by Andre Brink
But that was that. Because the next moment a whole bunch of people burst past me to separate the two of us. In the struggle my watch was torn from my wrist, and as I stopped to pick it up someone crunched it underfoot. This made me even madder. But as I bundled up to hurl myself at them, I realised that Emma was there too.
If it hadn’t been for her, I swear by the brass buckle on my father’s belt, I’d have broken free from the hands pinning my arms to my back. I was man enough to kill Jurg, or anybody who tried to stop me. But not in front of her. Jurg was still carrying on like a bull brought down to be castrated. There were chairs and benches breaking all over the place as he wrestled with his tamers. The only unmoving objects in that voorhuis were the messy remains of Piet Snot on the bed, and Henta in the doorway, her hands pressed to her face.
By the time Lukas Death arrived everybody was talking at the same time. Those who’d come in last had the most to say. I couldn’t make head or tail out of all their versions, but later in the day I was able to speak to Hanna and from Emma I learned what she’d been told by Henta; and from all those bits and pieces I managed to patch together a fuller picture.
Insult to Incest
It turned out that little Piet had never gone into the mountains after all. Just after Hans Magic had sent him up the dry riverbed, he’d made a detour back to the settlement. That must have happened during the Sunday dinner. Even in the heart of the drought there was the customary excess of goat’s meat and samp and pumpkin and sweet potatoes and the rest. Piet must have avoided the loiterers and the stricken in body or mind, hiding behind his father’s house where there was rubble enough lying about after all the storms. And during the heavy sleep that descended on the valley in the wake of the meal he’d slipped inside to ask help from Henta. For better or for worse she wiped the sticky mess from his body, fed him the remains of the Sunday meal, and hid him under her bed where she’d spread a few buckskins. The ample dassie-skin kaross on the bed hung down far enough to keep him out of sight. That, as it turned out later, was where he’d stowed the dead chameleon the night before, after scooping it up from its premature grave.
So far everything had gone well for him. But not for long. The main problem was Jurg Water’s temper which had been building up towards an explosion for some time: the family, recognising the signs, had gone into a kind of catatonic state in anticipation. He was already fucked when the storm in the afternoon brought no rain. “It’s because that Piet is so bloody useless,” he ranted. And when Hanna tried to defend the boy he slapped her. Wanting to stay out of it, Henta had withdrawn to her bed in the voorhuis, but somehow that made him even angrier. And then the futile search in the mountains stirred up yet more bloody thunder inside him, which wasn’t helped at all by Hanna’s increasingly vocal reproaches. He hardly slept all night. My own guess is that he was already hatching schemes of revenge for the shame little Piet had brought on them.
What followed is still not clear. It would seem that Jurg’s prostate sent him outside during the night. But it is also possible that darker designs drove him to Henta’s bed in the voorhuis, because that was where the trouble came to a head. In the dark he either stumbled over little Piet’s feet sticking out from under the bed, or the boy made a sound when his father’s heavy body began to weigh down the that of the bed on top of him. The particulars are not that important. All that matters is that Jurg plucked Piet from under the bed and, to add insult to incest, discovered the dead chameleon in the boy’s hand. That was all he needed, and Henta’s attempts to interfere just about turned his arse-hairs grey.
Many Generations
It was in the church that the next chapter was played out. Which came as no surprise. There is no other public building in the settlement, and in the course of time the church has come to stand in for all kinds of functions, not all of them solemn or proper. I should have remembered what had happened to Alwyn Knees.
All that lived and moved in the Devil’s Valley was there. Including Brother Holy, but he was scratching away so furiously that he couldn’t have absorbed much of what was happening around him. Behind the communion table a few chairs had been set out for the members of the Council of Justice: Lukas Death in the centre, more pissed-upon than pissing; to his left, Isak Smous; to his right, Jos Joseph. Jurg Water and I were both in the front row, but with several other men in between. Just as at church services, the men and women were seated apart in two blocks, left and right.
Let me say immediately that it was the weirdest trial I have attended in my career as a crime reporter. Actually it wasn’t a trial at all, and perhaps I’d been fucking naive to expect anything of the kind. I should have taken to heart the way in which after the deaths of Ouma Liesbet and Ben Owl everything had simply petered out, but at least there was the excuse that his suicide had prematurely brought an end to both matters. But this time it was murder, loud and clear, and the perpetrator was at hand.
Even so, there was no accusation of any kind brought against Jurg Water. All that appeared to interest the three councillors was what weight could be attached to the fact that neither of Hans Magic’s blasted rituals had been allowed to run its course. Did it mean that the whole process should start all over again, first with a new chameleon, then a new storm-child? Or should they attempt something different altogether? Because the situation, brothers and sisters, had now become critical.
I couldn’t believe my fucking ears. Nor could I keep silent. I’d seen some pretty disgusting sights in my life; but the way Henta had appeared on my doorstep that morning, and the sight of little Piet’s remains on that blood-spattered bed, would be screwing me for years to come. And after the first few opinions had been aired—including an intervention, so help me God, by Jurg Water himself, who proposed that Hans Magic should be locked up for the unrest he had caused—I jumped to my feet. My hands were trembling as they clutched the edge of the pew in front of me. From the murmuring voices around me it was soon clear that the audience didn’t approve of my speaking at all. But fuck them.
