which happened at a ripe old age, John Flood, ever after his flight,
disliked pythons probably as much as the monkey whose life he was
unfortunate enough to be instrumental in saving.
CHAPTER FIVE.
RAINMAKING.
_One_.
Drought had weighed heavily upon Pondoland for many weary months, and
when more than half of what was usually ploughing season had passed,
leaving the ground as stone to ploughshare and pick, the people began to
groan at the prospect of having to do without beer; for the millet, from
which it is brewed, having no leaf-sheath to protect the grain (such as
covers the maize-cob), if sown late often is ruined by an early frost.
When, however, a month afterwards, the weather was still dry and hotter
than ever, they realised that even the maize crop was in serious danger.
Then the women followed the men about with wailings, saying that they
and their children would perish. The men bent anxious eyes upon the
hollow-flanked cattle that wandered about lowing with hunger and
stumbling among the stones on the scorched hillsides, often falling to
rise no more.
A deputation representing the Pondo chiefs, headmen and men of influence
appeared before Umquikela, the paramount Chief at Qaukeni, his "Great
Place," and besought him to send for Umgwadhla, the great tribal
"inyanga ya'mvula," or "rain-doctor," and order him to make rain. A
somewhat similar step had been taken more than a month before, but
without the desired result. Much indignation was consequently felt
against Umgwadhla, who was, as a matter of fact, generally blamed for
the deplorable condition of the country.
Umgwadhla was looked upon as very expert in his particular line of
business; he had hitherto given the greatest satisfaction. Since his
appointment in succession to Kokodolo, who had been "smelt out" and
killed for obvious neglect of duty just before the break-up of the last
great drought, ten years previously, the spring rains had not until now
failed in Pondoland. Moreover, no hut around which he had inserted the
"isibonda ze'zula," or "lightning pegs," had ever been damaged in the
heaviest thunderstorm. As a matter of fact, Umgwadhla was looked upon
as a veritable "Prince of the Power of the Air."
Umquikela was, as usual, very drunk when the deputation arrived. His
councillors, however, recognising the seriousness of the extent to which
popular feeling was moved, kept all traders and others likely to supply
him with liquor away from his hut for twenty-four hours. Consequently
the Chief was, next day, quite capable of transacting State business.
He heard what his lieges had to say, approved of their suggestions,
issued the necessary orders, and then returned to his cups with a clear
conscience.
A message was accordingly sent to Umgwadhla notifying him that the
"guba," or "rain-dance," would be held on a certain day, and that his
presence at the function was required. This notification was
accompanied by a very significant message to the effect that if the
function were a failure he would be held responsible. Word was
circulated among the people, in terms of which they had to appear at the
"Great Place" on the day in question, armed, and each bringing a
contribution of "imitombo," or millet, which, after having been allowed
to germinate partially under the influence of damp, has been dried and
ground to fine powder. It is from this, after it has been boiled and
fermented, that the liquor known as "Kaffir beer" is made.
Umgwadhla fell into the deepest dismay; mindful as he was of the fate
which had, under similar circumstances, overtaken a long line of
predecessors. He could not help feeling that the length of his tether
had now probably been reached. A drought protracted to a certain degree
invariably had caused the "smelling out" and shameful death of whatever
"rain-doctor" happened to be in office at the time, and, as droughts
invariably do come to an end eventually, the fact of rain falling soon
after the immolation of an unsuccessful practitioner had raised the
irresistible presumption that each of these had, by the malicious use of
magical arts, deflected the rain-clouds from their proper course.
There was no sign of the weather's breaking. The red soil, especially
along the footpaths, was cracking into fissures; the fibre of the
herbage was giving way and leaf and blade were turning into dust. In
the minor watercourses the water began to run more freely. This is an
unexplained phenomenon which invariably accompanies severe South African
droughts. It is probably due to pressure upon the underground
reservoirs, caused by local shrinkage of the earth's surface.
