Camdeboo Nights

by Nerine Dorman

  Arwen narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

  “You were about to summon a whole lot more than that,” he said. Like half the jagters in this godforsaken country. This disturbance had probably reached as far as Cairo, if they were unlucky.

  “Like what?”

  “Bad things. Things...”

  “You’re wasting our time. How would you know these things?”

  “I-I just do, all right?” he said. “I think you know what I’m talking about, so don’t act dumb with me.”

  “And you expect us to swallow this bullshit?”

  “Ask your father later. Actually, rather don’t. It’s better for you that he doesn’t know you’re behind tonight’s events, although he probably already suspects. Do you want to endanger your family? You’re doing a pretty damn good job of it already.”

  Arwen shook her head. “No.”

  “Well, there are those who would hurt your family if they knew about them. Your people are the real thing and, as long as they exist, they, and people like Helen, pose a threat to their existence.”

  That wasn’t a lie.

  Chapter 13

  Is this Love?

  Saturday morning passed in a daze. Helen moved about the house like a sleepwalker. She was unable to concentrate on simple tasks, like packing away dishes. She stood by the kitchen window, turning a china teacup in her hands, her fingers tracing the ridges forming a floral pattern on the side.

  “Were you and the Wareing girl smoking zol last night?” Anabel asked.

  “No,” Helen replied even as she almost dropped the cup in fright at her grandmother’s intrusion.

  “Hmmph. Well, then, why are you staring at nothing like a lovelorn flower-child? The dishes won’t pack themselves away. I’d also like you to buy some groceries. Szandor will be driving through to Graaff-Reinet in twenty minutes. I’d like you to get some things for us. I could get used to having a young woman in the house again.”

  Anabel gave Helen one of her rare smiles, which transformed her severe features with a semblance of warmth.

  Dare she tell her grandmother about the boy? Trystan had pleaded with them not to discuss him with anyone. He had a hunted look about him and had kept peering over his shoulder. The air around him hummed with tension.

  Why had Arwen always made sure to keep Helen between her and Trystan while walking back? She resolved to ask her later.

  She couldn’t get the boy out of her mind, however. So thin, so pale, and his eyes spoke of an unnamable sorrow.

  She always went for the lame ducks.

  Back in Cape Town, she’d fallen for Michael, a music student, who’d turned out to be gay. Then it was a brief, unrequited infatuation with Simon, a guy in grade twelve, who’d ended up hanging himself before his final exams.

  She really knew how to pick them, didn’t she?

  * * * *

  Armed with her grandmother’s shopping list and a few hundred rand in notes, Helen ran out to the familiar silver Volvo, looking forward to speaking with Arwen, only to discover Szandor and another woman with a teased-out mop of white-blond hair waited in the car.

  The woman turned icy gray eyes on Helen, giving her the impression that she could read each of Helen’s secrets.

  She was pale, which wasn’t helped by the funerary aspect of her clothing–a buttoned-up sleeveless shirt with a cameo at her throat. When she moved, an audible swish of many layers of satin and chiffon filled the vehicle.

  This must be the aunt. She couldn’t be the mother. The resemblance to Szandor was almost uncanny.

  Szandor smiled, but the pleasure did not reach his eyes. “This is Sonja, my sister. Sonja, this is Arwen’s new friend, Helen.”

  Sonja gave the briefest of frowns before facing the window.

  “Uh, hi,” Helen said, wishing that she could be anywhere else but in this car with these peculiar people. The journey to Graaff-Reinet would be just over half an hour but it would feel like an eternity.

  Szandor made a sound that was almost a snigger before turning the key. If only Damon were here, but her brother had gone to visit the Prof the instant his chores were done.

  They drove in silence, with only the hiss of the air-conditioner as accompaniment, until they left the valley.

  Then Szandor said, “Did you enjoy the films last night, Helen?”

  She thought her heart would explode. Should she lie? Should she allow the story to filter through without some of the pertinent details?

