THE REPENTANCE OF HOKOSA
Hokosa kept his promise. On the morrow of his first attendance there he
was again to be seen in the chapel, and after the service was over he
waited on Owen at his house and listened to his private teaching. Day
by day he appeared thus, till at length he became master of the whole
doctrine of Christianity, and discovered that that which at first had
struck him as childish and even monstrous, now presented itself to him
in a new and very different light. The conversion of Hokosa came upon
him through the gate of reason, not as is usual among savages--and some
who are not savage--by that of the emotions. Given the position of a
universe torn and groaning beneath the dual rule of Good and Evil,
two powers of well-nigh equal potency, he found no great difficulty in
accepting this tale of the self-sacrifice of the God of Good that He
might wring the race He loved out of the conquering grasp of the god of
Ill. There was a simple majesty about this scheme of redemption which
appealed to one side of his nature. Indeed, Hokosa felt that under
certain conditions and in a more limited fashion he would have been
capable of attempting as much himself.
Once his reason was satisfied, the rest followed in a natural sequence.
Within three weeks from the hour of his first attendance at the chapel
Hokosa was at heart a Christian.
He was a Christian, although as yet he did not confess it; but he was
also the most miserable man among the nation of the Sons of Fire. The
iniquities of his past life had become abominable to him; but he had
committed them in ignorance, and he understood that they were not beyond
forgiveness. Yet high above them all towered one colossal crime which,
as he believed, could never be pardoned to him in this world or the
next. He was the treacherous murderer of the Messenger of God; he was
in the very act of silencing the Voice that had proclaimed truth in the
dark places of his soul and the dull ears of his countrymen.
The deed was done; no power on earth could save his victim. Within a
week from the day of eating that fatal fruit Owen began to sicken, then
the dysentery had seized him which slowly but surely was wasting out
his life. Yet he, the murderer, was helpless, for with this form of the
disease no medicine could cope. With agony in his heart, an agony that
was shared by thousands of the people, Hokosa watched the decrease of
the white man’s strength, and reckoned the days that would elapse before
the end. Having such sin as this upon his soul, though Owen entreated
him earnestly, he would not permit himself to be baptised. Twice he
went near to consenting, but on each occasion an ominous and terrible
incident drove him from the door of mercy.
Once, when the words “I will” were almost on his lips, a woman broke in
upon their conference bearing a dying boy in her arms.
“Save him,” she implored, “save him, Messenger, for he is my only son!”
Owen looked at him and shook his head.
“How came he like this?” he asked.
“I know not, Messenger, but he has been sick ever since he ate of a
certain fruit which you gave to him;” and she recalled to his mind
the incident of the throwing of a fruit to the child, which she had
witnessed.
“I remember,” said Owen. “It is strange, but I also have been sick from
the day that I ate of those fruits; yes, and you, Hokosa, warned me
against them.”
Then he blessed the boy and prayed over him till he died; but when
afterwards he looked round for Hokosa, it was to find that he had gone.
Some eight days later, having to a certain extent recovered from this
shock, Hokosa went one morning to Owen’s house and talked to him.
“Messenger,” he said, “is it necessary to baptism that I should confess
all my sins to you? If so, I can never be baptised, for there is
wickedness upon my hands which I am unable to tell into the ear of
living man.”
Owen thought and answered:--
“It is necessary that you should repent all of your sins, and that
you should confess them to heaven; it is not necessary that you should
confess them to me, who am but a man like yourself.”
“Then I will be baptised,” said Hokosa with a sigh of relief.
At this moment, as it chanced, their interview was again interrupted,
for runners came from the king requesting the immediate presence of the
Messenger, if he were well enough to attend, upon a matter connected
with the trial of a woman for murder. Thinking that he might be of
service, Owen, leaning on the shoulder of Hokosa, for already he was too
weak to walk far, crept to the litter which was waiting for him, and was
borne to the place of judgment that was before the house of the king.
Hokosa followed, more from curiosity than for any other reason, for
he had heard of no murder being committed, and his old desire to be
acquainted with everything that passed was still strong on him. The
people made way for him, and he seated himself in the first line of
spectators immediately opposite to the king and three other captains
who were judges in the case. So soon as Owen had joined the judges,
the prisoner was brought before them, and to his secret horror Hokosa
recognised in her that woman to whom he had given the poison in exchange
for the basket of fruit.
Now it seemed to Hokosa that his doom was on him, for she would
certainly confess that she had the drug from him. He thought of flight
only to reject the thought, for to fly would be to acknowledge himself
an accessory. No, he would brazen it out, for after all his word was as
good as hers. With the prisoner came an accuser, her husband, who seemed
sick, and he it was who opened the case against her.
“This woman,” he said, “was my wife. I divorced her for barrenness, as
I have a right to do according to our ancient law, and I took another
woman to wife, her half-sister. This woman was jealous; she plagued me
continually, and insulted her sister, so that I was forced to drive her
away. After that she came to my house, and though they said nothing
of it at the time, she was seen by two servants of mine to sprinkle
something in the bowl wherein our food was cooking. Subsequently my
wife, this woman’s half-sister, was taken ill with dysentery. I also
was taken ill with dysentery, but I still live to tell this story before
you, O King, and your judges, though I know not for how long I live. My
wife died yesterday, and I buried her this morning. I accuse the woman
of having murdered her, either by witchcraft or by means of a medicine
which she sprinkled on the food, or by both. I have spoken.”
