Devil's Valley by André Brink Page B

about the bush, “Do you have a wife of your own?”
    “I live alone,” I said. Had I known what was to follow I’d have sworn with my hand on my heart that I was happily married to an angelic wife to whom I’d pledged eternal devotion before Almighty God. (Whether it would have made any bloody difference is a moot point.)
    “Well, that’s good then. This is Lettie. I hope you like her.”
    In one way or another the news must have spread, because the visitors who followed came straight to the point.
    “Here’s a milk tart and this is my daughter, may your going in and your coming out be blessed of the Lord.”
    After the encounter in the bluegum wood these situations were easier to handle. For fear of giving offence I didn’t openly turn down any offer. But I explained that I’d come to their valley to write up their history, which would keep me so busy for the foreseeable future that it would be hard to find time for anything else.
    They didn’t appear to feel rebuffed; but the slumbering look below their half-mast eyelids was worrying, as if they’d coaxed me into an agreement without allowing me to check the fine print.
    So much for the women.
    Their procession was interrupted by the insistent ringing of the church bell, and in a way the evening service, of which I remember next to nothing, was a welcome escape. The atmosphere was quite special, I must say: the brooding dark space lit only by the lanterns the people had brought with them. But the rest was just a blur. Grandpa Lukas wasn’t there. Nor, as far as I could see, was the girl Emma. Unless she was seated too far behind me in the women’s block, because I couldn’t turn round to stare too openly. Also, I felt tired and headachy. All I needed now was to be left alone in my room with my thoughts.
    Blood Sports
    But there was no rest for the wicked. As I was undressing in the corner nearest the window—I must say, I found the absence of curtains rather annoying, and I sleep in the buff—there was a knock on the thick panes. Outside I could see a lantern, surrounded by a number of savage male faces with beards and hats, and tufts of hair sprouting from ears and noses. My first thought was that they’d come to drag me out and string me up the nearest tree: for all I knew Henta had given them a different version of our story, or otherwise one of my female visitors had demanded vengeance for an imagined slight. But it turned out to be a hunt, and they had come to take me along.
    I’ve never been a blood sports fan: not from any scruples, but because I’m just too fucking lazy. I’d much rather spend an afternoon in front of the TV with a six-pack at my elbow, or on a special occasion on the railway stand at Newlands. Participation I prefer to leave to others.
    But that night’s invitation was not to be turned down. I don’t think mere was a subtext to it (“Come along, or else…”); but the faces in front of my window in the blustering light of the lantern, with their ancient rifles and kieries and clubs and knives in their gnarled fists, prompted me to make up my mind pretty quickly.
    There were five of them: the carpenter Jos Joseph, whose fragrant dusting of shavings and sawdust appeared to lure gnats at night; the shoemaker Petrus Tatters, gaunt and angular like a scarecrow with flapping coattails; the glowering Jurg Water with his heavy limbs and his purple nose like a misshapen turnip; Isak Smous, small and busy on his short legs, his bald head shining like an ostrich egg in the moonlight; and then the morose Lukas Death in his crumpled suit, black against the black of the night, so that his face appeared like a floating mask. Together, they looked like an exhibition at an agricultural show. And they would not have won first prize.
    Man Among Men
    Had Lukas Death not been with them I might still have looked for an excuse: but his presence was somehow reassuring. He was at least more congenial than the rest.
    The group was clearly fired up