  “I... Uh. Yes.” She had watched films after Trystan had walked them home. Granted, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on any of the onscreen action.

  “Oh,” Szandor said.

  She caught a glimpse of his amused expression in the rearview mirror.

  Bloody hell, of course he didn’t believe her. What did she expect?

  “You haven’t seen or heard anything that you would consider out of the ordinary, have you?” Szandor asked.

  “Um, no.”

  “You’ll tell us if you do, won’t you?” Szandor asked. It was more a command than a question.

  “I guess so.” Helen clutched the seat with white-knuckled hands.

  Her grandmother’s amused tones echoed in her memory. The whole lot of them, they’re all witches. The father, too.

  How far would Szandor push his craft? What could he do? Was she in any danger? If there was the superstitious fear of witchcraft that was prevalent among the indigenous Africans...

  She’d read a little about the subject a few years previously while researching for a painting for her art classes. Witchcraft was a fascinating topic but she had never expected to ever deal with the real thing. Now her present situation seemed very real and very menacing.

  “Where’s Arwen?” Helen hoped to steer their conversation to safer territory. She may as well have said “Nice weather, we’re having.”

  “Arwen has been grounded,” Szandor said, his pale gaze reading the road ahead.

  Oh fuck. He knew.

  “Oh.” Perhaps it would be better to say nothing at all then she wouldn’t dig herself a deeper hole.

  The rest of the ride passed in uncomfortable silence. Helen pressed her face against the glass and hoped nothing more would be said.

  She hated deception of any kind. Whenever she lied, she always ended up being caught out. Instead, she watched the passing landscape, where gray-blue spiked agave lined the road in clumps. Every so often jeep tracks led from the road they followed and she wondered where they went.

  Szandor let her be on her own while they did their own shopping, and agreed on a meeting place in an hour’s time. It was just before noon, the sun baked down on the busy main streets and the throng of people crowding the pavements and shops nearly overwhelmed her.

  The unfamiliarity of the town kept her from taking any liberties to explore beyond the task she had been assigned. Helen entered the white-glared interior of the Spar, wrestled for a trolley, and bought the items her grandmother had requested.

  The drive back to Nieu Bethesda was easier. The siblings didn’t speak to her, instead discussing people she did not know, although she often caught Szandor’s gaze darting in her direction when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Weird and creepy. The trip back home couldn’t end fast enough.

  Once they crested the pass, Sonja spoke. “So, Helen. I hear from Arwen that you are also studying art.”

  “Um, yes.” The statement had taken her by surprise.

  “Who are your favorite artists?”

  “Dali, Monet, Van Gogh... I also quite like the Pre-Raphaelites, too.”

  “Mmm, then you should come over to see some of my art books. I had a friend who owned a bookshop. He found many priceless treasures for me. I even have a Kelmscott Press original.”

  Helen stiffened, sensing a trap. Why would the aunt suddenly be so keen to have her over?

  “That’s very kind of you to offer. I’ll take you up on this when...when things are more settl
ed.” Helen hoped she sounded suitably vague without giving offense. Until the mystery of the previous night was solved, no way would she set foot in either of the Wareing households, Arwen or not.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, Helen was reading quietly in her room when she thought she heard a pebble strike her window with a soft clack. Her stomach lurched. What if? She daren’t hope. The sash window slid open easily and she leaned through onto the balcony then slid out onto the bleached wooden surface.

  It was fully dark out, and a thin sliver of moon sliced through the branches shading the roof. Helen peered down into the garden. Nobody. She sighed, stepped back and looked to her left to see Trystan’s too-pale face on the far side of the balcony.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed.

  “Shhh, not too loud,” he said, a finger to his lips.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I–” He frowned, looking down at his long-fingered hand clasping the railing. “I wanted to know if you’d like to go for a walk.”

  “I dunno if I should, not after last night. What about tomorrow?” Helen asked, checking back inside through the diamond-shaped panels of glass of the door she’d neglected to use.

