Free Devil's Valley by André Brink

he conducted his lessons, which were more or less restricted to the three Rs, a smattering of geography and whatever passed for history in this place; how Brother Holy ruled his congregation through the fear of God; how Isak Smous left for the outside world every three or four months, accompanied by a safari of helpers, with the products of the valley to be exchanged in the Little Karoo for whatever the Devil’s Valley needed in return.
    Most of our conversations were rather patchy, and they never lasted long; sometimes it would be very awkward indeed, as on the Saturday morning when we had to talk over a small child’s body he was preparing for burial—a waterhead with shrivelled limbs. It was while working in his morgue that Lukas Death gave me the lowdown on the formal organisation of the settlement: the Council of Justice, the Council of Policy, the Church Council, the Burial Committee, the Water Management, the Missionary Action Committee, the Chamber of Commerce. Each of these bodies was composed around Lukas Death himself, and the same members served on each, with some provision for co-option; and although in theory it was possible to call elections it never happened in practice since whenever anything of importance happened all the inhabitants would automatically flock to the church to discuss it and take action.
    What got my goat was the bloody Missionary Action Committee, but Lukas Death was unable to shed much light, apart from conceding that in the absence of heathens to convert this particular committee had never met in living memory. “But it has to be there,” he insisted, “just in case, you see.”
    He placed old brass pennies on the bulging eyes of the deformed child. Not an appetising sight. And as Lukas Death pointed out, after a century and a half of inbreeding there was no shortage of such as these.
    Hit My Father
    It was on the same Saturday morning, on my way home from Lukas Death’s morgue that my snotty shadow risked for the first time coming a few steps closer. He’d needed several days to rake up the courage. I only realised he was creeping up on me when he was a mere five yards or so behind me. Then, staring far into the distance as if talking to himself, he asked:
    “Does Oom come from far away?”
    I looked round. “You talking to me?”
    He took a step back, his eyes still avoided me.
    Catching on, I continued on my way, but walking more slowly now to give him time to keep up. I said, “I come from very far away.”
    A pause. “Does Oom come from heaven?”
    I made a vague gesture towards the distant peaks. “From very high up.”
    “Is Oom the Lord God?”
    I knew I had to play it skilfully. “Why do you ask, boetie?”
    “If Oom is the Lord God, won’t Oom please hit my father with a thunderbolt?”
    “Why?”
    “He’s too hard on us, Oom.”
    “What does he do then?”
    “Is Oom really the Lord God?”
    “Not actually.” I stopped to light a cigarette. “But I’m a close friend. I can always put in a word for you.”
    “No, jus’ give me then a smoke-stick.” He pointed to my packet of Camels.
    “You’re too small to smoke.”
    “It’s not to smoke,” he mumbled, on his face an I-didn’t-ask-to-be-here kind of expression.
    For the hell of it I took out a cigarette and held it out to him, meaning to snatch it away if he made a grab for it. But he was much too fast for me. Swift as a vervet monkey he zapped it from my hand and scuttled off. At a safe distance he sat down on a rock and, keeping a furtive eye on me, tore the paper from the cigarette, shook the tobacco into a cupped hand and greedily gobbled it up. When he’d finished the last bit, he got up again, chucked his bubble of snot in reverse, and darted off. Another dead end. Yet this time I felt that some kind of progress had been made.

Bloody Nerves
    O NLY OVER THE weekend did things begin to change. It was on the Sunday, to be exact, which was devoted to their version of Holy Communion. Nagmaal.