Chapter Three.Tommy’s Evil Genius.“Greater love hath no man than this.”—S. John XV. 13.His name was Danster. His age might have been anything between fifteen and forty-five. His cheekbones were high, and his eyes oblique like those of a Mongolian. Scattered unevenly over his bullet-shaped skull were thin tufts of wool, each culminating in a minute, solid pellet. His only clothing was a noisome sheep-skin kaross which had formerly belonged to a great-grandfather—long since deceased.Danster was a Hottentot—or rather what is called by that indefinite term at the Cape. In his much-mixed blood that of the Bushman evidently preponderated. An anthropologist would have valued his skull, which seemed to epitomise the results of a criminal ancestry extending through many generations.Tommy, surnamed Winwood, was very different. He was a blonde, blue-eyed, yellow-haired lad of eight years of age, somewhat slight and undersized, but agile and capable of endurance when under the stimulus of excitement. Five children had nested in the Winwood nursery, but only Tommy survived. The others had all succumbed to congenital delicacy before reaching the age of seven. With Tommy the Winwoods had come to South Africa in the early eighties, and had taken a farm near the coast in one of the eastern districts of the Cape Colony. Mr Winwood was a nervous, retiring man of literary tastes. Having enough money to live upon, his farming was hardly a serious pursuit. In fact he left the management of the place almost solely in the hands of a somewhat dour but conscientious Boer, who managed to run the concern at a profit.Mrs Winwood suffered from extreme delicacy. She was an accomplished musician, but the climate had sapped her energy to such an extent that when the weather was warm she hardly ever touched the piano. When the days were cool, she often played for six or seven hours a day, and thus seriously overtaxed her strength. Both she and her husband were moody and morbid. Although much attached to each other, their life was a series of misunderstandings.It may be imagined what a lonely life poor Tommy led. He received three hours’ instruction every day—two from his father and one from his mother. His nursery was full of toys, but the very number and variety of these had rendered them valueless as a resource. The homestead stood on the steep south slope of a valley through which a stream ran between fringes of timber rooted in rich, fern-bearing soil, and commanded a grand view of interspersed forest and grassy slopes. But, unfortunately, snakes abounded, so poor Tommy was restricted to the cleared area immediately surrounding the house. So his face took on that expression of pathos which haunts the looks of children debarred from the companionship of their kind.When the tempter appeared Tommy fell an easy prey. Danster was a calf-herd. He, too, felt lonely. His avocations kept him in the vicinity of the homestead, so he soon found an opportunity of making friends with the lonely child. The intimacy grew, unnoticed by Tommy’s parents, and was for some time tacitly acquiesced in. However, one day Mrs Winwood came upon the two sitting behind the big water-tank, and found Danster engaged in extracting the eyes of a living bird with a mimosa thorn, while Tommy looked on, fascinated. Danster was thereupon severely flogged by the overseer, under Mr Winwood’s supervision, and earnestly warned never to show his ill-favoured face near the homestead again.Tommy was a thoroughly truthful child. When questioned he freely admitted that the removal of the bird’s eyes was the last of a long series of hideous vivisectional experiments at which he had assisted, and which had been organised for his delectation. Like most highly-strung people, Mr and Mrs Winwood were morbidly sensitive to physical suffering, either in themselves or in other sentient beings. The keenness of their distress may therefore be imagined. Horrible though the thing was, they took far too serious a view of it. In fact, they imagined that their child’s character had been irreparably ruined.Tommy had not realised how attached he was to the disreputable Danster until after the separation. One night, about a week after the dreadful discovery, Tommy confessed to his mother that he loved Danster very much indeed. Soon he began to mope visibly. His father and mother were horribly annoyed at the turn things had taken. They always referred to Danster as their son’s evil genius.Something had to be done, so it was decided to employ a governess. In due course a highly certificated lady came to undertake the regeneration of Tommy’s morals as well as the development of his mind. She had much erudition, but little sympathy, so Tommy and she were antipathetic towards each other from the very start, and the starved heart of the lonely child went out more and more towards the banished Danster.Drought had lain heavily on the land for many months. The season was autumn. During early spring copious rains had fallen, but throughout sultry January and blistering February the heavens had been as brass and the wind as the blast from a furnace. The grass which had sprung up rank and luxuriant withered again, and now the farm, which was much under-stocked, lay like a clay potsherd covered with tinder.One afternoon the sun smote the earth with more than usual fury. Away to the westward irregular fragments of thundercloud, which seemed incapable of cohering sufficiently to produce a storm, coquetted with the quivering mountain-tops. Ever and anon irregular gusts from the eastward would trail over glowing hill and gasping vale with a sound as though the tortured earth were sobbing an appeal to the skies for the withheld mercy of rain. It was one of those days on which the beast seeks, gasping, for a cool lair, and the bird pants with half outstretched wings, deep in the densest foliage.Mr and Mrs Winwood had collapsed completely; the governess retired to her darkened room; the servants had disappeared. Tommy only was awake. He tried all sorts of devices for passing the time, but the walls of his comparatively cool room became an irksome prison as the afternoon wore on; so he opened the glass door quietly, to avoid wakening his father in the next room, and stepped quietly on to the back stoep. Here he was in the shade. The air had taken on that suspicion of coolness which, in seasons of drought, nearly always tempers the afternoon.Tommy leant upon the verandah rail, and the wind, as it stirred his yellow locks, seemed to be charged with some odour that stimulated his languid pulses. He sniffed at it wonderingly; what did it remind him of? Then he suddenly knew, and his cheek crimsoned with a guilty flush: it was the smell of Danster’s kaross, its grosser elements subdued by distance, which assailed his nostrils.Tommy cast his eyes around, and they fell upon an object which sent the blood coursing wildly through his veins. There, emerging from a bush only a few yards away, was the bullet-shaped head and Mongolian face of the Hottentot, his eyes filled with appeal and his wide mouth distended into a white-toothed smile. Tommy gazed spellbound, and the evil genius cautiously held out at arm’s length a stick from which a small water-tortoise hung by one tortured leg. After this had been dangled for a few seconds it was withdrawn and then the nest of a loxia was held forth. The loxia suspends its nest from boughs overhanging dark, forest-nurtured pools, and the nest has a long, woven tube, cunningly devised for the purpose of keeping out snakes, lizards and other enemies that prey upon the eggs and young of wild birds. Tommy had often gazed at these works of woven art as they hung from the whip-like acacia boughs, and had longed to possess one. A vision of the cool forest grot where he had seen them swaying in the wind arose in his mind. Duty was forgotten in an instant; Nature, like a long-banished king, came back and claimed his own. An old hat belonging to his father hung upon a nail close at hand. Hurriedly placing this upon his head he tripped down the steps into the garden and followed the beckoning tempter.Tommy hurried after his evil genius along the pathway which led through the orchard down to the bottom of the valley. In passing, Danster skilfully snatched a supply of half-ripe peaches from the laden trees, and hid the loot in a fold of his odoriferous kaross. This grated on Tommy’s sense of honour; his conscience lifted his head. To salve it, he mentally resolved not to eat any of the fruit.They climbed over the orchard fence and pressed through the rustling Tambookie grass, which filled the air with its sharp, sweet scent. Then they reached the strip of forest at the bottom of the valley. From the heart of its charmed mystery stole the delightful murmur of falling water.Just where the pathway crossed the stream was a rocky ledge over which a thin gush of crystal water trembled down through the air and, smiting a boulder, resolved itself into fine spray. A vagrant sunbeam pierced this, and the miracle of a tiny rainbow hung over the pool. This is a phenomenon only seen in severe droughts, and when the sunlight smites through a gap in the greenery at a certain angle. The impressionable Tommy become intoxicated with delight; the smell of Danster’s kaross, which had always offended his sensitive nose, was forgotten. The evil genius became a wood-god and Tommy his humble votary.The wind, heated once more to furnace pitch, moaned threateningly along the hillside, but here all was cool, grateful and quiet. The unruffled water slept beneath the shadowing trees from which, ever and anon, sounded the peevish twitter of drowsy birds. A large iguana slowly dragged its scaly length over the stones, pausing now and then to snap at an insect, which it swallowed, gulping solemnly. A flash of vivid blue seemed to fill the gloom—a kingfisher skimmed out of the darkness across the surface of the pool and perched on a stone. Quick as thought Danster flung his short, knobbed stick with unerring aim, and the bird fell, mangled, its bright plumage scattered over the surface of the crystal pool. This broke the spell. Grasping the dead bird in his hand, Tommy followed his evil genius across the stream and through the fringe of woodland on the other side.Now came the main effort of the enterprise; the steep, grassy hillside had to be climbed. Beyond, high up, stood the enchanted forest in the depth of which the red-winged, green-crested lories flitted with noiseless undulations from tree to tree or waked strident echoes with their hoarse-throated calls. There the satyrs of the South—the black-faced, green-backed monkeys—tore swinging along from bough to bough, scattering leaves, flowers and berries from sheer love of mischief. There the great woodland butterflies flitted like ghosts through the nether gloom or circled like fairies around the tree-tops. From there the raucous barking of the rutting bushbucks sounded at midnight across the valley. There were hidden wonders—untold, transcendent—stinging imagination into ecstasy.The hillside had once been covered with forest, but the timber had, on the lower slopes, disappeared under the blighting hand of man. Now the high, waving Tambookie grass lay thick upon it, and through this the path wound and zigzagged aimlessly, after the manner of South African footways. A stream had once flowed down the decline, but being no longer nurtured by the growth of timber, had shrunk to an underground trickle, the course of which was here and there marked by a funnel-shaped opening filled with bracken. Here a careful ear might discover the musical tinkle of semi-subterranean water.Tommy became very tired, but pushed bravely on, following the lead of his evil genius. The air became hotter and hotter. A few belated cloudlets, very high up, sailed slowly against the wind. From some of these a few heavy gouts of rain occasionally fell, only to be immediately evaporated by the glowing earth. Now and then a remote metallic clashing of thunder could be heard. A sudden and furious succession of gusts sprang up and joined in a mad whirl from eastward. This covered the hillside with dust, and sent leaves and twigs flying over the billows of the swaying grass.Tommy looked longingly at the dense forest, which now lay but a couple of hundred yards ahead. The wind blew his hair bewilderingly into his eyes; the hot, acrid dust filled his throat. His legs trembled under him, but he still struggled bravely on. His evil genius stood between him and the worst of the gusts, and the unsavoury kaross proved an acceptable shield against the stinging missiles with which the air was filled.At length a lull—but the wind was only pausing to gain strength for a burst of wilder fury. Then a dense cloud of dust and detritus arose to windward and advanced with a strident moan.A small, solid-looking cloud hung above them, shaped like a pear. From this a thin blade of white lightning flickered down and ignited the grass to windward, just in front of the advancing tempest. Immediately the dustcloud closed down on the ignited spot; in an instant the hillside was a hell of roaring, whirling, leaping flame.Danster did not hesitate for an instant. Dropping the tortoise, the loxia’s nest and the stolen fruit, he seized Tommy by the hand and dragged him swiftly back down the hillside towards the last of the subterranean openings they had passed. It was a race for life with the springing, vaulting flame, which was hurled onward by the wind in immense flakes, pausing for the fraction of a minute here and there as though to gain strength for the next leap. Soon it became apparent that the fire must win. Then a hissing tongue of flame darted out and cut the fugitives off from their goal.Without pausing for an instant Danster denuded himself of his kaross, wrapped Tommy in it, and, picking him up, dashed naked into the fire with a wild yell, hurling himself and his burthen into the gulf beyond. They sank together into the burning mass of bracken, Tommy beneath and his evil genius above. Then the world went out for Tommy in a wild turmoil of heat, smoke, suffocation and crackling explosions.The first thing that struck Tommy’s awakening senses was a strong smell of burnt leather. He was lying in a mass of slimy ooze. After a violent struggle he sat up, his head piercing the charred kaross, which had been his shield against the devouring fire. He looked around him with smarting eyes. The sides of the depression in which he lay were jet-black, with here and there a thin whorl of smoke eddying upwards. The strong, amber-tinted sunshine dazzled him. Close by he noticed a pair of yellow, pain-shot eyes, with brown vertical slits. A wild cat with all its fur scorched off was painfully crawling out of the water. He felt a movement at his feet; a half-scorched snake was loosely coiled about his ankles. He turned to look behind him, wondering where Danster was... But what was that blackened, shrivelled, crackling mass contorted so horribly beside him among the charred stumps of the fern? Alas! it was the body of his evil genius, who had died in agony that Tommy might live.Tommy staggered to his feet. Not so much as a hair of his yellow head had been touched by the fire. He climbed out of the hollow and fled down the blackened hillside, still holding the dead kingfisher in his hand.
