Produced by John Bickers; Dagny
THE WIZARD
by H. Rider Haggard
DEDICATION
To the Memory of the Child
Nada Burnham,
who “bound all to her” and, while her father cut his way through the
hordes of the Ingobo Regiment, perished of the hardships of war
at Buluwayo on 19th May, 1896, I dedicate these tales--and more
particularly the last, that of a Faith which triumphed over savagery and
death.
H. Rider Haggard.
Ditchingham.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Of the three stories that comprise this volume[*], one, “The Wizard,” a
tale of victorious faith, first appeared some years ago as a Christmas
Annual. Another, “Elissa,” is an attempt, difficult enough owing to the
scantiness of the material left to us by time, to recreate the life of
the ancient Phœnician Zimbabwe, whose ruins still stand in Rhodesia,
and, with the addition of the necessary love story, to suggest
circumstances such as might have brought about or accompanied its fall
at the hands of the surrounding savage tribes. The third, “Black Heart
and White Heart,” is a story of the courtship, trials and final union of
a pair of Zulu lovers in the time of King Cetywayo.
[*] This text was prepared from a volume published in 1900
titled “Black Heart and White Heart, and Other Stories.”--
JB.
THE WIZARD
CHAPTER I
THE DEPUTATION
Has the age of miracle quite gone by, or is it still possible to the
Voice of Faith calling aloud upon the earth to wring from the dumb
heavens an audible answer to its prayer? Does the promise uttered by the
Master of mankind upon the eve of the end--“Whoso that believeth in Me,
the works that I do he shall do also . . . and whatsoever ye shall ask
in My name, that will I do;”--still hold good to such as do ask and do
believe?
Let those who care to study the history of the Rev. Thomas Owen, and
of that strange man who carried on and completed his work, answer this
question according to their judgment.
*****
The time was a Sunday afternoon in summer, and the place a church in
the Midland counties. It was a beautiful church, ancient and spacious;
moreover, it had recently been restored at great cost. Seven or eight
hundred people could have found sittings in it, and doubtless they
had done so when Busscombe was a large manufacturing town, before the
failure of the coal supply and other causes drove away its trade. Now
it was much what it had been in the time of the Normans, a little
agricultural village with a population of 300 souls. Out of this
population, including the choir boys, exactly thirty-nine had elected to
attend church on this particular Sunday; and of these, three were fast
asleep and four were dozing.
The Rev. Thomas Owen counted them from his seat in the chancel, for
another clergyman was preaching; and, as he counted, bitterness and
disappointment took hold of him. The preacher was a “Deputation,” sent
by one of the large missionary societies to arouse the indifferent to
a sense of duty towards their unconverted black brethren in Africa, and
incidentally to collect cash to be spent in the conversion of the
said brethren. The Rev. Thomas Owen himself suggested the visit of the
Deputation, and had laboured hard to secure him a good audience. But
the beauty of the weather, or terror of the inevitable subscription,
prevailed against him. Hence his disappointment.
“Well,” he thought, with a sigh, “I have done my best, and I must make
it up out of my own pocket.”
Then he settled himself to listen to the sermon.
The preacher, a battered-looking individual of between fifty and sixty
years of age, was gaunt with recent sickness, patient and unimaginative
in aspect. He preached extemporarily, with the aid of notes; and it
cannot be said that his discourse was remarkable for interest, at any
rate in its beginning. Doubtless the sparse congregation, so prone to
slumber, discouraged him; for offering exhortations to empty benches is
but weary work. Indeed he was meditating the advisability of bringing
his argument to an abrupt conclusion when, chancing to glance round, he
became aware that he had at least one sympathetic listener, his host,
the Rev. Thomas Owen.
From that moment the sermon improved by degrees, till at length it
reached a really high level of excellence. Ceasing from rhetoric, the
speaker began to tell of his own experience and sufferings in the Cause
amongst savage tribes; for he himself was a missionary of many years
standing. He told how once he and a companion had been sent to a
nation, who named themselves the Sons of Fire because their god was the
lightning, if indeed they could be said to boast any gods other than
the Spear and the King. In simple language he narrated his terrible
adventures among these savages, the murder of his companion by command
of the Council of Wizards, and his own flight for his life; a tale
so interesting and vivid that even the bucolic sleepers awakened and
listened open-mouthed.
“But this is by the way,” he went on; “for my Society does not ask you
to subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Until that
people is conquered--which very likely will not be for generations,
seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying a territory that
white men do not desire--no missionary will dare again to visit them.”
At this moment something caused him to look a second time at Thomas
Owen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and a
strange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor of
his delicate, nervous face.
“There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it,” thought the
Deputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.
That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a very
fine rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste which
he had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, the dinner
was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sipping his
unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration and
involuntary envy.
“What is the matter?” asked Owen.