“Have you anything to say?” asked the king of the prisoner. “Are you
guilty of the crime whereof this man who was your husband charges you,
or does he lie?”
Then the woman answered in a low and broken voice:--
“I am guilty, King. Listen to my story:” and she told it all as she told
it to Hokosa. “I am guilty,” she added, “and may the Great Man in the
sky, of Whom the Messenger has taught us, forgive me. My sister’s blood
is upon my hands, and for aught I know the blood of my husband yonder
will also be on my hands. I seek no mercy; indeed, it is better that I
should die; but I would say this in self-defence, that I did not think
to kill my sister. I believed that I was giving to her a potion which
would cause her husband to hate her and no more.”
Here she looked round and her eyes met those of Hokosa.
“Who told you that this was so?” asked one of the judges.
“A witch-doctor,” she answered, “from whom I bought the medicine in the
old days, long ago, when Umsuka was king.”
Hokosa gasped. Why should this woman have spared him?
No further question was asked of her, and the judges consulted together.
At length the king spoke.
“Woman,” he said, “you are condemned to die. You will be taken to the
Doom Tree, and there be hanged. Out of those who are assembled to try
you, two, the Messenger and myself, have given their vote in favour of
mercy, but the majority think otherwise. They say that a law has been
passed against murder by means of witchcraft and secret medicine, and
that should we let you go free, the people will make a mock of that law.
So be it. Go in peace. To-morrow you must die, and may forgiveness await
you elsewhere.”
“I ask nothing else,” said the woman. “It is best that I should die.”
Then they led her away. As she passed Hokosa she turned and looked him
full in the eyes, till he dropped his head abashed. Next morning she was
executed, and he learned that her last words were: “Let it come to
the ears of him who sold me the poison, telling me that it was but
a harmless drug, that as I hope to be forgiven, so I forgive him,
believing that my silence may win for him time for repentance, before he
follows on the road I tread.”
Now, when Hokosa heard these words he shut himself up in his house for
three days, giving out that he was sick. Nor would he go near to Owen,
being altogether without hope, and not believing that baptism or any
other rite could avail to purge such crimes as his. Truly his sin had
found him out, and the burden of it was intolerable. So intolerable did
it become, that at length he determined to be done with it. He could
live no more. He would die, and by his own hand, before he was called
upon to witness the death of the man whom he had murdered. To this end
he made his preparations. For Noma he left no message; for though his
heart still hungered after her, he knew well that she hated him and
would rejoice at his death.
When all was ready he sat down to think a while, and as he thought, a
man entered his hut saying that the Messenger desired to see him. At
first he was minded not to go, then it occurred to him that it would be
well if he could die with a clean heart. Why should he not tell all to
the white man, and before he could be delivered up to justice take
that poison which he had prepared? It was impossible that he should be
forgiven, yet he desired that his victim should learn how deep was his
sorrow and repentance, before he proved it by preceding him to death. So
he rose and went.
He found Owen in his house, lying in a rude chair and propped up by
pillows of bark. Now he was wasted almost to a shadow, and in the pale
pinched face his dark eyes, always large and spiritual, shone with
unnatural lustre, while his delicate hands were so thin that when he
held them up in blessing the light showed through them.
“Welcome, friend,” he said. “Tell me, why have you deserted me of late?
Have you been ill?”
“No, Messenger,” answered Hokosa, “that is, not in my body. I have been
sick at heart, and therefore I have not come.”
“What, Hokosa, do your doubts still torment you? I thought that my
prayers had been heard, and that power had been given me to set them at
rest for ever. Man, let me hear the trouble, and swiftly, for cannot you
who are a doctor see that I shall not be here for long to talk with you?
My days are numbered, Hokosa, and my work is almost done.”
“I know it,” answered Hokosa. “And, Messenger, _my_ days are also
numbered.”
“How is this?” asked Owen, “seeing that you are well and strong. Does an
enemy put you in danger of your life?”
“Yes, Messenger, and I myself am that enemy; for to-day I, who am no
longer fit to live, must die by my own hand. Nay, listen and you will
say that I do well, for before I go I would tell you all. Messenger, you
are doomed, are you not? Well, it was I who doomed you. That fruit which
you ate a while ago was poisoned, and by my hand, for I am a master of
such arts. From the beginning I hated you, as well I might, for had you
not worsted me and torn power from my grasp, and placed the people and
the king under the rule of another God? Therefore, when all else failed,
I determined to murder you, and I did the deed by means of that woman
who not long ago was hung for the killing of her sister, though in truth
she was innocent.” And he told him what had passed between himself and
the woman, and told him also of the plot which he had hatched to kill
Nodwengo and the Christians, and to set Hafela on the throne.
“She was innocent,” he went on, “but I am guilty. How guilty you and I
know alone. Do you remember that day when you ate the fruit, how
after it I accompanied you to the church yonder and listened to your
preaching? ‘Your sin shall find you out,’ you said, and of a surety mine
has found me out. For, Messenger, it came about that in listening to
you then and afterwards, I grew to love you and to believe the words you
taught, and therefore am I of all men the most miserable, and therefore
must I, who have been great and the councillor of kings, perish
miserably by the death of a dog.
“Now curse me, and let me go.”