M'TELA
They set off through the beautiful country in their usual order of
march. The warriors of M'tela accompanied them, walking ahead, behind,
and on either flank. The drums roared incessantly, the trumpets of horn
sounded. It was a triumphal procession, but rather awe-inspiring. The
safari men did their best to imitate Kingozi's attitude of
indifference; and succeeded fairly well, but their eyes rolled in their
heads.
The Leopard Woman sat her donkey, and surveyed it all with appreciative
eyes. In spite of Kingozi's reassuring words, the impression of savage
power as the warriors debouched from the wood had been vivid enough to
give emphasis to a strong feeling of relief when their intentions
proved peaceful. The revulsion accentuated her enjoyment of the
picturesque aspects of the scene. The shining, naked bodies, the waving
ostrich plumes, the glitter of spears, the glint of polished iron, the
wild, savage expression of the men, the throb of barbaric music
appealed to her artistic sense. In a way her mind was at rest. At least
the striving was over. Kingozi had made his decision; it was no use to
struggle against it longer. She had no doubt that now they were
virtually prisoners, that they were being conducted in this impressive
manner to a chieftain already won over by Winkleman. The latter had had
more than the time necessary to carry out his purpose. Kingozi's
persistence was maddeningly futile; but it was part of the man, and she
could not but acquiesce.
They marched across the open grassy plain, and into the woods beyond. A
wide, beaten track took them through, as though they walked in a lofty
tunnel with green walls through which one could look, but beyond which
one might not pass. Then out into the sunlight again, skirting a swamp
of plumed papyrus with many waterfowl, and swarms of insects, and birds
wheeling swiftly catching the insects, and other larger birds soaring
grandly above on the watch-out for what might chance. This swamp was
like a green river flowing bank high between the hills. It twisted out
of sight around wooded promontories. And the hills, constantly rising
in height, crowned with ever-thickening forests, extended as far as the
eye could reach.
At the end of the straight vista they turned sharp to the right and
climbed a tongue of land--what would be called a "hog's-back" in the
West. It was grown sparsely with trees, and commanded a wide outlook.
Now the sinuous course of the papyrus swamp could be followed for miles
in its vivid green; and the tops of the forest trees lay spread like a
mantle. The top of the "hog's-back" had been flattened, and on it stood
M'tela's palace.
The Leopard Woman stared curiously. There was not much to be seen. A
high stockade of posts and wattle shut off the view, but over it could
be distinguished a thatched roof. It was rectangular instead of
circular and appeared to be at least forty feet long--a true, royal
palace. Smaller roofs surrounded it. Outside the gate stood several
more of the gorgeous spearmen, rigidly at attention. Not another soul
was in sight.
But whatever seemed to lack either in the cordiality or curiosity of
the inhabitants was more than made up for by the escort. With admirable
military precision, a precision that Kingozi would have appreciated
could he have seen it, they deployed across the wide open space at the
front of the plateau. The drums lined up before them. In the echoing
enclosure of the forest walls the noise was prodigious. And then
abruptly, as before, it fell. In the silence the voice of the old
headman was heard:
"Here will be found the way to the guest houses," he urged gently.
The ragged safari, carrying its loads, plunged again into a forest
path, walking single file, a tatterdemalion crew. And yet a philosophic
observer might have caught a certain nonchalance, a faint superiority
of bearing on the part of these scarecrows; ridiculous when considered
against the overwhelming numbers, the military spruceness, the savage
formidability of the wild hordes that surrounded them. And if he had
been an experienced as well as a philosophic observer he could have
named the quality that informed them. Even in these truly terrifying,
untried conditions it persisted--the white man's _prestige_.
The forest path, wide and well-trodden, led them a scant quarter mile
to a cleared wide space on the very edge of the hill, which here fell
abruptly away. A large circular guest house occupied the centre point,
and other smaller houses surrounded it at a respectful distance. To the
right hand were the tops of trees on a lower elevation; to the left and
at the rear the solid wall of forest; immediately in front a wide
outlook over the papyrus swamp and the partly clothed hills beyond.
Their guides--for there were several--indicated the guest houses, and
silently disappeared. The safari was alone with its own devices.
Kingozi's practical voice broke the slight awe that all this savage
magnificence had imposed.
"Cazi Moto!" he commanded, "tell me what is here."
He listened attentively while the wizen-faced little headman gave a
detailed account, not only of the present dispositions, but also of
what had been seen during the short march to M'tela's stronghold. At
the conclusion of this recital he called to the Leopard Woman.
