THE MAGIC MIRROR
I did not sleep very well that night, for now that the danger was over
I found that the long strain of it had told upon my nerves. Also there
were many noises. Thus, the bearers who were shot had been handed over
to their companions, who disposed of them in a simple fashion, namely by
throwing them into the bush where they attracted the notice of hyenas.
Then the four wounded men who lay near to me groaned a good deal, or
when they were not groaning uttered loud prayers to their local gods.
We had done the best we could for these unlucky fellows. Indeed, that
kind-hearted little coward, Sammy, who at some time in his career served
as a dresser in a hospital, had tended their wounds, none of which were
mortal, very well indeed, and from time to time rose to minister to
them.
But what disturbed me most was the fearful hubbub which came from
the camp below. Many of the tropical African tribes are really
semi-nocturnal in their habits, I suppose because there the night is
cooler than the day, and on any great occasion this tendency asserts
itself.
Thus every one of these freed slaves seemed to be howling his loudest to
an accompaniment of clashing iron pots or stones, which, lacking their
native drums, they beat with sticks.
Moreover, they had lit large fires, about which they flitted in an
ominous and unpleasant fashion, that reminded me of some mediaeval
pictures of hell, which I had seen in an old book.
At last I could stand it no longer, and kicking Hans who, curled up like
a dog, slept at my feet, asked him what was going on. His answer caused
me to regret the question.
“Plenty of those slaves cannibal men, Baas. Think they eat the Arabs and
like them very much,” he said with a yawn, then went to sleep again.
I did not continue the conversation.
When at length we made a start on the following morning the sun was high
over us. Indeed, there was a great deal to do. The guns and ammunition
of the dead Arabs had to be collected; the ivory, of which they carried
a good store, must be buried, for to take it with us was impossible, and
the loads apportioned.[*] Also it was necessary to make litters for the
wounded, and to stir up the slaves from their debauch, into the nature
of which I made no further inquiries, was no easy task. On mustering
them I found that a good number had vanished during the night, where
to I do not know. Still a mob of well over two hundred people, a
considerable portion of whom were women and children, remained, whose
one idea seemed to be to accompany us wherever we might wander. So with
this miscellaneous following at length we started.
[*] To my sorrow we never saw this ivory again.--A.Q.
To describe our adventures during the next month would be too long if
not impossible, for to tell the truth, after the lapse of so many years,
these have become somewhat entangled in my mind. Our great difficulty
was to feed such a multitude, for the store of rice and grain, upon
which we were quite unable to keep a strict supervision, they soon
devoured. Fortunately the country through which we passed, at this time
of the year (the end of the wet season) was full of game, of which,
travelling as we did very slowly, we were able to shoot a great deal.
But this game killing, delightful as it may be to the sportsman,
soon palled on us as a business. To say nothing of the expenditure of
ammunition, it meant incessant work.
Against this the Zulu hunters soon began to murmur, for, as Stephen and
I could rarely leave the camp, the burden of it fell on them. Ultimately
I hit upon this scheme. Picking out thirty or forty of the likeliest men
among the slaves, I served out to each of them ammunition and one of the
Arab guns, in the use of which we drilled them as best we could. Then
I told them that they must provide themselves and their companions with
meat. Of course accidents happened. One man was accidentally shot and
three others were killed by a cow elephant and a wounded buffalo. But in
the end they learned to handle their rifles sufficiently well to supply
the camp. Moreover, day by day little parties of the slaves disappeared,
I presume to seek their own homes, so that when at last we entered the
borders of the Mazitu country there were not more than fifty of them
left, including seventeen of those whom we had taught to shoot.
Then it was that our real adventures began.
One evening, after three days’ march through some difficult bush in
which lions carried off a slave woman, killed one of the donkeys and
mauled another so badly that it had to be shot, we found ourselves upon
the edge of a great grassy plateau that, according to my aneroid, was
1,640 feet above sea level.
“What place is this?” I asked of the two Mazitu guides, those same men
whom we had borrowed from Hassan.
“The land of our people, Chief,” they answered, “which is bordered on
one side by the bush and on the other by the great lake where live the
Pongo wizards.”
I looked about me at the bare uplands that already were beginning to
turn brown, on which nothing was visible save vast herds of buck such as
were common further south. A dreary prospect it was, for a slight rain
was falling, accompanied by mist and a cold wind.