“Nothing, Mr. Owen;” then, of a sudden thawing into candour, he
added: “that is, everything. Heaven forgive me; but I, who enjoy your
hospitality, am envious of you. Don’t think too hardly of me; I have a
large family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my life
is, and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure.
But you have never experienced it, and could not understand. ‘The
labourer is worthy of his hire.’ Well, my hire is under two hundred a
year, and eight of us must live--or starve--on it. And I have worked,
ay, until my health is broken. A labourer indeed! I am a very hodman, a
spiritual Sisyphus. And now I must go back to carry my load and roll
my stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of
it--till I die of it!”
“At least it is a noble life and death!” exclaimed Owen, a sudden fire
of enthusiasm burning in his dark eyes.
“Yes, viewed from a distance. Were you asked to leave this living of two
thousand a year--I see that is what they put it at in Crockford--with
its English comforts and easy work, that _you_ might lead that life and
attain that death, then you would think differently. But why should
I bore you with such talk? Thank Heaven that your lines are cast in
pleasant places. Yes, please, I will take one more glass; it does me
good.”
“Tell me some more about that tribe you were speaking of in your sermon,
the ‘Sons of Fire’ I think you called them,” said Owen, as he passed him
the decanter.
So, with an eloquence induced by the generous wine and a quickened
imagination, the Deputation told him--told him many strange things and
terrible. For this people was an awful people: vigorous in mind
and body, and warriors from generation to generation, but
superstition-ridden and cruel. They lived in the far interior, some
months’ journey by boat and ox-waggon from the coast, and of white men
and their ways they knew but little.
“How many of them are there?” asked Owen.
“Who can say?” he answered. “Nearly half-a-million, perhaps; at least
they pretend that they can put sixty thousand men under arms.”
“And did they treat you badly when you first visited them?”
“Not at first. They received us civilly enough; and on a given day we
were requested to explain to the king and the Council of Wizards the
religion which we came to teach. All that day we explained and all
the next--or rather my friend did, for I knew very little of the
language--and they listened with great interest. At last the chief of
the wizards and the first prophet to the king rose to question us. He
was named Hokosa, a tall, thin man, with a spiritual face and terrible
calm eyes.
“‘You speak well, son of a White Man,’ he said, ‘but let us pass from
words to deeds. You tell us that this God of yours, whom you desire that
we should take as our God, so that you may become His chief prophets in
the land, was a wizard such as we are, though greater than we are; for
not only did He know the past and the future as we do, but also He could
cure those who were smitten with hopeless sickness, and raise those
who were dead, which we cannot do. You tell us, moreover, that by faith
those who believe on Him can do works as great as He did, and that you
do believe on Him. Therefore we will put you to the proof. Ho! there,
lead forth that evil one.’
“As he spoke a man was placed before us, one who had been convicted of
witchcraft or some other crime.
“‘Kill him!’ said Hokosa.
“There was a faint cry, a scuffle, a flashing of spears, and the man lay
still before us.
“‘Now, followers of the new God,’ said Hokosa, ‘raise him from the dead
as your Master did!’
“In vain did we offer explanations.
“‘Peace!’ said Hokosa at length, ‘your words weary us. Look now, either
you have preached to us a false god and are liars, or you are traitors
to the King you preach, since, lacking faith in Him, you cannot do such
works as He gives power to do to those who have faith in Him. Out of
your own mouths are you judged, White Men. Choose which horn of the bull
you will, you hang to one of them, and it shall pierce you. This is
the sentence of the king, I speak it who am the king’s mouth: That you,
White Man, who have spoken to us and cheated us these two weary days,
be put to death, and that you, his companion who have been silent, be
driven from the land.’
“I can hardly bear to tell the rest of it, Mr. Owen. They gave my poor
friend ten minutes to ‘talk to his Spirit,’ then they speared him before
my face. After it was over, Hokosa spoke to me, saying:--
“‘Go back, White Man, to those who sent you, and tell them the words of
the Sons of Fire: That they have listened to the message of peace,
and though they are a people of warriors, yet they thank them for that
message, for in itself it sounds good and beautiful in their ears, if it
be true. Tell them that having proved you liars, they dealt with you as
all honest men seek that liars should be dealt with. Tell them that they
desire to hear more of this matter, and if one can be sent to them who
has no false tongue; who in all things fulfills the promises of his
lips, that they will hearken to him and treat him well, but that for
such as you they keep a spear.’”
“And who went after you got back?” asked Owen, who was listening with
the deepest interest.
“Who went? Do you suppose that there are many mad clergymen in Africa,
Mr. Owen? Nobody went.”
“And yet,” said Owen, speaking more to himself than to his guest, “the
man Hokosa was right, and the Christian who of a truth believes the
promises of our religion should trust to them and go.”
“Then perhaps you would like to undertake the mission, Mr. Owen,” said
the Deputation briskly; for the reflection stung him, unintentional as
it was.
Owen started.
“That is a new idea,” he said. “And now perhaps you wish to go to bed;
it is past eleven o’clock.”