"I am here, near you," she answered.
"You must be my eyes for this," he told her. "Look into the large guest
house. Is it clean? Is it fairly new?"
She reported favourably as to these points.
"I am sorry, but I must take it over for myself," he said. "Matter not
of comfort, but of prestige. You would do best to pitch your tent
somewhere near. Cazi Moto, let the men make camp as usual."
"Very well," she agreed to her part of this program. Her manner was
very gentle; and she looked on him, could he have known it, with eyes
of a tender compassion. His was a brave heart, but Winkleman must long
since have arrived----
She moved slowly away to superintend the placing of her tent,
reflecting on these matters. It was decent of Winkleman to keep himself
in the background just at first. Time enough to convince poor blind
Kingozi that the game was up when he had to some extent recovered from
the strain and fatigue of the long journey. But Winkleman was a good
sort. She knew him: a big, hearty, bearded Bavarian, polyglot,
intensely scientific, with a rolling deep voice. He must have had ten
days--a week anyway--to use his acknowledged arts and influence on the
savage king. Kingozi had said a week would be enough--and Kingozi knew!
She sighed deeply as she thought of the doom to which his own obstinacy
had condemned that remarkable man. Her eyes wandered to where he sat in
his canvas chair, superintending through the ever-efficient Cazi Moto
the details of the camp. His shoulders were sagging forward wearily,
and his face in repose fell into lines of infinite sadness. Her heart
melted within her; and in a sudden revulsion she flamed against
Winkleman and all his diabolical efficiency. After all, this little
corner of an unknown land could not mean so much to the general result,
and it would be so glorious a consolation to a brave man's blindness!
Then she became ashamed of herself as a traitor. Her tent was now
ready; so she entered it, bathed, clad herself in her silks, and hung
the jewel on her forehead. Once more the serene mistress of herself,
she came forth to view the sights.
It was by now near the setting of the sun. The forest shadows were
rising. Colobus were calling, and birds. Up a steep trail from the
swamp came a long procession of women and little girls. They were all
stark naked, and each carried on her head an earthen vessel or a
greater or lesser gourd according to her strength. They passed near the
large guest house, and there poured the water from their vessels into a
series of big jars. Thus every drop of water had to be transported up
the hill, not only for the guest camp, but for all M'tela's thousands
somewhere back in the mysterious forest. These women were of every age
and degree of attractiveness; but all were slender, and each possessed
a fine-textured skin of red bronze. Except the very old, whose breasts
had fallen, they were finely shaped. The rays of the sun outlined them.
They seemed quite unaware of their nakedness. Their faces were
good-humoured; and some of them even smiled shyly at the white woman
standing by her tent. Having poured out the water, they disappeared
down the forest path.
Thence shortly appeared other women with huge burdens of firewood
carried by means of a strap, after the fashion of the Canadian
tump-line; and still others with _m'wembe_, bananas, yams, eggs,
_n'jugu_ nuts, and gourds of smoked milk. Evidently M'tela did not do
things by halves.
The customary routine of the camp went on. Supper was served as usual;
and as usual the Leopard Woman joined Kingozi for the meal. The
occasion was constrained on her side, easy on his. He asked her various
questions as to details of the surroundings which she answered
accurately but a little absently. She spoke from the surface of her
mind. Within herself she was listening and waiting--listening for the
first sound of shod feet, wailing for the moment when Winkleman should
see fit to declare himself and end the suspense.
So high was this inner tension that she fairly jumped from her chair as
a demoniac shrieking wail burst from the forest near at hand. It was
answered farther away. Other voices took up the cry. It was as though a
thousand devils in shuddering pain were giving tongue.
"Tree hyraxes," Kingozi reassured her.
"Those tiny beasts!" she cried incredulously.
"Just so. Sweet voices, haven't they? Some of these people must be
wearing hyrax robes."
And indeed she remembered seeing some of the soft, beautiful karosses.
But now from the direction of M'tela's palaces arose a confused murmur
that swelled as a multitude drew near. The drums began again. Soon, the
Leopard Woman described, torches began to flash through the trees. At
the same moment Cazi Moto came to report.
"Build up a big fire," commanded Kingozi. He turned to the Leopard
Woman.
"This is likely to be an all-night session," he said resignedly. "If
you want to get out of it, I advise you to go now. Not that you'll be
able to get any sleep. But if you stay, you must stick it out. It would
never do to leave in the middle of the performance. Some of it you
won't like."