  “Oh.”

  The disappointment in his voice caused a sharp stab in her chest.

  He shifted, looking as if he would drop off the balcony. “I, uh, have to be somewhere tomorrow.”

  “The afternoon?”

  “I’ll only be back later.”

  “Damn.”

  In the ensuing silence, the cricket chorus swelled and Helen glanced away. They’d been staring at each other without speaking.

  Her cheeks grew warm. “I’m sorry. Lemme just go fetch my jersey. I’ll say goodnight to everyone.”

  Helen smothered her misgivings. Although her instincts cried out against the course of action she’d chosen, part of her thirsted for any experience that could be called truly hers, that was not somehow tainted by the expectations of others.

  Besides, the boy was so thin and seemed so sad. How could he be dangerous? He was hardly taller than her. If push came to shove, she could easily overpower him. She also had the insane idea that she wanted to make him smile.

  He helped her climb down the fig strangling the side of the house. Trystan’s skin was cold when he gave her a hand, making her think of her brother’s reptiles, but she didn’t ask him why. It seemed rude to do so. He didn’t let go of her hand, either, when they slipped through the side gate and into the road.

  “Where do you stay?” she asked.

  “Oh, about,” he said. “Have you seen The Owl House at night?”

  “No.” Okay, so he was being evasive. She’d not press him. Not yet, at least.

  They walked in silence for a while and still he didn’t let go of her hand and she fancied that she saw small, faint sparks of blue-green tingling at her fingers.

  Trystan had taken some trouble with his hair this evening, which appeared to have seen the business end of a brush, and fell loose in waves over his shoulders. His skin gleamed beneath the stars, as if it possessed its own fire, his features fine, making her think of some of the porcelain dolls Anabel kept in the glass cabinet in the sitting room.

  Okay, this was weird, she had to admit, but it felt good–this stolen moment–and she resolved to enjoy the walk with this strange angel.

  The air held the balm of the day’s heat. Nieu Bethesda slept and distant, out in the fields, she was certain she heard some sort of night bird call, its voice sweet and trilling. The trees lining the streets created dark blotches blanking out the stars. She would never have been able to walk around like this back in Cape Town.

  The Gat River gurgled in its bed when they rounded the corner nearing their destination. Geese honked next door but The Owl House carried its own silence, its blank white shutters keeping the world out from the mysteries contained within its walls. Helen had visited once or twice during the day. She’d never considered coming here at night and now, she began to wonder at the wisdom of this decision because the structure seemed heavier, a bastion for a vast, invisible castle.

  The Owl House vibrated in her vision, fuzzy at its edges. Trystan let go of her hand when she approached, keeping a respectful distance.

  “Aren’t you coming with me to have a closer look?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Been here plenty of times. I prefer this view. Go to the arch there by the fence and look into the yard.”

  The moment her hand touched the fence she recoiled, almost as if she’d experienced a sharp burst of static.

  “Just my imagination,” she mumbled, aware of Trystan watching. Was he testing her?

  Careful not brush up against the cacti growing by the fence, she peered into the enclosed garden. The collection of cement camels, owls, pilgrims, mermaids and bottle-skirted hostesses was pretty darn weird during the day. At night, beneath the stars, the statues were absolutely alien. Helen possessed no better way to describe what she saw. Graceful sun worshippers arched backward, balanced on a toe. Had that peacock just shifted? What must this place have looked like when Miss Helen was still alive? She’d read that some sculptures had been painted bright colors, that most of them had been covered in glass. Now naked gray cement shone through. An incredible sadness pervaded this place, as if it waited for the magic to return.

  But the magic was still here. It thrummed beneath her fingers, twining into her sinews to whisper its secrets in her heart, a fierce joy at still being, despite the attrition of the years. How many people came here and felt it, as well?

  She held up her hand to watch the tiny sparks wiggle about her fingertips. Then she turned to look at Trystan, to see him haloed with a faint blue-green corona. She blinked, and the world shifted back to shadows within shadows beneath a star-studded heaven. Unbidden, tears tracked down her cheeks but she smiled.

