The chieftain of the boys’ gang doesn’t budge.

“Think about it from where I sit,” he suggests. “You have come into our world, a total stranger. We don’t know why. We don’t know anything about you. You could be a spy.”

“Ja, a spy!” pipes a voice from behind him. One of the littler ones. Another older boy nudges him in his ribs.

“The truth is,” the chieftain continues confidently, “we can’t trust you. We can’t trust you not to give us away.”

I am caught. I know he is right. They’ve got me. A spiral of fear trembles up my neck. “How long will you keep me prisoner?” I ask, persisting.

“We will not think of you as a prisoner,” he says with a slow smile. “More like a special guest.”

I want to scream. I want to run. I want to attack him. I want to beg them to let me go … go on my hands and knees and beg. I don’t do any of these things.

“How long,” I repeat, through gritted teeth.

He continues playing with his necklace. I want to strangle him with it.

“As long as it takes us to trust you. So, you’ll have to behave.” This he says with a slight sneer.

I don’t know what to say. I just look at the wall behind him and say nothing. He regards me longer, with a look in his eye that I can’t figure out.

“Enough,” he decides. “Let’s eat.”

Finkie, a light-skinned boy with slanted green eyes, brings candles to the table. He regards me shyly, looking at me sideways, with a slight grin. He is missing his two front teeth.

As Finkie leaves Black Cat tells me he is a bit slow, because his mother smacked him on the head when he was little, and it affected his brain. As these horrible details are revealed, there is no doom and gloom in the delivery – it is told like a fact, almost cheerfully.

As dinner progresses, I develop a sort of respect for these independent young guys. Young people grown up too fast, with no love, no authority – and yet, to see what they have made!

A large iron pot is used for cooking. A natural shelf in the wall of the cave acts as their pantry. I see carrots, cabbages, pears and what must be some sort of roots on it, plus some glass bottles of water.

Food is passed round. I notice there is equality between the boys – everyone is given the same amount.

Black Cat knocks his glass on the tabletop and commands the attention of everyone.

“This is Olive. She is our guest. She is a girl. She will fix our clothes and cook for us. She will also tell us stories. She is not to be harmed in any way. You will all be nice to her and give her all she needs. She will stay with us as long as it takes me to trust that she will not give our hideout away to the authorities. If anyone upsets or hurts her, you will answer to me.”

He says this with the booming confidence of a president. The eyes of the boys widen, and they nod, understanding. He is their undisputed chief.

I’m annoyed by what he has said about being a girl, and doing cooking and cleaning. I’m not a ‘girly’ girl and I don’t like being told how a girl should behave. I can do anything a boy can do, and better too. When I was in Grade 5, I knocked a boy’s front tooth out because he called my mother the ‘K’ word. That shows you, I’m tough. If you ever insult my mom, I’ll knock your teeth out, so be warned.

The boys all look at me keenly, and I can see need in their eyes. It becomes obvious to me. There is no mother figure in their lives. I feel sad about that. I know what it is like to not have a mother. No-one to wash and dress your scraped knee, no-one to make you Milo when you are sick, no-one to tell you that you’re special. It sucks. I know this first-hand.

I say nothing. I just smile faintly. I don’t commit to anything by agreeing. I just eat their food (which is spicy and nice, some sort of vegetable soup) and try and keep a low profile.

I no longer fear them though. They are just misfits and throwaways, not criminals or bad people. In a way, I pity them, but I do not show it, because I know what it is like to feel pitied by someone you don’t know. It’s annoying.

After supper, I help a boy called Blommie wash up. He looks at me shyly as we do this.

“Your hair is nice,” he says meekly.

“Thanks,” I say, awkwardly.

I’m led to a little mattress made of dried fynbos and ferns tied together with string. I don’t know how comfortable it is going to be but I am so exhausted by now I couldn’t care less.

I sleep on the other side of the cave to them, and someone has even hung me a little curtain. The considerate thought warms me. I feel safe, even though the situation is beyond bizarre.

As soon as my sore, tired body touches the mattress of soft ferns, I fall asleep.

