Devil's Valley (30 page)

“That was the end of the trouble. Except that Lukas Lermiet’s wife turned out to be swelling from the rape, and when the child was born it was black. It was she herself who came forward and asked that the child be killed so that the shame could be wiped out. With her own two hands she put him on that level spot where the church was built in later times, and threw the first stone.”

“But Oom Hans, if that child was killed, how could there have been throwbacks in later generations?”

“The ways of the Lord are inscrutable,” he said firmly. “It was His way of reminding us of that evil day to warn us against black blood.”

“And it still happens to this day?”

“It happens.”

Too Far Gone

Before he was too far gone I had to get him back to where this whole loop in the conversation had begun. And I asked, as before, “Oom Hans, did you kill Little-Lukas?”

“You think my power reaches over the mountains?”

“I’m asking
you
. Did you kill Little-Lukas?”

His eyes had a glazed look. “Do you think it was my doing?”

“I want to know if you got that feeling about Little-Lukas.”

“I can’t remember,” he mumbled. His head was drooping.

There was no talk left in him. I got up and pressed Stop on the recorder, and then I left.

When I looked back from some distance away it was just in time to see him sliding from the paraffin case like a doll stuffed with sawdust, covered by the cloud of flies. For a moment I considered going back to check whether he was still alive, but then I heard him snore. And the fucking stench was so powerful that I thought it wise to keep away.

A
LL DAY LONG there was a bustle in the graveyard, what with two new graves being dug for the next day’s double funeral: old Bart Biltong, who already lay waiting in Lukas Death’s mortuary, and the poor water thief who’d died in the night, Alwyn Knees.

In the afternoon I withdrew to my bedroom to start writing up my tapes. Just as I was working on the conversation with Hans Magic the door unexpectedly opened and Tant Poppie appeared, visibly upset.

“What is going on here?” she asked. “I thought I heard visitors.”

I pointed at the little tape recorder. “I showed you this thing before, remember?”

“You didn’t tell me it spoke in voices.” She remained at a safe distance. “This looks like bad magic, Neef Flip.”

“Outside the Devil’s Valley it is very common, Tant Poppie.”

“What if it infects us all?”

“It’s like Hans Magic’s gift,” I said with a straight face. “There’s nothing wrong with it as long as one doesn’t misuse it.”

I pressed Start. Hans Magic’s voice said, “…Emma can be quite forward. It was she who kept on asking Poppie to send her over here with food and this and that, a jug of witblits, a jersey or a scarf she’d knitted. But I don’t fall for that.” I pressed Stop.

“Now you’re going too far, Hans!” Tant Poppie exploded. She looked at me with deep suspicion in her tiny eyes. “Where is Hans? Is he in that little box?”

“Only his voice, Tant Poppie.”

“That box is telling lies,” she said aggressively. “It was Hans Magic who filled Emma’s head with nonsense. I told him she was just a child, he already had his chance with Tall-Fransina and missed it, he mustn’t expect other people to make his bed for him now. But he started to threaten me in all kinds of ways. So in the end I had to put Emma out of my house, I didn’t want trouble like that to hatch under my roof.” She was shaking with indignation. “You must tell that box to stop spreading these lies, Neef Flip. It’ll land us all in trouble.”

It Was Music

It was hard to keep my cool throughout supper, but Tant Poppie was in no hurry and I couldn’t afford to show my impatience. After the meal she continued for what seemed like hours preparing her potions (even this stench had became bearable after my visit to Hans Magic). But at long last the house fell quiet and half an hour later I slipped out. In my pocket was the little tape recorder, and from the partly repaired shed I took a spade and a pick I’d set aside earlier.

There was light in Emma’s room at the back of Isak Smous’s house. Having first checked that there were none of the habitual marauders about—Prickhead, Ben Owl, old Petrus Tatters, or perhaps Henta and her coven—I knocked softly on her window. She jumped up from the table where she’d been sewing: although she must have been expecting me, the sound clearly startled her. She bent over and blew out the candle. Moments later she joined me.

“Emma…”

She pressed a finger to my lips and motioned with her head to move away from the houses, in the direction of the graveyard.

