THE OPENER-OF-ROADS
I stared and stared, then was overcome with faintness and sat down upon
the ground.
I see you laughing at me, young man [this was addressed to me, the
recorder of the tale] who no doubt have already decided that this
drawing was the work of some imaginative Bushman who had gone mad and
set down upon the rock the hellish dream of a mind diseased. Of course,
that was the conclusion I came to myself next morning, though
afterwards I changed my opinion, but at the time it did not strike me
like that.
The place was lonesome and eerie, a horrible place with the pit full of
bones near by; heavily silent also except for a distant hyena or jackal
howling at the moon, and I had gone through some trials that day—the
passage of the death-pit, for instance, which reminded me of the
oubliettes in ancient Norman castles that I have read of down which
prisoners were hurled to doom. Also, as you may have observed, even in
your short career, moonlight differs from sun-light and we, or some of
us, are much more affected by horrible things at night than we are by
day. At any rate, I sat down because I felt faint and thought that I
was going to be ill.
“What is it, Baas?” queried the observant Hans, still mocking.
“If you want to be sick, Baas, please don’t mind me, for I’ll
turn my back. I remember that I was sick myself when first I saw
Heu-Heu—just there,” he added reminiscently, pointing to a certain
spot.
“Why do you call that thing ‘Heu-Heu,’ Hans?” I asked,
trying to master the reflex action of my interior arrangements.
“Because that is his nice name, Baas, given him by his Mammie when he
was little, perhaps.”
(Here I nearly _was_ sick, the idea of that creature with a mother
almost finished me—like the sight and smell of a bit of fat bacon in a
gale at sea.)
“How do you know that?” I gurgled.
“Because the Bushmen told me, Baas. They said that their fathers, a
thousand years ago, knew this Heu-Heu far away, and that they left that
part of the country because of him as they never slept well at night
there, just like a Boer when another Boer comes and builds a house
within six miles of him, Baas. I think they meant that they heard
Heu-Heu when he talked, for they told me that their
great-great-grand-fathers could hear him doing it and beating his
breast when he was miles away. But I daresay they lied, for I don’t
believe they really knew anything about Heu-Heu, or who painted his
portrait on the rock, Baas.”
“No,” I answered, “nor do I. Well, Hans, I think I have had
enough of your friend Heu-Heu for this evening, and should like to go
back to bed.”
“Yes, Baas, so should I, Baas. Still, take another good look at him
before you leave. You don’t see a picture like that every night, Baas,
and you know you wanted to come.”
Now I would have kicked Hans again, but luckily I remembered those
nails in his pocket in time, so, after one lingering glance, I only
rose and loftily motioned to him to lead on.
This was the last that I saw of the likeness of Heu-Heu or Beelzebub,
or whoever the monster may have been. Somehow, although I intended to
return to examine it more closely by the light of day, when morning
came I thought that I would not risk another scramble over that ledge
but would be satisfied with the memory of first impressions. These they
say, are always the best—like first kisses, as Hans added when I
explained this to him.
Not that I could forget Heu-Heu; on the contrary, it is not too much to
say that this devilish creature haunted me. I could not dismiss that
picture as some mere flight of distorted savage imagination. From a
hundred characteristics I knew or thought I knew it, erroneously as I
now believe, to be Bushmen’s work and was certain that no Bushman, even
if he had _delirium tremens_—not a complaint from which these people
ever suffered, because they lacked the opportunity of doing so, could
have evolved this monstrous creation out of his own soul—if a Bushman
has a soul. No, Bushman or not, that artist was drawing something that
he had seen, or thought that he had seen.
Of this there were several indications. Thus, on Heu-Heu’s right arm
the elbow joint was much swollen as though he had once suffered an
injury there. Again, the claw of one of his horrible hands—the left, I
think—was broken and divided at the point. Further, there was a wart or
protuberance upon the brow, just beneath where the long iron-gray tufts
of hair parted in the middle and hung down on each side of the
demoniacal, womanish face. Now the painter must have remembered these
blemishes and set them down faithfully, copying from some original,
real or imagined. Certainly, I reflected, he would not have invented
them.
