Like a topaz set in a jade ring was the city of the Snake, the place of
Kings, a village of some eight hundred huts huddled upon a slight rise
above a sea of banana fronds, some two hundred miles to the west of
Ingonya.
On the summit was a large conical hut like an enormous candle snuffer, the
dwelling place of Usakuma, the spirit of the Snake, whose name was
forbidden to all save the Priest-God and Rain Maker, King MFunya MPopo,
who was so holy that after succeeding to the sacred office he was doomed
to live within the compound, even as were the Kings of Eutopia, Sheba and
China, a celibate for the remainder of his life: for, as the incarnation
of the Idol, Usakuma, and therefore the controller of the Heavens and the
Earth, his body must be kept from all danger of witchcraft lest the rains
cease and the blue skies fall.
From the compound, looking towards the north-west where the snow-capped
Gamballagalla rose violet against the horizon, another brown cone peeped
above the green fronds, the late residence, and now the tomb of King
MKoffo, predecessor of MFunya MPopo. For where a King-God dies there is he
buried, he and his wives after him; the site becomes holy ground, a place
of pilgrimage and sanctuary.
In each of the small huts to the rear of the temple of MFunya MPopo, but
outside the sacred enclosure, lived his wives who, although forbidden to
their husband, were permitted a royal promiscuity. Just within the
precincts was a small replica of the temple where dwelt a young chief,
also bound to celibacy, whose duties were to keep the royal fire burning
as long as the king should reign. No one was allowed to converse with the
king, save on matters of state, except this man; through him was spoken
the royal will—what there was left of it—to the council which sat in a
long rectangular building opposite to the temple entrance and open to the
village, a body of witch-doctors and chiefs.
Solely the kingly office existed as a beneficent agent, a matter of
self-preservation on the part of the tribe. The King-God’s functions were
divine; to make magic for the victory of his warriors and principally to
make rain, on which, of course, the alimentary needs of his subjects
depended—an incarnation of a god who was in reality the scapegoat of the
god’s omissions.
The office was hereditary. Perhaps no one else would willingly accept such
an onerous post. The making of magic was performed before the god with the
assistance of the chief witch-doctor, an exceedingly lucrative post won
upon merit, occupied by one Bakahenzie, a tall muscular man in the prime
of life, whose bearing was that of the native autocrat, fierce and
remorseless. The King’s personal wishes could be safely granted as long as
he did not endanger the existence of the people by a desire to break any
of the meshes of the tabus designed to ensure the safety of his sacred
body, and therefore that of the tribe, on the assumption that if the
incarnation were injured the god would be injured, and so would his
creations be affected: any infringement of these laws entailed the penalty
of death, a code which revealed the native logic in the confusion of cause
and effect, the concrete and the abstract.
In the door of a hut on the outskirts of the village squatted a wizened
man with a tuft of grey beard upon his chin. He was clad in a loin-cloth
fairly clean, and about his neck was suspended by a twisted fibre an
amulet wrapped in banana leaves containing the gall and toenail of an
enemy slain by a virgin warrior, a specific against black magic whose
powerful properties were proven by the undisputed influence and wealth of
the owner.
A tall lithe savage, bearing upon his arms and ankles the ivory bracelets
of the royal house and the elephant hair chaplet of the warrior, advanced
leisurely towards him from the banana plantation. Marufa continued to gaze
in rumination at the opposite hut. But as they had not met since the
rising of the sun, he did not fail to make the orthodox greeting at the
exact moment that the chief’s shadow passed in front of him, which Zalu
Zako returned punctiliously, thereby averting an evil omen. As soon as the
young man had passed beyond the next hut appeared in the grove a girl,
modelled like a bronze wood nymph. She wore the tiny girdle of the
unmarried and walked furtively, carrying in her hand a parcel wrapped in
banana leaves. In the shadow of a compound fence she halted, one slender
brown arm set back in apprehension as her eyes followed the lithe figure
of Zalu Zako.
Motionless sat Marufa staring in mystic contemplation. Bakuma glanced
swiftly about her. Apparently satisfied that no one was observing her save
a lean dog and two gollywog children, she continued on as if to pass the
old man, her eyes still ranging like a fawn’s. But when she was beside
Marufa she subsided on her haunches beside him, clutching the bundle as
she whispered:
“Greetings, O wise one!”