*****

When I wake up, I can’t tell what time it is. I guess it is morning because there is movement in the cave. Peeping round the curtain I see two boys exiting with baskets, I guess to gather fruit and nuts and whatnot. I feel homesick and then I remember – I have no home. Because of Priscilla.

I put on fresh underwear, pull on my jeans and pull back my little sleeping curtain.

Two of the boys are sitting at the main table. I recognise them as Finkie, who talks slowly, and Blommie, the shy little one who washed up the dinner stuff last night.

I sit on one of the tree stump stools. I rub my eyes. “Morning,” I mutter.

“Morning, ma’am!” says Finkie. I giggle.

“You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’, Finkie,” I say with a smile.

“OK, ma’am,” is his response.

Blommie pushes a little wooden cup toward me. “Drink, Olive,” he says.

“What is it?” I say, bringing the steaming liquid to my nose. These kids seem alright, yet I wouldn’t put it past them to poison a stranger.

“Wake-up tea,” Blommie informs me like a TV ad: “Green leaves for energy, cinnamon for taste, orange for gesondheid, health.”

I inhale the little curl of steam coming off it. I take a tentative sip. It’s delicious. I sip more. I’m grateful for any act of kindness at the moment, even if it comes from a ten-year-old who lives in a cave.

*****

Most of The Unwanteds set off from the cave and return at different times, some with water, some with food. They all seem to have chores and routines. I make myself busy trying to patch up some of their clothes and blankets, just like Snow White I almost giggle to myself.

That evening supper is bread that Blommie tells me is made of acorns. I can see that he is proud of it. I think he is the chef round here. The bread is crunchy and warm, because it has just been baked. Then a big wooden plate of fruit is put in the middle of the table. Seven sets of hands attack the sweet delights – there are figs, guavas, and five oranges cut into quarters.

I chew on a fig as pink as a rose. It makes me think of home. The meal ends. Everyone’s lips are sticky with fruit sap.

*****

Finkie has taken to keeping close to me all the time. On Friday after breakfast he jumps off his stool and trots over to the wall above the food making area. He unpins a little photo and brings it to the table.

“Have you seen my Ma?”

I don’t know if I can deal with so much heartbreak first thing in the morning. The picture is of a thin, dark-skinned, worried-looking woman standing in front of a brick wall. She is holding the hand of a scruffy but smiling little boy – Finkie. The ears are unmistakable. They stick out like a monkey.

“I’ll look for her,” I say to Finkie, nodding gravely. Finkie seems satisfied with my answer.

Then I do something without thinking. I hug him. The little boy hugs back tightly. I’ve never felt someone hug so tightly – it is like he is clinging onto life itself.

He sits back. “Do you have a picture of your Mama?”

I bite my lip. It’s probably only 9 a.m., and we’ve already had one Oprah moment. And here comes another…

I shake my head. “No,” I say, and the words feel like stones in my mouth, covered in salt. “My mom died.”

Finkie’s mouth opens, stays open. He comes in for hug number two. He smells slightly sour, like unwashed clothes, but also fruity, like he eats only bananas.

This cave is obviously a place of hugging. Nothing wrong with that, I think. I could do with more hugs in my life, if I think about it.

“I do have this, though. A photo of my Pa.”

I stand up slightly so that I can get it out of my shorts pocket. It’s a photo of me, my dad, and, unfortunately, Priscilla. When I look at it I usually cover up Priscilla with my hand, and imagine that it’s just me and my Dad, because we are smiling. It was taken at a concert Priscilla gave about three months ago in Oudtshoorn at an Afrikaans pop music festival. Dad went to visit her there and took me. We stayed in a B and B and it was cool.

I’m smiling in the photo because Priscilla tripped and fell when she was walking off stage, and it was brilliant. Her voice is disgusting. Someone should tell her. Dad is smiling because he is always smiling, even when he is in pain. Also, he had just had two beers. I wouldn’t let him have a third. He starts to cry after three beers.

I lay the photo on the table. Blommie and Finkie both peer at it with interest. Blommie puts a dirty finger onto the face of the gruesome Priscilla. He looks at me.

“I know this lady,” he says.

All I can do is blink, stunned.

***

Tell us what you think: How might Blommie know Priscilla?