Where, then, did he get his model? I have mentioned that I had heard
rumours of creatures called _Ngolokos,_ which I took it, if they
existed at all, were peculiarly terrific apes of an unknown variety.
Heu-Heu, then, might be a most distinguished and improved specimen of
these apes. Yet that could scarcely be, for this beast was more man
than monkey, notwithstanding his huge claws where the thumbs and big
toes should be. Or perhaps I should say that he was more devil than
either.
Another idea occurred to me: he might have been the god of these
Bushmen, only I never heard that they had any god except their own
stomachs. Afterwards I questioned Hans on this point but he replied
that he did not know, as the Bushmen he lived with in the cave had
never told him anything to that effect. It was true, however, that they
did not go to the place where the picture was except through fear of
enemies, and that when they did they would not look or speak about it
more than they could help. Perhaps, he suggested with his usual
shrewdness, Heu-Heu might be the god of some other people with whom the
Bushmen had nothing to do.
Another question—when was this work executed? Owing to its sheltered
position the colours were still fairly bright, but it must have been a
long while ago. Hans said that the Bushmen told him that they did not
know who painted it or what it represented, but that it was “_old, old,
old!_” which might mean anything or nothing, since to a people without
writing five or six generations become remote antiquity. One thing was
certain, however, that another of the paintings in that cave was
undoubtedly old, that of the Phœnicians raiding a kraal of which
I have spoken, which can scarcely have been executed since the time of
Christ. Of this I am sure, for I examined it carefully on the following
morning and it was not more faded than that of the Monster. Further, in
his picture a piece of the rock had scaled off just above the left
knee, and I had noticed that the surface thus exposed seemed as much
weathered as that of the surrounding rock outside the limits of the
painting.
On the other hand, it must be remembered that the Phœnician
picture was under cover, while that of Heu-Heu was exposed to the air
and would therefore age more rapidly.
Well, all that night I dreamed of this horrid Heu-Heu, dreamed that he
was alive and challenging me to fight him, dreamed that someone was
calling to me to rescue her—it was certainly her—not him—from
the power of the beast; dreamed that I did fight him and that he got me
down and was about to twist my head off as he had done to the man in
the picture, when something happened—I do not know what—and I woke
up covered with perspiration and in a most pitiable fright.
Now at the time I visited this cave I was not far from the borders of
Zululand on one of my trading expeditions, the wagon being laden with
blankets, beads, iron pots, knives, hoes, and such other articles as
the simple savage loves, or in those days loved to pay for in cattle.
Before the storm overtook us, however, I was contemplating leaving the
Zulus alone on this trip and trying to break new ground somewhere north
of Pretoria among less sophisticated natives who might put a higher
value on my wares. After seeing Heu-Heu, as it chanced, I changed my
mind for two reasons. The first of these was that the lightning had
killed my two best oxen and I thought that I could replace these
without cash expenditure in Zululand, where debts were owing to me that
I might collect in kind. The second was connected with that confounded
and obsessing Heu-Heu. I felt convinced that only one man in the world
could tell me about this monster, if, indeed, there were anything to
tell, namely, old Zikali, the wizard of the Black Kloof, the
_Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,_ as Chaka, the great Zulu
king, named him.
I think that I have told you all about Zikali before, but in case I
have not, I will say that he was the greatest witch doctor who ever
lived in Zululand and the most terrible. No one knew when he was born,
but undoubtedly he was very ancient and under his native name of
“Opener-of-Roads” had been known and dreaded in the land for some
generations. For many years, since my boyhood, indeed, he and I had
been friends in a fashion, though of course I was aware that from the
first he was using me for his own ends, as, indeed, became very clear
before all was done and he had triumphed over and brought about the
fall of the Zulu Royal House, which he hated.