“Greeting, daughter,” returned Marufa without lessening the fixity of his
gaze.
“I would talk with thee.”
“Aye.”
Again she glanced around furtively.
“I would talk in thine ear, O my father.”
“The knots of my hair are tied.”
“I thank thee. There’s a fluttering bird in my breast.”
“And a snake around thy heart, O my daughter.”
“Aie-e!”
“The grandson of the snake hath tied thy girdle.”
“Ehh!”
The girl clasped her breast in surprised terror.
“How dost thou know?”
“All things are known to the son of MTungo,” declared Marufa solemnly,
still regarding the opposite wall. “Thou desirest a love charm.… What hast
thou?”
Tremulously Bakuma put down the green package on the ground, darting
terrified glances to right and left. Slowly the skinny hand of the wizard
gently tore open the leaves; very impressively the eyes slanted down to
appraise the stock of blue and white beads.
“The spirit of Tarum hath a big belly,” he announced tonelessly.
“O wise one, intercede for me,” pleaded Bakuma, “for more have I none, I,
Bakuma, daughter of Bakala, a girl of the hut thatch.”
“The true love charm, infallible and powerful, is difficult to obtain, O
Bakuma. The young huntress aims at big game.”
“Ehh! But I have no more, great one!”
“The hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of a forest rat, the tongue
of a Baroto bird—these must I have to mix with thy blood to be drunk by
thy man when the moon is full.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“Such is the magic that no young man can resist.”
“Ehh-h!”
“But these things are difficult to obtain.”
“Aie! Aie!” wailed Bakuma, clasping her hands in despair.
“Difficult to obtain.”
“Aie-e!”
“On the night of the half-moon will I take upon me the leopard form.”
“Ehh!”
“I will talk with the spirits.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“But they must be propitiated with the blood of a fat goat.”
“Aie! Aie! But I have no fat goat.”
“If there be no fat goat then will the spirits be wroth with me.”
“Aie-e-e!”
Bakuma sat staring in dismal perplexity.
“No fat goat have I, a girl of the hut thatch! Aie! Aie!”
Marufa fumbled within the loin-cloth and thrust a tiny package along the
ground.
“See and know the power of my magic.” Bakuma greedily snatched up the
amulet. “Begone!” he whispered, jerking the parcel of beads behind him.
“MYalu approaches.”
“Ehh!”
Bakuma rose and fled with the grace of a startled antelope as appeared a
tall, strongly built man, having a low-browed face, across which was a
deep scar. Behind MYalu came two young slaves bearing a small elephant
tusk. Opposite to Marufa the slaves stopped. Their master, careful that
his shadow fell well away from the figure of the magician—for the shadow
is one of the souls, so woe unto him who shall leave his soul in the hands
of an enemy!—squatted gravely.
“Greeting, son of MTungo!”
“Greeting, son of MBusa!” returned Marufa.
Gravely they spat into each other’s palm, the sign of amity as they who
exchange bonds of good behaviour inasmuch, as is well known, magic can be
worked upon that which has been a part of the body as upon the body
itself. Then solemnly they rubbed the spittle upon their respective
chests.
“The spirit of the snake nourisheth not the life of the banana.”
“Nay, for nigh unto two moons hath there been no blood of the snake,”
returned the old man perfunctorily, as he lifted his eyes from a swift
appraisement of the tusk to his favourite mud wall.
“Nay, the crops sprout not. Maybe the Dweller in the Place of the Snake
hath been visited by one from the forest.”
“Aye, but old blood runs not as swiftly as young blood.”
“Nay,” replied MYalu, in answer to the reference to himself, “but the
girdle is not yet tied by another.”
“When the first twig of the nest is laid,” remarked Marufa, indolently
eyeing the tusk, “it is difficult to entice the hen to another tree.”
“Here is a goodly twig with which to tempt spirits of the forest,” and
significantly, “Maybe there are others.”