“Greater love hath no man than this.”—S. John XV. 13.
“Greater love hath no man than this.”—S. John XV. 13.
His name was Danster. His age might have been anything between fifteen and forty-five. His cheekbones were high, and his eyes oblique like those of a Mongolian. Scattered unevenly over his bullet-shaped skull were thin tufts of wool, each culminating in a minute, solid pellet. His only clothing was a noisome sheep-skin kaross which had formerly belonged to a great-grandfather—long since deceased.
Danster was a Hottentot—or rather what is called by that indefinite term at the Cape. In his much-mixed blood that of the Bushman evidently preponderated. An anthropologist would have valued his skull, which seemed to epitomise the results of a criminal ancestry extending through many generations.
Tommy, surnamed Winwood, was very different. He was a blonde, blue-eyed, yellow-haired lad of eight years of age, somewhat slight and undersized, but agile and capable of endurance when under the stimulus of excitement. Five children had nested in the Winwood nursery, but only Tommy survived. The others had all succumbed to congenital delicacy before reaching the age of seven. With Tommy the Winwoods had come to South Africa in the early eighties, and had taken a farm near the coast in one of the eastern districts of the Cape Colony. Mr Winwood was a nervous, retiring man of literary tastes. Having enough money to live upon, his farming was hardly a serious pursuit. In fact he left the management of the place almost solely in the hands of a somewhat dour but conscientious Boer, who managed to run the concern at a profit.
Mrs Winwood suffered from extreme delicacy. She was an accomplished musician, but the climate had sapped her energy to such an extent that when the weather was warm she hardly ever touched the piano. When the days were cool, she often played for six or seven hours a day, and thus seriously overtaxed her strength. Both she and her husband were moody and morbid. Although much attached to each other, their life was a series of misunderstandings.
It may be imagined what a lonely life poor Tommy led. He received three hours’ instruction every day—two from his father and one from his mother. His nursery was full of toys, but the very number and variety of these had rendered them valueless as a resource. The homestead stood on the steep south slope of a valley through which a stream ran between fringes of timber rooted in rich, fern-bearing soil, and commanded a grand view of interspersed forest and grassy slopes. But, unfortunately, snakes abounded, so poor Tommy was restricted to the cleared area immediately surrounding the house. So his face took on that expression of pathos which haunts the looks of children debarred from the companionship of their kind.
When the tempter appeared Tommy fell an easy prey. Danster was a calf-herd. He, too, felt lonely. His avocations kept him in the vicinity of the homestead, so he soon found an opportunity of making friends with the lonely child. The intimacy grew, unnoticed by Tommy’s parents, and was for some time tacitly acquiesced in. However, one day Mrs Winwood came upon the two sitting behind the big water-tank, and found Danster engaged in extracting the eyes of a living bird with a mimosa thorn, while Tommy looked on, fascinated. Danster was thereupon severely flogged by the overseer, under Mr Winwood’s supervision, and earnestly warned never to show his ill-favoured face near the homestead again.
Tommy was a thoroughly truthful child. When questioned he freely admitted that the removal of the bird’s eyes was the last of a long series of hideous vivisectional experiments at which he had assisted, and which had been organised for his delectation. Like most highly-strung people, Mr and Mrs Winwood were morbidly sensitive to physical suffering, either in themselves or in other sentient beings. The keenness of their distress may therefore be imagined. Horrible though the thing was, they took far too serious a view of it. In fact, they imagined that their child’s character had been irreparably ruined.
Tommy had not realised how attached he was to the disreputable Danster until after the separation. One night, about a week after the dreadful discovery, Tommy confessed to his mother that he loved Danster very much indeed. Soon he began to mope visibly. His father and mother were horribly annoyed at the turn things had taken. They always referred to Danster as their son’s evil genius.
Something had to be done, so it was decided to employ a governess. In due course a highly certificated lady came to undertake the regeneration of Tommy’s morals as well as the development of his mind. She had much erudition, but little sympathy, so Tommy and she were antipathetic towards each other from the very start, and the starved heart of the lonely child went out more and more towards the banished Danster.
Drought had lain heavily on the land for many months. The season was autumn. During early spring copious rains had fallen, but throughout sultry January and blistering February the heavens had been as brass and the wind as the blast from a furnace. The grass which had sprung up rank and luxuriant withered again, and now the farm, which was much under-stocked, lay like a clay potsherd covered with tinder.
One afternoon the sun smote the earth with more than usual fury. Away to the westward irregular fragments of thundercloud, which seemed incapable of cohering sufficiently to produce a storm, coquetted with the quivering mountain-tops. Ever and anon irregular gusts from the eastward would trail over glowing hill and gasping vale with a sound as though the tortured earth were sobbing an appeal to the skies for the withheld mercy of rain. It was one of those days on which the beast seeks, gasping, for a cool lair, and the bird pants with half outstretched wings, deep in the densest foliage.
Mr and Mrs Winwood had collapsed completely; the governess retired to her darkened room; the servants had disappeared. Tommy only was awake. He tried all sorts of devices for passing the time, but the walls of his comparatively cool room became an irksome prison as the afternoon wore on; so he opened the glass door quietly, to avoid wakening his father in the next room, and stepped quietly on to the back stoep. Here he was in the shade. The air had taken on that suspicion of coolness which, in seasons of drought, nearly always tempers the afternoon.
Tommy leant upon the verandah rail, and the wind, as it stirred his yellow locks, seemed to be charged with some odour that stimulated his languid pulses. He sniffed at it wonderingly; what did it remind him of? Then he suddenly knew, and his cheek crimsoned with a guilty flush: it was the smell of Danster’s kaross, its grosser elements subdued by distance, which assailed his nostrils.
Tommy cast his eyes around, and they fell upon an object which sent the blood coursing wildly through his veins. There, emerging from a bush only a few yards away, was the bullet-shaped head and Mongolian face of the Hottentot, his eyes filled with appeal and his wide mouth distended into a white-toothed smile. Tommy gazed spellbound, and the evil genius cautiously held out at arm’s length a stick from which a small water-tortoise hung by one tortured leg. After this had been dangled for a few seconds it was withdrawn and then the nest of a loxia was held forth. The loxia suspends its nest from boughs overhanging dark, forest-nurtured pools, and the nest has a long, woven tube, cunningly devised for the purpose of keeping out snakes, lizards and other enemies that prey upon the eggs and young of wild birds. Tommy had often gazed at these works of woven art as they hung from the whip-like acacia boughs, and had longed to possess one. A vision of the cool forest grot where he had seen them swaying in the wind arose in his mind. Duty was forgotten in an instant; Nature, like a long-banished king, came back and claimed his own. An old hat belonging to his father hung upon a nail close at hand. Hurriedly placing this upon his head he tripped down the steps into the garden and followed the beckoning tempter.
Tommy hurried after his evil genius along the pathway which led through the orchard down to the bottom of the valley. In passing, Danster skilfully snatched a supply of half-ripe peaches from the laden trees, and hid the loot in a fold of his odoriferous kaross. This grated on Tommy’s sense of honour; his conscience lifted his head. To salve it, he mentally resolved not to eat any of the fruit.
They climbed over the orchard fence and pressed through the rustling Tambookie grass, which filled the air with its sharp, sweet scent. Then they reached the strip of forest at the bottom of the valley. From the heart of its charmed mystery stole the delightful murmur of falling water.
Just where the pathway crossed the stream was a rocky ledge over which a thin gush of crystal water trembled down through the air and, smiting a boulder, resolved itself into fine spray. A vagrant sunbeam pierced this, and the miracle of a tiny rainbow hung over the pool. This is a phenomenon only seen in severe droughts, and when the sunlight smites through a gap in the greenery at a certain angle. The impressionable Tommy become intoxicated with delight; the smell of Danster’s kaross, which had always offended his sensitive nose, was forgotten. The evil genius became a wood-god and Tommy his humble votary.
The wind, heated once more to furnace pitch, moaned threateningly along the hillside, but here all was cool, grateful and quiet. The unruffled water slept beneath the shadowing trees from which, ever and anon, sounded the peevish twitter of drowsy birds. A large iguana slowly dragged its scaly length over the stones, pausing now and then to snap at an insect, which it swallowed, gulping solemnly. A flash of vivid blue seemed to fill the gloom—a kingfisher skimmed out of the darkness across the surface of the pool and perched on a stone. Quick as thought Danster flung his short, knobbed stick with unerring aim, and the bird fell, mangled, its bright plumage scattered over the surface of the crystal pool. This broke the spell. Grasping the dead bird in his hand, Tommy followed his evil genius across the stream and through the fringe of woodland on the other side.
Now came the main effort of the enterprise; the steep, grassy hillside had to be climbed. Beyond, high up, stood the enchanted forest in the depth of which the red-winged, green-crested lories flitted with noiseless undulations from tree to tree or waked strident echoes with their hoarse-throated calls. There the satyrs of the South—the black-faced, green-backed monkeys—tore swinging along from bough to bough, scattering leaves, flowers and berries from sheer love of mischief. There the great woodland butterflies flitted like ghosts through the nether gloom or circled like fairies around the tree-tops. From there the raucous barking of the rutting bushbucks sounded at midnight across the valley. There were hidden wonders—untold, transcendent—stinging imagination into ecstasy.
The hillside had once been covered with forest, but the timber had, on the lower slopes, disappeared under the blighting hand of man. Now the high, waving Tambookie grass lay thick upon it, and through this the path wound and zigzagged aimlessly, after the manner of South African footways. A stream had once flowed down the decline, but being no longer nurtured by the growth of timber, had shrunk to an underground trickle, the course of which was here and there marked by a funnel-shaped opening filled with bracken. Here a careful ear might discover the musical tinkle of semi-subterranean water.
Tommy became very tired, but pushed bravely on, following the lead of his evil genius. The air became hotter and hotter. A few belated cloudlets, very high up, sailed slowly against the wind. From some of these a few heavy gouts of rain occasionally fell, only to be immediately evaporated by the glowing earth. Now and then a remote metallic clashing of thunder could be heard. A sudden and furious succession of gusts sprang up and joined in a mad whirl from eastward. This covered the hillside with dust, and sent leaves and twigs flying over the billows of the swaying grass.
Tommy looked longingly at the dense forest, which now lay but a couple of hundred yards ahead. The wind blew his hair bewilderingly into his eyes; the hot, acrid dust filled his throat. His legs trembled under him, but he still struggled bravely on. His evil genius stood between him and the worst of the gusts, and the unsavoury kaross proved an acceptable shield against the stinging missiles with which the air was filled.