However, Zikali, like a wise merchant, always paid those who served him
with a generous hand, in one coin or another, as he paid those he
hated. My coin was information, either historical or concerning the
hidden secrets of the strange land of Africa, of which, for all our
knowledge, we white men really understand so little. If any one could
give information about the picture in the cave and its origin, it would
be Zikali, and therefore to Zikali I would go. Curiosity about such
matters, as perhaps you have guessed, was always one of my besetting
sins.
We had great trouble in recovering our remaining fourteen oxen since
some of them had wandered far to find cover from the storm. At last,
however, they were found uninjured except for some bruises from the
hailstones, for it is wonderful, if they are left alone, how cattle
manage to protect themselves against the forces of nature. In Africa,
however, they seldom take shelter beneath trees during a thunderstorm,
as is their habit here in England, perhaps because, such tempests being
so frequent, they have inherited from their progenitors an instinctive
knowledge that lightning strikes trees and kills anything that happens
to be underneath them. At least, that is my experience.
Well, we inspanned and trekked away from that remarkable cave. Many
years afterwards, by the way, when Hans was dead, I tried to find it
again and could not. I thought that I reached the same mountain slope
in which it was, but I suppose that I must have been mistaken, since in
that neighbourhood there are multitudes of such slopes and on the one
that I identified I could discover no trace of the cave.
Perhaps this was because there had been a land-slide and, with the
funnel-like shaft in the mountain side down which the moonlight poured
on to the picture of Heu-Heu, the orifice that, it will be remembered,
was very small, had been covered up with rocks. Or it may be that I was
searching the wrong slope, not having taken my bearings sufficiently
when I visited the place at a time of tempest and hurry.
Further, I was pressed and, desiring to reach a certain outspan before
night fell, could only give about an hour to the quest and when it
failed was obliged to get on. Nor have I ever met any one who was
acquainted with this cave, so I suppose that it must have been known to
the Bushmen and Hans only, dead now all of them, which is a pity
because of the wonderful paintings that it contains or contained.
You will remember I told you that just before the storm broke we were
overtaken by a party of Kaffirs going to or returning from some feast.
When we had gone about half a mile we found one of those Kaffirs again
quite dead, but whether he (the body was that of a young man) had been
killed by the lightning or by the hail, I was not sure. Evidently his
companions were so frightened that they had left him where he lay,
proposing, I suppose, to return and bury him later. So you will see
that when it gave us shelter, this cave did us a good turn.
Now I will skip all the details of my trek into Zululand, which was as
are other treks, only slower, because it was a hard job to get that
heavily laden wagon along with but fourteen oxen. Once, indeed, we
stuck in a river, the White Umfolozi, quite near to the Nongela Rock or
Cliff which frowns above a pool of the river. I shall never forget that
accident because it caused me to be the unwilling witness of a very
dreadful sight.
Whilst we were fast in the drift a party of men appeared upon the brow
of this Nongela Rock, about two hundred and fifty yards away, dragging
with them two young women. Studying them through my glasses, I came to
the conclusion from the way they moved their heads and stared wildly
about them, that these young women were blind or had been blinded. As I
looked at them, wondering what to do, the men seized the women by the
arms and hurled them over the edge of the cliff. With a piteous wail
the poor creatures rolled down the stratified rock into the deep pool
below and there the crocodiles got them, for distinctly I saw the rush
of the reptiles. Indeed, in this pool they were always on the look-out,
as it was a favourite place of execution under the Zulu kings.
When their horrible business was finished the party of
“slayers”—there were about fifteen of them—came down to
the ford to interview us. At first I thought there might be trouble,
and to tell the truth, should not have been sorry, for the sight of
this butchery had made me furious and reckless. As soon as they found
out, however, that the wagon belonged to me, Macumazahn, they were all
amiability, and wading into the water, tackled on to the wheels, with
the result that by their help we came safe to the farther bank.