  Chapter 14

  Taking a Stand

  Plainly put, Etienne’s weekend sucked. He’d managed to stay out of trouble on Friday and most of Saturday, until one of Odette’s friends took it upon herself to arrange what she termed as a “little surprise” for him.

  They ambushed him during the late afternoon while he was walking back from the library with a stack of DVDs he planned to watch, still smiling at the quiet reigning over the school grounds.

  One moment he walked along the brick-paved path leading to the dorms, the next, he had all his breath knocked out of him when someone rugby-tackled him.

  With a wordless roar of anger, Etienne fought back, biting and kicking, but there were too many assailants, jeering and laughing while a boy much bigger than him pushed him to the ground.

  His attackers were the usual suspects among the boarders–Emma, Cedric, Robert, Jannie and Anton. During the week they’d hang back but saw their chance when Odette and her crowd weren’t around.

  “C’mon dwarf! Fight back!” Emma taunted. “Or else I’ll tell Odette you wimped out so she can sort you out.”

  “Oh, look,” Robert said. “He took out some movies from the library. What a nerd.”

  “What’s he got?” someone asked.

  “Damn documentaries. How boring. Why you so interested in World War Two, dwarf? D’you know Hitler used to burn people like you in the ovens, slow-roasted dwarfs with all those dirty Jews, gypsies and moffies.”

  Etienne cringed but kept still. He’d learned long ago not to try to snatch at anything taken from him by force. He lay motionless, ignoring the stones pressing into his flesh and the burning of his elbows and knees where he’d managed to remove a fair amount of skin.

  Part of him wanted to scream and rage but bitter experience held him in check.

  “It’s all rubbish,” Robert said.

  “It belongs in the bin,” Emma said.

  Their laughter made them sound like a pack of hyenas. Mercifully, they left him alone, talking and sniggering among each other. Etienne kept his eyes closed, hardly daring to breathe. A clatter of plastic farther alo
ng informed him someone had tossed his DVDs in the promised receptacle. Not even they would dare damage school property, although chances were good some of the discs could be damaged anyhow. When he was certain they had disappeared around the corner, Etienne opened his eyes and sat up, first brushing the worst of the dirt off his jeans and t-shirt. Both knees of his jeans had rips in them that would be a bitch to fix. Blood stained the edges of the torn fabric pink.

  His hands and elbows stung something furious and, where he’d brushed his shirt, small traces of blood darkened the fabric.

  “Well, nothing of my person totally broken,” he said.

  His next problem was the bin. He was too short to look inside, let alone reach for his movies.

  “Buggeration!”

  They’d known, of course. The only good thing was that they hadn’t decided to throw him into the bin as well. He’d have to climb in, possibly risking damage to hundreds of rands worth of DVDs, in order to retrieve the films. Etienne also wasn’t about to go looking for someone to help him, either. He’d never hear the end of it, then.

  The school’s bins were old oil drums that had been painted a cheerful blue to match the colors and had been cemented to the ground, no doubt to forestall mischief. He couldn’t knock the bin over. Etienne muttered a few oaths beneath his breath, reached to grip the rim then pulled himself up.

  After scrabbling furiously with his feet, he was able to teeter on the edge before he tipped, to land among the detritus of orange peels, apple cores, half-eaten sandwiches, soft-drink cans...and worse. Something had died in here, its stench decidedly ripe with the sickly sweet signature of rot.

  Etienne gulped back his retches and searched for the DVD covers among the filth. The good news was that none of the cases had opened. He wiped off the worst of the gunk, then realized his predicament.

  How the hell was he supposed to climb out with the boxes? If he threw them out, they might break open. If he shoved them down the front of his shirt, he’d most likely crack them in his efforts to get out. He needed both hands if he wanted to pull himself back out onto the lip, so tucking them beneath an armpit wouldn’t work either.