At length a lull—but the wind was only pausing to gain strength for a burst of wilder fury. Then a dense cloud of dust and detritus arose to windward and advanced with a strident moan.
A small, solid-looking cloud hung above them, shaped like a pear. From this a thin blade of white lightning flickered down and ignited the grass to windward, just in front of the advancing tempest. Immediately the dustcloud closed down on the ignited spot; in an instant the hillside was a hell of roaring, whirling, leaping flame.
Danster did not hesitate for an instant. Dropping the tortoise, the loxia’s nest and the stolen fruit, he seized Tommy by the hand and dragged him swiftly back down the hillside towards the last of the subterranean openings they had passed. It was a race for life with the springing, vaulting flame, which was hurled onward by the wind in immense flakes, pausing for the fraction of a minute here and there as though to gain strength for the next leap. Soon it became apparent that the fire must win. Then a hissing tongue of flame darted out and cut the fugitives off from their goal.
Without pausing for an instant Danster denuded himself of his kaross, wrapped Tommy in it, and, picking him up, dashed naked into the fire with a wild yell, hurling himself and his burthen into the gulf beyond. They sank together into the burning mass of bracken, Tommy beneath and his evil genius above. Then the world went out for Tommy in a wild turmoil of heat, smoke, suffocation and crackling explosions.
The first thing that struck Tommy’s awakening senses was a strong smell of burnt leather. He was lying in a mass of slimy ooze. After a violent struggle he sat up, his head piercing the charred kaross, which had been his shield against the devouring fire. He looked around him with smarting eyes. The sides of the depression in which he lay were jet-black, with here and there a thin whorl of smoke eddying upwards. The strong, amber-tinted sunshine dazzled him. Close by he noticed a pair of yellow, pain-shot eyes, with brown vertical slits. A wild cat with all its fur scorched off was painfully crawling out of the water. He felt a movement at his feet; a half-scorched snake was loosely coiled about his ankles. He turned to look behind him, wondering where Danster was... But what was that blackened, shrivelled, crackling mass contorted so horribly beside him among the charred stumps of the fern? Alas! it was the body of his evil genius, who had died in agony that Tommy might live.
Tommy staggered to his feet. Not so much as a hair of his yellow head had been touched by the fire. He climbed out of the hollow and fled down the blackened hillside, still holding the dead kingfisher in his hand.
Chapter Four.The Wisdom of the Serpent.In the good old days in Southern Africa distinction of any kind on the part of a Kaffir was a decided subjective disadvantage. Any man among the southern Bantu tribes possessing to a remarkable degree such attributes as strength, valour in war, or skill in the hunting-field, or who distinguished himself by any especially notable deed, was liable to be waylaid by the myrmidons of his chief and expeditiously killed. His skull would then be taken to the principal of the Royal College of Witch-doctors, who would fill it with a potion and give the gruesome cup to be quaffed by the head of the tribe just before dawn next morning at the gate of the calf-pen. It was held that the chief would thus acquire in a simple, easy, and expeditious manner the much envied qualities of the distinguished deceased.Occasionally portions of such physical organs as were supposed to have been specially concerned in the distinguished man’s supremacy in his particular line would be pounded up with the ashes of magical roots to form an ingredient of the potion. Like the phrenologist, who thought to localise certain faculties under various bumps upon the human skull, the Kaffir doctor inferred that different organs of the human body were respectively the seats of different mental qualities, and, further, that it was possible to assimilate the latter through the digestive apparatus.When the late Kreli, chief of the Gcaleka tribe, was a young man, he was thought to be somewhat dull and lacking in power of initiative, so a great council of the tribe was held to decide as to what should be done to improve the chief’s understanding and sharpen his wits generally. After long and anxious deliberation the council decided that the best way to endow Kreli with the missing qualities was to cause him to drink a potion out of the skull of one of the councillors—an old man of great parts who had been an ornament to the tribal senate since long before the death of Hintza, Kreli’s father. The proposition was carried by acclamation, there being only one dissentient. Certain rites had, however, to precede the killing, and during the celebration of these the distinguished possessor of the coveted skull managed to make his escape across the colonial boundary.The elders, no doubt shocked at the want of patriotism displayed by their colleague, once more met, and it was then decided as an alternative to remove the first phalanx of the little finger of the young chiefs left hand. That the operation had the desired effect there can be no doubt, for Kreli became astute in peace and valiant in war—facts which the British and Colonial Governments ascertained to their joint cost on several subsequent occasions. Since the date of that momentous operation every youth of the Gcaleka tribe has, on reaching a certain age, been similarly mutilated, and several other tribes have adopted the same custom.Half a century ago, more or less, a certain trader named John Flood had developed a flourishing business in the present district of ’Mqanduli, then, as now, the territory occupied by the Bomvana tribe. Flood was a man of keen business instincts. He had, at a time when no one else dreamt of doing such a thing, established a trading station in the very heart of independent Kaffirland. There being no competition of any kind, the surrounding tribes were solely dependent upon him for their supply of civilised goods, for the general use of which they rapidly acquired a taste. It was desperately hard work conveying the merchandise from Cape Colony through a very rugged and absolutely roadless country, but the large profit made quite justified the expenditure of labour and money. Beads, brass wire, iron hoes, and blankets were the principal lines in which this trader dealt. In exchange he obtained large herds of cattle, which he periodically despatched to the colonial markets.The trading station consisted of three large huts of native make, one of which was used as a shop, the others being respectively the trader’s sleeping apartment and kitchen. Flood had, of course, a native wife—a girl named Nolai, daughter of a petty chief in the vicinity. I regret to have to record that his domestic conditions were not quite satisfactory. Nolai happened to prefer a certain young man of her own race, who had wooed her in the days of her spinsterhood, but had been too poor to pay the number of cattle which her astute father had required as dowry. Twice during the first year of her married life had Nolai absconded from the dwelling of her spouse, only, however, to be ignominiously brought back by her brothers. Had they failed in this duty a return of the dowry cattle would have been claimed by the deserted husband. Flood, as a matter of fact, would have much preferred the cattle to the uncongenial Nolai, but, apparently, her relations shared in this preference. He had serious thoughts of taking another and, as he hoped, more suitable wife. This, no doubt, he would have done had it not been for the python.The trading station was situated near the boundary of the Gcaleka territory, the chief of which, Kreli, exercised suzerainty over and imposed tribute upon the chief of the Bomvanas. In the vicinity of the station was a large, dense forest full of noble timber and swarming with wild beasts.Among the natives of those days certain animals were looked upon as Royal game, and the chiefs were as strict in enforcing their rights in this respect as ever was William the Conqueror or the Plantagenets. Each tribe had its special laws relating to this privilege, and some of these laws were very peculiar. Of course, different tribes selected different animals for this distinction, but among the Gcalekas and the various clans which acknowledged Kreli as their head, “Munyu,” the python, was regarded as being more than ordinarily the special game of the paramount chief. As a matter of fact, pythons seldom ventured so far south as Gcalekaland, and it was probably the fact of their extreme rarity which accounted for these creatures being so jealously reserved for the use of the highest in the land.The gall is well known by witch-doctors to be the seat of fierceness in all animals. Matiwamè, chief of the destroying horde of Fetcani, drank the gall of every chief he slew, with the view of increasing that very liberal endowment of ferocity which nature had given him. Moreover, the gall of snakes is supposed not alone to endow the drinker thereof with ophidian rancour and malice, but to give immunity from the effects of snake-bite.The wisdom of the serpent is proverbial among all the sons of Ham. Upon several grounds, therefore, a potion made of the gall of the King of Snakes is a thing much to be desired by any chief.Should the chief have been fortunate enough to succeed in killing a python he would use the skull of the creature as a cup out of which to drink the potion. Nevertheless, the chief was by no means sorry if someone else, allowing his passion for sport to overcome his regard for the law, did the killing; but in such a case he would cause the courageous sportsman to be killed as well for the purpose of obtaininghisskull and gall. The two galls would then be mixed together, divided, and quaffed in equal parts out of the respective skulls of the python and the python’s slayer.The advantages of this arrangement must, of course, be obvious. At the expense of probably not more inconvenience than the average Briton undergoes in crossing from Dover to Calais when on his annual holiday, the chief would imbibe the wisdom, the subtlety and the ferocity of the serpent, as well as the prowess of the mighty man who had conquered it. What, indeed, could be simpler or more satisfactory.One fateful day in middle spring the trader happened to be riding along the edge of the big forest, looking for a horse which had strayed. He carried his double-barrelled gun, for guinea-fowl abounded, and he was desirous of shooting a couple for his supper. Suddenly his pony swerved wildly to one side with a violent snort, and John Flood measured his length upon the ground. The pony galloped homeward mad with fright.The trader rose to his feet, recovered his gun and looked quickly in the direction of the spot from which his pony had recoiled in such terror. There he saw an immense python climbing sinuously and with deliberation into a large thorn-tree. The snake was so intent upon a monkey which sat, fascinated and rigid, in the upper branches, that it appeared to take no notice of the man. It was a monster, and had evidently quite recently sloughed its skin after the long winter’s sleep, for its scales gleamed gloriously in the brilliant afternoon sunshine. Rhythmic muscular tremors ran up and down its coiling length, bringing the vivid brown, green, and golden patterns into changing prominence.Flood, who was not wanting in either courage or coolness, watched his opportunity, and poured a charge of shot into the python’s neck, just behind the head, at point-blank range. Then the monstrous creature crushed the branches of the tree like a wisp in its death agony during one appalling minute, and the monkey, relieved from its fascination, made off into the forest with voluble chatterings, in which, no doubt, miscellaneously profane monkey language was mingled with uncomplimentary remarks about ophidians in general and pythons in particular.John Flood, exceedingly stiff from the effects of his fall, obtained assistance and dragged his quarry home in triumph. The shop happened at the time to be surrounded by customers waiting patiently for the return of the proprietor. Through the medium of these the half of Bomvanaland was apprised of the doughty deed within a few hours. Among others who heard the important news was the head witch-doctor of the Bomvana chief, who at once sought an audience with his master. The chief was a young man who had as yet found no opportunity of distinguishing himself.A council was at once called hurriedly together. The deliberations of this body were short but decisive. Within half an hour a strong body of armed men were on their way to the trader’s, with strict orders to seize the carcase of the python at all costs and convey it to the “Great Place.” The witch-doctor, clad in the varied and alarming insignia of his office, acted as leader.John Flood was extremely proud of his achievement, and Nolai thought far more of her husband than ever before. He had done a notable deed; one which would be talked of at all the kraals in the land for years to come, and she would shine with reflected glory. She had been planning another and more determined effort to break the galling conjugal yoke, but under this new development she determined to postpone action. Her lover, brave as he no doubt was, had never killed a python—nor could she hope he was likely ever to do so. She glanced at the gleaming coils of the dead monster, and shuddered with mingled terror and enjoyment—a complex sensation well known to the feminine bosom, no matter what be its colour. The cold, dead, lidless eyes fascinated her almost as much as they had the monkey. There is a widespread belief among natives to the effect that women often have snakes as their lovers. Nolai wondered how any woman could love such a terrific creature. All the same, she made up her mind that should she ever bear a son she would call his name “Munyu.”The party from the “Great Place” was overtaken by night before it reached the trader’s. The witch-doctor, who