by Andre Brink
I followed her. “I’m not sure it’s wise to stand here,” I said, “with all this lightning.”
She shook her head. I should have known. This attraction of the violent and the dangerous. Together with her I stared at the near-continuous lightning. There was almost no interval between the flashes. The whole mountain, heaven and earth, everything, seemed to be going up in flames, alternating between sheet lightning in which whole clouds erupted into fire, and rapid blinding spiderwebs of light that made the sky look like a huge black egg cracking over us. And what would hatch from it, God alone knew. More than once a bolt was followed by a dull thud, a sure sign that something had been hit. But what—chimney, church tower, tree, or cliff?
The light coming from outside turned a strange, venomous green. Inside the deep dark red of the floor was glowing more and more ominously. I had no idea of how long the storm went on. I was too mesmerised by the violence of the spectacle to be conscious of time. If Ouma Liesbet had been right about the lightning-bird, even she could never have anticipated a winged monster quite like this. Forgetting all about our own safety we now stood squarely in front of the window. This time the earth was indeed moving, but not with love. If the lightning chose to strike us, at least we’d go together. It might be a solution for many people, including ourselves.
Somewhere during all that violence Emma suddenly half-turned towards me and caught my arm. I’d also seen it: high up on the slope behind the houses, where dark fingers of virgin forest reached down towards the bluegum wood, a column of fire had sprung up. The lightning must have struck a tree. As we watched, it began to spread at amazing speed, fanned by the wind, until the whole slope was ablaze. It wasn’t surprising, the mountain was so dry, it had just been waiting to be ignited. There was a barren band between the wood and the houses where the goats had stripped the earth of all vegetation, but given the fierceness of the wind still raging in the kloofs, one couldn’t be sure that the flames wouldn’t jump the divide. And within minutes a second fire had started, then a third. We ran to the window opposite. The slopes on that side were burning too. The entire settlement was caught in a circle of fire. And as it became darker, the flames leaped ever higher.
But slowly, almost unnoticeably at first, the fury of the storm began to run out of steam. The thunder withdrew into the distance, down the valley, across the mountains, gone. There were still sporadic flickerings of lightning, like brief flaming afterthoughts, accompanied by the now almost inaudible rumble of thunder shuddering in one’s bones. And then it was over. The wind also died down. But the mountains were still burning.
Greyish Ash
In the hissing silence following the storm we set out into the night. Like two ghosts we wandered through the emptiness of the dark settlement in its ring of fire. There was no light anywhere, as if the inhabitants were scared of attracting attention. No one else had ventured outside. Even in the dark the extent of the destruction was fearsome. The previous storms had been bad enough, but this combination of wind and lightning had been the fucking limit. Several of the houses had been razed to the ground. What had become of the inhabitants was anybody’s guess. And all around us was that infernal circle of fire on the mountain slopes. Thank God it seemed to be working its way upward, not down to the houses. And the flames were slowly burning themselves out.
“Look, this is it,” I said. “Tomorrow we must go. There’s nothing left for us here.”
“If it isn’t too late already,” said Emma.
“We’re still alive.” I took her hands.
We were above the higher row of houses, behind Tant Poppie’s place, which also lay in ruins. I went cold.
I stole nearer with a hollow feeling in my guts, and shouted her name, but there was no sound from the remains of the house. In the dark it was impossible to make out anything. I could only hope that she’d been out on a call, or that someone else had offered her shelter.
In a way the discovery next door was even worse. It was the forlorn mewing of the cats that drew me closer. And on the front stoep, propped up against the door that had been torn from its hinges, I found Tall-Fransina, half-buried under the debris of a fallen pillar. We kneeled beside her and began to scrape away the rubble. What shocked me most was that her face was covered in ashes. Not the soot of the night’s fires, but whitish, greyish ash that appeared eerily familiar even in the dark. Without saying anything to Emma, I gently wiped it from her face, then bent over to try mouth-to-mouth, but there was no life in her. Together we half-carried, half-dragged her inside and laid her on the big bed. Emma found a candle and lit it. In the dancing light cats approached from all sides to snuggle up against Tall-Fransina’s body as they had done for God knows how many years.