"What is it to be?"
"Ceremonial dances, I fancy."
"I think I shall stay," she said slowly.
In her heart she thought it extremely unlikely that the performance
would last all night. Indeed her own opinion was that Kingozi would be
a prisoner within an hour.
Kingozi settled himself stolidly in his chair before the fire that was
now beginning to eat its way through an immense pile of fuel, where,
during all subsequent events, he remained in the same attitude.
The Leopard Woman, on the contrary looked with all her eyes. The
torches came nearer. People began to pour out from the woods. There
were warriors in full panoply; lithe, naked men carrying only wands
peeled fresh to the white; women hung heavily with cowries; other women
with neither garment nor ornament, their bodies oiled and glistening. A
deep, rolling chant arose from hundreds of throats, punctuated and
carried by a sort of shrill, intermittent ululation. The drums were
there, but for the moment they were not being beaten in cadence, only
rubbed until they roared in undertone to the men's chanting.
All these people divided to right and left in the clearing of the guest
camp, and took their stations. More and more appeared. The space
filled, filled solidly, until at last there was no break in the mass of
humanity except for a circle forty feet in diameter about the fire.
Suddenly a group of fifteen or twenty men detached themselves from the
main body and leaped into this cleared space. The great chant still
rolled on; but now a varied theme was introduced by a chorus of the
nearby women. The dancers were oiled to a high state of polish, naked
except for a single plume apiece and a sort of tasselled tail hung to a
string belt. They clustered in a close group near the fire, facing a
common centre. In deep chest tones they pronounced the word _goom_, at
the same time half crouching; then in sharp staccato head tones the
word _zup_, at the same time rising swiftly up and toward their common
centre. It was like the ebb and surge of a wave, the alternate smooth
crouch and spring over and over again--_goom, zup! goom, zup! goom,
zup!_--and behind it the twinkle of torches, the gleam of eyes, the
roll of the deep-voiced chanting.
Endlessly they repeated this performance. The Leopard Woman, watching,
at last had to close her eyes in order to escape the hypnotic quality
of it. In spite of herself her senses swam in the rhythmic monotony.
All outside the focus of the dancers turned gray--_goom, zup! goom,
zup!_--was it never to end? And then it seemed to her that it never
would end, that thus it would go on forever, and that so it was just
and right. The men were tireless. The sweat glistened on their bodies,
but their eyes gleamed fanatically. She floated off on a tide of
irrelevant thoughts.
Hours later, as it seemed to her, she came to herself suddenly. Kingozi
still sat stolidly in his chair. The dancers were retiring step by
step, still with unabated vigour, continuing their performance. They
melted into the crowd.
Now a pellmell of bizarre figures broke out. They were bedecked
fantastically: some of them were painted with white clay; one was clad
in the skins of beasts. There was no rhythm or order to their entrance;
but immediately they began to dash here and there shouting.
"It is the Lion Dance, _memsahib_," Cazi Moto told her in a low voice.
"That one is the lion; and they hunt him with spears in the long grass."
The chase went forward with some verisimilitude, and yet with a
symbolic syncopation that indicated the Lion Dance was a very ancient
and conventional ceremony. These dancers gave way to a chorus of
singers. For interminable hours, so it seemed, they chanted a high,
shrill recitative, carried in fugue by deeper voices. The burden of the
song was evidently an impromptu. Occasionally some peculiarly apt or
pleasing phrase was caught up for endless repetition. And in the
background, against the farther background of the undistinguished
masses, those who had formerly carried on their performances in the
full glare of front-row publicity and the campfire, now continued their
efforts almost unabated. The impressive utterers of the _goom-zup_
shibboleth, the slayers of the symbolical lion, carried on still.
Indeed as the night wore on, and one group of dancers succeeded
another, the homogeneous crowd began to break into varied activity.
Each took his turn as principal, then fell back to form part of the
variegated background. Each dance was different. Warriors fully armed
clashed shield and spear; witch doctors crouched and sprang; women
stamped in rhythm; the elephant was hunted, the crops sown and
gathered, all the activities of community and individual life were
danced, the frankness of some saved from obscenity only by the
unconscious earnestness of their exposition and the evidence of their
symbolism that they were not the expression of the moment but very
ancient customs.