stalked majestically in front, found it necessary to call a halt every now and then for the purpose of letting off his excitement by violent dancing, during which the bones and bladders which were festooned all over him made an appalling rattle, and by loud yellings. The party found the trader engaged in skinning the snake by the light of a fire in front of his shop, and in the presence of a large number of spectators. The witch-doctor ordered the proceedings at once to stop, and then seized hold of the python’s tail. A wild wrangle ensued. The rest of the party, who rather liked the trader, stood aside whilst he and the witch-doctor engaged in a sort of tug-of-war, in the course of which—Flood being by far the stronger man of the two—the witch-doctor was hauled ignominiously around the premises. The trader, rendered mettlesome by his exploit, absolutely refused to give the carcase up, so the witch-doctor called upon his companions, in terms of their allegiance to the chief, to assist him. A compromise was eventually arrived at. Flood only valued the skin, whereas the witch-doctor knew that the parts most valuable for magical purposes were the head and the gall. Moreover, he did not quite know if the terms of his commission included the killing of the trader in the event of a refusal on his part to give up the prey, especially as the trader was known to be more or less of a favourite with the powerful Gcaleka chief. It took until nearly midnight to settle the difficulty, and then the witch-doctor marched off in somewhat qualified triumph with the python’s head in his skin wallet and the gall-bladder tied securely at the end of a small stick, which he held carefully before him at arm’s length. The Bomvana chief, although he grumbled somewhat at not getting the complete carcase, was, on the whole, fairly well satisfied.After making his report the witch-doctor at once went to work upon his magical rites, and he worked with such effect that he was able to administer the gall of the python, in its skull, to his august master next morning. The function took place, with all due solemnity, before daybreak, at the gate of the calf-pen. History does not record whether the potion acted as an emetic or not, but it may be safely assumed that the chief made an exceedingly wry face.But this by no means closed the incident. Kreli, the Bomvana chief’s suzerain, came to hear of the slaying of the serpent, and his indignation waxed great when the seizure of the skull and gall by his vassal was reported to him. The head of the Royal College of Gcaleka Witch-doctors worked upon the chief’s feelings to such an extent that his indignation grew to fury. How, he asked, in a wrathful message, could his vassal dare to infringe upon the Royal prerogative in such an unheard-of manner? The message followed with a demand for immediate surrender of the skull, and ended with a threat of war in the event of non-compliance. It was, in fact, an ultimatum.The ideas of the Bomvana chief on the subject of suzerainty were probably as different from those of Kreli as President Kruger’s were from those of Mr Chamberlain, but he wisely refrained from arguing the point. In a penitent and conciliatory message he apologised for what had occurred, and expressed deep regret that, quite outside his orders on the subject, the python’s skull had been burnt into powder for medicinal purposes by his witch-doctor.A portion of the powder—all, in fact, that was left—he begged leave to send to his suzerain in the horn of a bushbuck, and he could only hope, loyally, that the same would turn out as efficacious as such medicine was generally supposed to be. This powder had, on the approach of Kreli’s party becoming known, been prepared from the bones of a crow knocked over for the purpose by one of the boys at the kraal with his stick.Kreli was by no means taken in by the bushbuck horn and its contents. His indignation at being tricked was boundless, and the only thing which prevented him from sending an army into Bomvanaland to “eat up” the chief was the fact that he was in daily expectation of a declaration of war on the part of Umtirara, chief of the Tembu tribe. But the matter was far too important to be allowed to drop, so he called a great council of the “Izibonda” (literally “poles,” such as those which support the roof of a hut) or elders, as well as the numerous petty chiefs who owned his sway and basked in the reflection of his power.A few days afterwards the great council met at Kreli’s “Great Place,” the exact spot of assembly being the “inkundhla,” or gate of the big cattle enclosure. One by one the grey-headed peers arrived, each with a face of extreme gravity, as suited the momentous occasion. Deliberative assemblies of this class are much enjoyed by natives, especially by those who have passed the age of exuberant physical vitality. They give opportunity for the exercise of those faculties of oratory and argument which the Kaffir possesses to such a remarkable degree.The matter had now assumed national importance. That the paramount chief should have been tricked out of so favourable an opportunity for adding to his wisdom, his subtlety and his fierceness, particularly at the time when he was on the eve of going to war with another powerful potentate, was unfortunate and inopportune in the last degree. It was subversive to the dignity of the tribe which proudly derived its name from the mighty Gcaleka; it was revolutionary, socialistic, or whatever the current equivalents of these terms happened to be. Why, if such a thing came to be talked of among the surrounding clans, not alone would it bring the Gcaleka nation into contempt, but Kreli would probably lose allies in his coming struggle with the Tembus. Something, clearly, must be done—but what?The councillors deliberated for three days without coming to a decision, and it was then that the principal witch-doctor showed a way out of the condition of dead-lock. In the middle of a wild babel, in which everyone was shouting his opinion as he could, this great man arose to his feet and discarded his kaross. Then he aimed a glance of scathing contempt at the war-doctor, with whom he had been bickering considerably throughout the meeting. A hush at once fell upon the assembly as he spoke—“O chief and councillors of the Gcaleka nation, we are all agreed that the matter of the python cannot be allowed to rest, but we have been unable to agree as to what action should be taken. Hear, then, my words, and let the chief say if they be not words of wisdom.“I am, as you all know, not a fighting man; my wars are with the secret evil-doer, so I cannot give an opinion as to your decision to refrain from ‘eating up’ the Bomvana chief. But this thought comes to me: we have all heard the words of the war-doctor. Now, if those words be true, what is the ground for your hesitation? Did he not say that after the warriors had been sprinkled with the boiling root-broth, and had sprung through the magic smoke, they would become so terrible that a hundred of the enemy would flee from one of them? But let that pass. The chief has decided in his sagacity—or, perhaps, owing to your advice—which his father, the great Hintza, urged him to follow in important matters, that he will not make the python an occasion of war at the present time.“It is not for me, a servant, to question the decisions of my chief, or to ask how it is, in view of the promises of the war-doctor, that you hesitate from advising that the warriors be at once led to victory. But it is my duty to reveal what was told to me in a vision. Know, then, that ‘Munyu,’ which was slain by Folodi, the European, was a messenger sent by the ‘Imishologu’ (Ancestral spirits) to convey tokens of their favour to Kreli, and that if the qualities of the serpent be wholly lost to our chief, the ‘Imishologu’ will turn their faces from us in the hour of danger.“As to this”—here he produced the bushbuck horn sent by the Bomvana chief, and scornfully scattered its contents upon the ground, after which he hurled the horn away over the heads of his hearers.“What, then, must be done?” he continued. “Why, this: If the chief cannot obtain the skull and gall of ‘Munyu,’ there is nothing to prevent him getting the skull and gall of ‘Munyu’s’ slayer. The European has vanquished the snake, therefore is he greater than the snake. Bring unto me this man’s head and gall, and I will prepare a draught for Kreli which will make him so wise and subtle that you will all be as children before him, and so fierce that the warriors of Umtirara will flee from before his face.”The witch-doctor resumed his seat amid guttural murmurs of approval, and the councillors, glad to have such an easy way indicated out of a thorny situation, adopted his proposal on the spot. Nothing now remained to be done but to organise a killing party and despatch it to the residence of the unsuspecting trader.The witch-doctor pronounced the current state of the moon to be propitious, so messengers were at once sent to warn a sufficient number of men from the surrounding kraals for immediate duty.It is usually and mistakenly considered that Kaffirs are absolutely deficient in gratitude. If such were the case John Flood would have come to a sudden end, most probably, since his skull was required intact, by strangling with a thong. But there happened to be present at the council a man whom the trader had once successfully treated for a serious illness after the native doctors had pronounced his case to be hopeless. In the middle of the night Flood was awakened by a tap at the door of his sleeping hut. Without opening the door he asked who it was that wanted him.“It is I, Fanti. Open the door.”Flood at once admitted the man, who, immediately upon entering, blew out the candle which the trader held in his hand.“Folodi,” he said, in an agitated whisper, “put the saddle on your best horse, and get to the other side of the Kei River as soon as you can.”“Why—what have I done?” queried the astonished trader.“It is the matter of the python which you killed, and of which the Bomvana chief drank the gall. Kreli is going to war, and he means to haveyourskull and to drinkyourgall out of it on the day the army is doctored. You are now a very great man because you slew ‘Munyu,’ and the chief wants your greatness for himself.”“But Kreli is my friend,” said Flood, with a considerable tremor in his voice, “and I am not one of his own men to kill at his pleasure. I never heard of such a thing in my life—I—I—”“Folodi,” interrupted Fanti in a tone which carried conviction, “the men are now on the way to kill you, led by the witch-doctor. Go or stay as you please, but I have told you the truth, and I can wait no longer to risk having my neck twisted.”As he spoke the last words Fanti glided out of the hut, and vanished like a ghost. John Flood knew the customs of the natives better, I fear, than he knew his prayers, so he stood not upon the order of his going. He pulled down the bars of the kraal entrance so as to let the cattle go free. After this he hurriedly put on his best suit of clothes, and took down his trusty double-barrelled gun and its appurtenances from where they hung to the wattled roof. Then he saddled his best pony.He took a last look at the goods upon his shelves. The stock had recently been added to; it was very hard to have to abandon it.He did not awaken Nolai, who slept in the kitchen. He knew that her father would take her home, and that the law of the land required that she should be comfortably maintained until she again married, out of the dowry cattle. He was glad there were no children to complicate matters.After he had mounted his pony, John Flood sat for a moment and gazed with emotion upon the spot where he had spent several contented years. Just as he was about to start he bethought himself of the python’s skin. He had carefully dried it, and it lay in a coil upon one of the shelves in the shop. That, at all events, he determined they should not have, so he dismounted, re-entered the hut, and fetched the trophy, which he tied with a thong to the side of his saddle. Then he turned and rode sadly, though swiftly, away.Flood knew every inch of the country, so he had no difficulty in reaching the Colonial boundary. His first halt was made at a forest which he reached shortly before daybreak, and in which he mournfully spent the long summer’s day. The only thing which consoled him in his tribulations was the thought that he had managed to remove the skin of the python out of the reach of Kreli and the witch-doctors.In spite of the fact that he kept this skin till the day of his death, which happened at a ripe old age, John Flood, ever after his flight, disliked pythons probably as much as the monkey whose life he was unfortunate enough to be instrumental in saving.
In the good old days in Southern Africa distinction of any kind on the part of a Kaffir was a decided subjective disadvantage. Any man among the southern Bantu tribes possessing to a remarkable degree such attributes as strength, valour in war, or skill in the hunting-field, or who distinguished himself by any especially notable deed, was liable to be waylaid by the myrmidons of his chief and expeditiously killed. His skull would then be taken to the principal of the Royal College of Witch-doctors, who would fill it with a potion and give the gruesome cup to be quaffed by the head of the tribe just before dawn next morning at the gate of the calf-pen. It was held that the chief would thus acquire in a simple, easy, and expeditious manner the much envied qualities of the distinguished deceased.
Occasionally portions of such physical organs as were supposed to have been specially concerned in the distinguished man’s supremacy in his particular line would be pounded up with the ashes of magical roots to form an ingredient of the potion. Like the phrenologist, who thought to localise certain faculties under various bumps upon the human skull, the Kaffir doctor inferred that different organs of the human body were respectively the seats of different mental qualities, and, further, that it was possible to assimilate the latter through the digestive apparatus.