“I do not see your people or their kraals,” I said; “I only see grass
and wild game.”
“Our people will come,” they replied, rather nervously. “No doubt even
now their spies watch us from among the tall grass or out of some hole.”
“The deuce they do,” I said, or something like it, and thought no more
of the matter. When one is in conditions in which anything _may_ happen,
such as, so far as I am concerned, have prevailed through most of my
life, one grows a little careless as to what _will_ happen. For my part
I have long been a fatalist, to a certain extent. I mean I believe that
the individual, or rather the identity which animates him, came out from
the Source of all life a long while, perhaps hundreds of thousands or
millions of years ago, and when his career is finished, perhaps hundreds
of thousands or millions of years hence, or perhaps to-morrow, will
return perfected, but still as an individual, to dwell in or with that
Source of Life. I believe also that his various existences, here or
elsewhere, are fore-known and fore-ordained, although in a sense he may
shape them by the action of his free will, and that nothing which he can
do will lengthen or shorten one of them by a single hour. Therefore, so
far as I am concerned, I have always acted up to the great injunction of
our Master and taken no thought for the morrow.
However, in this instance, as in many others of my experience, the
morrow took plenty of thought for itself. Indeed, before the dawn, Hans,
who never seemed really to sleep any more than a dog does, woke me up
with the ominous information that he heard a sound which he thought was
caused by the tramp of hundreds of marching men.
“Where?” I asked, after listening without avail--to look was useless,
for the night was dark as pitch.
He put his ear to the ground and said:
“There.”
I put _my_ ear to the ground, but although my senses are fairly acute,
could hear nothing.
Then I sent for the sentries, but these, too, could hear nothing. After
this I gave the business up and went to sleep again.
However, as it proved, Hans was quite right; in such matters he
generally was right, for his senses were as keen as those of any wild
beast. At dawn I was once more awakened, this time by Mavovo, who
reported that we were being surrounded by a regiment, or regiments. I
rose and looked out through the mist. There, sure enough, in dim and
solemn outline, though still far off, I perceived rank upon rank of men,
armed men, for the light glimmered faintly upon their spears.
“What is to be done, Macumazana?” asked Mavovo.
“Have breakfast, I think,” I answered. “If we are going to be killed
it may as well be after breakfast as before,” and calling the trembling
Sammy, I instructed him to make the coffee. Also I awoke Stephen and
explained the situation to him.
“Capital!” he answered. “No doubt these are the Mazitu, and we have
found them much more easily than we expected. People generally take such
a lot of hunting for in this confounded great country.”
“That’s not such a bad way of looking at things,” I answered, “but would
you be good enough to go round the camp and make it clear that not on
any account is anyone to fire without orders. Stay, collect all the guns
from those slaves, for heaven knows what they will do with them if they
are frightened!”
Stephen nodded and sauntered off with three or four of the hunters.
While he was gone, in consultation with Mavovo, I made certain little
arrangements of my own, which need not be detailed. They were designed
to enable us to sell our lives as dearly as possible, should things come
to the worst. One should always try to make an impression upon the enemy
in Africa, for the sake of future travellers if for no other reason.
In due course Stephen and the hunters returned with the guns, or most of
them, and reported that the slave people were in a great state of terror,
and showed a disposition to bolt.
“Let them bolt,” I answered. “They would be of no use to us in a row
and might even complicate matters. Call in the Zulus who are watching at
once.”
He nodded, and a few minutes later I heard--for the mist which hung
about the bush to the east of the camp was still too dense to allow
of my seeing anything--a clamour of voices, followed by the sound of
scuttling feet. The slave people, including our bearers, had gone, every
one of them. They even carried away the wounded. Just as the soldiers
who surrounded us were completing their circle they bolted between the
two ends of it and vanished into the bush out of which we had marched
on the previous evening. Often since then I have wondered what became
of them. Doubtless some perished, and the rest worked their way back
to their homes or found new ones among other tribes. The experiences of
those who escaped must be interesting to them if they still live. I can
well imagine the legends in which these will be embodied two or three
generations hence.
