marie had been his second wife, a young woman from the city who was never accepted. She had given birth to a stillborn, and the grief drove her mad. She drowned herself in the canal, which now was dry, but the cane field had grown over the spot.

The haunting grew worse. I would find the doll in my room, despite having hidden it in the barn. I would hear the lullaby at all hours, and sometimes, I would see Marie standing in the doorway, her wet dress dripping water that evaporated before my eyes. My parents began to notice, but they attributed it to the wind or their imagination.

One night, I woke to find the house filled with the smell of damp earth and fresh water. The hallway was flooded ankle-deep, and I followed the water to the kitchen, where I saw Marie standing by the back door. She pointed to the cane field, then to me, and whispered, ‘Dig.’

I was frightened, but I obeyed. With a spade, I went to the center of the cane field, to the ring of stones. The moon was full, and the field was bathed in silver light. I began to dig. After a few feet, the spade hit something hard. It was a small, rusted box. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a birth certificate for a child named Anna van Wyk, and a lock of hair.

Suddenly, the cane field erupted in a whirlwind. The stalks bent and whipped around me, and I saw Marie pushing through the green, her face contorted with fury. She pointed at the box and then at the old homestead. I understood. That night, I went to the homestead and searched the attic. There, tucked in the eaves, was a small grave marker, crude and wooden, with the name ‘Anna’ scratched into it.

I dug beneath the marker and found a tiny coffin. Inside were the bones of an infant, and beside them, a silver locket with a photograph of Marie and a soldier. On the back was written, ‘My dearest Marie, I will return.’ It was dated during the war.

Piet, when I showed him, cursed under his breath. ‘God, that’s Koos’s secret,’ he said. ‘Marie had a child by a soldier, a love child. Koos killed it, and Marie never forgave him. She went mad, and he hid the body, then blamed her.’

I gave the infant a proper burial, in the family plot behind the church, with the locket. As I placed the last shovel of dirt, the wind died. The cane field, which had been rustling, fell still. I never saw Marie again, but I sometimes hear that lullaby, distant and fading, carried on the wind. The old homestead still stands, but it feels empty now, as if it has finally let go of its secret. And I know, when I walk past the cane field, I will always remember the weight of that small coffin, and the freedom that came with truth.

Years later, when I returned to visit my parents, the cane field had been cleared and replaced with a vineyard. But on the day of the harvest, the workers swear they hear a woman humming a lullaby among the vines, and they pour a glass of sweet wine on the ground for her. The plot is peaceful now, but I carry the story with me, and I know that some secrets, once buried, still have a way of whispering through the earth.