Umgwadhla day by day turned an apprehensive eye to the westward, the
quarter from which thunderstorms might be expected, but the sky remained
as brass. A steady, scorching wind arose every forenoon, blew all day,
and sank with the sun. So long as this continued, Umgwadhla, who was in
his way genuinely weather-wise, knew there was no chance of the weather
breaking. He shuddered with dread day and night. He saw by the
demeanour of those he came in contact with that all held him in
detestation, and he continually suffered from the foretaste of a cruel
death. Through the instrumentality of a few trusted friends he sent a
number of his cattle out of Pondoland, but these he knew he would have
great difficulty in recovering--even in the unlikely event of his
managing to make his escape.
The day appointed for the "rain-dance" drew near with terrible rapidity,
and at length arrived. At early morn the "ukuqusha," or driving in of
the cattle at a run from every kraal for miles around to the "Great
Place," began. When all the oxen had been collected the Chief selected
one from his own herd for slaughter, and every petty chief, headman, and
"umninizi," or head of a kraal, selected one of those driven in by him,
for the same purpose. All doomed oxen were kraaled together, and then
the important ceremony of doctoring the Chief began.
Umgwadhla had arrived secretly during the previous night, with his stock
of roots, herbs, and other medicines, and from these he proceeded to
concoct the "isihlambiso," or magico-medicinal wash. He broke up the
roots and herbs and placed them in a large earthen pot nearly full of
water. Then he got a three-pronged stick about eighteen inches in
length, and placing the pronged end in the mixture he twirled the stick
rapidly between his palms until the liquid frothed and seethed over the
edge of the pot. Then he notified the Chief that the medicine was
ready.
The Chief, accompanied by his "isicaka se 'nkosi," or "medicine boy,"
now stalked majestically forward. The "medicine boy," lifted the pot
and carried it slowly into the large kraal, out of which the cattle had
now been driven, the Chief following, naked and with stately steps.
Upon reaching the centre of the kraal the Chief crouched slightly
forward, and the "medicine boy" lifted the pot and poured a liberal
quantity of the contents over his shoulders. The "rain-doctor" and the
Chief smeared this all over the body of the latter, and rubbed it in
with the palms of their hands.
After this the pot, containing what remained of the mixture, was carried
back to the Chief's hut, there to be kept until the end of the ensuing
feast, when the washing process would be repeated, and any balance of
the liquid then remaining would be spilt in the middle of the cattle
kraal.
The grand ceremonial dance, known as "ukuguba," then began. The men,
with faces painted red, danced in a row in front of the women, who sat
on the ground clapping their hands rhythmically and singing a song full
of monotonous repetition. This song related to feuds, fights, and the
greatness and prowess of ancestral chiefs, but contained no reference to
rain or to anything supernatural.
When the song and the dance were over the "rain-doctor" announced that
on the fifth day following, thunderclouds would arise in the
north-western sky in the afternoon, and that heavy rain would
immediately follow.
Then the oxen were slaughtered and the feasting began. Under the
influence of their excitement the people fully believed that the
promises of the "rain-doctor" would be fulfilled. The beer flowed like
water, and the meat, although rather poor in condition, was satisfying--
a Native is never particular about the quality of beef. Many fights
took place, many skulls were cracked--some fatally, and, taking it all
round, the function was a grand success; that is, of course, if we leave
out of sight the main object of the gathering, which, however, had been
totally forgotten for the time being.
Four days were spent in feasting, and on the morning of the fifth the
people dispersed to their homes and began at once to get ready their
picks and hoes against the coming rain. But the skies were still like
lurid brass, and the sun as a pitiless, consuming fire.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Two_.
On the afternoon of the third day after the feast Umgwadhla went quietly
home. He was now almost in despair. He had, under the heaviest
pressure, committed himself definitely to the production of rain at a
given hour on a specified day, trusting to his luck to redeem the
promise. The day was now terribly close. Twice more had the sun to go
down in wrath and twice to rise in fury--and then--before it sank again?
He now knew, by the absence of signs of its approach, that the rain
would not come on the day he had named. The evening of the fourth day
came, and the sun went down a bar of rusty, red smoke, the result of
inland grass-fires. Then the cool stars came out, twinkling mockery at
the shuddering earth and the unhappy wizard, who felt as though the woes
of the suffering land were heaped upon his head.
Umgwadhla's hut was situated close to the edge of the Umsingizi Forest.