We didn’t speak. We went outside again, leaving the candle burning. I stacked some stones against the front door to prop it into position and keep out the night. For what must have been another hour we continued our speechless wandering among the ruins of the settlement.
Madman
“They’ll all be working to clear up the damage tomorrow,” I said as we turned back to Lukas Death’s house. “They’ll be much too busy to notice. I’ll leave early and wait for you at the rock pool.”
“I’ll help Dalena first,” she said. “I don’t want anyone to get suspicious, not even her.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“It could take a while, to make absolutely sure.”
“Of course. But don’t be too late. It’s a long way.”
She nodded against my shoulder. “I promise. Before noon, at the latest.”
We turned back.
It was Emma who saw it first, clutching my hand in sudden fright: flames were shooting up from the thatched roof of Lukas Death’s house. It was strange indeed, so long after the storm. And there was no wind any more to blow live coals from the distant mountain fires.
Then I noticed the black figure moving along the ridge of the roof towards the attic stairs. It was too dark to make out who it was.
“Hey!” I shouted. “What the hell are you doing there?” I started running. Emma followed.
The arsonist had seen us. He broke into a huddled trot, scuttling away from the fire. But in his haste he lost his balance, stumbled, caught fire. I heard him shout. He came tumbling down the staircase, a spectacular ball of fire somersaulting in the dark, screaming like a pig.
When he reached the bottom he flung himself to the ground, rolling about to smother the flames. Emma came running past me, plucked the front door open and started shouting hysterically at Dalena and Lukas to wake up and come out. Already the fire in the dried-out thatch was leaping high into the night.
When I reached the madman who was still twisting and thrashing about on the ground, I began to kick at him, but whether to kill the flames or the man I honestly didn’t know.
“Help me,” he groaned, “help me, help me.”
“Jurg, you fucking bastard,” I hissed through my teeth.
True Colours
I’VE BEEN SITTING here at the rock pool since God knows when, waiting for Emma to come so that we can tackle the long climb out of the Devil’s Valley. It must be past noon. I’m not sure I can risk going back to look for her, but I can’t stay here either, doing nothing.
I’m tired to the bone. All kinds of memories are hurtling through the fucking tumble-dryer of my mind. The frantic attempts to help Lukas and Dalena save a few odds and ends of furniture, and sheets and pillows, and Lukas Death’s two old rifles from the burning house before the roof fell in. By that time the flames had jumped to the house next door, and the next. Very soon the whole goddamn settlement was burning. Apart from trying to salvage whatever one could grab hold of, there was nothing to be done, not a drop of water to douse the flames. It was a sight, all those soot-stained faces in the wild firelight, the idiots jumping up and down like locusts, ululating and yodelling, laughing and dribbling, children screaming, old people crying, scenes from a pretty old·fashioned kind of hell. A few
of the people had been injured, although none as desperately as Jurg Water. From somewhere in the night, to everybody’s relief, Tant Poppie came waddling on to give a hand; but with all her remedies buried under the ruins of her house there wasn’t much she could do. Several of Tall-Fransina’s cats were flayed alive to apply the skins to the wounds of the injured, for what it might be worth. Duck-shit was used as well, and burnt peach-stones, and honey, and whatever came to hand as the night wore on.
Hanna squatted over the groaning, shivering Jurg, to pee on his burnt face where no skin was left. Henta was nowhere to be seen. I could only guess that she’d already run away as she’d threatened to; but where in that burning night could she have found shelter? I tried not to think of it, but it was—once again—like the remedy of the fucking woman’s navel. The slight curve, the deep inverted comma, and below. Throw it in the sea.