Once there, she said, “You’re late. I thought perhaps something happened to you.”

“Tant Poppie wouldn’t go to bed.” I took the tape recorder from the back pocket of my jeans and gave it to her.

“Music?” she asked with such genuine excitement in her voice that it made me feel guilty. “You know, I think that’s what I miss most of all.”

“I wish it was music. But it’s only old Hans Magic’s voice.”

“Don’t tell me you went to see him?” She was clearly upset.

“I couldn’t put it off any longer. And I want you to hear what he said about your mother.”

“I didn’t think you’d discuss it with him.”

“Don’t say anything now. First listen.”

Her voice became dark and reproachful. “Flip, I trusted you.”

For a moment I wished I could undo the whole fucking interview with Hans Magic. But I knew it was vital. And she
had
to listen.

Even in the dark I could feel her deep resentment, but I pushed the Play button.

Mocking Hiss

The tape made a faint hiss. It went on for several minutes.

“When does it start?” she asked irritably.

“Any moment.” But already I became aware of pressure pulsing in my temples. The conversation with Hans Magic should have started well before this. I switched off the instrument, rewound the tape, tried again. The same uncommunicative hiss.

Fast forward. Play. Fuck-all. Fast forward again. And again. But there was only the mocking hiss.

I turned off the recorder. “It’s broken. But this afternoon it was still fine.”

She shrugged impatiently. “Now you’ll just have to tell me what he said.”

I didn’t have the courage to confront her. I mean, if Hans Magic had said it in his own voice it would have been different; whatever blame there might be he would have had to take himself. Coming from me it would be like a straight accusation.

Whether it was from irritation or a wish to make it easier for me, I couldn’t tell, but she suddenly said, “I suppose he said I lied to you.”

“He said you didn’t know what really happened,” I tried to soften the blow.

“It’s nothing new for them to say I’m lying. He most of all. I warned you the first time, didn’t I?”

“Emma, you must try to understand.”

“You told him what I said,” she insisted, in that tone of bitter reproach. “Why? Because you had doubts about me yourself?”

“It’s not that. You must understand, if I want to write anything that’s worth its salt every fact must be doubled-checked.”

“So Hans Magic told you they never stoned my mother, she ran away and disappeared in the mountains.”

I felt a turd. “More or less, yes.”

“Why do you think it is so important to him to make a liar out of me?”

“What happened between you and him?”

“Nothing happened. That’s why. Because he wanted to. Tant Poppie sent me to him. I thought it was just for the food. I never knew they were in cahoots. I had to throw a whole pot of hot porridge in his face to get away. He shouted after me that Little-Lukas would pay for it.”

Own World

“Are you sure Tant Poppie was in cahoots with him?”

“Why do you think I moved out?”

My head was reeling. “But she said…”

“…that she threw me out?” A derisive laugh. “And you believe them. You believe every one of them. And behind my back you try to find out from them if
I
am lying.”

“That’s not so, Emma, I swear.”

“Do you believe Hans Magic, or me?”

“You know what I believe.”

“How can I be sure? Perhaps it’s just as well you’re going back to your own world on Saturday. There’s nothing here for you.”

I couldn’t control myself any longer. I grabbed her by the wrists. “Emma. For God’s sake, listen to me!”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I just want you to listen. And to believe me, please!”

She turned away. With her back to me she said, “Believing doesn’t come by itself.”

“Jesus, Emma, you
matter
to me. Can’t you see that?”

She made no movement, uttered no sound. Perhaps she was crying. Or perhaps it was fucking presumptuous of me even to think so.

Blindly, I stormed on, “This is not what I wanted, Emma. But you’re the first person in God knows how many years I’ve really cared for. I know it’s impossible, I know it fucks up everything for you. But I can’t go away from here if you think I betrayed you.”

“You’re going away whatever happens.”

“You must go with me,” I blurted out impulsively.

“No.” She turned back to me, her face still invisible in the dark. The moon wasn’t yet out. “You know I can’t.”

“There must be a way.”

“There isn’t.”