This hut was his official residence, where he dwelt in retirement when
engaged in practising the mysteries of his profession. He had carried
home a large lump of meat from the feast. Part of this he cooked, but
he found it quite impossible to eat. He sat all night on a rock a few
yards distant from the hut, watching the hollow, light-punctured shell
of night winding over him with horrible rapidity. Then the dawn flushed
over the sea, and he realised that the dreaded day had arrived without
the slightest prospect of rain. Already, in anticipation, he felt the
choking strain of the thong by which his feet would be bound to his
neck, preparatory to his being flung to drown in the nearest deep
river-pool.
The sun, although only just risen, smote hotter than ever through the
sultry drought haze undisturbed by a breath of wind. Umgwadhla could
stand it no longer; he determined to fly for his life. This he had been
thinking of doing for some days past, but he knew that such a course
would mean social suicide and the loss of his wealth and influence; that
he would henceforth be an alien and a wanderer over the face of an
unfriendly land. It was not that life seemed to him sweet under such
circumstances, but that death after the manner of a strangled puppy
flung into the water by mischievous boys was too bitter to face; so he
seized a spear and a club, and plunged into the depths of Umsingizi.
The only food he carried was a small skin bag of boiled corn which,
during the oppressive hours of the previous night, he had prepared
without admitting to himself for what purpose.
The scorching day dragged on to noon, and the people began to bend
anxious glances towards the north-west. The sun began to sink, but,
except for thin wisps of smoke from distant grass-fires, the pitiless
sky was void. The sun sank into a long, low bank of orange-coloured
haze, and then hope departed from the wretched people.
Before daylight next morning the hut of Umgwadhla was surrounded by the
killing party sent by Umquikela to seize and slay the wizard who had
worked the ruin of his nation; but the bird had flown. Umgwadhla was
already on the Natal side of the Umtamvuna River, making his way in the
direction of the Baca and Hlangweni Locations in the Umzimkulu District.
A week afterwards the rain came in exactly the manner predicted by
Umgwadhla. Early in the afternoon a great crudded cloud of snowy
whiteness towered high over the north-western mountains, and then,
drawing other clouds in its train and on its flanks, swept over
Pondoland in the teeth of a raging gale. (In South Africa thunderstorms
almost invariably advance _against_ the wind.) Then with lightnings and
thunderings the long-sealed fountains of the sky burst open, and every
kloof and donga became a roaring river. Umgwadhla was cursed with
fervour and fury throughout the length and breadth of the land. He, the
wicked sorcerer, had kept the clouds away by means of his evil arts;
now, directly he had taken his departure, the rain-bearers, no longer
bridled, had hurried down with their life-giving stores. On the first
clear day another "rain-doctor" came before the Chief and claimed to
have, by means of his potent incantations, counteracted the evil spells
cast by Umgwadhla. This man was looked upon as the saviour of his
tribe. Umquikela killed a large ox in his honour, and sent him home
with gifts of value.
Umgwadhla had been only two days at Umzimkulu when the rain, which
happened to be general, fell. He felt that the rain-spirits, in whose
service his life had been spent, had treated him very unfairly. Why
could not the rain have fallen a week sooner? He hated to think of the
future; the contrast between the wealthy and influential position he had
hitherto enjoyed, and an obscure and poverty-stricken existence as an
alien suspected of the deadliest of all crimes, among the Amabaca and
Hlangweni, which now awaited him, was painful in the extreme. Soon,
however, a bright idea struck him, and, being a man of considerable
force and character, this he determined to carry into effect. He knew
that the course he resolved upon involved large risks, but these he felt
it worth while to take. As soon as ever the weather cleared he started
on a return journey to Qaukeni.
Early one morning a few days later Umgwadhla, accompanied by a few
influential friends, whom he had taken into his confidence, appeared
before Umquikela, who happened just then to be moderately sober. The
Chief was giving audience before the gate of his cattle kraal to a
number of visitors. Umgwadhla strode boldly among the people assembled,
who maintained an ominous silence, and saluted his master. Before
anyone had time to recover from the astonishment felt at his temerity in
thus, as it were, putting his head into the lion's mouth, the
"rain-doctor" spake--
"O Chief, I greet you on thus coming to claim my reward for having
caused the rain to fall over the length and breadth of the vast
territory that owns your sway.
