by Andre Brink
Probably a Bird
From under her dark eyebrows she gazed at me. Without any obvious connection she said, “I never thought you’d really go looking for my mother this morning.”
“I said I would. We’ve got to make sure.” Did I dare go on? I had no choice. “But then Ouma Liesbet told me she was buried in the graveyard.”
To my surprise it didn’t seem to upset her. “I could have told you,” she said.
“So you knew?”
She gave a little smile.
“Why did you lie to me then?”
“I wanted to see if you believed me.”
“I promise to believe all your lies.”
“You know nothing about me yet.”
“I know enough to want to know more.”
“There’s nothing more to know.”
“What do you do?”
“I teach the children when Lukas Death needs help. One or two of them I help with extra-reading lessons. There are a few bright ones. Poor little bastards, what’ll become of them? Otherwise I help Isak Smous with his books. Or his women with their housework. I help with sewing. Always just helping here, helping there. Other people. But what about me?” She got up, her whole body taut as a string. “Can you imagine how it is?”
“You’ve got to get out of this place, Emma.”
“Show me how,” she said softly, with no hint of cynicism. Then sat down again.
Something rustled among the leaves. Probably a bird.
“Surely,” I said, “if they don’t need you here it would suit them if you left.”
“They’re scared of what I could tell.”
“About your mother?”
“About her, about them, about everything.”
“And yet they’re helping me with my history,” I reminded her.
“For the moment.” She looked straight at me. “They let you come in, Flip. That doesn’t mean they’ll let you out again.”
Improbable Story
It was cool in the wood, where the fierceness of the sun didn’t penetrate. Something rustled again. And suddenly I remembered that there were no bloody birds in the Devil’s Valley. I jumped up. She was watching me. It was quiet again. I picked up a stone and flung it to where the sound had come from. There was a smothered cry and something began to scamper off through the underbrush. I ran after it. In a small opening among the trees I saw a stunted figure scurrying away. With a mixture of irritation and relief I recognised him. It was Prickhead.
Just to made sure he got the message I threw another stone after him. It hit him between the shoulderblades and he uttered a long whimpering cry, stumbled to the ground, scrambled to his feet again and ran off. The blundering sounds of his flight continued for some time.
Emma was still waiting at the edge of the clearing when I came back, a fist pressed to her mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I tried to comfort her. “It’s just that poor idiot, Peet Flatfoot.”
“They’re everywhere,” she said. She dropped her arm to her side again. “There’s only one place no one ever goes to. If you want to, I’ll take you there.”
Surprised and curious, I followed her. She led me out of the wood and up a gentle slope towards a kloof overgrown with virgin forest, reaching in deeply among the knuckles of the mountain. It looked greener than the rest of the valley. I’d never been so far before. Without talking, Emma forced a way through the underbrush, and I followed close on her heels. There was a hint of a footpath, but barely visible. Between her shoulders I saw sweat staining her dress an even blacker black.
After a long time she stopped to wipe her face. I was panting, but her breath still sounded calm and even. She pushed a branch out of the way and stood back to let me pass. Against a wall of rock, among dry driftwood, I saw a badly weathered white skeleton, enormous in size, like an ancient ship stuck on a reef.
Amazed, I went to have a closer look. “What on eardi is this, Emma?”
“Look.”
I touched what looked like a rib. It crumbled under my fingers. I inspected the whole length of the skeleton. My first wild guess was that it must be a dinosaur, but of course that was preposterous. Though no more preposterous than what it turned out to be. A fucking whale. I couldn’t believe it, but the baleen plates, and the shape of head and body, were unmistakable.
She came up from behind and put her hand on my arm. “Seeing is believing?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I can see it all right, but it’s bloody hard to believe.”
Like an improbable story in a world of facts it sat there.
“How did you find it?” I asked.
“Everybody knows about it, but most of the others are afraid to come close. When I was small they used to scare us with it. They said if you see that thing you die.”
“It didn’t put you off.”
“I thought it was just a scary story. But you can see for yourself.”
I touched another bony protuberance and studied the powdery deposit it left on my finger.
“This isn’t all,” she said, curiously lighthearted.
“Nothing can be stranger than this.”
“Come and see.”
Uneven Oval
A short distance beyond the skeleton she went down on her haunches against the rock face, scraped away some old branches and beckoned me to follow her. It looked like a cave, but really was no more than a narrow passage between two cliffs. Here were more of the drawings and engravings I’d noticed on my way down into the valley: stick-men, eland, even a figure resembling a woman in a long dress and a bonnet, which must have been painted after the first settlers moved in here. High above us I could see a narrow segment of sky. About fifty or a hundred metres further the back wall broke away and in the opening, like a natural arena, lay the uneven oval of a rock pool. The water was so black it seemed bottomless.
“This is the Devil’s Hole,” she said. “It must have water enough for the whole valley.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but no one dares to come here. They say this is where the Devil plunged in after he lost the fight against Grandpa Lukas.”
“I thought he died on the spot where they fought.”
