Devil's Valley by André Brink

running off on his own. I went on alone, with my small green charm.
    Smell of Eucalyptus
    Up along the nearest slope, past the long ostrich pen where the grey females were brooding on the nests while the flamboyant males stood guard at the hedge, fluttering their long transvestite lashes. From there I entered the bluegum wood. It was the first time I’d set foot there, but after the dream of two nights before there was something on my mind I wanted to clear up. The undergrowth among the trees was very dense, and in some spots it was tough going. I actually found it reassuring, as it confirmed beyond all doubt that only in a bloody dream could I have found my way so easily through the wood on the night of the full moon.
    After the day’s heat there was a heavy smell of eucalyptus in the air. It was as quiet as hell. Not a mouse or a rat scuttling in the shrubbery, not an insect among the trees. Only the crackling of twigs underfoot as I walked.
    At last the trees began to open up. I must be approaching the top edge of the forest, I thought. But it turned out to be a large clearing among the bluegums. I recognised the spot immediately. No doubt at all. Something long and thin, like girl’s fingers, clutched at my heart. This was fucking impossible.
    It was still very quiet. Only the heavy eucalyptus smell settled on me like a headache. I started looking around in the clearing. Here and there were broken branches and bunches of leaves, some dry, others merely wilted. But it proved nothing. Of course not.
    As I reached the far edge of the clearing I saw something moving among the trees, like a flitting shadow.
    It was Henta. Still wearing her church dress, buttoned up right to her chin. But now she was barefoot, and her long dark-red hair freed from the two tight plaits which that morning had drawn her eyes into slits.
    “Afternoon, Oom.” Something seductive in her voice. This child was much too knowing for her years.
    “Hello, Henta. What are you doing in the wood?”
    “It’s where we come to play, Oom.”
    I swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “What kind of play?”
    “Oom saw us mos, the night before last.”
    “Henta, don’t talk shit to me.” Not the kind of language to use in front of a bloody child, but she’d asked for it.
    Below Her Chin
    She gave a little smile. And she came a step closer. Her cheeks were very red, her eyes unnervingly bright.
    “What do you want now?” I asked cautiously. One could never be sure with this one.
    “I got something to show you.”
    “Yes?” Now I was really getting worried.
    Without warning she leaned forward, clasped the hem of her dress in both hands, and raised it to right below her chin. Under the dress she was naked.
    On my forearm I could feel the chameleon raise a foot. I glanced down. One of its round eyes was fixed, expressionless, on me, the other on her.
    I’ve never thought twice about taking my chances: God knows, there have been few enough over the years; and I don’t easily refuse what comes for free. But that Sunday afternoon I suppose I was down to my last scruple. And in a way I feel perversely proud that I managed to keep my cool. It was almost with a kind of wryness, even sadness, that I said, “No, my child, I don’t think this is such a good idea.” For a moment she didn’t move. Then dropped the hem of her dress. It’s hard to describe the expression on her face. Angry, crestfallen, embarrassed? But there was something else as well, something that fell through the gaps in my vocabulary, something darker, of which for all I know I understood as little as she did.
    Terrible Innocence
    Back in my room I placed the chameleon on one of Tant Poppie’s medicinal twigs and stood it in a tall thin castor oil bottle on the wash-stand beside the ewer. I lit a cigarette but stubbed it out after a pull or two. Then I lay down on my bed, aware only of a feeling of emptiness.
    From far back I remembered the first girl who’d played Henta’s game