Child of Storm, H. Rider Haggard [free ebook reader for pc txt] 📗

who at these “smellings-out” act as a kind of chorus, looked at the King, and, seeing that he shook his head vigorously, stretched out their right hands, holding the thumb downwards, and said simultaneously in a cold, low voice:

“Izwa!” (That is, “We hear you.”)

Zikali stamped upon this set of markings.

“It is well,” he said. “He who sits upon the Throne does not desire to know how long he has to reign, and therefore the dust has forgotten and shows it not to me.”

Then he walked to the next markings and studied them.

“Does the Child of Senzangakona desire to know which of his sons shall live and which shall die; aye, and which of them shall sleep in his hut when he is gone?”

Now a great roar of “Izwa!” accompanied by the clapping of hands, rose from all the outer multitude who heard, for there was no information that the Zulu people desired so earnestly as this at the time of which I write.

But again Panda, who, I saw, was thoroughly alarmed at the turn things were taking, shook his head vigorously, whereon the obedient chorus negatived the question in the same fashion as before.

Zikali stamped upon the second set of markings, saying:

“The people desire to know, but the Great Ones are afraid to learn, and therefore the dust has forgotten who in the days to come shall sleep in the hut of the King and who shall sleep in the bellies of the jackals and the crops of the vultures after they have ‘gone beyond’ by the bridge of spears.”

Now, at this awful speech (which, both because of all that it implied of bloodshed and civil war and of the wild, wailing voice in which it was spoken, that seemed quite different from Zikali’s, caused everyone who heard it, including myself, I am afraid, to gasp and shiver) the King sprang from his stool as though to put a stop to such doctoring. Then, after his fashion, he changed his mind and sat down again. But Zikali, taking no heed, went to the third set of marks and studied them.

“It would seem,” he said, “that I am awakened from sleep in my Black House yonder to tell of a very little matter, that might well have been dealt with by any common Nyanga born but yesterday. Well, I have taken my fee, and I will earn it, although I thought that I was brought here to speak of great matters, such as the death of princes and the fortunes of peoples. Is it desired that my Spirit should speak of wizardries in this town of Nodwengu?”

“Izwa!” said the chorus in a loud voice.

Zikali nodded his great head and seemed to talk with the dust, waiting now and again for an answer.

“Good,” he said; “they are many, and the dust has told them all to me. Oh, they are very many”—and he glared around him—“so many that if I spoke them all the hyenas of the hills would be full to-night—”

Here the audience began to show signs of great apprehension.

“But,” looking down at the dust and turning his head sideways, “what do you say, what do you say? Speak more plainly, Little Voices, for you know I grow deaf. Oh! now I understand. The matter is even smaller than I thought. Just of one wizard—”

“Izwa!” (loudly).

“—just of a few deaths and some sicknesses.”

“Izwa!”

“Just of one death, one principal death.”

“Izwa!” (very loudly).

“Ah! So we have it—one death. Now, was it a man?”

“Izwa!” (very coldly).

“A woman?”

“Izwa!” (still more coldly).

“Then a child? It must be a child, unless indeed it is the death of a spirit. But what do you people know of spirits? A child! A child! Ah! you hear me—a child. A male child, I think. Do you not say so, O Dust?”

“Izwa!” (emphatically).

“A common child? A bastard? The son of nobody?”

“Izwa!” (very low).

“A well-born child? One who would have been great? O Dust, I hear, I hear; a royal child, a child in whom ran the blood of the Father of the Zulus, he who was my friend? The blood of Senzangakona, the blood of the ‘Black One,’ the blood of Panda.”

He stopped, while both from the chorus and from the thousands of the circle gathered around went up one roar of “Izwa!” emphasised by a mighty movement of outstretched arms and down-pointing thumbs.

Then silence, during which Zikali stamped upon all the remaining markings, saying:

“I thank you, O Dust, though I am sorry to have troubled you for so small a matter. So, so,” he went on presently, “a royal boy-child is dead, and you think by witchcraft. Let us find out if he died by witchcraft or as others die, by command of the Heavens that need them. What! Here is one mark which I have left. Look! It grows red, it is full of spots! The child died with a twisted face.”

“Izwa! Izwa! Izwa!” (crescendo).

“This death was not natural. Now, was it witchcraft or was it poison? Both, I think, both. And whose was the child? Not that of a son of the King, I think. Oh, yes, you hear me, People, you hear me; but be silent; I do not need your help. No, not of a son; of a daughter, then.” He turned and, looked about him till his eye fell upon a group of women, amongst whom sat Nandie, dressed like a common person. “Of a daughter, a daughter—” He walked to the group of women. “Why, none of these are royal; they are the children of low people. And yet—and yet I seem to smell the blood of Senzangakona.”

He sniffed at the air as a dog does, and as he sniffed drew ever nearer to Nandie, till at last he laughed and pointed to her.

“Your child, Princess, whose name I do not know. Your firstborn child, whom you loved more than your own heart.”

She rose.

“Yes, yes, Nyanga,” she cried. “I am the Princess Nandie, and he was my child, whom I loved more than my own heart.”

“Haha!” said Zikali. “Dust, you did not lie to me. My Spirit, you did not lie to me. But now, tell me, Dust—and tell me, my Spirit—who killed this child?”