“Lukas,” I said, while everything in front of my eyes began to waver, like a scene through a heatwave, “please help me if I’m wrong. But a child was beaten to death in this settlement last night. We have all seen the body. Now isn’t that what we’re supposed to discuss? You’re sitting here with a murderer in your midst and all you can talk about is chameleons.”
“It was your chameleon, Neef Flip,” Lukas Death quietly reminded me, as if that was the crux of the matter.
“I’m talking about murder. Doesn’t it concern you?”
“Neef Flip.” Lukas Death’s voice was infused with endless patience, which made me ever madder. “Our customs go back a long way. They have been tried and tested over many generations. We appreciate your good intentions, but perhaps it would be better for you to stay out of this.”
“I don’t understand…” I said.
“That is very obvious,” Jos Joseph cut in. “Now please sit down.”
I was ready to boil over, although I still desperately tried to restrain myself: I mean, hell, this was no time for irresponsible speech or action. But how could I just let them carry on like that?
Parent and Child Inside
“When I arrived at Jurg Water’s house this morning…” I began again.
“How come that every time someone dies this man is on the scene?” Jurg Water interrupted, his voice distorted by his mangled and hugely swollen nose. “First Ouma Liesbet, then Ben Owl, now Piet. Ask him to explain that to us.”
A number of voices rumbled in support.
“Well, Neef Flip?” said Lukas Death, clearly uncomfortable. “Entering another man’s house with the clear purpose of assaulting him with a fire-iron is not a very neighbourly thing to do, is it now?”
Sounds of approval from all sides. The farce was threatening to get wholly out of control. All my resolve to restrain myself broke down.
“You’re speaking about assault?” I asked. “I defended myself when he attacked me
with his sjambok. The same sjambok with which he’d beaten his child to death. Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
Lukas stared at me in utter surprise. “But Neef Flip,” he said, “surely what happens between parent and child inside the four walls of a house concerns no one outside? I’ve explained that to you before.”
“We were talking about a thrashing at the time, Lukas. Are you trying to tell me a father has the right to kill his son and get away with it?”
“The father is the head of his house,” said Lukas Death, still in a tone of great forbearance. “As the Judge is the head of his people. This authority comes from God, and it is not for us to question it. How can we raise a hand against God himself?”
It was his mild way of speaking that made it just too fucking much to take. And no one in the congregation—except Jurg Water, who continued to glower at me with fire and brimstone in his eyes—seemed upset or put out. Some of them even smiled indulgently in my direction: this poor idiot in our midst who can’t understand how such things work, don’t be too hard on him, he’ll learn.
Conjugation of a Verb
In desperation I turned round in my pew to face the people behind me: “Is there no one among you who has any question? Will you let a murderer get away with a crime like this? I don’t believe it. I’ve come to know you as honourable and decent citizens…”
“You heard what Lukas Death said,” remarked one of the older men. “We’ll arrange a proper funeral for the child, we all liked him. Nice manners, well brought up. The rest is between his family and the Lord.”
“So it’s out of sight, out of mind?” I asked, feeling like a lion in a den of Daniels. “A man who steals a pail of water for his pregnant wife is flogged to death. But a father who kills his child can continue to sit on his big arse in church with you?”
“Drought affects the whole community, Neef Flip,” said Lukas Death, as if he were explaining the conjugation of a verb to a half-witted child. “Don’t you see…?”
“No, I don’t!” I shouted back. This time I turned towards the female block for one last appeal: “Is there not a single woman here who feels unhappy about what happened? Do you also go along with it?” I paused, realising very well how below-the-belt I was fighting, but this was my last resort. “Hanna, you…?”
Hanna-of-Jurg half-rose to her feet, but sank back again.
“Neef Flip isn’t familiar with our customs yet,” said Lukas Death from his chairman’s seat. “Women are not allowed to speak in church, except to address the Lord in prayer.”
I took the gap: “Then perhaps one of them would like to raise this matter in prayer to God?”
But with a great show of long-suffering Lukas Death pointed out that this was a session of the Council of Justice, not a prayer-meeting. And then Isak Smous butted in:
“I think we’ve given enough time to one speaker,” he said, casting a smile of forgiveness in my direction. “Can we return to more important matters now?”
“It’s time we called another prayer-meeting,” proposed Brother Holy, executing a quick two-step as he tried to reach an itch in a difficult spot.
But most of the men immediately saw through the strategy, and the proposal was turned down flat. The congregation wasn’t going to entrust anything to Brother Holy’s itching hands again. With an overwhelming majority the Council of Justice was requested to co-opt Hans Magic in order to decide on the next step. In a surprisingly mellow mood the meeting was adjourned.
Weird shit. That is the Devil’s Valley. Weird shit, in every sense of ‘weird’. But also fucking dangerous shit.
Up To Here
I was the only one to remain behind in the church, shattered and empty, and still unable to grasp properly what had happened.
