I
Isaka rubbed his eyes, but he did not unroll himself yet out of
his blankets. He was lying in the darkness with a round of white
walls dimly seen about him. Through a hole in the grass roof, a
star met his fixed gaze. The cocks had but just crowed the second
time, and the light was but just winning way in the east. The
night was holding out steadily so far.
Was it he, Isaka, who had awakened, or some other? He was not
very clear. Strange alike looked the happiness behind, and the
hope before him. He was not sure of himself in that twilight of
his senses. It seemed scarcely believable his title to either
gift of heaven to memory or to expectation.
Surely but slowly his brain cleared, his doubt grew faint as that
star was growing, his outlook bright as the one pane in the wall,
looking east. He sprang up with one of the best wills in the
world; he was far too happy to be drowsy any longer. Soon he was
washing himself, and dressing himself in white, with real zest.
Last night had been a joy-night indeed, and the morning promised
brilliantly. It was doubtless he himself who had both reached and
enjoyed the night's happenings, he also who now stood firm on the
threshold of the morning, having reached that also. Isaka, who
had been Kadona, was a native of an African village with a far
glimpse on fair days of Kilimanjaro. Being born where he was, and
dwelling where he did, he belonged to a certain Central European
Power. Certain manifestations of that Power had made him uneasy
from his goat-herding boyhood onwards.
He had walked warily, and kept an unscored back, but he gathered
that fellow subjects were not always so fortunate. At last the
claims on his attendance of a Government School had become
importunate. Suddenly he took his fate into his hands, bade his
family farewell (was not his mother dead these two years?), and
made for a track through the forest. Since he must go to school,
he would choose his own schoolmaster, and he chose one that he
knew. This teacher, as it happened, stood for another European
Power further west. He was fast ageing now, he could remember the
days before Europe divided up with such appetite so much of
Africa. He had been traveling on some teaching errand, and had
fallen sick and lain nearly a whole month at Kadona's village.
Kadona had brought him many gifts milk and ground-nuts and honey.
The sick man for his part had not been thankless. As for gifts,
he had given a knife and salt and soap and matches, but he had
also shown fellow-feeling, which meant much more. Their
friendship, signed and sealed outwardly by what they gave, was
underlain by affection of a promising sort. So Kadona went to
this teacher's mission, as to a city of refuge, traveling through
a bush country, and sleeping in huts of a strange speaking tribe
two or three nights of his way. He came to his host as man and
friend, and his trust was not abused. Afterwards his host, known
better, revealed new uses, he could doctor a little, he could
teach more than a little, he also held keys of certain joys and
wonders.
By and by Kadona was illuminated to some extent by his friend. He
was allowed to exchange his name when the approved fullness of
time was come, on a day of benevolent mysteries. Henceforth he
was Isaka. He had changed his name six months before the eventful
morning I have chronicled changed it at the season he had come to
reckon the years by the good time of Christmas.
Now this last night had been a brilliant one in the church that
he had learned to care for. There had been much glow of candles
and splendor of psalms and anthem. He had been taught to make
himself ready with light, so to speak, in view of the greatest
illumination on earth the Sacred Banquet of the morning. The
words of the anthem had rung in his ears like a trumpet in the
night, they had peopled and painted his dream. 'And I saw and
behold a white horse: . . . and He went forth conquering and to
conquer.' This morning was the Banquet morning. It was no marvel
that Kadona had been wonder-stricken at his awaking. The sense of
moving in a vision was hard to escape from, it seemed to him. He
moved towards the church like a man in a dream, and his feet felt
for the steps. Was it he who had been herding goats but a few
years ago, who had seen what he had seen on nights and at dances,
who had felt so naked and helpless before a harsh Government not
so very long ago? It did seem that it was he, and he was very
grateful. He stole into the church soft-footed, and glided
towards the blazing altar. Then he waited, trying to remember
what it was best to remember at such an hour. Had he repentance,
faith, gratitude, and love? He had so much of the last two surely
as to make some amends for defects of the others, or at least he
thought so. Yes, there was no mistaking his thanks, he thought to
himself. He remembered his night's dream afterwards when the bell
rang, and the Rider on the White Horse drew so near. Then he
lifted up his heart that he might meet Him on His way, tried to
open his heart as wide as it would go for the conquering Presence
to ride into it.