Brother Holy was called upon to help Jurg when his wife’s last desperate efforts failed, but he was caught in such a paroxysm of scratching that he was more of a hindrance than a help. Still, he tried.
I wasn’t particularly keen to follow the stages of Jurg Water’s painful death, but in a perverse way it fascinated me. Crime reporter shows true colours. Like a praying mantis Brother Holy bobbed up and down around him on his stick-legs, trying to the very last to snatch a lost soul back from death.
“Jurg, Jurg, can you hear me?” Hopping on his left leg in order to scratch under his right foot. “Jurg, it is time to go.” Scratching under the left breast. “Jurg, you must turn away from the Devil.” Scratching the old dry balls.
“This is not a time to make enemies, Brother,” groaned Jurg. And as far as I know those were his last words.
Fertile Rift
In small bewildered clusters the people huddled in the empty spaces between the houses as the last burning roofs subsided. From time to time a few hesitant flames would still spring up to flicker for a few minutes, but without much conviction. The air was heavy with soot. It was hard to keep away from Emma, but so near the end I didn’t want to stir up even a hint of suspicion anywhere. With both the Peeping Tom and the prime culprit out of the way (so God didn’t sleep after all, I thought with wry satisfaction) we could breathe somewhat more easily for a while, but it was prudent not to screw anything up unnecessarily.
Only at first light did people begin to stir again. There was a kind of morbid eagerness to see the full extent of the damage in the light of day. But there was fear too. No one knew exactly what to expect.
My own impression, as the dusty sun began to glow on the highest peaks, was that it was even worse that I’d feared. The mountains were black, the settlement a ruin. Even the heavy blunt tower of the church had collapsed. It was as if the lightning had struck from two directions simultaneously: the sky above and the earth below. And here where they met, in the once fertile rift of the Devil’s Valley, there was devastation.
Once I’d shouldered my rucksack I tried as unobtrusively as possible to edge away from the dumbfounded crowd, winding my way through the houses, away from the church, first heading in the direction opposite to the one I meant to take; in passing, as if by accident, I brushed past Emma, and whispered:
“I’ll be waiting.”
She nodded without looking at me, briefly touched my hand, and then accompanied Dalena back to the blackened remains of their house.
Feeling I Got
At the far end of the settlement, where I meant to cut through to the patch of prickly pear on the opposite slope on a roundabout route to the dried-up riverbed, I came upon Hans Magic. His unlit calabash pipe clenched between his teeth, he sat slumped on Tall-Fransina’s crumbled stoep, staring into the distance, deserted even by his cloud of flies. This was pure shit. He was just about the last person I could have wished to meet. But it was too late to turn back.
Without looking up at me he said, “So, Neef Flip.”
My stomach turned as I desperately tried to think of a way out, but my thoughts were trapped. I felt like a meerkat facing a geelslang.
“Now Fransina is dead too,” he said unexpectedly. “Brother Holy has struck me with the darkness of Egypt after all. I’ve now taken away his itch. But that won’t bring Fransina back.”
“I found her on the stoep last night,” I said diffidently. “The pillar fell on her. I don’t know what she was doing outside in the storm.”
“She came to see me, that’s what. I asked her to stay, but she wouldn’t.”
“What could have been so urgent?”
“You,” he said. For the first time he raised his head to look at me. “You and Emma.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, aware only of a blankness inside me.
“She asked me to leave you alone. We’re getting old, she said. We can’t go on trying to hold on to life through others.” A pissed-off tone crept into his voice. “I don’t know what made her think the two of you matter one bit to me.” He sucked at his pipe as if he didn’t realise it had gone out long ago. “And now you’re off?”
“I’m just checking on the damage.”
“With your rucksack on your back.” A dry snort. “Do what you wish,” he said in a weary voice. “Fransina is dead. I really can’t care less about you. Just leave me alone with the feeling I got in me.”
For a moment I still lingered. Then I went on my way, unsure of whether I should feel relieved or concerned. Once before he’d asked me, Do you believe me? But this time I really had no idea what I believed any more.