When the late Kreli, chief of the Gcaleka tribe, was a young man, he was thought to be somewhat dull and lacking in power of initiative, so a great council of the tribe was held to decide as to what should be done to improve the chief’s understanding and sharpen his wits generally. After long and anxious deliberation the council decided that the best way to endow Kreli with the missing qualities was to cause him to drink a potion out of the skull of one of the councillors—an old man of great parts who had been an ornament to the tribal senate since long before the death of Hintza, Kreli’s father. The proposition was carried by acclamation, there being only one dissentient. Certain rites had, however, to precede the killing, and during the celebration of these the distinguished possessor of the coveted skull managed to make his escape across the colonial boundary.
The elders, no doubt shocked at the want of patriotism displayed by their colleague, once more met, and it was then decided as an alternative to remove the first phalanx of the little finger of the young chiefs left hand. That the operation had the desired effect there can be no doubt, for Kreli became astute in peace and valiant in war—facts which the British and Colonial Governments ascertained to their joint cost on several subsequent occasions. Since the date of that momentous operation every youth of the Gcaleka tribe has, on reaching a certain age, been similarly mutilated, and several other tribes have adopted the same custom.
Half a century ago, more or less, a certain trader named John Flood had developed a flourishing business in the present district of ’Mqanduli, then, as now, the territory occupied by the Bomvana tribe. Flood was a man of keen business instincts. He had, at a time when no one else dreamt of doing such a thing, established a trading station in the very heart of independent Kaffirland. There being no competition of any kind, the surrounding tribes were solely dependent upon him for their supply of civilised goods, for the general use of which they rapidly acquired a taste. It was desperately hard work conveying the merchandise from Cape Colony through a very rugged and absolutely roadless country, but the large profit made quite justified the expenditure of labour and money. Beads, brass wire, iron hoes, and blankets were the principal lines in which this trader dealt. In exchange he obtained large herds of cattle, which he periodically despatched to the colonial markets.
The trading station consisted of three large huts of native make, one of which was used as a shop, the others being respectively the trader’s sleeping apartment and kitchen. Flood had, of course, a native wife—a girl named Nolai, daughter of a petty chief in the vicinity. I regret to have to record that his domestic conditions were not quite satisfactory. Nolai happened to prefer a certain young man of her own race, who had wooed her in the days of her spinsterhood, but had been too poor to pay the number of cattle which her astute father had required as dowry. Twice during the first year of her married life had Nolai absconded from the dwelling of her spouse, only, however, to be ignominiously brought back by her brothers. Had they failed in this duty a return of the dowry cattle would have been claimed by the deserted husband. Flood, as a matter of fact, would have much preferred the cattle to the uncongenial Nolai, but, apparently, her relations shared in this preference. He had serious thoughts of taking another and, as he hoped, more suitable wife. This, no doubt, he would have done had it not been for the python.
The trading station was situated near the boundary of the Gcaleka territory, the chief of which, Kreli, exercised suzerainty over and imposed tribute upon the chief of the Bomvanas. In the vicinity of the station was a large, dense forest full of noble timber and swarming with wild beasts.
Among the natives of those days certain animals were looked upon as Royal game, and the chiefs were as strict in enforcing their rights in this respect as ever was William the Conqueror or the Plantagenets. Each tribe had its special laws relating to this privilege, and some of these laws were very peculiar. Of course, different tribes selected different animals for this distinction, but among the Gcalekas and the various clans which acknowledged Kreli as their head, “Munyu,” the python, was regarded as being more than ordinarily the special game of the paramount chief. As a matter of fact, pythons seldom ventured so far south as Gcalekaland, and it was probably the fact of their extreme rarity which accounted for these creatures being so jealously reserved for the use of the highest in the land.
The gall is well known by witch-doctors to be the seat of fierceness in all animals. Matiwamè, chief of the destroying horde of Fetcani, drank the gall of every chief he slew, with the view of increasing that very liberal endowment of ferocity which nature had given him. Moreover, the gall of snakes is supposed not alone to endow the drinker thereof with ophidian rancour and malice, but to give immunity from the effects of snake-bite.
The wisdom of the serpent is proverbial among all the sons of Ham. Upon several grounds, therefore, a potion made of the gall of the King of Snakes is a thing much to be desired by any chief.
Should the chief have been fortunate enough to succeed in killing a python he would use the skull of the creature as a cup out of which to drink the potion. Nevertheless, the chief was by no means sorry if someone else, allowing his passion for sport to overcome his regard for the law, did the killing; but in such a case he would cause the courageous sportsman to be killed as well for the purpose of obtaininghisskull and gall. The two galls would then be mixed together, divided, and quaffed in equal parts out of the respective skulls of the python and the python’s slayer.
The advantages of this arrangement must, of course, be obvious. At the expense of probably not more inconvenience than the average Briton undergoes in crossing from Dover to Calais when on his annual holiday, the chief would imbibe the wisdom, the subtlety and the ferocity of the serpent, as well as the prowess of the mighty man who had conquered it. What, indeed, could be simpler or more satisfactory.
One fateful day in middle spring the trader happened to be riding along the edge of the big forest, looking for a horse which had strayed. He carried his double-barrelled gun, for guinea-fowl abounded, and he was desirous of shooting a couple for his supper. Suddenly his pony swerved wildly to one side with a violent snort, and John Flood measured his length upon the ground. The pony galloped homeward mad with fright.
The trader rose to his feet, recovered his gun and looked quickly in the direction of the spot from which his pony had recoiled in such terror. There he saw an immense python climbing sinuously and with deliberation into a large thorn-tree. The snake was so intent upon a monkey which sat, fascinated and rigid, in the upper branches, that it appeared to take no notice of the man. It was a monster, and had evidently quite recently sloughed its skin after the long winter’s sleep, for its scales gleamed gloriously in the brilliant afternoon sunshine. Rhythmic muscular tremors ran up and down its coiling length, bringing the vivid brown, green, and golden patterns into changing prominence.
Flood, who was not wanting in either courage or coolness, watched his opportunity, and poured a charge of shot into the python’s neck, just behind the head, at point-blank range. Then the monstrous creature crushed the branches of the tree like a wisp in its death agony during one appalling minute, and the monkey, relieved from its fascination, made off into the forest with voluble chatterings, in which, no doubt, miscellaneously profane monkey language was mingled with uncomplimentary remarks about ophidians in general and pythons in particular.
John Flood, exceedingly stiff from the effects of his fall, obtained assistance and dragged his quarry home in triumph. The shop happened at the time to be surrounded by customers waiting patiently for the return of the proprietor. Through the medium of these the half of Bomvanaland was apprised of the doughty deed within a few hours. Among others who heard the important news was the head witch-doctor of the Bomvana chief, who at once sought an audience with his master. The chief was a young man who had as yet found no opportunity of distinguishing himself.
A council was at once called hurriedly together. The deliberations of this body were short but decisive. Within half an hour a strong body of armed men were on their way to the trader’s, with strict orders to seize the carcase of the python at all costs and convey it to the “Great Place.” The witch-doctor, clad in the varied and alarming insignia of his office, acted as leader.
John Flood was extremely proud of his achievement, and Nolai thought far more of her husband than ever before. He had done a notable deed; one which would be talked of at all the kraals in the land for years to come, and she would shine with reflected glory. She had been planning another and more determined effort to break the galling conjugal yoke, but under this new development she determined to postpone action. Her lover, brave as he no doubt was, had never killed a python—nor could she hope he was likely ever to do so. She glanced at the gleaming coils of the dead monster, and shuddered with mingled terror and enjoyment—a complex sensation well known to the feminine bosom, no matter what be its colour. The cold, dead, lidless eyes fascinated her almost as much as they had the monkey. There is a widespread belief among natives to the effect that women often have snakes as their lovers. Nolai wondered how any woman could love such a terrific creature. All the same, she made up her mind that should she ever bear a son she would call his name “Munyu.”
The party from the “Great Place” was overtaken by night before it reached the trader’s. The witch-doctor, who stalked majestically in front, found it necessary to call a halt every now and then for the purpose of letting off his excitement by violent dancing, during which the bones and bladders which were festooned all over him made an appalling rattle, and by loud yellings. The party found the trader engaged in skinning the snake by the light of a fire in front of his shop, and in the presence of a large number of spectators. The witch-doctor ordered the proceedings at once to stop, and then seized hold of the python’s tail. A wild wrangle ensued. The rest of the party, who rather liked the trader, stood aside whilst he and the witch-doctor engaged in a sort of tug-of-war, in the course of which—Flood being by far the stronger man of the two—the witch-doctor was hauled ignominiously around the premises. The trader, rendered mettlesome by his exploit, absolutely refused to give the carcase up, so the witch-doctor called upon his companions, in terms of their allegiance to the chief, to assist him. A compromise was eventually arrived at. Flood only valued the skin, whereas the witch-doctor knew that the parts most valuable for magical purposes were the head and the gall. Moreover, he did not quite know if the terms of his commission included the killing of the trader in the event of a refusal on his part to give up the prey, especially as the trader was known to be more or less of a favourite with the powerful Gcaleka chief. It took until nearly midnight to settle the difficulty, and then the witch-doctor marched off in somewhat qualified triumph with the python’s head in his skin wallet and the gall-bladder tied securely at the end of a small stick, which he held carefully before him at arm’s length. The Bomvana chief, although he grumbled somewhat at not getting the complete carcase, was, on the whole, fairly well satisfied.
After making his report the witch-doctor at once went to work upon his magical rites, and he worked with such effect that he was able to administer the gall of the python, in its skull, to his august master next morning. The function took place, with all due solemnity, before daybreak, at the gate of the calf-pen. History does not record whether the potion acted as an emetic or not, but it may be safely assumed that the chief made an exceedingly wry face.
But this by no means closed the incident. Kreli, the Bomvana chief’s suzerain, came to hear of the slaying of the serpent, and his indignation waxed great when the seizure of the skull and gall by his vassal was reported to him. The head of the Royal College of Gcaleka Witch-doctors worked upon the chief’s feelings to such an extent that his indignation grew to fury. How, he asked, in a wrathful message, could his vassal dare to infringe upon the Royal prerogative in such an unheard-of manner? The message followed with a demand for immediate surrender of the skull, and ended with a threat of war in the event of non-compliance. It was, in fact, an ultimatum.
The ideas of the Bomvana chief on the subject of suzerainty were probably as different from those of Kreli as President Kruger’s were from those of Mr Chamberlain, but he wisely refrained from arguing the point. In a penitent and conciliatory message he apologised for what had occurred, and expressed deep regret that, quite outside his orders on the subject, the python’s skull had been burnt into powder for medicinal purposes by his witch-doctor.
A portion of the powder—all, in fact, that was left—he begged leave to send to his suzerain in the horn of a bushbuck, and he could only hope, loyally, that the same would turn out as efficacious as such medicine was generally supposed to be. This powder had, on the approach of Kreli’s party becoming known, been prepared from the bones of a crow knocked over for the purpose by one of the boys at the kraal with his stick.
Kreli was by no means taken in by the bushbuck horn and its contents. His indignation at being tricked was boundless, and the only thing which prevented him from sending an army into Bomvanaland to “eat up” the chief was the fact that he was in daily expectation of a declaration of war on the part of Umtirara, chief of the Tembu tribe. But the matter was far too important to be allowed to drop, so he called a great council of the “Izibonda” (literally “poles,” such as those which support the roof of a hut) or elders, as well as the numerous petty chiefs who owned his sway and basked in the reflection of his power.
A few days afterwards the great council met at Kreli’s “Great Place,” the exact spot of assembly being the “inkundhla,” or gate of the big cattle enclosure. One by one the grey-headed peers arrived, each with a face of extreme gravity, as suited the momentous occasion. Deliberative assemblies of this class are much enjoyed by natives, especially by those who have passed the age of exuberant physical vitality. They give opportunity for the exercise of those faculties of oratory and argument which the Kaffir possesses to such a remarkable degree.