Old and Decayed

I don’t know for how long we stood there, struggling against each other, trapped by each other. A jumble of thoughts and memories was tumbling about inside me; I could no longer explain what was happening, what I felt, what I so desperately wanted. All I knew was that I didn’t dare let go of her. I felt like we were drowning. And I wanted to save her, the way I’d pulled her from the Devil’s Hole the day before; but that had been nothing compared to this night’s hell. Without uttering a word we were having the most urgent discussion imaginable, a bloody desperate kind of osmosis.

After a very long time her resistance, as far as I could tell, began to ebb away. But she remained very straight and unyielding. And of course she was right. Without a future I had fuck-all to offer her.

She wanted to go home, but I begged her to stay.

“Let us at least dig up the grave.”

“To check if I lied?”

“Don’t ever say that again. I want to give you something to hold on to.”

“And if we find nothing?”

“Then we’ll go on looking until we know for sure what happened to her. Even if the whole damned valley tries to cover up.”

She didn’t answer. But unexpectedly, and just for a moment, she pressed my hand. Perhaps it was by accident. But I wanted to believe she meant it.

By myself I thought: the one person who would not have lied was Ouma Liesbet Prune. She’d been too close to death for lies to matter any more. And it had been her own coffin she’d given to Maria. If
she
hadn’t known, who would?

The moon was not yet visible, but a faint glimmering was appearing behind the mountains. It wasn’t difficult to locate the old headstone, even if the question mark was not visible in the dark. But with my fingers I could read it, like Braille.

The earth was surprisingly soft. I didn’t even need to use the pick. The doddering old gardeners obviously did a thorough job. Thirty, forty centimetres I went down, then a metre, and still the soil was loose.

“There’s something strange going on here,” I said to Emma.

The moonlight was getting stronger.

“Watch out,” she said. “There’s something there.”

“Must be the coffin.”

But it was too soft for a coffin. I kneeled beside the grave and began to burrow with my hands. It was a roll of blankets. There was something inside. A body.

After we’d lifted the roll out of the grave and laid it down beside the heap of earth I’d dug from it, we glanced at each other, but neither said anything.

Inside, when we opened it, we both immediately recognised the face, even in the faint light. It was Ouma Liesbet Prune. One side of her head had been bashed in and it was caked with dried black blood.

T
HE HEADSTONES WERE faintly luminous in the dark, but it could have been an effect of the moonlight. The dead must be about. But the sounds of invisible fucking thriving in other nights were absent. Out of respect, I could only guess, for Ouma Liesbet cheated out of her ascent to heaven. One could smell the drought in the air, a curious bitter sweetness, like dusty quinces, the smell of Africa.

I didn’t know for how long we had been sitting there. I’d closed the flap of the blanket again, it was not an appetising sight; but we hadn’t moved since then. The moon was sliding downhill to the west, the stars were no longer where they’d been when we found her. Orion had begun to move in behind the mountains, the Southern Cross lay suspended upside down above the, farthest peak. The other constellations escaped me. I’m a dud with stars, as I suppose with most things. I’m the product of a difficult birth, my mother always complained. It was as if I refused to let go, and who can bloody well blame me? In the end I was pulled out with fucking forceps. And as he laid me in my mother’s arms the doctor, who must have been something of a seer himself, said in a commiserating tone of voice, “Mrs Lochner, you shouldn’t expect too much of this one.” Whenever I disappointed her, which was most of the time, she would repeat the story to me. In the end we grow into the stories laid out for us like clothes for a new day.

“What are we going to do with her?” asked Emma, not for the first time.

We’d already considered everything. Tant Poppie? Even she couldn’t raise the dead. Hans Magic? That might be jumping from the frying pan into the live coals. Or should we call on Lukas Death? In matters of life and death he was the obvious man to make the decisions. Perhaps we should simply carry the body to the church and wait for the reaction when the people gathered in the morning to bury Alwyn Knees and old Bart Biltong. This had been Emma’s idea, and there was much going for it. The less we had to do with it the better. But there would be questions asked, I’d argued, and sooner or later, in one way or another, they’d get to us, and then the shit would truly hit the fan.