“A mighty potion shall be prepared for thee, O son of MBusa,” declared
Marufa, moving slightly to conceal the package of beads. “A mighty potion,
infallible; made from the hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of the
forest rat and the tongue of the Baroto bird; these must she take that she
shall speak thee softly, together with a portion of that which remains
from the ceremony of the lobolo. Infallible is it; never known to fail.”
“Ehh!”
Marufa stared interestedly at a wandering hen. MYalu watched him covertly.
Like bronzes sat the two young slaves. From the distance came a faint
chanting and the beat of a drum.…
“The tusk is here, Marufa,” remarked MYalu casually.
“My eyes see it,” observed Marufa, without altering his observation of the
hen.
“Where then is the potion?”
Marufa glanced at the tusk, appraised it again, and fumbling within his
loin-cloth, thrust another tiny package along the ground. MYalu greedily
picked up the amulet and stared in awe, turning it over and about.
“The tusk,” murmured Marufa.
MYalu gestured to his slaves. They rose and placed the tusk beside the old
man, shuffled backwards and squatted again. After lifting one end to test
the weight, Marufa examined the grain. Then sliding it behind him as if he
wished to sit upon it, remarked:
“The potion must be eaten at the full moon.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu glanced up from an absorbed examination of the amulet.
“And within the quarter shall the fruit be ripe for the plucking.” The
whites of MYalu’s eyes gleamed. “Unless,” continued the old man
uninterestedly, “there be stronger magic made against thee.”
“Ehh!”
The two hands holding the amulet came down.
“If,” explained Marufa, “another hath tied the grasses of her father’s
roof, will there be required a stronger spirit to overcome such magic.”
“But thou hast told me,” expostulated MYalu, regarding the tusk
regretfully, “that this is a mighty magic, powerful and infallible, never
known to fail.”
“Thus is it,” asserted the old man imperturbably, “for all save a stronger
magic.”
MYalu’s eyes wandered from the tusk to Marufa and back. He scowled.
“Why didst thou not tell me?” he demanded sourly, dropping the amulet on
the ground.
“It is for thee to tell the wizard all that thou knowest. How else may he
reckon with thine enemies?”
“Enemy!” exclaimed MYalu. He stared questioningly at Marufa. “Enemy! Dost
thou know whom I seek?”
“Do not all the hens remark the strutting of the cock?” inquired Marufa
unconcernedly, tapping his snuff box.
“Ehh!”
MYalu observed the taking of snuff as if he had never seen the operation
before.
“Ehh!” he remarked again succinctly.
Marufa replaced the cork of twisted leaves, let fall the snuff box made of
rhinoceros horn suspended from his neck by a copper wire, and contemplated
a skinny goat scratching itself violently. MYalu stirred as if to rise,
but subsided, cogitated and said slowly:
“In the house of MYalu are four more tusks.”
“Four more tusks,” repeated Marufa dreamily.
“Bigger than this one,” said MYalu suggestively.
“Bigger than this one.”
“Knowest thou by whom the girdle is tied?”
“By the grandson of the Snake.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu squatted motionless. The old man appeared to doze. Women bearing
gourds of water upon their heads passed in single file, their loins
swaying rhythmically. The shadows dwindled. From close at hand began the
rapid beat of a drum. A stir began through the village as each man herded
his women and slaves to his own hut.
“O Marufa,” said MYalu, speaking with a slight snarl, “hast thou such a
powerful medicine that can surely trap the soul of Zalu Zako when
perchance it wanders (in sleep)?”
“All things are possible to the son of MTungo,” mumbled the old man.
Two chiefs appeared walking through the grove at a middle distance. MYalu
glanced round apprehensively.
“Two tusks will I give thee,” he whispered, “if thou wilt do this thing.”
“Three tusks. No less, for the matter is dangerous.”
“Two, two.”
“Nay.”
The old man stirred to rise.
“Three be it,” gasped MYalu. “But I must see the magic done.”
They rose together.
“Bring me of his toe-nails one paring, of his hair one, and his spittle
and a footprint. Then shalt thou come with me to the sacred grove where
the magic shall be done.”
“Ehh!”
“But the three tusks must be given to Yanoka, my first wife.”
MYalu hesitated.
“Aye, thus shall it be done,” he assented reluctantly.