The matter had now assumed national importance. That the paramount chief should have been tricked out of so favourable an opportunity for adding to his wisdom, his subtlety and his fierceness, particularly at the time when he was on the eve of going to war with another powerful potentate, was unfortunate and inopportune in the last degree. It was subversive to the dignity of the tribe which proudly derived its name from the mighty Gcaleka; it was revolutionary, socialistic, or whatever the current equivalents of these terms happened to be. Why, if such a thing came to be talked of among the surrounding clans, not alone would it bring the Gcaleka nation into contempt, but Kreli would probably lose allies in his coming struggle with the Tembus. Something, clearly, must be done—but what?
The councillors deliberated for three days without coming to a decision, and it was then that the principal witch-doctor showed a way out of the condition of dead-lock. In the middle of a wild babel, in which everyone was shouting his opinion as he could, this great man arose to his feet and discarded his kaross. Then he aimed a glance of scathing contempt at the war-doctor, with whom he had been bickering considerably throughout the meeting. A hush at once fell upon the assembly as he spoke—
“O chief and councillors of the Gcaleka nation, we are all agreed that the matter of the python cannot be allowed to rest, but we have been unable to agree as to what action should be taken. Hear, then, my words, and let the chief say if they be not words of wisdom.
“I am, as you all know, not a fighting man; my wars are with the secret evil-doer, so I cannot give an opinion as to your decision to refrain from ‘eating up’ the Bomvana chief. But this thought comes to me: we have all heard the words of the war-doctor. Now, if those words be true, what is the ground for your hesitation? Did he not say that after the warriors had been sprinkled with the boiling root-broth, and had sprung through the magic smoke, they would become so terrible that a hundred of the enemy would flee from one of them? But let that pass. The chief has decided in his sagacity—or, perhaps, owing to your advice—which his father, the great Hintza, urged him to follow in important matters, that he will not make the python an occasion of war at the present time.
“It is not for me, a servant, to question the decisions of my chief, or to ask how it is, in view of the promises of the war-doctor, that you hesitate from advising that the warriors be at once led to victory. But it is my duty to reveal what was told to me in a vision. Know, then, that ‘Munyu,’ which was slain by Folodi, the European, was a messenger sent by the ‘Imishologu’ (Ancestral spirits) to convey tokens of their favour to Kreli, and that if the qualities of the serpent be wholly lost to our chief, the ‘Imishologu’ will turn their faces from us in the hour of danger.
“As to this”—here he produced the bushbuck horn sent by the Bomvana chief, and scornfully scattered its contents upon the ground, after which he hurled the horn away over the heads of his hearers.
“What, then, must be done?” he continued. “Why, this: If the chief cannot obtain the skull and gall of ‘Munyu,’ there is nothing to prevent him getting the skull and gall of ‘Munyu’s’ slayer. The European has vanquished the snake, therefore is he greater than the snake. Bring unto me this man’s head and gall, and I will prepare a draught for Kreli which will make him so wise and subtle that you will all be as children before him, and so fierce that the warriors of Umtirara will flee from before his face.”
The witch-doctor resumed his seat amid guttural murmurs of approval, and the councillors, glad to have such an easy way indicated out of a thorny situation, adopted his proposal on the spot. Nothing now remained to be done but to organise a killing party and despatch it to the residence of the unsuspecting trader.
The witch-doctor pronounced the current state of the moon to be propitious, so messengers were at once sent to warn a sufficient number of men from the surrounding kraals for immediate duty.
It is usually and mistakenly considered that Kaffirs are absolutely deficient in gratitude. If such were the case John Flood would have come to a sudden end, most probably, since his skull was required intact, by strangling with a thong. But there happened to be present at the council a man whom the trader had once successfully treated for a serious illness after the native doctors had pronounced his case to be hopeless. In the middle of the night Flood was awakened by a tap at the door of his sleeping hut. Without opening the door he asked who it was that wanted him.
“It is I, Fanti. Open the door.”
Flood at once admitted the man, who, immediately upon entering, blew out the candle which the trader held in his hand.
“Folodi,” he said, in an agitated whisper, “put the saddle on your best horse, and get to the other side of the Kei River as soon as you can.”
“Why—what have I done?” queried the astonished trader.
“It is the matter of the python which you killed, and of which the Bomvana chief drank the gall. Kreli is going to war, and he means to haveyourskull and to drinkyourgall out of it on the day the army is doctored. You are now a very great man because you slew ‘Munyu,’ and the chief wants your greatness for himself.”
“But Kreli is my friend,” said Flood, with a considerable tremor in his voice, “and I am not one of his own men to kill at his pleasure. I never heard of such a thing in my life—I—I—”
“Folodi,” interrupted Fanti in a tone which carried conviction, “the men are now on the way to kill you, led by the witch-doctor. Go or stay as you please, but I have told you the truth, and I can wait no longer to risk having my neck twisted.”
As he spoke the last words Fanti glided out of the hut, and vanished like a ghost. John Flood knew the customs of the natives better, I fear, than he knew his prayers, so he stood not upon the order of his going. He pulled down the bars of the kraal entrance so as to let the cattle go free. After this he hurriedly put on his best suit of clothes, and took down his trusty double-barrelled gun and its appurtenances from where they hung to the wattled roof. Then he saddled his best pony.
He took a last look at the goods upon his shelves. The stock had recently been added to; it was very hard to have to abandon it.
He did not awaken Nolai, who slept in the kitchen. He knew that her father would take her home, and that the law of the land required that she should be comfortably maintained until she again married, out of the dowry cattle. He was glad there were no children to complicate matters.
After he had mounted his pony, John Flood sat for a moment and gazed with emotion upon the spot where he had spent several contented years. Just as he was about to start he bethought himself of the python’s skin. He had carefully dried it, and it lay in a coil upon one of the shelves in the shop. That, at all events, he determined they should not have, so he dismounted, re-entered the hut, and fetched the trophy, which he tied with a thong to the side of his saddle. Then he turned and rode sadly, though swiftly, away.
Flood knew every inch of the country, so he had no difficulty in reaching the Colonial boundary. His first halt was made at a forest which he reached shortly before daybreak, and in which he mournfully spent the long summer’s day. The only thing which consoled him in his tribulations was the thought that he had managed to remove the skin of the python out of the reach of Kreli and the witch-doctors.
In spite of the fact that he kept this skin till the day of his death, which happened at a ripe old age, John Flood, ever after his flight, disliked pythons probably as much as the monkey whose life he was unfortunate enough to be instrumental in saving.
Chapter Five.Rainmaking.OneDrought had weighed heavily upon Pondoland for many weary months, and when more than half of what was usually ploughing season had passed, leaving the ground as stone to ploughshare and pick, the people began to groan at the prospect of having to do without beer; for the millet, from which it is brewed, having no leaf-sheath to protect the grain (such as covers the maize-cob), if sown late often is ruined by an early frost. When, however, a month afterwards, the weather was still dry and hotter than ever, they realised that even the maize crop was in serious danger. Then the women followed the men about with wailings, saying that they and their children would perish. The men bent anxious eyes upon the hollow-flanked cattle that wandered about lowing with hunger and stumbling among the stones on the scorched hillsides, often falling to rise no more.A deputation representing the Pondo chiefs, headmen and men of influence appeared before Umquikela, the paramount Chief at Qaukeni, his “Great Place,” and besought him to send for Umgwadhla, the great tribal “inyanga ya’mvula,” or “rain-doctor,” and order him to make rain. A somewhat similar step had been taken more than a month before, but without the desired result. Much indignation was consequently felt against Umgwadhla, who was, as a matter of fact, generally blamed for the deplorable condition of the country.Umgwadhla was looked upon as very expert in his particular line of business; he had hitherto given the greatest satisfaction. Since his appointment in succession to Kokodolo, who had been “smelt out” and killed for obvious neglect of duty just before the break-up of the last great drought, ten years previously, the spring rains had not until now failed in Pondoland. Moreover, no hut around which he had inserted the “isibonda ze’zula,” or “lightning pegs,” had ever been damaged in the heaviest thunderstorm. As a matter of fact, Umgwadhla was looked upon as a veritable “Prince of the Power of the Air.”Umquikela was, as usual, very drunk when the deputation arrived. His councillors, however, recognising the seriousness of the extent to which popular feeling was moved, kept all traders and others likely to supply him with liquor away from his hut for twenty-four hours. Consequently the Chief was, next day, quite capable of transacting State business. He heard what his lieges had to say, approved of their suggestions, issued the necessary orders, and then returned to his cups with a clear conscience.A message was accordingly sent to Umgwadhla notifying him that the “guba,” or “rain-dance,” would be held on a certain day, and that his presence at the function was required. This notification was accompanied by a very significant message to the effect that if the function were a failure he would be held responsible. Word was circulated among the people, in terms of which they had to appear at the “Great Place” on the day in question, armed, and each bringing a contribution of “imitombo,” or millet, which, after having been allowed to germinate partially under the influence of damp, has been dried and ground to fine powder. It is from this, after it has been boiled and fermented, that the liquor known as “Kaffir beer” is made.Umgwadhla fell into the deepest dismay; mindful as he was of the fate which had, under similar circumstances, overtaken a long line of predecessors. He could not help feeling that the length of his tether had now probably been reached. A drought protracted to a certain degree invariably had caused the “smelling out” and shameful death of whatever “rain-doctor” happened to be in office at the time, and, as droughts invariably do come to an end eventually, the fact of rain falling soon after the immolation of an unsuccessful practitioner had raised the irresistible presumption that each of these had, by the malicious use of magical arts, deflected the rain-clouds from their proper course.There was no sign of the weather’s breaking. The red soil, especially along the footpaths, was cracking into fissures; the fibre of the herbage was giving way and leaf and blade were turning into dust. In the minor watercourses the water began to run more freely. This is an unexplained phenomenon which invariably accompanies severe South African droughts. It is probably due to pressure upon the underground reservoirs, caused by local shrinkage of the earth’s surface.Umgwadhla day by day turned an apprehensive eye to the westward, the quarter from which thunderstorms might be expected, but the sky remained as brass. A steady, scorching wind arose every forenoon, blew all day, and sank with the sun. So long as this continued, Umgwadhla, who was in his way genuinely weather-wise, knew there was no chance of the weather breaking. He shuddered with dread day and night. He saw by the demeanour of those he came in contact with that all held him in detestation, and he continually suffered from the foretaste of a cruel death. Through the instrumentality of a few trusted friends he sent a number of his cattle out of Pondoland, but these he knew he would have great difficulty in recovering—even in the unlikely event of his managing to make his escape.The day appointed for the “rain-dance” drew near with terrible rapidity, and at length arrived. At early morn the “ukuqusha,” or driving in of the cattle at a run from every kraal for miles around to the “Great Place,” began. When all the oxen had been collected the Chief selected one from his own herd for slaughter, and every petty chief, headman, and “umninizi,” or head of a kraal, selected one of those driven in by him, for the same purpose. All doomed oxen were kraaled together, and then the important ceremony of doctoring the Chief began.Umgwadhla had arrived secretly during the previous night, with his stock of roots, herbs, and other medicines, and from these he proceeded to concoct the “isihlambiso,” or magico-medicinal wash. He broke up the roots and herbs and placed them in a large earthen pot nearly full of water. Then he got a three-pronged stick about eighteen inches in length, and placing the pronged end in the mixture he twirled the stick rapidly between his palms until the liquid frothed and seethed over the edge of the pot. Then he notified the Chief that the medicine