The day started out so well.

She woke up feeling clearheaded and calm. The silence was a miraculous blessing. She lay with her eyes shut and she could almost visualize the quiet: a beautiful glinting thing - silvery, insubstantial - stretching into every nook and cranny of the room, creeping into every nook and cranny of her mind.

She placed her feet into the slippers next to the bed and draped the thin robe over her shoulders. As she stood up, she glimpsed her moving form in the mirror on the dressing table. These days she usually avoided looking at herself: the wild-eyed woman staring back at her made her feel afraid. But perhaps today would be different. She looked into the eyes in the mirror. Yes, the face was serene.

It was still early. The air was cool and the sky not yet intensely blue. She slid the bolt from the back door and sat down on one of the shallow steps. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the smell of grass and growing things wet with dew. From here she could see all the way across the vast expanse of yellow veld to the thin black line of the road pointing south, snaking up a far hill and then disappearing from sight. It showed no sign of life: but then, it rarely did. It was five miles to the nearest neighbour; another ten to the nearest town.

Today, though, she was expecting a visitor. Tia was driving over from Johannesburg. She smiled at the thought. She had come to rely so much on these weekly visits from her daughter. When the pounding in her head became intolerable, the sounds around her toxic and magnified beyond all imagining, Tia's presence calmed her fears. She needed to feel Tia's small hand holding her own; to hear her say, 'Hang in there... We'll fight this together.' Poor Tia. How distressing it must be to watch your mother do battle with invisible demons.

But today would be a happy day. They'd have lunch together, maybe go for a walk. Sit outside on the verandah at nightfall and watch the moon rise slowly in a sky crazy with stars. And all would be quiet.

The phone rang. The silence shattered. For a moment she tensed, but then got to her feet quickly, killing the urgent, sharp ring of the phone by snatching the receiver from the stand.

She spoke carefully into the mouthpiece: 'Hello, Klio speaking.'

'Mum?' Tia's voice sounded hoarse. 'It's this bug. It's going around campus; everyone has it. I feel really ill... Actually,' she paused for a moment and the words came out in a rush, 'I don't think I'll be able to make it today.'

Klio slumped against the wall. But when she spoke she kept her voice light.

'That's OK, sweetheart. I'm having a really good day. And Maria will be over later to help me clean the house.'

'A good day?' The hesitation in Tia's voice was scarcely noticeable. But Klio knew her daughter. She could picture Tia's face at this moment. She would be concentrating intensely, trying to gauge every nuance of her mother's voice, her face completely still except for the tiny tick at the corner of one eyelid. It always acted up when Tia was troubled.

'Yes,' Klio said firmly. 'A good day. A very good day.'

'So, you're sure you'll be all right?'

'Absolutely. Not to worry.'

But Tia seemed unwilling to hang up. As they spoke for a few more minutes, Klio sensed her unease.

'I'm really OK, you know. And I promise I'll call you if I need to talk to you. You get some rest now. You sound terrible.'

'Yes.' Tia sniffed disconsolately. 'I feel terrible too.'

'Make yourself a hot toddy. Then go to bed.'

'OK. I love you, Mum.'

Klio was still smiling as she hung up the receiver. She felt a sudden rush of love for her daughter. She never ceased to marvel at the strength of the bond between them. She would not have thought it possible, all those years ago when she was carrying Tia. It had not been a happy pregnancy. Nausea plagued her for seven months on end, and worse than the physical discomfort was the sense of resentment: one moment she was free, her life uncluttered. The next moment she was a pod.

But then Tia was born. She had looked into the face of her red-haired daughter, placed her hand underneath the tiny, rickety neck. And kissing the soft blue-veined skin on her baby's forehead, she had lost her heart. Her daughter was a solemn-eyed child who grew up to become a quiet, reserved woman - but a woman capable of strength and unexpected warmth. Still, Klio worried about her. If only Tia had more confidence in herself, was able to break out of that shell of shyness, which sometimes made her seem aloof, stern almost.

She turned away from the telephone and walked into the kitchen, her slippers making a soft slurring noise as they brushed against the hem of her robe. Opening the kitchen cupboard, she took out a mug painted with bright yellow sunflowers. As she closed the door to the cupboard, she winced slightly as the hinges creaked. The sound was loud in that quiet room.

While she waited for the water to come to boil, she walked out into the garden. To her right was the long row of tall poplar trees, their tiny leaves coming alive with the slightest breath of air. She watched the tops of the trees as they swayed just a little and she squinted against the glare of the sun. With her eyes half-closed the trees seemed elongated, stretched into impossibly long smears of green.

She shook her head and rubbed her hand across her eyes. It was as she was starting to walk back to the house that she felt it. It came through the thin soles of her slippers: a pulse, like a heartbeat. She looked down. The earth underneath her feet was vibrating but the pulse was flawed and arrhythmic. And the silence in that quiet garden was no silence at all, but a hum like the ebb and flow of a giant spinning top.

'Nooo!' The cry tore from her breast, an ugly sound. She felt her lips stretch into a wide grimace. She placed her hands over her ears, but to no avail. There was a beating of wings inside her head and noisy invaders crashed through the deepest, most secret spaces of her mind. She felt nauseous, sick. She had to get back to the house, but where was it? She couldn't see the house because all around her were restless trees.

She started to run in the opposite direction, away from the trees and their hostile, whispering leaves. But the humming sound followed her and made the air seem alive to the touch. She ran, arms outstretched, into the yellow sea of waving grass. The white muslin gown, floating behind her, snagged on the tough stems and the tall grass cut her legs through the thin nightdress, drawing blood.

And as she ran, she knew she was hopelessly lost.