“It is agreed?” inquired Marufa.
“May my cord be lost!” swore MYalu, and gesturing to the slaves, hurried
away.
A slight grin flecked the old man’s eyes as he turned into the hut.
“Already hath he drunken of her blood,” he mumbled. “Ya, Inkombana! take
the tusk!”
When Marufa emerged, a head-dress of the tail feathers of the green
parrot, professional uniform and potent specific against evil spirits,
fluffed gently as he slowly stalked towards the council house. From the
other side of a hut walked MYalu as if he had come from a different
direction. In the open gate of the royal enclosure sat a muscular young
man upon his haunches, tending the royal fire, which fed hungrily upon
small faggots. Beyond him across the yellow glare upon the cleared ground
beneath a thatched awning, stood an idol of wood, whose lopsided mouth
snarled beneath a bridgeless nose; narrow slits for eyes squinted; baby
arms stuck down beside triangular breasts above a melon belly having a
protuberant navel like a small cucumber—the incarnation of the Snake-god,
Usakuma.
Without the palisade of the sacred ground was a taller one, barring the
doings of the council of witch-doctors and chiefs from the lay public, who
were confined to their own huts under the penalty of a hideous death, or
an enormous fine, as the witch-doctors should decide.
To the rear of the idol, cross-legged against the wall of the entrance to
the conical hut, were the musicians beating a monotonous rhythm upon big
and small drums and twanging a primitive lyre of five strings. Just as
Marufa and MYalu took their respective places without among the wizards
and the chiefs, a young goat skipped into the open and stared
inquisitively at the Keeper of the Fires. As the man waved the animal back
from the sacred ground, the goat lowered its head and threatened to
charge, suddenly recollected its mate lying in the shade a few feet away,
and began to bleat absent-mindedly.
Gravely and silently sat the assembly: continuously throbbed the drums.
The sun beat diagonally. As a lizard darted like a flash of a prism from
the grass palisade, the band ceased. A man emerged from behind the idol.
Although the grey woolly tufts upon his chin, the sacred snake skin around
his waist above the cat skin loin-cloth, the jingle of the ivory bangles
on arms and ankles, and his stature, imparted an air of barbaric royalty,
King MFunya MPopo advanced with the manner of a pariah dog ordered to his
master’s side.
As the King approached, the Keeper of the Fires hastily threw on a handful
of faggots and bowed his head. In the centre of the opening of the
enclosure the King squatted down with his back to the fire which streamed
blue smoke. Not a limb or a muscle moved among the group of wizards and
chiefs in the council house. Attracted by the movement, the goat stopped
bleating and stared at the King; then, putting down its head, charged him.
With a horrified click, the Keeper of the Fires sprang. But he was not
swift enough to prevent the impact of the animal’s horns with the royal
arm thrust out in self-defence. Three young chiefs came running; one
caught up the goat and carried it away bleating bellicosely; the others
knelt, and while one carefully collected a gout of blood upon the King’s
forearm in a piece of banana leaf, his companion wiped the wound. When
they were satisfied that the bleeding had ceased, the pieces were
meticulously wrapped in another leaf and borne away by the Keeper of the
Fires to be deposited in the temple: for as every man knows, the royal
blood must not be spilt upon the ground lest the site be accursed for ever
and like the tooth of the dragon of Colchis, arise from the spot ghostly
warriors to annihilate the tribe.
Neither upon the face of any of the elders nor upon the features of MFunya
MPopo, the King, had a muscle moved. Yet the incident was regarded as an
evil omen.… Then suddenly did Bakahenzie, the chief witch-doctor, plumed
with a tall scarlet feather in addition to the green ones and a necklace
of finger bones upon his bronze chest, who sat in the centre with Kawa
Kendi, the King’s son upon his right, and Zalu Zako, the grandson, upon
his left, begin to chant in a high wailing voice to the rapid rhythm of
the drums:
“Is there not a shadow come over the land?
The frown of the One-not-to-be-mentioned?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
And from the group within the council house, immobile, came the bass
chorus of assent:
“Ough! Ough!”
“Is there not a dry curse come over the land?
Is it not the hot breath of the soul of the Snake?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
“Ough! Ough!”