"Rumour has told me that during my absence, in obedience to orders from
the `imishologu' (ancestral spirits), evil men have said that by spells
did I prevent the rain from falling, and that only when I was no longer
in the land to work evil, were the clouds able to revisit Pondoland.
"Hear now the truth, O Chief, and judge:
"On the night before the day on which I declared that rain should fall,
the `imishologu' revealed to me in a vision a dreadful secret. There
dwells, I was told, a powerful wizard in the land of the Ambaca, who, by
means of his medicines, drives back the rain-clouds when these are
called up by the spells of your servant. This is done in revenge for
that your illustrious father Faku slew Ncapayi, the Great Chief of the
Ambaca, in battle. Seek, said the `imishologu,' the root of a certain
plant that grows in the depths of the forest; eat of it, and then go
forth without fear to the Baca country. Find there the hut of the
wizard; before it stands a high milkwood-tree and bound in the branches
thereof is the skull of a baboon with the dried tail of a fish in its
teeth, facing the land that is ruled by `the young locust.'" (The word
`Umquikela' means `young locust.') "Remove the skull, and within a day
the rivers of Umquikela will be roaring to the sea.
"Here, O Chief, is the baboon's skull." (Here Umgwadhla produced the
article from under his kaross.) "Touch it not for fear of evil; ye who
have not been doctored against poison; more especially touch not the
fish's tail, which has been soaked in very direful medicines by the Baca
Magician."
Umgwadhla was reinstated in all his honours, powers, and privileges, and
his influence became very much greater than it had previously been. A
song was composed in his honour by the most celebrated of the tribal
bards, and sung at a great feast held at the "Great Place" to celebrate
the breaking up of the drought. He lived long and amassed much wealth,
and he never again failed to produce rain at the due season. His
supplanter retired into obscurity, but this did not save him from an
evil fate. When Umgwadhla died, in extreme old age, the supplanter was
"smelt out" and put to death on suspicion of having bewitched him. The
unhappy pretender was taken to the top of the Taba'nkulu Mountain and
placed standing, blindfolded, on the crest of the "Wizard's Rock"--a
high cliff just to the left of the footpath leading to "Flagstaff" where
it crosses the top of the mountain. The executioner then struck him
with a heavy club on the side of the head, and he fell among the rocks
at the foot of the krantz. His bones, mingled with those of many
others, may yet be seen by the curious.
Rainmaking is a profitable profession, but it takes a man of genius to
carry it on successfully.
CHAPTER SIX.
THE GRATITUDE OF A SAVAGE.
The crescent moon had just sunk, but the stars shone brightly down
through the limpid lens of the African night. Nomandewu sat on a flat
stone, moaning and talking to herself. She was a tall, gaunt Kaffir
woman of about thirty years of age. Three weeks previously, little
Nolala, her only child, had accidentally met her death. Ever since,
Nomandewu had been distraught with grief.
The spot where the bereaved mother sat was surrounded by a low, broken
wall of sods, which formed a circle of about fifteen feet in diameter.
This was all remaining of the hut in which she and her husband had
lived. At his death, some two years previously, the hut, in accordance
with Native custom, had been burnt to the ground.
Just after the death of her husband Nomandewu obtained employment as
cook in the household of John Westbrook, a cattle-farmer whose herds
grazed in one of those deep valleys which cleave the base of the Great
Winterberg Mountain. Mrs Westbrook had a little daughter of the same
age as Nolala, and the two children used to play together, day by day.
A low rustic seat, formed of a portion of a tree-trunk sunk into the
ground in an upright position, stood outside the verandah of the
homestead, under a spreading oak... In this little Lucy would sit,
Nolala squatting before her on the ground like a small Buddhist idol cut
in ebony. Thus the children would play, for hours at a time, some game
of their own invention. In it handclaps, names of people and shrieks of
laughter seemed to be the principal features.
