Table of Contents
Synopsis
Praise for Andrea Bramhall
By the Author
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Childhood friends Imogen and Amahle couldn’t come from more different backgrounds. One privileged and the other little more than a slave, yet they thought nothing could tear their friendship apart. But a changing political landscape and an uncertain future cast Imogen into a lonely world away from everything and everyone she knows, and by the time she returns to Africa, everything has changed.
Betrayal, deceit, and anger are the currency of the day, and it is a far cry from the life Imogen wants to lead. When Amahle’s family is caught up in the middle of a bitter legal battle, she fights for what she believes is right. But what happens when those you believe in let you down? What happens when friend becomes foe and your world turns upside down? What can be built from the ashes of betrayal?
Praise for Andrea Bramhall
Ladyfish “is Andrea Bramhall’s first novel and what a great yarn it is… fast and fabulous and great fun.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Nightingale “is a tale of courage and determination, a ‘don’t miss’ work from an author that promises a stellar career thrilling us with her skillful storytelling.”—Lambda Literary
Nightingale “will move you to tears of despair and fill you with the joy of true love. There aren’t enough stars to recommend it highly enough.”—Curve Magazine
“[I] recommend Nightingale to anyone, lesbian or feminist, who would like to read a thought-provoking, well-written novel about the clash of cultures.”—C-Spot Reviews
Clean Slate “is a great story. I was spellbound. I literally couldn’t put it down.”—Lesbian Reading Room
The Chameleon’s Tale
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The Chameleon’s Tale
© 2015 By Andrea Bramhall. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-504-6
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: August 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Ladyfish
Clean Slate
Nightingale
Swordfish
The Chameleon’s Tale
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone at BSB. Rad, for taking a chance on another of my…slightly unconventional ideas; Cindy, for all your hard work in making sense of my truly atrocious spelling and grammar; Sheri for, in my humble opinion, the best book cover; and to everyone else working behind the scenes. You all rock.
Louise and Kim, your encouragement and beta-reading skills on this project kept me going when I believed this project should hit the bin and nothing else. When I couldn’t connect, you both helped me to find my way back to this story, for that I am forever grateful.
And finally, the most important people. My dogs. Just kidding. I mean you. The people who spend their hard-earned cash to buy this book and read it. So, I hope you enjoy it, my friends. Perhaps with a nice glass of South African wine…
To the man who showed me the wonders of the world beyond my own doorstep, and in doing so taught me so much more than he will ever know.
Thanks, Pops.
Prologue
Imogen had always been fascinated by the churchyard with the craggy summits of the Stellenbosch Mountains towering behind the white walls of the beautiful old church. The spires over the doors and rising from the roof were mesmerizing to her. The rows of gravestones stuck out of the ground like teeth erupting from grassy gums. A small hand squeezed hers own, offering comfort. She looked at Amahle. Her hair was braided against her scalp in neat little cornrows, her T-shirt was freshly pressed, and tears ran down her cheeks. Amahle’s big brown eyes were so solemn that it hurt Imogen to look into them. Instead she looked up at her father. His eyes watered, but the tears never fell as he bent and picked up a handful of dirt. The minister spoke softly as he proclaimed, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” But it seemed that was not enough for Alain Frost. He opened his hand and stared at the dirt on his palm.
“Red. Look at this, Immy.” He pushed his hand under her nose. “Look at it. Do you know why the earth is red?”
“No, Papa.”
He squatted beside her. “It is red because it is stained with blood.” He curled his fingers into a fist. “It’s red because it is stained with your mother’s blood.” He threw the clump of earth as hard as he could against the box as it was lowered into the hole. “No more.” He stood tall and turned his head to the sky. “No more, do you hear? I won’t let you take any more of them! I’ve given up enough of my soul for this bloody country and its bloody politics. No more!”
Imogen wished she’d known the answer to his question so she could have stopped him from getting angry. But she could do nothing about that now. Instead she did the only thing her seven-year-old mind could think of, she picked up her own handful of dirt and tossed it onto her mother’s coffin as her father turned his back on her and walked away from the graveside. She managed three steps after him before a hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her to a stop.