There I asked their leader who the two murdered girls might be. He
replied that they were the daughters of Panda, the King. I did not
question this statement although, knowing Panda’s kindly character, I
doubted very much whether they were actually his children. Then I asked
why they were blind, and what crime they had committed. The captain
replied that they had been blinded by the order of Prince Cetywayo, who
even then was the real ruler of Zululand, because “they had looked
where they should not.”
Further inquiry elicited the fact that these unhappy girls had fallen
in love with two young men, and run away with them against the King’s
orders, or Cetywayo’s, which was the same thing. The party were
overtaken before they could reach the Natal border, where they would
have been safe; the young men were killed at once and the girls brought
up for judgment, with the result that I have described. Such was the
end of their honeymoon!
Moreover, the captain informed me cheerfully that a body of soldiers
had been sent out to kill the fathers and mothers of the young men and
all who could be found in their kraals. This kind of free love must be
put a stop to, he said, as there had been too much of it going on;
indeed, he did not know what had come to the young people in Zululand,
who had grown very independent of late, contaminated, no doubt, by the
example of the Zulus in Natal, where the white men allowed them to do
what they liked without punishment.
Then with a sigh over the degeneracy of the times, this crusted old
conservative took a pinch of snuff, bade me a hearty farewell, and
departed, singing a little song which I think he must have invented, as
it was about the love of children for their parents. If it had been
safe I should have liked to let him have a charge of shot behind to
take away as a souvenir, but it was not. Also, after all, he was but an
executive officer, a product of the iron system of Zululand in the day
of the kings.
Well, I trekked on, trading as I went, and getting paid in cows and
heifers, which I sent back to Natal, but could come by no oxen that
were fit for the yoke, and much less any that had been broken in, since
in those days such were almost unknown in Zululand. However, I did hear
of some that had been left behind by a white trader because they were
sick or footsore, I forget which, who took young cattle in exchange for
them. These were said now to be fat again, but no one seemed to know
exactly where they were. One friendly chief told me, however, that the
“Opener-of-Roads,” that is, old Zikali, might be able to do so, as
he knew everything and the oxen had been traded away in his district.
Now by this time, although I was still obsessed about Heu-Heu, I had
almost made up my mind to abandon the idea of visiting Zikali on this
trip, because I had noticed that whenever I did so, always I became
involved in arduous and unpleasant adventures as an immediate
consequence. Being, however, badly in need of more oxen, for, not to
mention the two that were dead, others of my team seemed never to have
recovered from the effects of the hailstorm and one or two showed signs
of sickness, this news caused me to revert to my original plan. So
after consultation with Hans, who also thought it the best thing to be
done, I headed for the Black Kloof, which was only two short days’ trek
away.
Arriving at the mouth of that hateful and forbidding gulf on the
afternoon of the second day, I outspanned by the spring and, leaving
the cattle in charge of Mavoon and Induka, walked up it accompanied by
Hans.
The place, of course, was just as it had always been, and yet, as it
ever did, struck me with a fresh sense of novelty and amazement. In all
Africa I scarcely know a gorge that is so eerie and depressing. Those
towering cliffsides that look as though they are about to fall in upon
the traveller, the stunted, melancholy aloe plants which grow among the
rocks; the pale vegetation; the jackals and hyænas that start
away at the sound of voices or echoing footsteps; the dense, dark
shadows; the whispering winds that seem to wail about one even when the
air is still over-head, draughts, I suppose, that are drawing backwards
and forwards through the gulley; all of these are peculiar to it. The
ancients used to declare that particular localities had their own genii
or spirits, but whether these were believed to be evolved by the
locality or to come thither because it suited their character and
nature, I do not know.
In the Black Kloof and some other spots to which I have wandered, I
have often thought of this fable and almost found myself accepting it
as true. But, then, what kind of a spirit would it be that chose to
inhabit this dreadful gorge? I think some embodiment—no, that word is a
contradiction—some impalpable essence of Tragedy, some doomed soul
whereof the head was bowed and the wings were leaded with a weight of
ineffable and unrepented crime.