More Gone
And here I am, waiting at the rock pool. Something must have happened, for there is still no sign of her. Without her I cannot even think of going on; but dare I go back to look for her?
I walk round the pool set deep in the barren rocks. How many times have I done so during the past few hours? Over there, right there, she was standing that first day, shaking the water from her hair. This was where I first saw her, as I’ve never seen her since, naked, with the light on her collarbones and her shoulders, and the four tips of her breasts. The way a painter would have seen her, someone like Gert Brush. Like a painter I recall the particulars of her body, as real and sure as these rocks. And yet she left no wet footprints, not a trace. She was and wasn’t there. I still cannot explain it. All I know is that today she is even more gone than on that first day.
But she must come, for God’s sake, she promised. That is, if I can believe her. I remember all her lies, her changing stories. But surely that was only in the beginning, wasn’t it, when she was still unsure about me. It’s different now. It must be different. I think I—
You Two
It’s she, it’s Emma. I can see her making her way very fast up the dry riverbed. It’s one of the few thickets not touched by the fire. She is in such a hurry that she keeps on stumbling, even after she has stooped to lift the hem of her dress high above her knees. From a distance I can hear her panting.
“Emma, you’ve come!”
The long rectangle of the dried-up pool lies between us.
She breaks into a run, along the left edge of the deep hole in the rocks. Watch out, I think, Jesus, watch your step, don’t slip! And at last she falls into my arms. I feel her body shaking against mine.
“Emma, what’s the matter? What happened?”
“They saw me. They’re coming after us.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll never catch up with us.” She keeps clinging to me. Is it my imagination or can I hear a crashing and breaking of branches approaching from a distance, rocks clattering, a sound of shouting voices? I press her hard against me. Over her shoulder I can see something moving. As he breaks through the brittle reeds I recognise Lukas Death. The crumpled black suit is in a fucking state. In his hands he has one of his two ancient, unwieldy guns. The moment he sees us he stops to raise the bloody thing to his shoulder.
“Lukas, wait!” I shout. “What the hell are you doing?” She tears herself away from me. “Oom Lukas, don’t!” I can see him shaking with rage. “You t
wo…!” he stammers. “You two, let loose among us by the Devil himself. If it hadn’t been for you, Little-Lukas would still have been with us.”
Emma starts running back towards the man in black, her hands outstretched to stop him. Lukas Death drops down on one knee.
I can hear my own voice shouting, “Emma, come back!” And hers: “Oom Lukas, don’t!”
Then I hear the sound of the shot. She stumbles as she runs, and falls down. There is a great tangle of old dry branches and roots and underbrush at the farthest corner of the pool. She falls right through it all, down to the rock-floor below. It can’t be true, it isn’t possible. Someone must be dreaming again. Jesus Christ, when will I get into a dream of my own for a fucking change? I cannot move. “Lukas, for God’s sake, man…!” Then comes the second shot. For a moment I don’t understand what the hell is going on, I haven’t seen Lukas reload. Only when he topples forward from his kneeling position and rolls over on his side do I realise that it wasn’t he who fired.
Like a sleepwalker I begin to shuffle along the side of the hole, past the spot where Emma crashed through the branches, trying to get to Lukas Death. A pool of bright blood is spreading across the flat surface of the rock under him. Unbelievable how much blood there is in a person. It will never cease to amaze me.
Dalena appears among the withered trees and fynbos in the dry bed. She stops when she sees me. Her hair is plastered all over her sweaty face. She also carries a gun.
Half-Asleep
I’m still sitting down here on the floor of the pool, on my knees at Emma’s side. The dress which in her fall was practically torn from her body, I have folded back to cover her. The left leg, which landed at an unnatural angle half folden in under her, I’ve straightened out. One could almost think that she’s only sleeping, dreaming, except if you look at what’s left of her face.
