BECKONED

Two sisters share a ground floor flat in Hillbrow. As residents enter the building from Ockerse Street, five marble steps lead to a cavernous foyer, two old lifts at one end and, along the walls, wood décor and letterboxes from which they fetch their mail. To the right is a glazed door leading to several ground floor flat entrances. The emaciated grey haired pair occupy flat number one. They are reclusive  to an extreme and slink into their private sanctum at the sight of other residents passing by. The aura about them is strangely odd.

Summer on the Highveld brings the spectre of violent thunderstorms and bolts of fork lightning.

Approaching dusk on a balmy afternoon the storm clouds begin to gather – a few whisks of white fluff in the summer sky soon turns to increasingly dark shades of grey as they transmutate into menacing highveld storm clouds. Thunderstorms roll in inexorably, initially with hints of lightning sweeping across the early evening sky. At first distant sound of thunder follows each announcement that lights the clouds in sheets unfurling in the expanse.

Indoors, folk settle in their routines of the evening – preparing meals, taking in headlines in the daily newspapers, relaxing in an armchair with a good read, or simply connecting as friends and families. A sudden bolt of a well defined lightning fork tears in an almost vertical path earthwards, followed milliseconds later by a series of thunderclaps that shatter any hint of calm poise.

The pitter patter of initial raindrops striking the sand increases in intensity. The first drops simply presaged a rapid surrender to the deluge which follows unhindered. Flashes of unrelenting lightning bolts, followed by deafening thunderclaps are accompanied by showers, and then wind-driven pelting rain. Puddles become pools, pools become streams, and the streams smash into each other forming rivers that seek out the nearest urban stormwater drains. Swirling and raging water masses sweep in their path debris, together with carelessly forgotten possessions left to the mercy of the elements –but these highveld storms have no mercy.

Against the torrential downpour Johannesburg’s evening traffic struggles ahead – car windscreen wipers shudder in a vain effort to maintain driver visibility. Tyres displace dams of accumulated water and create monstrous waves. Pedestrians seek shelter under wind-inverted brollies and ultimately surrender their drenched forms to the relief of an available verandah.

As suddenly as the pelting rain and its frightening accomplices – the psychedelic light show and thunderous cacophony – arrived, so instantly does everything settle down and calm returns to the city streets.

The aftermath is a sweet smell of rain. The air is clear and those who have had the good fortune to witness this beautiful, oft repeated occurrence, are cleansed of the residue of a day of toil in one of South Africa’s greatest urban settings.

A highveld experience would be incomplete without the joy of witnessing one of the most grandiose spectacles nature so graciously offers.

But not for the hermit sisters in ground floor flat number one. The encroaching storm and its sudden retreat, strike terror in these relics of a distant era, skin and bones attired in drab long dresses and heads covered with a veil. About them is a hint of unkempt dishevelment. Unmanicured long fingernails speak of neglect that has lasted far too long.

They have an uncomfortable history with the highveld storm. It was rumoured that years ago, as young girls, they had been struck by lightening in just such an event as has been described as a typical summer occurrence. In a flash, two promising teens were victims of a bolt from the heavens and started their journey into social oblivion.

A young fellow unknowingly darts up the five steps and heads towards the lifts. Around the edge of the glazed door peer two scrawny faces, hands extended and slender fingers beckoning. Awkwardly arrested in his hurried gait, he hesitates and then accedes to the invitation of the gestures.

He cautiously proceeds to follow the two strange sisters into the dark, eerie apartment in which was ensconced the siblings eking out an existence on the proceeds of inheritance judiciously set aside for their upkeep – their parents had known all too well that they would never have been able to earn an independent livelihood.

Around him began to enfold an invisible and mysterious atmosphere – at once terrifying, oppressive and restrictive. Escape seemed unlikely, as the front door was closed behind them. His anxiety grew with the confluence of the flat’s dark, dusty, dank interior and the musty aura of the two apparitions.

He had been beckoned merely to attend to a fuse box that had cut the power to the flat, but it was with considerable relief that he edged his way back to the lift, but chose instead to bolt up the six flights of stairs.

© Paul M Haupt