"Where does he live?"
He explained in detail.
"Of what do you accuse Chiromo?"
"Of killing my son by witchcraft."
"Go on with your story."
"I have some goats. My son herded them by day and put them in the
village at night. My son had a black-and-white dog which followed him to
the lands each day. Two days ago the dog stole a skin from Chiromo's
bed. Chiromo saw the dog eating the skin, and killed him with his axe.
Chiromo is an angry man: he was angry with my son because his dog had
eaten his skin. He knew the dog was my son's dog. He went to my son and
said: 'I have killed your dog because your dog has eaten my skin.'
"My son was very much afraid and said: 'Yes, sir.'
"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's leg just above the knee, like this,
and said: 'Do you feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'
"Then Chiromo said: 'You will to-morrow.'
"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's other knee and said: 'Do you feel
pain here?' My son said 'No.'
"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's arm at the elbow and said: 'Do you
feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'
"Then Chiromo touched his other arm and asked my son if he felt pain
there. My son said he did not. He also touched him on the back of the
neck, asking him if he felt any pain there. My son said he felt no pain.
"Then Chiromo said: 'In your two legs and your two arms and in your neck
you will feel much pain to-morrow.'
"Then Chiromo went back to his own hut and my son, who was very
frightened, came and told me what Chiromo had said to him and I also was
frightened, for Chiromo is a great doctor. Then I went to my hut to
sleep and my son went to his hut.
"In the morning when I rose the goats were still in the village, and I
was angry with my son because he had not taken them to the lands. I
called to him, but he did not answer. I went to his hut, and found him
very stiff. He told me that Chiromo had killed him; that he had much
pain in his arms and legs and neck, and that he could not move. I tried
to lift him, but he cried out with pain. At sunset he died. Oh, Morena,
Chiromo has killed my son. My son who herded my goats. And to-night I
myself shall die. Chiromo is indeed a great doctor. My case is a big
one. A case of killing people by witchcraft. I, too, will----"
The Native Commissioner interrupted the man. "Enough, now you may go to
the compound, where you will sleep to-night; you will not die, because
I must talk with you again."
The man clapped his hands, bowed his forehead several times to the
floor, patted his chest, rose and withdrew, praising the Native
Commissioner as the custom is:
"Great Chief."
"Father of his people."
"The very great doctor."
"Sir, my best thanks."
"The Chief of our country."
"The lion, the great elephant, the Chief."
The head messenger was about to go too, but the Commissioner stopped
him.
"Mokorongo, you will have to go out and arrest Chiromo."
"To-morrow?"
"To-night."
"His village is far and the sun is setting."
"You will get there before morning and will bring Chiromo back with
you."
"How many go with me?"
"You go alone."
The messenger was very much afraid. He licked his lips, which had become
dry, he shuffled with his feet, his gaze wandered from ceiling to floor
and round the hall in which the Commissioner sat.
"Mokorongo."
"Morena."
"You are afraid."
"I am afraid, Morena."
"Very much afraid."
"Morena."
"Why?"
"Is not Chiromo a doctor?"
"What of that?"
"I am but a man, your servant."
"Yes, my servant. Why, then, are you afraid?"
"Morena."
Again the wretched man's eyes looked in any direction but in that of his
master.
"Mokorongo."
"Morena."
"Are you ready to start? It is getting late."
"Yes, it is late, for the sun sets."
"Are you ready?"
Mokorongo made no reply: he was now quite frightened. In the ordinary
way this simple native was full of courage, he would follow his master
anywhere; they had been in a tight corner together more than once and he
had shown up splendidly. But then his master, in whom he had implicit
faith, had been there. To go alone to arrest a witch doctor was quite
another matter. Had not the doctor killed the boy in a strange way? No,
it was too much to ask a man to do alone, and at night.
The Commissioner walked to his writing table and took from it a heavy
paperweight, which he handed to Mokorongo.
"Take this with you, it will protect you against Chiromo, for it is
mine."
The messenger was satisfied; he put the weight inside his tunic and
turned to go.
"Stop," said the Commissioner, "what are your plans?"
Mokorongo had a quick mind: he unfolded his plan without hesitation.
"I will talk awhile with the stranger, who will tell me of Chiromo;
whether he has a beard or has no beard; whether he is very old or not so
old; if he is fat or thin; what his loin cloth is like, or if he wears
a skin."
"Good, and then?"
"I will travel to the village, which I shall reach before morning. In
the bush I will hide my uniform. Near the village I will lie in wait. In
the morning Chiromo will come out of his hut. All day I will watch and
when the people have eaten and sleep I will arrest Chiromo."
"How?"
"I will go to his hut and call to him, saying that I am a traveller from
Sijoba on my way to Katora. That the sun has set and I ask for shelter.
I shall tell him that I have some meat of a buck which I found dead near
the path. Then Chiromo will open the door of his hut and I shall tie
him. And he will come with me because of my uniform and the people will
not hinder me because of my uniform."
"Good, take the handcuffs. But there is one thing you have forgotten.
You must bring in a basket all Chiromo's medicine."
"I will bring the medicine," replied the messenger, clutching at the
paperweight which bulged under his tunic.
"Go safely," said the master.
"Rest in peace," replied the man.
The Commissioner watched the retreating figure. The swinging stride
showed self-confidence and courage. Mokorongo would do successfully what
was required of him.