The Leopard Woman watched it all with shining eyes. The emotion of the
picturesque, the call of savage wildness, the contagion of a mounting
community excitement caused the blood to race through her veins. The
drums throbbed against her heart as the pulse throbbed against her
temples. She resisted an actual impulse to rise from her chair, to
throw herself with abandon into an orgy of rhythm and motion. Perfectly
she understood those who, having reached the breaking point, dashed
madly through the fire scattering embers and coals, or who darted
forward to kiss ecstatically the white man's feet, or who reached a
wild paroxysm of nerves to collapse the next instant into exhaustion.
She was brought to herself by Kingozi's calm voice.
"Sweet riot, isn't it?" he remarked. "They're working themselves up to
a high pitch. It's always that way. You would think they'd drop from
sheer weariness."
"How long will they keep it up?" she asked, drawing a deep breath, and
trying to speak naturally.
"So it got you, too, a little, did it?" he said curiously.
"What do you mean?"
"The excitement. It's contagious unless you are accustomed to it. I've
seen safe and sane youngsters go quite off their heads at these shows,
and dash down and caper around like the maddest _shenzi_ of them all.
Felt it myself at first. It draws you; like wanting to jump off when
you look down from a high place." He was talking evenly and carelessly.
"Enough of this sort of thing will make a crowd see anything.
Devil-worshippers for instance, they see red devils, after they work up
to it, not a doubt of it."
"Thank you," she answered his evident purpose of bringing her to
herself.
"All right now, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well, to answer your question; I've known dances to last two days."
"Heaven!" she cried, dismayed.
"But this is to prepare a suitable entrance for his majesty. We'll hear
from him along toward daylight." He held out his wrist watch toward
her. "What time now?"
Somehow the simple action seemed to her pathetic. Her eyes filled, and
she stooped as though to kiss the outstretched hand. Never again would
the worn old wrist watch serve its owner, except thus, vicariously!
"It is ten minutes past the twelve," she answered in a stifled voice.
"We must settle down to it. If you want tea or something to eat, tell
Cazi Moto."
He resumed his stolid demeanour.
The dancing continued. Every once in a while women threw armfuls of
fuel on the blaze. The tree hyraxes, out-screeched and outnumbered,
fell into silence or withdrew. Above the stars shone serenely; and all
about stood the trees of the ancient forest. Outside the hot, leaping
red light they drew back aloof and still. They had seen many dances,
many ebbs and flows of men's passions; for they were very old.
The Leopard Woman's vision blurred after a time. She was getting
drowsy. Her thoughts strayed. But always they circled back to the same
point. She found herself wondering whether Winkleman would appear
to-night.
A few hours earlier than Kingozi had predicted, in fact not far after
two o'clock, the wild dancing died to absolute immobility and absolute
silence, and M'tela arrived.
He appeared walking casually as though out for a stroll, emerging from
the end of the wide forest path. Central African natives are never
obese--comic papers to the contrary notwithstanding. Nevertheless,
M'tela was a large man, amply built, his muscles overlaid by smoother,
softer flesh. He possessed dignity without aloofness, a rare
combination, and one that invariably indicates a true feeling of
superiority. As he moved forward he glanced lazily and good-humouredly
to right and left at his people, in the manner of a genial grown-up
among small children. He wore a piece of cotton cloth dyed black, so
draped as to leave one arm and shoulder bare, a polished bone armlet,
and a tarboush that must have been traded through many hands.
"The _sultani, bwana_," murmured the ever-alert Cazi Moto.
M'tela wandered to where Kingozi sat. The white man did not move, but
appeared to stare absently straight before him. At ten paces M'tela
stopped and deliberately inspected his visitor for a full half-minute.
Then he advanced and dropped to the stool an obsequious and zealous
slave placed for him.
"_Jambo_, papa," he said casually.
His manner was perfect. The thousand or so human beings who crowded the
clearing might not have existed. Himself and Kingozi, two equals, were
settling themselves for an informal little chat in the midst of
solitudes. His large intelligent eye passed over the Leopard Woman, but
if her appearance aroused in him any curiosity or other interest no
flicker of expression betrayed the fact.
As he heard the form of address a brief gleam of satisfaction crossed
Kingozi's face. Whether it has been transferred from the English, or
has been adopted more directly from the babbling of infants, "papa" is
perfectly good Swahili. When M'tela addressed Kingozi as "papa" he not
only acknowledged him as a guest, but he admitted the white man to the
intimacy that exists between equals in rank.
M'tela was friendly.