He began to waddle round the circle, an extraordinary sight, covered as he was with grey grime, varied with streaks of black skin where the perspiration had washed the dust away.

Presently he came opposite to me, and, to my dismay, paused, sniffing at me as he had at Nandie.

“Ah! ah! O Macumazana,” he said, “you have something to do with this matter,” a saying at which all that audience pricked their ears.

Then I rose up in wrath and fear, knowing my position to be one of some danger.

“Wizard, or Smeller-out of Wizards, whichever you name yourself,” I called in a loud voice, “if you mean that I killed Nandie’s child, you lie!”

“No, no, Macumazahn,” he answered, “but you tried to save it, and therefore you had something to do with the matter, had you not? Moreover, I think that you, who are wise like me, know who did kill it. Won’t you tell me, Macumazahn? No? Then I must find out for myself. Be at peace. Does not all the land know that your hands are white as your heart?”

Then, to my great relief, he passed on, amidst a murmur of approbation, for, as I have said, the Zulus liked me. Round and round he wandered, to my surprise passing both Mameena and Masapo without taking any particular note of them, although he scanned them both, and I thought that I saw a swift glance of recognition pass between him and Mameena. It was curious to watch his progress, for as he went those in front of him swayed in their terror like corn before a puff of wind, and when he had passed they straightened themselves as the corn does when the wind has gone by.

At length he had finished his journey and returned to his starting-point, to all appearance completely puzzled.

“You keep so many wizards at your kraal, King,” he said, addressing Panda, “that it is hard to say which of them wrought this deed. It would have been easier to tell you of greater matters. Yet I have taken your fee, and I must earn it—I must earn it. Dust, you are dumb. Now, my Idhlozi, my Spirit, do you speak?” and, holding his head sideways, he turned his left ear up towards the sky, then said presently, in a curious, matter-of-fact voice:

“Ah! I thank you, Spirit. Well, King, your grandchild was killed by the House of Masapo, your enemy, chief of the Amasomi.”

Now a roar of approbation went up from the audience, among whom Masapo’s guilt was a foregone conclusion.

When this had died down Panda spoke, saying:

“The House of Masapo is a large house; I believe that he has several wives and many children. It is not enough to smell out the House, since I am not as those who went before me were, nor will I slay the innocent with the guilty. Tell us, O Opener-of-Roads, who among the House of Masapo has wrought this deed?”

“That’s just the question,” grumbled Zikali in a deep voice. “All that I know is that it was done by poisoning, and I smell the poison. It is here.”

Then he walked to where Mameena sat and cried out:

“Seize that woman and search her hair.”

Executioners who were in waiting sprang forward, but Mameena waved them away.

“Friends,” she said, with a little laugh, “there is no need to touch me,” and, rising, she stepped forward to the centre of the ring. Here, with a few swift motions of her hands, she flung off first the cloak she wore, then the moocha about her middle, and lastly the fillet that bound her long hair, and stood before that audience in all her naked beauty—a wondrous and a lovely sight.

“Now,” she said, “let women come and search me and my garments, and see if there is any poison hid there.”

Two old crones stepped forward—though I do not know who sent them—and carried out a very thorough examination, finally reporting that they had found nothing. Thereon Mameena, with a shrug of her shoulders, resumed such clothes as she wore, and returned to her place.

Zikali appeared to grow angry. He stamped upon the ground with his big feet; he shook his braided grey locks and cried out:

“Is my wisdom to be defeated in such a little matter? One of you tie a bandage over my eyes.”

Now a man—it was Maputa, the messenger—came out and did so, and I noted that he tied it well and tight. Zikali whirled round upon his heels, first one way and then another, and, crying aloud: “Guide me, my Spirit!” marched forward in a zigzag fashion, as a blindfolded man does, with his arms stretched out in front of him. First he went to the right, then to the left, and then straight forward, till at length, to my astonishment, he came exactly opposite the spot where Masapo sat and, stretching out his great, groping hands, seized the kaross with which he was covered and, with a jerk, tore it from him.

“Search this!” he cried, throwing it on the ground, and a woman searched.

Presently she uttered an exclamation, and from among the fur of one of the tails of the kaross produced a tiny bag that appeared to be made out of the bladder of a fish. This she handed to Zikali, whose eyes had now been unbandaged.

He looked at it, then gave it to Maputa, saying:

“There is the poison—there is the poison, but who gave it I do not say. I am weary. Let me go.”

Then, none hindering him, he walked away through the gate of the kraal.

Soldiers seized upon Masapo, while the multitude roared: “Kill the wizard!”

Masapo sprang up, and, running to where the King sat, flung himself upon his knees, protesting his innocence and praying for mercy. I also, who had doubts as to all this business, ventured to rise and speak.

“O King,” I said, “as one who has known this man in the past, I plead with you. How that powder came into his kaross I know not, but perchance it is not poison, only harmless dust.”

“Yes, it is but wood dust which I use for the cleaning of my nails,” cried Masapo, for he was so terrified I think he knew not what he said.

“So you own to knowledge of the medicine?” exclaimed Panda. “Therefore none hid it in your kaross through malice.”

Masapo began to explain, but what he said was lost in a mighty roar of “Kill the wizard!”

Panda held up his hand and there was silence.

“Bring milk in a dish,” commanded the King, and it, was brought, and, at a further word