Deducting the slave people and the bearers whom we had wrung out of
Hassan, we were now a party of seventeen, namely eleven Zulu hunters
including Mavovo, two white men, Hans and Sammy, and the two Mazitus
who had elected to remain with us, while round us was a great circle of
savages which closed in slowly.
As the light grew--it was long in coming on that dull morning--and
the mist lifted, I examined these people, without seeming to take any
particular notice of them. They were tall, much taller than the average
Zulu, and slighter in their build, also lighter in colour. Like the
Zulus they carried large hide shields and one very broad-bladed spear.
Throwing assegais seemed to be wanting, but in place of them I saw
that they were armed with short bows, which, together with a quiver
of arrows, were slung upon their backs. The officers wore a short
skin cloak or kaross, and the men also had cloaks, which I found out
afterwards were made from the inner bark of trees.
They advanced in the most perfect silence and very slowly. Nobody said
anything, and if orders were given this must have been done by signs. I
could not see that any of them had firearms.
“Now,” I said to Stephen, “perhaps if we shot and killed some of those
fellows, they might be frightened and run away. Or they might not; or if
they did they might return.”
“Whatever happened,” he remarked sagely, “we should scarcely be welcome
in their country afterwards, so I think we had better do nothing unless
we are obliged.”
I nodded, for it was obvious that we could not fight hundreds of
men, and told Sammy, who was perfectly livid with fear, to bring the
breakfast. No wonder he was afraid, poor fellow, for we were in great
danger. These Mazitu had a bad name, and if they chose to attack us we
should all be dead in a few minutes.
The coffee and some cold buck’s flesh were put upon our little
camp-table in front of the tent which we had pitched because of the
rain, and we began to eat. The Zulu hunters also ate from a bowl of
mealie porridge which they had cooked on the previous night, each of
them with his loaded rifle upon his knees. Our proceedings appeared
to puzzle the Mazitu very much indeed. They drew quite near to us, to
within about forty yards, and halted there in a dead circle, staring at
us with their great round eyes. It was like a scene in a dream; I shall
never forget it.
Everything about us appeared to astonish them, our indifference, the
colour of Stephen and myself (as a matter of fact at that date Brother
John was the only white man they had ever seen), our tent and our two
remaining donkeys. Indeed, when one of these beasts broke into a bray,
they showed signs of fright, looking at each other and even retreating a
few paces.
At length the position got upon my nerves, especially as I saw that
some of them were beginning to fiddle with their bows, and that their
General, a tall, one-eyed old fellow, was making up his mind to do
something. I called to one of the two Mazitus, whom I forgot to say we
had named Tom and Jerry, and gave him a pannikin of coffee.
“Take that to the captain there with my good wishes, Jerry, and ask him
if he will drink with us,” I said.
Jerry, who was a plucky fellow, obeyed. Advancing with the steaming
coffee, he held it under the Captain’s nose. Evidently he knew the man’s
name, for I heard him say:
“O Babemba, the white lords, Macumazana and Wazela, ask if you will
share their holy drink with them?”
I could perfectly understand the words, for these people spoke a dialect
so akin to Zulu that by now it had no difficulty for me.
“Their holy drink!” exclaimed the old fellow, starting back. “Man, it is
hot red-water. Would these white wizards poison me with _mwavi_?”
Here I should explain that _mwavi_ or _mkasa_, as it is sometimes
called, is the liquor distilled from the inner bark of a sort of
mimosa tree or sometimes from a root of the strychnos tribe, which is
administered by the witch-doctors to persons accused of crime. If it
makes them sick they are declared innocent. If they are thrown into
convulsions or stupor they are clearly guilty and die, either from the
effects of the poison or afterwards by other means.
“This is no _mwavi_, O Babemba,” said Jerry. “It is the divine liquor
that makes the white lords shoot straight with their wonderful guns
which kill at a thousand paces. See, I will swallow some of it,” and he
did, though it must have burnt his tongue.
Thus encouraged, old Babemba sniffed at the coffee and found it
fragrant. Then he called a man, who from his peculiar dress I took to be
a doctor, made him drink some, and watched the results, which were that
the doctor tried to finish the pannikin. Snatching it away indignantly
Babemba drank himself, and as I had half-filled the cup with sugar,
found the mixture good.
“It is indeed a holy drink,” he said, smacking his lips. “Have you any
more of it?”
