Renier de Winnaar lived on the slopes of the Koesberg, near today’s town of Zastron, and he was the best storyteller in the whole of the Free State. If Renier had not told the stories he did, we might never have known why there is a hole in the Aasvogelberg or why so many of the hills around Zastron have flat tops. According to him, both were the results of minor differences of opinion between Renier and the Devil. Storytelling brings long life, according to the folk of Zastron, which must be why Renier de Winnaar lived to the ripe old age of 102.
There was one particular day when Renier was fishing. It was a great way to pass the time – lying back with a pipe in one hand and a bottle beside him, watching the clouds go past. He was there often, so the clouds came to know him quite well. Day after day they had watched him glugging back the liquid in his long dark bottle and they became quite jealous. Whatever it was, it smelt strong and appeared to taste even stronger.
‘Hey, man!’ they called down. ‘What are you drinking there? Give us a taste!’
Renier looked up at the white-headed thunderclouds. ‘No! There’s not enough for all of us,’ he shouted. ‘I wet my throat – you wet yours!’ And he laughed as he tipped the last of the clear brown liquid down his throat.
Up in the sky, the thundertops were angry. Certainly, they were able to wet their own throats and a few others as well. They weren’t going to be selfish. They glanced down at Renier who was stretched out and had his hat pulled over his face, and they scurried away on their own mischievous business. If Renier had been awake, he might have heard a sound like great barrels of drink being trundled across the sky. He might have seen sparks and flashes of hidden laughter from the thundertops. But, alas, adding a whole bottle of drink to the excitement of fishing had sent him fast asleep. While he snored, things were happening.
He didn’t realise how the clouds had got their own back until he was woken by what felt like a barrel of water being tipped over him. A great gale of laughter swept across the sky. ‘Taste this!’ rumbled a voice. Then came another torrent of water and more thunderous mirth. Renier grabbed his rod, his pipe and his sodden hat and started to run home. But there was no avoiding the thundertops and their sense of humour. By the time he reached home, he was soaked to the skin. He shook his fist at the sky, while the clouds were tumbling over each other with high delight.
Old Renier de Winnaar wasn’t going to be beaten by a bunch of fluffy clouds. The next day he sorted out a generous twist of his best tobacco, grown on his own farm. Then he climbed the hillside to a cave where a dust-devil lived. It was a mischievous dust-devil, this one, and it liked nothing better than to play tricks on people as it whirled and swirled around the Free State fields.
‘Morning, Dusty!’ called Renier loudly, as he finally reached the cave. ‘Are you looking for a bit of fun today?’
The dust-devil woke with a start, choked and spluttered and nearly suffocated the old man in swirling dust.
‘Calm down!’ said Renier. ‘See here – I’ve brought you a pipeful of my best tobacco. It’s yours if you agree to join me in my little plan.’
The fragrance of the tobacco was too tempting. The dust-devil coiled himself neatly and agreed to listen. As Renier told it about the rude, rough joking of the thundertops, the dust-devil liked the plan more and more. It had disliked the high-flown clouds for years and years. They had a habit of looking down on it in a most unfriendly fashion.
‘Just you wait until tomorrow,’ were Renier’s last words to the dust-devil. ‘I will go fishing again, and together we’ll give those clouds quite a different view on things.’
Once again, Renier sat himself down by the river in the lovely, warm sunshine. For a long while the sky above him stayed blue and bright. But as he waved his bottle around, the light glinting on the glass, he thought he could actually see a few little inquisitive wisps of cloud.
He glanced across the valley to where the dust-devil was lurking, like a thin trail of smoke, and he winked his eye. The smoke quivered.
Apparently uninterested, a white-headed thundercloud sailed into view. Then two more, followed by a general gathering of thundertops. A distant rumble in the air sounded just a little like a water barrel being rolled into readiness, so Renier took off his straw hat and waved it about.
Up into the air soared the dust-devil! All the sandy dust, choking ashes and crumbled mud from the valley floor was swept up with it. The large, white thundertops were bumped around the blue sky and completely smothered with dirt. Their laughter choked into gritty growls, and their feeble attempts to rain produced only a few muddy drops and dribbles. The clouds fled and the dust-devil chased them with delight far into the heights of the Maluti Mountains way away in Lesotho.
There was no laughter left in the sky – but there was plenty down at ground level. Old Renier de Winnaar rolled around, hugging himself and howling in glee until tears rolled off his cheeks and made muddy puddles of their own.
The story could have ended there. But it seems the thundertops were mighty offended by the way they had been treated. They stayed away from that corner of the Free State for weeks on end. The sun shone from an endlessly clear sky, without a drop of rain. Renier had stopped laughing long ago. His farm was parched, his cattle thirsty, and even his favourite fishing spot was a dried up pool of mud. The other folk of the valley were suffering as well. It was time he apologised.
One Sunday morning after church, the faintest whisper of cloud peeped down to see old man de Winnaar staggering towards the river bank with a small heavy barrel. Two other barrels were already there, with their tops opened and a heavenly smell of something rich and brown and delicious. He cocked an ear and listened. Was that a tiny, distant twitch of thunder he heard?
‘Listen, up there!’ he shouted. ‘You win – and I’m sorry. How about having a drink together, to show that friends are still friends, eh?’
Well, the thundertops really began massing overhead at that point. The white clouds swept close to the ground and it might have been tears of gratitude which brought light rain pattering gently on the earth. But Renier had gone too far, as he usually did. Whatever he had put into those three barrels was far too strong for the thundertops. They went on a three day storming party! Lightning leapt about in a drunken fashion, thunder staggered from hill to hill, and the rain fell helplessly everywhere.
For once in his life, Renier didn’t mind getting soaked. The valley needed that rain badly. But when it was all over, the clouds made a habit of sailing past with their heads even more in the air. Visit Zastron yourself. You will find that they still do. Renier de Winnaar didn’t mind that either. He got on with his fishing and his storytelling in peace.
The Caledon River Valley
If Renier de Winnaar, who in fact really lived from 1781 to 1883, had journeyed towards Bloemfontein, he would have crossed the Caledon River. This river still continues to divide the Free State from Lesotho to this day. Its fertile grazing lands were a source of constant squabbles between the Boer farmers and the Basotho. Fascinating things such as dinosaur bones, rock paintings, mission stations and tales of scary cannibals can be found around Zastron and Ladybrand. And thunder-topped clouds often form overhead.