“Where is the false spirit that hath sinned in the act?
He that hath sinned in the shade of the name?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen him! have seen him!”
“Ough! Ough!”
“Does not the keen sting of him scorch up the land?
Hath not the young bread of our bellies been slain?
I, Bakahenzie, have seen it! have seen it!”
“Ough! Ough!”
The throb of the drums grew faster. Bakahenzie leaped from the crowd.
Immediately in front of the King he began to dance and to scream:
“Is the Burden too great for the Guard of the Name?
Aie! Aie!
Hath the Bearer, too, fumbled the weight of the World?
Aie! Aie!
Is His spirit bewitched by the soul of a girl?
Aie! Aie!
Hath His magical power been slain by the sin?
Aie! Aie!
Hath a prophet made words in the act of a goat?
Aie! Aie!
Does a saviour in hairs thirst the blood of a King?
Aie! Aie!
Shall we hearken, O Chiefs, to the wish of the One?
Aie! Aie!
Or be shrivelled and die in the drought of His wrath?
Aie! Aie!”
Kawa Kendi, a man in early middle age, powerful and lithe-limbed, sat as
motionless as the King, his father, staring, as did all, with the fixed
stare of the anagogic.
Abruptly the drums ceased. Again came a hot silence as Bakahenzie paused
in front of MFunya MPopo. Then with a piercing yell, the witch-doctor spun
on his toes. The drums broke into an hysterical rhythm. Bakahenzie leaped
high in the air; whirled around and around screaming hoarsely; leaped and
spun continually.
The chiefs and doctors began to grunt; continued in crescendo until the
whole body throbbed and grunted to the rhythm of the drums. Yet immobile
sat MFunya MPopo.
Suddenly Bakahenzie changed the erratic course of his wild dance. He
whirled and screamed in front of the King and fell headlong, as if in a
fit, with eyes injected and foam upon the black tufts of beard. Bakahenzie
clutched his belly and began to howl like a hyena at the moon. The drums
stopped. Howl and writhe did Bakahenzie as if a thousand fiends were
tearing out his entrails.
He lay rigid. The air seemed to quiver. The lines of every man’s limbs,
except the King’s, were drawn in tension. Then from the prostrate body of
the witch-doctor, whose legs and arms were twisted as in agony, whose
dribbling mouth was closed like a vise, came a ventriloquous falsetto:
“Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the spirit of Kintu!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am he who first was!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the banana from whom I was made!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Keeper of the Name hath betrayed me!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Bride of me is defiled!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is pure!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is bidden!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let the fires be put out!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let a new fire arise from the ashes!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I have spoken, I, the Father of men!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I, Tarum, the soul of your ancestors!”
From the assembly came the belly grunt of acceptance. In silence rose Kawa
Kendi, the heir-apparent. His face was as expressionless as his father’s.
He stepped around the body of Bakahenzie and across the open space
followed by a young man, Kingata Mata. Ten feet away from the enclosure,
Kingata Mata sank upon his haunches. Before MFunya MPopo squatted his son.
They spat each in the other’s hand and swallowed the spittle. Then the
head of Kawa Kendi bent to the lips of MFunya MPopo to receive the sacred
Name.
In unison with Kawa Kendi rose Kingata Mata, who to him handed a cord of
twisted bark. Bending behind the King, who remained motionless with the
closed eyes of one already dead, Kingata Mata swiftly adjusted the cord
and handed it back to the son, Kawa Kendi.…
When the muscular young Keeper of the Fires had poured solemnly a gourd of
water upon the royal fire of MFunya MPopo, he knelt submissively and was
strangled beside his master.…
From the assembly went up a great shout:
“The fire is put out!”
And from the village, listening in awe to the mighty doings, came like an
echo:
“The fire is put out! Aie! Aie-e!”
Then shouted the elders and wizards:
“Let there be a new fire!”
Again came the wailing repetition from the village:
“Let there be a new fire!”
As in the Place of Fires was kindled a new fire by Kingata Mata with two
sacred sticks, one of which is male and the other female, the assembled
chiefs and magicians groaned in allegiance to the new King-God of the
unmentionable spirit of the Snake, Usakuma, the Idol.