“The white lords have more,” said Jerry. “They invite you to eat with
them.”
Babemba stuck his finger into the tin, and covering it with the sediment
of sugar, sucked and reflected.
“It’s all right,” I whispered to Stephen. “I don’t think he’ll kill us
after drinking our coffee, and what’s more, I believe he is coming to
breakfast.”
“This may be a snare,” said Babemba, who now began to lick the sugar out
of the pannikin.
“No,” answered Jerry with creditable resource; “though they could easily
kill you all, the white lords do not hurt those who have partaken of
their holy drink, that is unless anyone tries to harm them.”
“Cannot you bring some more of the holy drink here?” he asked, giving a
final polish to the pannikin with his tongue.
“No,” said Jerry, “if you want it you must go there. Fear nothing. Would
I, one of your own people, betray you?”
“True!” exclaimed Babemba. “By your talk and your face you are a Mazitu.
How came you--well, we will speak of that afterwards. I am very thirsty.
I will come. Soldiers, sit down and watch, and if any harm happens to
me, avenge it and report to the king.”
Now, while all this was going on, I had made Hans and Sammy open one of
the boxes and extract therefrom a good-sized mirror in a wooden
frame with a support at the back so that it could be stood anywhere.
Fortunately it was unbroken; indeed, our packing had been so careful
that none of the looking-glasses or other fragile things were injured.
To this mirror I gave a hasty polish, then set it upright upon the
table.
Old Babemba came along rather suspiciously, his one eye rolling over us
and everything that belonged to us. When he was quite close it fell
upon the mirror. He stopped, he stared, he retreated, then drawn by his
overmastering curiosity, came on again and again stood still.
“What is the matter?” called his second in command from the ranks.
“The matter is,” he answered, “that here is great magic. Here I see
myself walking towards myself. There can be no mistake, for one eye is
gone in my other self.”
“Advance, O Babemba,” cried the doctor who had tried to drink all
the coffee, “and see what happens. Keep your spear ready, and if your
witch-self attempts to harm you, kill it.”
Thus encouraged, Babemba lifted his spear and dropped it again in a
great hurry.
“That won’t do, fool of a doctor,” he shouted back. “My other self lifts
a spear also, and what is more all of you who should be behind are in
front of me. The holy drink has made me drunk; I am bewitched. Save me!”
Now I saw that the joke had gone too far, for the soldiers were
beginning to string their bows in confusion. Luckily at this moment, the
sun at length came out almost opposite to us.
“O Babemba,” I said in a solemn voice, “it is true that this magic
shield, which we have brought as a gift to you, gives you another self.
Henceforth your labours will be halved, and your pleasures doubled, for
when you look into this shield you will be not one but two. Also it
has other properties--see,” and lifting the mirror I used it as a
heliograph, flashing the reflected sunlight into the eyes of the long
half-circle of men in front of us. My word! didn’t they run.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed old Babemba, “and can I learn to do that also,
white lord?”
“Certainly,” I answered, “come and try. Now, hold it so while I say
the spell,” and I muttered some hocus-pocus, then directed it towards
certain of the Mazitu who were gathering again. “There! Look! Look!
You have hit them in the eye. You are a master of magic. They run,
they run!” and run they did indeed. “Is there anyone yonder whom you
dislike?”
“Yes, plenty,” answered Babemba with emphasis, “especially that
witch-doctor who drank nearly all the holy drink.”
“Very well; by-and-by I will show you how you can burn a hole in him
with this magic. No, not now, not now. For a while this mocker of the
sun is dead. Look,” and dipping the glass beneath the table I produced
it back first. “You cannot see anything, can you?”
“Nothing except wood,” replied Babemba, staring at the deal slip with
which it was lined.
Then I threw a dish-cloth over it and, to change the subject, offered
him another pannikin of the “holy drink” and a stool to sit on.
The old fellow perched himself very gingerly upon the stool, which was
of the folding variety, stuck the iron-tipped end of his great spear in
the ground between his knees and took hold of the pannikin. Or rather
he took hold of a pannikin and not the right one. So ridiculous was his
appearance that the light-minded Stephen, who, forgetting the perils
of the situation, had for the last minute or two been struggling with
inward laughter, clapped down his coffee on the table and retired into
the tent, where I heard him gurgling in unseemly merriment. It was this
coffee that in the confusion of the moment Sammy gave to old Babemba.