was ready.The Chief, accompanied by his “isicaka se ’nkosi,” or “medicine boy,” now stalked majestically forward. The “medicine boy,” lifted the pot and carried it slowly into the large kraal, out of which the cattle had now been driven, the Chief following, naked and with stately steps. Upon reaching the centre of the kraal the Chief crouched slightly forward, and the “medicine boy” lifted the pot and poured a liberal quantity of the contents over his shoulders. The “rain-doctor” and the Chief smeared this all over the body of the latter, and rubbed it in with the palms of their hands.After this the pot, containing what remained of the mixture, was carried back to the Chief’s hut, there to be kept until the end of the ensuing feast, when the washing process would be repeated, and any balance of the liquid then remaining would be spilt in the middle of the cattle kraal.The grand ceremonial dance, known as “ukuguba,” then began. The men, with faces painted red, danced in a row in front of the women, who sat on the ground clapping their hands rhythmically and singing a song full of monotonous repetition. This song related to feuds, fights, and the greatness and prowess of ancestral chiefs, but contained no reference to rain or to anything supernatural.When the song and the dance were over the “rain-doctor” announced that on the fifth day following, thunderclouds would arise in the north-western sky in the afternoon, and that heavy rain would immediately follow.Then the oxen were slaughtered and the feasting began. Under the influence of their excitement the people fully believed that the promises of the “rain-doctor” would be fulfilled. The beer flowed like water, and the meat, although rather poor in condition, was satisfying—a Native is never particular about the quality of beef. Many fights took place, many skulls were cracked—some fatally, and, taking it all round, the function was a grand success; that is, of course, if we leave out of sight the main object of the gathering, which, however, had been totally forgotten for the time being.Four days were spent in feasting, and on the morning of the fifth the people dispersed to their homes and began at once to get ready their picks and hoes against the coming rain. But the skies were still like lurid brass, and the sun as a pitiless, consuming fire.TwoOn the afternoon of the third day after the feast Umgwadhla went quietly home. He was now almost in despair. He had, under the heaviest pressure, committed himself definitely to the production of rain at a given hour on a specified day, trusting to his luck to redeem the promise. The day was now terribly close. Twice more had the sun to go down in wrath and twice to rise in fury—and then—before it sank again? He now knew, by the absence of signs of its approach, that the rain would not come on the day he had named. The evening of the fourth day came, and the sun went down a bar of rusty, red smoke, the result of inland grass-fires. Then the cool stars came out, twinkling mockery at the shuddering earth and the unhappy wizard, who felt as though the woes of the suffering land were heaped upon his head.Umgwadhla’s hut was situated close to the edge of the Umsingizi Forest. This hut was his official residence, where he dwelt in retirement when engaged in practising the mysteries of his profession. He had carried home a large lump of meat from the feast. Part of this he cooked, but he found it quite impossible to eat. He sat all night on a rock a few yards distant from the hut, watching the hollow, light-punctured shell of night winding over him with horrible rapidity. Then the dawn flushed over the sea, and he realised that the dreaded day had arrived without the slightest prospect of rain. Already, in anticipation, he felt the choking strain of the thong by which his feet would be bound to his neck, preparatory to his being flung to drown in the nearest deep river-pool.The sun, although only just risen, smote hotter than ever through the sultry drought haze undisturbed by a breath of wind. Umgwadhla could stand it no longer; he determined to fly for his life. This he had been thinking of doing for some days past, but he knew that such a course would mean social suicide and the loss of his wealth and influence; that he would henceforth be an alien and a wanderer over the face of an unfriendly land. It was not that life seemed to him sweet under such circumstances, but that death after the manner of a strangled puppy flung into the water by mischievous boys was too bitter to face; so he seized a spear and a club, and plunged into the depths of Umsingizi. The only food he carried was a small skin bag of boiled corn which, during the oppressive hours of the previous night, he had prepared without admitting to himself for what purpose.The scorching day dragged on to noon, and the people began to bend anxious glances towards the north-west. The sun began to sink, but, except for thin wisps of smoke from distant grass-fires, the pitiless sky was void. The sun sank into a long, low bank of orange-coloured haze, and then hope departed from the wretched people.Before daylight next morning the hut of Umgwadhla was surrounded by the killing party sent by Umquikela to seize and slay the wizard who had worked the ruin of his nation; but the bird had flown. Umgwadhla was already on the Natal side of the Umtamvuna River, making his way in the direction of the Baca and Hlangweni Locations in the Umzimkulu District.A week afterwards the rain came in exactly the manner predicted by Umgwadhla. Early in the afternoon a great crudded cloud of snowy whiteness towered high over the north-western mountains, and then, drawing other clouds in its train and on its flanks, swept over Pondoland in the teeth of a raging gale. (In South Africa thunderstorms almost invariably advanceagainstthe wind.) Then with lightnings and thunderings the long-sealed fountains of the sky burst open, and every kloof and donga became a roaring river. Umgwadhla was cursed with fervour and fury throughout the length and breadth of the land. He, the wicked sorcerer, had kept the clouds away by means of his evil arts; now, directly he had taken his departure, the rain-bearers, no longer bridled, had hurried down with their life-giving stores. On the first clear day another “rain-doctor” came before the Chief and claimed to have, by means of his potent incantations, counteracted the evil spells cast by Umgwadhla. This man was looked upon as the saviour of his tribe. Umquikela killed a large ox in his honour, and sent him home with gifts of value.Umgwadhla had been only two days at Umzimkulu when the rain, which happened to be general, fell. He felt that the rain-spirits, in whose service his life had been spent, had treated him very unfairly. Why could not the rain have fallen a week sooner? He hated to think of the future; the contrast between the wealthy and influential position he had hitherto enjoyed, and an obscure and poverty-stricken existence as an alien suspected of the deadliest of all crimes, among the Amabaca and Hlangweni, which now awaited him, was painful in the extreme. Soon, however, a bright idea struck him, and, being a man of considerable force and character, this he determined to carry into effect. He knew that the course he resolved upon involved large risks, but these he felt it worth while to take. As soon as ever the weather cleared he started on a return journey to Qaukeni.Early one morning a few days later Umgwadhla, accompanied by a few influential friends, whom he had taken into his confidence, appeared before Umquikela, who happened just then to be moderately sober. The Chief was giving audience before the gate of his cattle kraal to a number of visitors. Umgwadhla strode boldly among the people assembled, who maintained an ominous silence, and saluted his master. Before anyone had time to recover from the astonishment felt at his temerity in thus, as it were, putting his head into the lion’s mouth, the “rain-doctor” spake—“O Chief, I greet you on thus coming to claim my reward for having caused the rain to fall over the length and breadth of the vast territory that owns your sway.“Rumour has told me that during my absence, in obedience to orders from the ‘imishologu’ (ancestral spirits), evil men have said that by spells did I prevent the rain from falling, and that only when I was no longer in the land to work evil, were the clouds able to revisit Pondoland.“Hear now the truth, O Chief, and judge:“On the night before the day on which I declared that rain should fall, the ‘imishologu’ revealed to me in a vision a dreadful secret. There dwells, I was told, a powerful wizard in the land of the Ambaca, who, by means of his medicines, drives back the rain-clouds when these are called up by the spells of your servant. This is done in revenge for that your illustrious father Faku slew Ncapayi, the Great Chief of the Ambaca, in battle. Seek, said the ‘imishologu,’ the root of a certain plant that grows in the depths of the forest; eat of it, and then go forth without fear to the Baca country. Find there the hut of the wizard; before it stands a high milkwood-tree and bound in the branches thereof is the skull of a baboon with the dried tail of a fish in its teeth, facing the land that is ruled by ‘the young locust.’” (The word ‘Umquikela’ means ‘young locust.’) “Remove the skull, and within a day the rivers of Umquikela will be roaring to the sea.“Here, O Chief, is the baboon’s skull.” (Here Umgwadhla produced the article from under his kaross.) “Touch it not for fear of evil; ye who have not been doctored against poison; more especially touch not the fish’s tail, which has been soaked in very direful medicines by the Baca Magician.”Umgwadhla was reinstated in all his honours, powers, and privileges, and his influence became very much greater than it had previously been. A song was composed in his honour by the most celebrated of the tribal bards, and sung at a great feast held at the “Great Place” to celebrate the breaking up of the drought. He lived long and amassed much wealth, and he never again failed to produce rain at the due season. His supplanter retired into obscurity, but this did not save him from an evil fate. When Umgwadhla died, in extreme old age, the supplanter was “smelt out” and put to death on suspicion of having bewitched him. The unhappy pretender was taken to the top of the Taba’nkulu Mountain and placed standing, blindfolded, on the crest of the “Wizard’s Rock”—a high cliff just to the left of the footpath leading to “Flagstaff” where it crosses the top of the mountain. The executioner then struck him with a heavy club on the side of the head, and he fell among the rocks at the foot of the krantz. His bones, mingled with those of many others, may yet be seen by the curious.Rainmaking is a profitable profession, but it takes a man of genius to carry it on successfully.
Drought had weighed heavily upon Pondoland for many weary months, and when more than half of what was usually ploughing season had passed, leaving the ground as stone to ploughshare and pick, the people began to groan at the prospect of having to do without beer; for the millet, from which it is brewed, having no leaf-sheath to protect the grain (such as covers the maize-cob), if sown late often is ruined by an early frost. When, however, a month afterwards, the weather was still dry and hotter than ever, they realised that even the maize crop was in serious danger. Then the women followed the men about with wailings, saying that they and their children would perish. The men bent anxious eyes upon the hollow-flanked cattle that wandered about lowing with hunger and stumbling among the stones on the scorched hillsides, often falling to rise no more.
A deputation representing the Pondo chiefs, headmen and men of influence appeared before Umquikela, the paramount Chief at Qaukeni, his “Great Place,” and besought him to send for Umgwadhla, the great tribal “inyanga ya’mvula,” or “rain-doctor,” and order him to make rain. A somewhat similar step had been taken more than a month before, but without the desired result. Much indignation was consequently felt against Umgwadhla, who was, as a matter of fact, generally blamed for the deplorable condition of the country.
Umgwadhla was looked upon as very expert in his particular line of business; he had hitherto given the greatest satisfaction. Since his appointment in succession to Kokodolo, who had been “smelt out” and killed for obvious neglect of duty just before the break-up of the last great drought, ten years previously, the spring rains had not until now failed in Pondoland. Moreover, no hut around which he had inserted the “isibonda ze’zula,” or “lightning pegs,” had ever been damaged in the heaviest thunderstorm. As a matter of fact, Umgwadhla was looked upon as a veritable “Prince of the Power of the Air.”
Umquikela was, as usual, very drunk when the deputation arrived. His councillors, however, recognising the seriousness of the extent to which popular feeling was moved, kept all traders and others likely to supply him with liquor away from his hut for twenty-four hours. Consequently the Chief was, next day, quite capable of transacting State business. He heard what his lieges had to say, approved of their suggestions, issued the necessary orders, and then returned to his cups with a clear conscience.
A message was accordingly sent to Umgwadhla notifying him that the “guba,” or “rain-dance,” would be held on a certain day, and that his presence at the function was required. This notification was accompanied by a very significant message to the effect that if the function were a failure he would be held responsible. Word was circulated among the people, in terms of which they had to appear at the “Great Place” on the day in question, armed, and each bringing a contribution of “imitombo,” or millet, which, after having been allowed to germinate partially under the influence of damp, has been dried and ground to fine powder. It is from this, after it has been boiled and fermented, that the liquor known as “Kaffir beer” is made.