Which was why the transition caught me unawares. The others were still chatting in small groups when I emerged from the stale darkness inside the church into the bloody pitiless glare of the sun. I felt miserable; my only desire was to get away from them, back to my room. But Jurg Water must have been waiting for me, because the moment I stepped outside, past the stained door with the large mottled brass ring, he shouted from a distance:
“Don’t think I’ve finished with you, you troublemaker!”
I stopped. My jaws felt tense. “Are you talking to me?” I asked, “Murderer.”
If this was the way to go, I thought, then so be it.
But the others must have been expecting something of the sort, because a buffer of bodies immediately formed between us. Some of the men pinned my arms behind me. For a moment I thought they were going to hand me over to Jurg Water, but then I noticed that he was being similarly restrained.
Afterwards it occurred to me how strange it was that the old Seer had not come down to call us all to order. But just as well, I suppose. He might have tipped the scales against me. That he hadn’t bothered to come might in fact be a signal that I no longer had reason to fear anything from that quarter. Perhaps, having at last told me his story, he would now come to rest. I couldn’t bank on it, of course, but the crisis might well be over. Jurg Water on his own I could take on. Just go for the nose, I decided.
Lukas Death moved quickly to stamp out the fires. But Jurg Water didn’t even look at him. All his withering attention was focused on me.
“Look, you try to call me a murderer to my face again and see what happens,” he taunted me, struggling so furiously that the four or five men holding him back were swung this way and that like old rags. But for the moment they still had the upper hand.
“You can deny it till your face is bluer than your nose, Jurg, but you are a murderer,” I repeated. “And there are enough people here who’ve got their arseholes plugged with the way you treat your family.” I mean, if he was playing to the gallery, right, then so could I. “If you don’t watch out you may wake up one morning with a peg through your head.”
“What’s this shit you’re talking?” he asked.
“You know what happened to Lukas Nimrod,” I said. “When the men of the Devil’s Valley were too scared to face him, his own wife killed him.”
“That’s a lie. It was a porcupine that penned him. I told you myself.”
“That’s why I don’t believe it, Jurg.”
This stirred up even more shit. And in the bloody bedlam of talking and shouting I was relieved to hear women’s voices joining in at last.
“No one here will dare to raise a hand against me,” he shouted through the noise.
All of a sudden it was his wife Hanna who broke from the crowd to come up to him. Her face was streaked with tears, like Henta’s had been earlier, but her voice was fierce and unwavering.
“All these years I’ve let you have your way, Jurg Water,” she said. Silence fell on the crowd as if a huge kaross had been flung over them to quell all sound. It was very obvious that only one hell of an effort had brought her so far. But having made her move, nothing was going to stop her now. “God knows, it was a sin, but I never interfered, even when I should have. For Pietie’s sake. For Henta’s. Because I always thought, no matter how terrible it was, you had the right. And at least you spared me. But last night you raised your hand against me too and then you killed Pietie. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that, even if I get to be as old as Ouma Liesbet Prune one day.”
Lukas Death cleared his throat as he tried to step between them. “We understand your feelings, Hanna,” he said, as if he was pleading for help rather than offering it. “But you must take comfort from the fact that one learns through suffering.”
“What do you know about it?” asked Hanna, even more provoked than before. “The only thing that suffering has taught me is the uselessness of suffering. And now I’ve had enough.” She swung back to her husband. “I’m telling you one thing, Jurg Water, and let these people be my witness: sooner or later I’m going to get you. I’m not saying when. It may be tonight or it may be next year. But it will happen one night when you don’t expect it.”
“You th
ink I’m scared of woman’s talk?”
“We shall see what we shall see, Jurg. You’ve been warned. And you’d be wise not to sleep too deeply from now on.”
“Wait till I get my two hands on you.”
Legs Very Far Apart
And then it was Dalena-of-Lukas who came forward. There was something almost frightening about her look this time. “If you touch so much as a single hair on Hanna’s head, we women will take the law into our hands.”
“Dalena, now please!” a decidedly worried Lukas Death tried to intervene.
“You shut up, Lukas.” She came a step nearer to Jurg Water. “If you can still walk after we’ve done with you, it’ll be with your legs very far apart,” she said. “And if you still haven’t learned your lesson I shall personally push your forked stick up your backside.”
“And all this just because of the lies this man told?” asked Jurg, still smouldering, but with less defiance in his manner than before.
“They’re not lies,” said Dalena. “I told him myself what really happened to Lukas Nimrod.”
The men had let go of our arms, but they were clearly ready to jump in again if necessary.
“How can you turn against one of your own?” asked Jurg Water, deeply offended. He shook his head in my direction again. “From the moment that man came here among us he’s just been causing trouble, digging up all the sins of the past. Why? To blacken our name in the world outside? So that they can start sending in commandos and expeditions as in the old days to wipe us out?”
Unexpectedly Tant Poppie Fullmoon also came forward. In passing she elbowed Jurg Water in the wind. “What do you know about the old days?” she jeered. “You’re only a second-generation settler, so watch your mouth.”
Jurg Water gawked at her, then turned towards his cronies. “Now that we’re on our knees in the drought this stranger wants to finish us off. It’s high time he got hauled before the Council of Justice.”