Presently Stephen reappeared, and to cover his confusion seized the
pannikin meant for Babemba and drank it, or most of it. Then Sammy,
seeing his mistake, said:
“Mr. Somers, I regret that there is an error. You are drinking from the
cup which that stinking savage has just licked clean.”
The effect was dreadful and instantaneous, for then and there Stephen
was violently sick.
“Why does the white lord do that?” asked Babemba. “Now I see that you
are truly deceiving me, and that what you are giving me to swallow is
nothing but hot _mwavi_, which in the innocent causes vomiting, but that
in those who mean evil, death.”
“Stop that foolery, you idiot,” I muttered to Stephen, kicking him on
the shins, “or you’ll get our throats cut.” Then, collecting myself with
an effort, I said:
“Oh! not at all, General. This white lord is the priest of the holy
drink and--what you see is a religious rite.”
“Is it so,” said Babemba. “Then I hope that the rite is not catching.”
“Never,” I replied, proffering him a biscuit. “And now, General Babemba,
tell me, why do you come against us with about five hundred armed men?”
“To kill you, white lords--oh! how hot is this holy drink, yet pleasant.
You said that it was not catching, did you not? For I feel----”
“Eat the cake,” I answered. “And why do you wish to kill us? Be so good
as to tell me the truth now, or I shall read it in the magic shield
which portrays the inside as well as the out,” and lifting the cloth I
stared at the glass.
“If you can read my thoughts, white lord, why trouble me to tell them?”
asked Babemba sensibly enough, his mouth full of biscuit. “Still, as
that bright thing may lie, I will set them out. Bausi, king of our
people, has sent me to kill you, because news has reached him that you
are great slave dealers who come hither with guns to capture the Mazitus
and take them away to the Black Water to be sold and sent across it
in big canoes that move of themselves. Of this he has been warned by
messengers from the Arab men. Moreover, we know that it is true, for
last night you had with you many slaves who, seeing our spears, ran away
not an hour ago.”
Now I stared hard at the looking-glass and answered coolly:
“This magic shield tells a somewhat different story. It says that your
king, Bausi, for whom by the way we have many things as presents, told
you to lead us to him with honour, that we might talk over matters with
him.”
The shot was a good one. Babemba grew confused.
“It is true,” he stammered, “that--I mean, the king left it to my
judgment. I will consult the witch-doctor.”
“If he left it to your judgment, the matter is settled,” I said, “since
certainly, being so great a noble, you would never try to murder those
of whose holy drink you have just partaken. Indeed, if you did so,” I
added in a cold voice, “you would not live long yourself. One secret
word and that drink will turn to _mwavi_ of the worst sort inside of
you.”
“Oh! yes, white lord, it is settled,” exclaimed Babemba, “it is settled.
Do not trouble the secret word. I will lead you to the king and you
shall talk with him. By my head and my father’s spirit you are safe from
me. Still, with your leave, I will call the great doctor, Imbozwi,
and ratify the agreement in his presence, and also show him the magic
shield.”
So Imbozwi was sent for, Jerry taking the message. Presently he arrived.
He was a villainous-looking person of uncertain age, humpbacked like
the picture of Punch, wizened and squint-eyed. His costume was of
the ordinary witch-doctor type being set off with snake skins, fish
bladders, baboon’s teeth and little bags of medicine. To add to his
charms a broad strip of pigment, red ochre probably, ran down his
forehead and the nose beneath, across the lips and chin, ending in a red
mark the size of a penny where the throat joins the chest. His woolly
hair also, in which was twisted a small ring of black gum, was soaked
with grease and powdered blue. It was arranged in a kind of horn,
coming to a sharp point about five inches above the top of the skull.
Altogether he looked extremely like the devil. What was more, he was a
devil in a bad temper, for the first words he said embodied a reproach
to us for not having asked him to partake of our “holy drink” with
Babemba.
We offered to make him some more, but he refused, saying that we should
poison him.