“There are many endings to the story,” she said casually. “Does it really make any difference? All that matters is that people think this place is evil, and they’d rather die of thirst than come here.”
“But you’re not afraid?”
“I have nothing to lose.” In spite of the lightness of her words I found something terrifying in them.
“Have you been coming here for a long time?”
“Yes, but not all that often. I suppose I’m a bit scared too, after all. They say the hole goes on for ever. And in some spots there’s a kind of eddy, you can barely see it, but it’s like a funnel that sucks you down.”
“Do you ever swim here?”
She took a minute to answer. “From time to time, yes. Especially these last few months. It’s been so hot, one gets all sweaty.”
“I’d give my kingdom for a swim.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“What about you?” It wasn’t so much a proposal as a challenge.
From the way she looked at me I could see it wasn’t a simple matter of yes or no either.
After a while she said, “I think I’m too scared.”
“You needn’t be scared of me.”
“Not of you. Of the water.”
That’ll teach me, I thought. But I couldn’t back out now, I’d already committed myself. She was watching me quite openly, as I started to unbutton my shirt. Her closeness made me feel self-conscious about my hairiness. But it was too late to chicken out. I threw my shirt on a rock. “My father was a gorilla,” I said, but it hardly sounded funny.
Out of the blue she asked, “Do you think you’d like to be with a hairy woman?”
I cringed with guilt. Jesus, could she possibly know something? Perversely, the very idea caused my body to react. It was all too fucking em
barrassing to handle.
“What makes you ask such a stupid question?” I asked gruffly.
“Just something I dreamt. It made me terribly jealous. I wanted to pull her away from you, but I couldn’t move.”
“You dream too much,” I snapped.
Drag You Down
I turned my back to her to undress further, only too aware of my old man’s dugs, my paunch, my fucking prick sticking out like a very sore thumb. Much faster than I’d meant to, I started scrambling across the rocks, stumbling into the most undignified bloody postures, cursing under my breath, then hurling myself into the black water, a resounding belly-flop.
The ferocious cold promptly took my breath away. And my sore thumb.
There was no easy gradient in the bottom: below me the rocks simply dropped away, and I had to kick and thrash with all my might to stay afloat and get my circulation going again.
Once I’d caught my breath I started swimming away from the edge in a wide loop, then turned on my back, taking care that nothing was visible above the surface.
“You coming?” I called.
“I first want to finish here.” I swear by my mother’s curlers she was washing my fucking dirty clothes. But when I shouted at her she only laughed, and being in no fit state to engage in a tug o’war right now I had to give up. Spluttering, I dived under and started flailing my arms, but made little progress. I was much too out of shape, and the water too cold.
After only a few minutes I turned round. She had finished her washing and was spreading my clothes on the rocks to dry. I saw her standing up. The next moment, without any warning, she jumped in, clothes and all. Bloody fool, I thought, unless she was a very good swimmer that dress was going to drag her down.
“Emma, you’re looking for shit!” I shouted across the black water, but she paid no attention.
I started splashing in her direction, but she swam away with a mocking laugh. Still annoyed, as much with myself as with her, I struggled back to the edge and dragged myself out on the warm rocks. The next moment I heard a smothered cry, and when I turned to look I could see that she was in trouble. It could be the eddy that had grabbed hold of her, or the sheer weight of the clinging dress that was hampering her movements, or both; whatever it was, there was no time to waste. Fortunately the rocks around the pool were littered with dried branches, bleached white in the sun, like the bones of extinct mammoths. I grabbed the longest one I could handle and swung it out towards her. She tried to come closer. “Emma, can you reach it?”
Sorely Missed
On the black surface of the water around her I become aware of motion, a slow, lazy ripple, almost imperceptible to the eye, but there nevertheless, ominous, relentless, deadly. This is serious.
Crime reporter risks life to save drowning woman, dies in attempt.
“Emma, come out!”
For another thirty seconds, stricken by panic, I remain where I am, stretched forward as far as I possibly can. If she doesn’t grasp that fucking branch right now, I’ll have to dive back in. She tries to lunge forward and upward, the tips of her fingers touch the branch, slip loose, let go. She tries again, coughs up water, sinks away. I no longer even think of danger. Still clutching the unwieldy branch I jump back into the black pool and start rowing in her direction with one hand, my feet churning. It may be hopeless, but what the hell else can I do?
“Emma!”
Then, thank God, she manages to grab hold of the branch. I roll over on my back and start kicking, moving away from her. A frightening, invisible force is tugging me back. My breath is coming in deep gasps. I feel like a fish caught on a hook and dangling in the air, suffocating. But I swear to God and all his devils that I’ll get out of here. And not without her either.
Sorely missed by his estranged wife Sylvia (57) and his two children, Louise (32) and Marius (23).
That’ll be the fucking day.
I keep on struggling and kicking and thrashing about, sending up huge sprays of water. I hear her calling out, see her splashing. The eddy has her in its grip and won’t let go. My arms cannot take this for much longer. Blood is booming in my ears.
A young reporter has recently been appointed in the place of Mr Flip Lochner who tragically drowned.