<
br /> “Let him go, child,” Mbali said, still holding her daughter Amahle’s hand. “He must rage against the world in his grief. Let him do so, and then he will return to you.”
“But I made him angry.”
“No, you didn’t. The world has made him angry. Africa has made him angry. You are all that brings him happiness.”
Imogen felt failure settle in her chest. “He is not so happy now, Mbali.”
“No, little one, but that is not your fault.” Mbali draped her arm around Imogen’s shoulders and led her away from the grave and back to the vineyard they all called home. Amahle wrapped her small fingers around Imogen’s, offering silent support as big fat tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Imogen brushed them away and hugged her before walking the rest of the way home in silence.
When they finally got there, Imogen squinted as the bright sun reflected off the white lime washed walls of the Cape Dutch building with the ostentatious frontage over the huge front door. The cavernous building was deceptive from the front, the traditional façade hiding the extensive work that had been long since completed at the rear to make the main home of the Frost Family Vineyard a building of palatial proportions befitting one of the most prestigious vineyards in the Western Cape. How many times had her father told her that one day this would all be hers? Imogen wasn’t sure she could even count that high. He’d walked with her through row upon row of grapes, showing her the subtle differences between each variety that grew from the rich loam and clay earth beneath her feet. She’d wandered freely, in and out of the pressing rooms, the cellars, amongst the workforce, both black and white, and she had known this place was in her blood.
Today the doors were closed, the curtains drawn, and no one but Amahle seemed able to meet her gaze. She went to push open the door to her home only to find it locked, and the crashing noises from inside made her jump. She was afraid to go in. She was afraid of her father.
“Come, child.” Cebisa, Mbali’s elderly mother, waved her over. Imogen approached cautiously, always a little afraid of the grizzled old woman, her fingers twisted with age and her eyes heavy with sorrow. She placed one of those work roughened hands upon Imogen’s cheek and spoke softly in Xhosa, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth as she sounded the rapid-fire words. “Tonight, you will stay with us.”
Amahle jumped excitedly beside her, and Imogen wished she could feel as happy about the extra time with her friend. But she couldn’t. She missed her mother. Two weeks. That’s how long it had been since her mother had left the house and never came home. She’d heard words like “riot” and “shooting.” She’d heard the Afrikaners on the vineyard say “that bloody woman shouldn’t have been doing what she was” and that “she deserved what happened to her, coming to South Africa with her bloody liberal ideas and thinking that she knew better than they did how to deal with the bloody kaffirs.” They used words like “traitor” and “kaffir lover” to describe her mother. And Imogen wished she could understand what was going on. She wished she could understand how her beautiful mother, her father’s English Rose, who was loved by everyone, was suddenly gone.
“Immy, Gogo has made supper for us. By the big fire.” Amahle tugged her off the stoop and led her toward the huge fire that roared in the pit, where her grandmother sat watching the flames. They sat together, backs resting against a log, plates on their knees as they ate their mealie pap and boerewors. The fire was a huge comfort to Imogen. The snap and crackle of the wood had a hypnotic effect on her, and the jumping embers lit the night sky before dying and leaving her staring at the cold, distant stars.
“At the dawn of time, God the Creator was already old and lonely,” Cebisa said quietly from across the flames. “So He created the Earth. He created the land and the great waters. He created the sun and the moon and the stars to help the moon light the night sky. And it was very beautiful. But still He was lonely. He wanted someone to share His creation with. So He created animals, lions, and tigers, and baboons.”
Mbali rolled her eyes and stood up. “While you tell your stories, old woman, some of us have work to do. I’m going to the big house and make sure Mr. Alain has everything he needs.”
Cebisa clucked her tongue and fixed a pointed stare at her daughter. “How long will you be?”
Mbali stared at her mother. “As long as it takes.”
“Are we still talking about work, daughter?”
“What else, Mother?”
“The kind of work no mother wants her daughter involved in.”
Mbali didn’t answer. She tugged at her top and walked quickly toward the big house Imogen had been unable to get into earlier. Amahle looked at her, seeming to wonder as much as she did what the conversation was all about. But both of them knew better than to ask while Cebisa stared at Mbali’s retreating back, a frown marring her aged, wrinkled face.