Well, what need was there to fly to fable and imagine such an invisible
inhabitant when Zikali, the _Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,_
was, and for uncounted years had been, the Dweller in this tomb-like
gulf? Surely he was Tragedy personified, and that hoary head of his was
crowned with ineffable and unrepented crime. How many had this hideous
dwarf brought down to doom and how many were yet destined to perish in
the snares that year by year he wove for them? And yet this sinner had
been sinned against and did but pay back his sufferings in kind, he
whose wives and children had been murdered and whose tribe had been
stamped flat beneath the cruel feet of Chaka, whose House he hated and
lived on to destroy. Even for Zikali allowances could be made; he was
not altogether bad. Is any man _altogether_ bad, I wonder.
Musing thus, I tramped on up the gorge, followed by the dejected Hans,
whom the place always depressed, even more than it did myself.
“Baas,” he said presently in a hollow whisper, for here he did not
dare to speak aloud, “Baas, do you think that the Opener-of-Roads was
once Heu-Heu himself who has now shrunk to a dwarf with age, or at any
rate, that Heu-Heu’s spirit lives in him?”
“No, I don’t,” I answered, “for he has fingers and toes
like the rest of us, but I do think that if there is any Heu-Heu he may
be able to tell us where to find him.”
“Then, Baas, I hope that he has forgotten, or that Heu-Heu has gone to
heaven where the fires go on burning of themselves without the need of
wood. For, Baas, I do not want to meet Heu-Heu; the thought of him
turns my stomach cold.”
“No, you would rather go to Durban and meet a gin bottle that would
turn your stomach warm, Hans, and your head, too, and land you in the
Trunk for seven days,” I replied, improving the occasion.
Then we turned the corner and came upon Zikali’s kraal. As usual, I
appeared to be expected, for one of his great silent body servants was
waiting, who saluted me with uplifted spear. I suppose that Zikali must
have had a look-out man stationed somewhere who watched the plain
beneath and told him who was approaching. Or possibly he had other
methods of obtaining information. At any rate, he always knew of my
advent and often enough of why I came and whence, as, indeed, he did on
this occasion.
“The Father of Spirits awaits you, Lord Macumazahn,” said the body
servant. “He bids the little yellow man who is named Light-in-Darkness,
to accompany you and will see you at once.”
I nodded and the man led me to the gate of the fence that surrounded
Zikali’s great hut, on which he tapped with the handle of his spear. It
was opened, by whom I did not see, and we entered, whereon someone
slipped out of the shadows and closed the gate behind us, then
vanished. There in front of the door of his hut, with a fire burning
before him, crouched the dwarf wrapped in a fur kaross, his huge head,
on either side of which the gray locks fell down much as they did in
the picture of Heu-Heu, bent forward, and the light of the fire into
which he was staring shining in his cavernous eyes. We advanced across
the shiny beaten floor of the courtyard and stood in front of him, but
for half a minute or more he took no notice of our presence. At length,
without looking up, he spoke in that hollow, resounding voice which was
unlike to any other I ever heard, saying,
“Why do you always come so late, Macumazahn, when the sun is off the
hut and it grows cold in the shadows? You know I hate the cold, as the
aged always do, and I was minded not to receive you.”
“Because I could not get here before, Zikali,” I answered.
“Then you might have waited until to-morrow morning unless, perhaps,
you thought that I should die in the night, which I shall not do. No,
nor for many nights. Well, here you are, little white Wanderer who hops
from place to place like a flea.”