With all my remaining force I pluck at the branch. And now I can feel her breaking from the grasp of the water. I manage to cover the last few yards back to the edge, pull myself out over it, stumble to my feet, still reeling, then lean far over and stretch out to grab her hands. Panting heavily, she reaches for my grasp. The next moment I drag her from the pool across the rocks, like a dark, heavy, drenched rag.
President Mandela this morning awarded a medal for bravery to our crime reporter, Mr Flip Lochner, who has been promoted to news editor.
Unfair Comment
For a long time I just lay there, spreadeagled on my back, heaving and trembling, unable to think of anything beyond the primitive knowledge that I’d survived. Then, slowly, I became aware again of the warmth of the rock creeping through my frozen body, although I still found it hard to grasp what had happened. Through the warmth, the ease, the relaxation, the flood of relief, I felt a hand touching me. Emma must have recovered before me. She was sitting beside me in her clinging wet dress, dragging her fingers through the hair of my chest. But I was feeling so remote from everything, that I still wasn’t actively conscious of being naked.
“Are you dead?” I heard her ask.
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “But don’t let that upset you. It was worth it.”
“You gave me a fright.”
“You could have drowned.” As my consciousness of the here and now slowly came back, I sat up. “Why didn’t you take off that bloody dress?”
“I never thought it would be so heavy.” She shivered. “It was like something grabbing me. If you weren’t there…”
“For every damsel in distress there’s always a knight at hand, some more hairy than others. Stories work like that.”
“This isn’t a story, Flip.”
I pressed her hand.
Her fingers went on combing through the hair on my chest, “I feel safe with you,” she said.
It was unfair comment; I was naked, damn it, and I was stiffening again. Flustered, I scrambled to my feet and picked my way across the rocks to where she’d spread my clothes. And at the same time I felt sad about doing it, I didn’t want to. Putting on clothes was closing off something, a confidentiality, a closeness, a frankness, something perhaps I needed more than she. I kept my back to her.
“I like your hairiness,” she said.
Women had said many things to me, mostly of an uncomplimentary nature; never something like this.
“It’s just because the Devil’s Valley doesn’t have much to choose from,” I muttered, trying to force-feed my legs down the clinging wet jeans. It was heavy going, not made any easier by the hard-on that nearly got caught in the zip.
She sniffed. I looked round. She was sitting with her arms folded around her drawn-up legs, her chin resting on her knees, watching every move I made. But she said nothing.
No Illusions
At last the unwieldy jeans were on; I could turn to face her again. “You deserve better than anyone here can offer you,” I said. “And that includes me.”
“Why are you always so hard on yourself?”
“I’ve known myself for long enough to have no illusions left.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The urge to unburden became too much for me. I started spilling it all to her. Everything that had gone sour, my shame, my sins. Sylvia. My children. Louise, whose birth I missed because she came two weeks early. I was up the West Coast on a fucking story, a pretty major one which could land me a sub-editorship, and having finished my field work earlier than anyone expected I stopped to celebrate at Paternoster. There, never one to miss a dare, I got myself into a drinking contest amid the lurid girlie posters in the pub and urged on by a great scrum of boisterous Saturday
men. It was fully three days later before I staggered out again, the worse for wear, having missed both my deadline and my daughter’s birth. And nine years later, another accident, Marius. Sylvia tried to bring him up as Mummy’s little fairy, I wanted him to be a he-man a father could be proud of. Between the two of us he was sunk. Neither of us realised, or wanted to realise, what was happening. The little thefts at school, the missed rugby practices, the failed tests; the interviews with the principal, which I was usually too bloody busy to attend; the shock of the first expulsion. The drop-out, the drugs, the probation following the first appearance in court. Driven to our first real man·to·man, I lost my temper and tried to beat sense into him. “What do you expect of me?” he sobbed in rage, “To become likeyou?”
In a perverse way I hoped it would scare Emma off, give her a proper shit in me, which would make it easier when I had to leave in a few days’ time.
But all she did was to press her forehead against my shoulder. And she said, “You’re being very unfair to yourself, Flip.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I had no choice but to be honest. “I want you, Emma, and I bloody well need you. What I told you in the bluegum wood was true. But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Why not?”
“I told you it’s impossible. Don’t make it more difficult than it is already.”
I pulled the wet shirt over my head and struggled to tuck it in.
She watched while I put on my shoes.
“Must we really go back?” she asked.
“I suppose the people will wonder about our wet clothes.”
“If it rains, they won’t notice.”
I looked up. There were indeed clouds overhead. Not many, but it was the first time in the week I’d been there. I couldn’t believe it. But perhaps God had decided to relent after all.
“I wish we could stay here,” said Emma.
Something was tugging at us, something that would keep us there, more insidious than the clutch of the whirlpool in the dark water, something that could suck us in very deeply.
“We’re dangerous to each other,” I said bluntly.
“If it’s not dangerous,” she said, “it means nothing.” It slapped me in the face like a wet fish: just how young she was; how she could still afford to be absolute.