“Gogo, will you tell us more of the story please?” Amahle asked.
“Of course, girls, now where was I?”
“He made lions.”
“And tigers,” Imogen said.
“So he did. He also created the tiger, and the zebra, and every bird in the sky. But they were not enough. They were limited in how they could appreciate the true beauty of the Creator’s gift. So He set about creating a creature who would appreciate it.”
“Gogo, who did the Creator make?” Amahle asked.
“Why, He created people, little one.”
“He made us?”
“He made everything.”
“He must have been very powerful, Gogo.”
“He still is, child.” She raised her cup to her lips.
“If He’s so powerful, Cebisa, why did He let my mother die?”
“It is not a simple matter, little one. I wish it was. I wish I could tell you why your mama had to leave us. But I don’t have those answers.”
“No one will tell me anything.”
“That’s because grownups hate to admit how much they don’t know.” She smiled sadly. “We don’t have the answers to your questions, but I will tell you what I know, if you like?”
Imogen nodded and waited for Cebisa to impart her wisdom to them.
“When the Creator had finished creating the world and everything in it, He began to notice that the people were getting old. Their skin was scarred from work and damaged from long hours under the hot sun. They began to feel discomfort from their aging skins and the Creator did not like this. They were his favourites and He did not want to see them in pain. So He created for them a new and wonderful gift.”
“Gogo, what was it?”
“Don’t interrupt, Amahle.”
“Sorry.”
“You must wait and see. The Creator called to Him His most loyal servant, the chameleon, and asked him to take His gift to the people. He told the chameleon that it was a very special gift, and the Creator would forever be in the chameleon’s debt if he would deliver it for Him. The chameleon was so proud to have been sent on such a mission for the Creator. He puffed out his chest and let his skin reflect all the colours of the rainbow to show his pride. God gave him one further instruction. ‘Chameleon,’ He said, ‘do not tell a soul about your errand for me. Not all are so keen on the people.’ The chameleon promised not to breathe a word to a living soul, picked up the package, and set out immediately.”
“Did he steal the gift, Gogo?”
“What have I told you about interrupting?” She smiled at Amahle and tapped her nose.
“Sorry.”
“Sit still. The chameleon hurried quickly from the Kingdom of God and sought out the people. He passed through jungle and stepped onto the hot sand of the desert. He kept moving so as to not burn his feet until he was safely across and began to climb the mountains that separated his home from that of the people. He stopped for a moment to drink from a pool, and his cousin, the snake, approached him.”
“I hate snakes.”
“One day you will have to learn to keep your mouth shut or it will ge
t you into big trouble, young lady.”
“Yes, Gogo.”
“Cebisa, will you finish the story? Please?” Imogen asked.
“Of course.” She sipped from her cup again and rested back against her own log, the fire slowly dying. “The snake asked his cousin to join him for a meal. It had been long since they had spent time together, and snake felt more than a little neglected by the rest of his family. Now this put the chameleon in a difficult position. He did not want to hurt snake’s feelings, but he did not want to take the time to stop either. He decided that he should tell his cousin of his errand so that he would understand why he could not stop. He told snake that he was delivering a gift to the people from the Creator.” She leaned forward and stirred the embers of the fire, casting a glittering shower of orange into the dark. “Snake hated people. He hated that they were favoured by the Creator. He hated that the people feared him so and tried to trample him whenever he came near them. He hated everything about people.”
“What did he do?” Amahle clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“The snake pretended that he did not hate the people to his cousin and invited him to tea. He knew that the chameleon felt guilty that he had not stopped by for so long and decided to use this to his advantage. He wanted the gift from the Creator. He did not care what the gift was. He only cared that he would get it, instead of the people. He told chameleon that he understood how important his errand was, but surely the Creator would understand that chameleon needed food and rest to carry out such an important task. The chameleon was trapped. He could not say no without offending snake, so he agreed to a quick meal before continuing his journey.”
“Snakes are bad.”
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