“Yes, here I am,” I replied, nettled, “to visit you who do
not wander but sit in one spot like a toad in a stone, Zikali.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” he laughed—that wonderful laugh of his which
echoed from the rocks and always made me feel cold down the back, “Ho,
ho, ho! how easy it is to make you angry. Keep your temper, Macumazahn,
lest it should run away with you as your oxen did before the storm in
the mountains the other day. What do you want? You only come here when
you want something from him whom once you named the Old Cheat. So I
don’t wander, don’t I, but sit like a toad in a stone? How do you
know that? Is it only the body that wanders? Cannot the spirit wander
also, far, oh, far, even to the ‘Heaven Above’ sometimes, and
perhaps to that land which is under the earth, the place where they say
the dead are to be found again? Well, what do you want? Stay, and I
will tell you, who explain yourself so badly, who, although you think
that you speak Zulu like a native, have never really learned it
properly because to do that you must think in it and not in your own
stupid tongue, that has no words for many things. Man, my medicines.”
A figure darted out of the hut, set down a cat-skin bag before him, and
was gone again. Zikali plunged his claw-like hand into the bag and drew
out a number of knuckle bones, polished, but yellow with age, which he
threw carelessly on to the ground in front of him, then glanced at
them.
“Ha,” he said, “something about cattle, I see, yes, you want
to get oxen, broken oxen, not wild ones, and think that I can tell you
where to do it cheap. By the way, what present have you brought for me?
Is it a pound of your white man’s snuff?” (As a matter of fact, it
was a quarter of a pound.) “Now am I right about the oxen?”
“Yes,” I replied, rather amazed.
“That astonishes you. It is wonderful, isn’t it, that the poor Old
Cheat should know what you want. Well, I’ll tell you how it is done.
You lost two oxen by lightning, did you not? You therefore, naturally
would want others, especially as some of those which remain”—here
he glanced at the bones once more—“were hurt, yes, by hailstones,
very large hailstones, and others are showing signs of sickness,
red-water, I think. Therefore, it isn’t strange that the poor Old Cheat
should guess that you needed oxen, is it? Only a silly Zulu would put
such a thing down to magic. About the snuff, too, which I see you have
taken from your pocket—a very little parcel, by the way. You’ve
brought me snuff before, haven’t you. Therefore, it isn’t strange
that I should guess that you would do so again, is it? No magic there.”
“None, Zikali, but how did you learn of the lightning killing the
cattle and of the hailstorm?”
“How did I learn that the lightning killed your pole-oxen, Kaptein and
Deutchmann? Why, are you not a very great man in whom all are
interested, and is it wonderful that I should be told of accidents that
happen a hundred miles or so away? You met a party going to a wedding,
did you not, just before the storm, and found one of them dead
afterwards? By the way, he wasn’t killed either by lightning or by
hail. The flash fell near and stunned him, but really he died of the
cold during the night. I thought that you might like to know that, as
you are curious on the point. Of course, those Kaffirs would have told
me all about it, would they not? No magic, again you see. That’s how we
poor witch doctors gain repute, just by keeping our eyes and ears open.
When you are old you might set up in the trade yourself, Macumazahn,
since you do the same thing, even at night, they say.”
Now while he went on mocking me he had gathered up the bones out of the
dust and suddenly threw them again with a curious spiral twist that
caused them to fall in a little heap, perched on one another. He looked
at them, and said,
“Why, what do these silly things remind me of? They are some of the
tools of my trade, you know, Macumazahn, used to impress the fools that
come to see us witch doctors, who think that they tell us secrets, and
to take off their attention while we read their hearts. Somehow or
other they remind me of rocks piled one on another as on a mountain
slope, and look! there is a hollow in the middle like the mouth of a
cave.
“Did you chance to take refuge from that storm in a cave, Macumazahn?
Oh, you did! Well, see how cleverly I guessed it. No magic there again,
only just a guess. Isn’t it likely that you would go to a cave to
escape from such a tempest, leaving the wagon outside? Look at that
bone there, lying a little distance off the others, that’s what made me
think of the wagon being outside. But the question is, what did you see
in the cave? Anything out of the way, I wonder? The bones can’t tell me
that, can they? I must guess that somehow else, mustn’t I? Well,
I’ll try to do so, just to give you, the wise white man, another lesson
in the manner that we poor rascals of witch doctors do our work and
take in fools. But won’t you tell me, Macumazahn?”