Then Babemba set the matter out, rather nervously I thought, for
evidently he was afraid of this old wizard, who listened in complete
silence. When Babemba explained that without the king’s direct order it
would be foolish and unjustifiable to put to death such magicians as
we were, Imbozwi spoke for the first time, asking why he called us
magicians.
Babemba instanced the wonders of the shining shield that showed
pictures.
“Pooh!” said Imbozwi, “does not calm water or polished iron show
pictures?”
“But this shield will make fire,” said Babemba. “The white lords say it
can burn a man up.”
“Then let it burn me up,” replied Imbozwi with ineffable contempt, “and
I will believe that these white men are magicians worthy to be kept
alive, and not common slave-traders such as we have often heard of.”
“Burn him, white lords, and show him that I am right,” exclaimed the
exasperated Babemba, after which they fell to wrangling. Evidently they
were rivals, and by this time both of them had lost their tempers.
The sun was now very hot, quite sufficiently so to enable us to give
Mr. Imbozwi a taste of our magic, which I determined he should have.
Not being certain whether an ordinary mirror would really reflect enough
heat to scorch, I drew from my pocket a very powerful burning-glass
which I sometimes used for the lighting of fires in order to save
matches, and holding the mirror in one hand and the burning-glass in
the other, I worked myself into a suitable position for the experiment.
Babemba and the witch-doctor were arguing so fiercely that neither
of them seemed to notice what I was doing. Getting the focus right,
I directed the concentrated spark straight on to Imbozwi’s greased
top-knot, where I knew he would feel nothing, my plan being to char
a hole in it. But as it happened this top-knot was built up round
something of a highly inflammable nature, reed or camphor-wood, I
expect. At any rate, about thirty seconds later the top-knot was burning
like a beautiful torch.
“_Ow!_” said the Kaffirs who were watching. “My Aunt!” exclaimed
Stephen. “Look, look!” shouted Babemba in tones of delight. “Now will
you believe, O blown-out bladder of a man, that there are greater
magicians than yourself in the world?”
“What is the matter, son of a dog, that you make a mock of me?”
screeched the unfuriated Imbozwi, who alone was unaware of anything
unusual.
As he spoke some suspicion rose in his mind which caused him to put his
hand to his top-knot, and withdraw it with a howl. Then he sprang up and
began to dance about, which of course only fanned the fire that had now
got hold of the grease and gum. The Zulus applauded; Babemba clapped his
hands; Stephen burst into one of his idiotic fits of laughter. For my
part I grew frightened. Near at hand stood a large wooden pot such as
the Kaffirs make, from which the coffee kettle had been filled, that
fortunately was still half-full of water. I seized it and ran to him.
“Save me, white lord!” he howled. “You are the greatest of magicians and
I am your slave.”
Here I cut him short by clapping the pot bottom upwards on his burning
head, into which it vanished as a candle does into an extinguisher.
Smoke and a bad smell issued from beneath the pot, the water from which
ran all over Imbozwi, who stood quite still. When I was sure the fire
was out, I lifted the pot and revealed the discomfited wizard, but
without his elaborate head-dress. Beyond a little scorching he was not
in the least hurt, for I had acted in time; only he was bald, for when
touched the charred hair fell off at the roots.
“It is gone,” he said in an amazed voice after feeling at his scalp.
“Yes,” I answered, “quite. The magic shield worked very well, did it
not?”
“Can you put it back again, white lord?” he asked.
“That will depend upon how you behave,” I replied.
Then without another word he turned and walked back to the soldiers,
who received him with shouts of laughter. Evidently Imbozwi was not a
popular character, and his discomfiture delighted them.
Babemba also was delighted. Indeed, he could not praise our magic
enough, and at once began to make arrangements to escort us to the king
at his head town, which was called Beza, vowing that we need fear no
harm at his hands or those of his soldiers. In fact, the only person who
did not appreciate our black arts was Imbozwi himself. I caught a look
in his eye as he marched off which told me that he hated us bitterly,
and reflected to myself that perhaps I had been foolish to use that
burning-glass, although in truth I had not intended to set his head on
fire.
“My father,” said Mavovo to me afterwards, “it would have been better to
let that snake burn to death, for then you would have killed his poison.
I am something of a doctor myself, and I tell you there is nothing our
brotherhood hates so much as being laughed at. You have made a fool of
him before all his people and he will not forget it, Macumazana.”