Umgwadhla fell into the deepest dismay; mindful as he was of the fate which had, under similar circumstances, overtaken a long line of predecessors. He could not help feeling that the length of his tether had now probably been reached. A drought protracted to a certain degree invariably had caused the “smelling out” and shameful death of whatever “rain-doctor” happened to be in office at the time, and, as droughts invariably do come to an end eventually, the fact of rain falling soon after the immolation of an unsuccessful practitioner had raised the irresistible presumption that each of these had, by the malicious use of magical arts, deflected the rain-clouds from their proper course.
There was no sign of the weather’s breaking. The red soil, especially along the footpaths, was cracking into fissures; the fibre of the herbage was giving way and leaf and blade were turning into dust. In the minor watercourses the water began to run more freely. This is an unexplained phenomenon which invariably accompanies severe South African droughts. It is probably due to pressure upon the underground reservoirs, caused by local shrinkage of the earth’s surface.
Umgwadhla day by day turned an apprehensive eye to the westward, the quarter from which thunderstorms might be expected, but the sky remained as brass. A steady, scorching wind arose every forenoon, blew all day, and sank with the sun. So long as this continued, Umgwadhla, who was in his way genuinely weather-wise, knew there was no chance of the weather breaking. He shuddered with dread day and night. He saw by the demeanour of those he came in contact with that all held him in detestation, and he continually suffered from the foretaste of a cruel death. Through the instrumentality of a few trusted friends he sent a number of his cattle out of Pondoland, but these he knew he would have great difficulty in recovering—even in the unlikely event of his managing to make his escape.
The day appointed for the “rain-dance” drew near with terrible rapidity, and at length arrived. At early morn the “ukuqusha,” or driving in of the cattle at a run from every kraal for miles around to the “Great Place,” began. When all the oxen had been collected the Chief selected one from his own herd for slaughter, and every petty chief, headman, and “umninizi,” or head of a kraal, selected one of those driven in by him, for the same purpose. All doomed oxen were kraaled together, and then the important ceremony of doctoring the Chief began.
Umgwadhla had arrived secretly during the previous night, with his stock of roots, herbs, and other medicines, and from these he proceeded to concoct the “isihlambiso,” or magico-medicinal wash. He broke up the roots and herbs and placed them in a large earthen pot nearly full of water. Then he got a three-pronged stick about eighteen inches in length, and placing the pronged end in the mixture he twirled the stick rapidly between his palms until the liquid frothed and seethed over the edge of the pot. Then he notified the Chief that the medicine was ready.
The Chief, accompanied by his “isicaka se ’nkosi,” or “medicine boy,” now stalked majestically forward. The “medicine boy,” lifted the pot and carried it slowly into the large kraal, out of which the cattle had now been driven, the Chief following, naked and with stately steps. Upon reaching the centre of the kraal the Chief crouched slightly forward, and the “medicine boy” lifted the pot and poured a liberal quantity of the contents over his shoulders. The “rain-doctor” and the Chief smeared this all over the body of the latter, and rubbed it in with the palms of their hands.
After this the pot, containing what remained of the mixture, was carried back to the Chief’s hut, there to be kept until the end of the ensuing feast, when the washing process would be repeated, and any balance of the liquid then remaining would be spilt in the middle of the cattle kraal.
The grand ceremonial dance, known as “ukuguba,” then began. The men, with faces painted red, danced in a row in front of the women, who sat on the ground clapping their hands rhythmically and singing a song full of monotonous repetition. This song related to feuds, fights, and the greatness and prowess of ancestral chiefs, but contained no reference to rain or to anything supernatural.
When the song and the dance were over the “rain-doctor” announced that on the fifth day following, thunderclouds would arise in the north-western sky in the afternoon, and that heavy rain would immediately follow.
Then the oxen were slaughtered and the feasting began. Under the influence of their excitement the people fully believed that the promises of the “rain-doctor” would be fulfilled. The beer flowed like water, and the meat, although rather poor in condition, was satisfying—a Native is never particular about the quality of beef. Many fights took place, many skulls were cracked—some fatally, and, taking it all round, the function was a grand success; that is, of course, if we leave out of sight the main object of the gathering, which, however, had been totally forgotten for the time being.
Four days were spent in feasting, and on the morning of the fifth the people dispersed to their homes and began at once to get ready their picks and hoes against the coming rain. But the skies were still like lurid brass, and the sun as a pitiless, consuming fire.
On the afternoon of the third day after the feast Umgwadhla went quietly home. He was now almost in despair. He had, under the heaviest pressure, committed himself definitely to the production of rain at a given hour on a specified day, trusting to his luck to redeem the promise. The day was now terribly close. Twice more had the sun to go down in wrath and twice to rise in fury—and then—before it sank again? He now knew, by the absence of signs of its approach, that the rain would not come on the day he had named. The evening of the fourth day came, and the sun went down a bar of rusty, red smoke, the result of inland grass-fires. Then the cool stars came out, twinkling mockery at the shuddering earth and the unhappy wizard, who felt as though the woes of the suffering land were heaped upon his head.
Umgwadhla’s hut was situated close to the edge of the Umsingizi Forest. This hut was his official residence, where he dwelt in retirement when engaged in practising the mysteries of his profession. He had carried home a large lump of meat from the feast. Part of this he cooked, but he found it quite impossible to eat. He sat all night on a rock a few yards distant from the hut, watching the hollow, light-punctured shell of night winding over him with horrible rapidity. Then the dawn flushed over the sea, and he realised that the dreaded day had arrived without the slightest prospect of rain. Already, in anticipation, he felt the choking strain of the thong by which his feet would be bound to his neck, preparatory to his being flung to drown in the nearest deep river-pool.
The sun, although only just risen, smote hotter than ever through the sultry drought haze undisturbed by a breath of wind. Umgwadhla could stand it no longer; he determined to fly for his life. This he had been thinking of doing for some days past, but he knew that such a course would mean social suicide and the loss of his wealth and influence; that he would henceforth be an alien and a wanderer over the face of an unfriendly land. It was not that life seemed to him sweet under such circumstances, but that death after the manner of a strangled puppy flung into the water by mischievous boys was too bitter to face; so he seized a spear and a club, and plunged into the depths of Umsingizi. The only food he carried was a small skin bag of boiled corn which, during the oppressive hours of the previous night, he had prepared without admitting to himself for what purpose.
The scorching day dragged on to noon, and the people began to bend anxious glances towards the north-west. The sun began to sink, but, except for thin wisps of smoke from distant grass-fires, the pitiless sky was void. The sun sank into a long, low bank of orange-coloured haze, and then hope departed from the wretched people.
Before daylight next morning the hut of Umgwadhla was surrounded by the killing party sent by Umquikela to seize and slay the wizard who had worked the ruin of his nation; but the bird had flown. Umgwadhla was already on the Natal side of the Umtamvuna River, making his way in the direction of the Baca and Hlangweni Locations in the Umzimkulu District.
A week afterwards the rain came in exactly the manner predicted by Umgwadhla. Early in the afternoon a great crudded cloud of snowy whiteness towered high over the north-western mountains, and then, drawing other clouds in its train and on its flanks, swept over Pondoland in the teeth of a raging gale. (In South Africa thunderstorms almost invariably advanceagainstthe wind.) Then with lightnings and thunderings the long-sealed fountains of the sky burst open, and every kloof and donga became a roaring river. Umgwadhla was cursed with fervour and fury throughout the length and breadth of the land. He, the wicked sorcerer, had kept the clouds away by means of his evil arts; now, directly he had taken his departure, the rain-bearers, no longer bridled, had hurried down with their life-giving stores. On the first clear day another “rain-doctor” came before the Chief and claimed to have, by means of his potent incantations, counteracted the evil spells cast by Umgwadhla. This man was looked upon as the saviour of his tribe. Umquikela killed a large ox in his honour, and sent him home with gifts of value.
Umgwadhla had been only two days at Umzimkulu when the rain, which happened to be general, fell. He felt that the rain-spirits, in whose service his life had been spent, had treated him very unfairly. Why could not the rain have fallen a week sooner? He hated to think of the future; the contrast between the wealthy and influential position he had hitherto enjoyed, and an obscure and poverty-stricken existence as an alien suspected of the deadliest of all crimes, among the Amabaca and Hlangweni, which now awaited him, was painful in the extreme. Soon, however, a bright idea struck him, and, being a man of considerable force and character, this he determined to carry into effect. He knew that the course he resolved upon involved large risks, but these he felt it worth while to take. As soon as ever the weather cleared he started on a return journey to Qaukeni.
Early one morning a few days later Umgwadhla, accompanied by a few influential friends, whom he had taken into his confidence, appeared before Umquikela, who happened just then to be moderately sober. The Chief was giving audience before the gate of his cattle kraal to a number of visitors. Umgwadhla strode boldly among the people assembled, who maintained an ominous silence, and saluted his master. Before anyone had time to recover from the astonishment felt at his temerity in thus, as it were, putting his head into the lion’s mouth, the “rain-doctor” spake—
“O Chief, I greet you on thus coming to claim my reward for having caused the rain to fall over the length and breadth of the vast territory that owns your sway.
“Rumour has told me that during my absence, in obedience to orders from the ‘imishologu’ (ancestral spirits), evil men have said that by spells did I prevent the rain from falling, and that only when I was no longer in the land to work evil, were the clouds able to revisit Pondoland.
“Hear now the truth, O Chief, and judge:
“On the night before the day on which I declared that rain should fall, the ‘imishologu’ revealed to me in a vision a dreadful secret. There dwells, I was told, a powerful wizard in the land of the Ambaca, who, by means of his medicines, drives back the rain-clouds when these are called up by the spells of your servant. This is done in revenge for that your illustrious father Faku slew Ncapayi, the Great Chief of the Ambaca, in battle. Seek, said the ‘imishologu,’ the root of a certain plant that grows in the depths of the forest; eat of it, and then go forth without fear to the Baca country. Find there the hut of the wizard; before it stands a high milkwood-tree and bound in the branches thereof is the skull of a baboon with the dried tail of a fish in its teeth, facing the land that is ruled by ‘the young locust.’” (The word ‘Umquikela’ means ‘young locust.’) “Remove the skull, and within a day the rivers of Umquikela will be roaring to the sea.
“Here, O Chief, is the baboon’s skull.” (Here Umgwadhla produced the article from under his kaross.) “Touch it not for fear of evil; ye who have not been doctored against poison; more especially touch not the fish’s tail, which has been soaked in very direful medicines by the Baca Magician.”
Umgwadhla was reinstated in all his honours, powers, and privileges, and his influence became very much greater than it had previously been. A song was composed in his honour by the most celebrated of the tribal bards, and sung at a great feast held at the “Great Place” to celebrate the breaking up of the drought. He lived long and amassed much wealth, and he never again failed to produce rain at the due season. His supplanter retired into obscurity, but this did not save him from an evil fate. When Umgwadhla died, in extreme old age, the supplanter was “smelt out” and put to death on suspicion of having bewitched him. The unhappy pretender was taken to the top of the Taba’nkulu Mountain and placed standing, blindfolded, on the crest of the “Wizard’s Rock”—a high cliff just to the left of the footpath leading to “Flagstaff” where it crosses the top of the mountain. The executioner then struck him with a heavy club on the side of the head, and he fell among the rocks at the foot of the krantz. His bones, mingled with those of many others, may yet be seen by the curious.
Rainmaking is a profitable profession, but it takes a man of genius to carry it on successfully.