“No, I won’t,” I answered crossly, who knew that the old
dwarf was making a butt of me.
“Then I suppose that I must try to discover for myself, but how, how?
Come here, you little yellow monkey of a man, and sit between me and
the fire so that its light shines through you, for then perchance I may
be able to see something of what is going on in that thick head of
yours, Light-in-Darkness, as you are called, and get some light in my
darkness.”
Hans advanced unwillingly enough and squatted down at the spot that
Zikali indicated with his bony finger, being very careful that none of
the magic bones should touch any portion of his anatomy, for fear lest
they should bewitch him, I suppose. There he sat, holding his ragged
felt hat upon the pit of his stomach as though to ward off the
gimlet-like glances of Zikali’s burning eyes.
“Ho-ho! Yellow Man,” said the dwarf after a few seconds of
inspection, which caused Hans to wriggle uncomfortably and even to
colour beneath his wrinkled skin, like a young woman being studied by
her prospective husband, who desires to ascertain whether she will or
will not do for a fifth wife. “Ho-ho! it seems to me that you knew this
cave before you went there in the storm, but of course I should guess
that, for how otherwise would you have found it in such a hurry; also
that it had something to do with Bushmen, as most caves have in this
land.
“The question is, what was in it? No, don’t tell me. I want to find
out for myself. It is strange that the thought comes to me of pictures.
No, it isn’t strange, since the Bushmen often used to paint pictures in
caves. Now, you shouldn’t nod your head, Yellow Man, because it makes
the riddle too easy. Just stare at me and think of nothing at all.
Pictures, lots of them, but one principal picture, I think; something
that was difficult to come at. Yes, dangerous, even. Was it perchance a
picture of yourself that a Bushman drew long ago when you were young
and handsome, Yellow Man?
“There, again you are shaking your head. Keep it quite still, will you,
so that the thoughts in it don’t ripple like water beneath a wind. At
least it was a picture of something hideous, but much bigger than you.
Ah! it grows and grows. I am getting it now. Macumazahn, come and stand
by me, and you, Yellow Man, turn your back so that you face the fire.
Bah! it burns badly, does it not, and the air is so cold, so cold! I
must make it brighter.
“Are you there, Macumazahn? Yes. Now look at this stuff of mine; see
what a fine blaze it causes,” and putting his hand into the bag, he
drew out some kind of powder, only a little of it, which he threw on to
the embers. Then he stretched his skinny fingers over them as though
for warmth, and slowly lifted his arms high into the air. It is a fact
that after him the flames sprang up to a height of three or four feet.
He dropped his arms again and the flames sank down. He lifted them once
more and once more they rose, only this time much higher. A third time
he repeated this performance, and now the sheet of fire sprang full
fifteen feet into the air and so remained burning steadily, like the
flame of a lamp.
“Look at that fire, Macumazahn, and you also, Yellow Man,” he said,
in a strange new voice, a sort of dreamy far-off voice, “and tell me if
you see anything in it, for I can’t—I can’t.”
I looked, and for a moment perceived nothing. Then some shape began to
grow upon the blazing background. It wavered; it changed; it became
fixed and definite, yes, clear and real. There before me, etched in
flame, I saw Heu-Heu—Heu-Heu as he had been in the painting on the cave
wall, only, as it seemed to me, alive, for his eyes blinked—Heu-Heu,
looking like a devil in hell. I gasped but stood firm. As for Hans, he
ejaculated in his vile Dutch,
“_Allemaghte! Da is die leeliker auld deil!_” (that is,
“Almighty! There is the ugly old devil!”) and having said this,
rolled over on to his back and lay still, frozen with terror.
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Zikali. Ho, ho, ho! and from a dozen places
the walls of the kloof echoed back, _“Ho, ho, ho!”_