This was the manner of Nolala's death: one morning Mrs Westbrook went
into the dairy to attend to the cream. The children followed, as was
usual, in expectation of getting thick milk. The cream had to be put
into a large earthenware jar which was kept upon a high shelf. Mrs
Westbrook was in the act of lifting the vessel from its place when a
large tarantula, which sprawled on the stopper, ran down her arm. She
had a special dread of these creatures, with which the house was
infested. In her terror she let the jar slip through her paralysed
hands, and it crashed down upon the upturned face of little Nolala, who
was standing next to her. The child fell to the floor with her neck
broken.
Nomandewu became frantic with grief. Taking the body in her arms she
rushed into the forest. It was several days before she reappeared, and
then she could not be induced to reveal how the body had been disposed
of. She did not resume her service, but went to live with her brother
in the location formed by the farm-servants' huts, on the other side of
the valley.
Mrs Westbrook was sorely distressed at the catastrophe. She tried hard
to interview the bereaved mother, but Nomandewu stalked off with a
terrible expression upon her face, whenever her mistress approached.
One of the farm servants was a herd named Dumani, a nephew of Nomandewu.
Dumani had once been accused of stealing a fowl from his master's
hen-roost, but little Lucy established his innocence. She had happened
to see one of the other servants prowling near the scene of the theft,
very early in the morning. This man's hut was searched and the feathers
of the stolen fowl were found concealed under the ashes of his
fireplace.
Kaffirs are supposed by the superficial to be utterly devoid of
gratitude. As a matter of fact they are just as grateful for good
offices as are any other race, but their gratitude is seldom expressed
in words, or, if expressed at all, is unintelligible to those who do not
understand the Kaffir nature. Now, Dumani was so grateful to little
Lucy that he would have died for her, upon due occasion, without the
slightest hesitation. Being, however, a mere savage Kaffir, he
displayed not the slightest manifestation of his feelings, which were,
therefore, quite unsuspected by anyone.
It was this unsuspected quality of gratitude which prompted this
taciturn Kaffir lad of sixteen to follow Nomandewu night after night
upon her rambles, to crawl like a snake up to the low wall behind which
it was her habit to sit beneath the silent stars, and to lie there for
hours with ear strained to catch the least syllable of her incoherent
mutterings. During these long vigils, when all the others on the farm
were fast asleep, it would seem to Dumani as though he and the weird
woman were the only two beings left in the wide world. Here lay the
only reality for him; all else had dissolved into wavering shadows.
Immediately after Nolala's death, Dumani, by no process which he could
have explained, divined that Lucy was in danger, and the idea grew until
it absorbed his whole mind. Yet, with the secretiveness of his race he
never hinted of his suspicions to a living soul. As a matter of fact,
outside his own instincts he had absolutely no evidence to go upon.
Nevertheless he felt no doubts; his suspicions, vague at first, had
gradually crystallised into certainty. He watched, waited, and held his
peace.
The intense, silent and unsleeping scrutiny of the Kaffir lad was not
unobserved by Nomandewu, who, accordingly, felt uneasy in his presence
and continually endeavoured to avoid him. But although she could not
help noticing that he had her under observation by day, she had no idea
that he followed her at night.
Dumani, in his master's estimation had fallen from grace. Until lately
he had been a model cattle-herd; now he was often found asleep under a
bush whilst his cattle trespassed among the crops or strayed away over
the infinite expanse of the hills. For such misdemeanours he had been
beaten several times; his dismissal, even, had been threatened. Then he
grew thin and haggard, and avoided his friends. The members of his
family became uneasy and held anxious consultations over his
unsatisfactory state. Eventually they came to the conclusion that he
was undergoing the preliminary mental and moral disturbances incidental
to the "twasa," or spiritual change which comes over those who possess
the vocation for witch-doctorship. This caused Dumani to be treated
with considerable respect, as one to whom a great future was possible.
One morning Dumani noticed Nomandewu stealing away to the forest with an
axe in her hand. After driving his cattle to their usual pasture he
followed. The forest filled the upper section of the valley, which was
bounded by a sheer wall of perpendicular cliff, shaped like a
horse-shoe, over which a stream foamed down. The lad stole softly up
the watercourse, pausing every now and then to listen. At length his
keen ear caught a rhythmic beat of distant chopping, and he crept
carefully in the direction of the source of the sound. Steadily and
regularly, without pause or intermission, the strokes went on.