The doom pronounced by the Council of Witch-Doctors was to Bakuma and all
concerned as a Bull of Excommunication in mediæval Europe. MYalu was the
one who exhibited the most emotion. Had he not paid seven tusks of good
ivory to have the object of his passion placed under the most terrible
tabu? Against Marufa, who had seemingly betrayed him, was his anger
directed. But the rage of MYalu was tempered with fear. A man had not
merely to kill an enemy: he had also to appease his justly wrathful ghost;
and who knew what the disembodied spirit of the most powerful magician in
the land, save Bakahenzie, could do! Moreover, no other wizard would give
him absolution in the form of the magic of purification. A chief though he
be; he dared not slay a magician. He sought Marufa and found him as usual
squatting on his threshold contemplating infinity in a mud wall. He
saluted Marufa politely, choking back words of bitter recrimination, for
if he even offended him, the wizard might cast a spell upon him instantly.
Marufa returned the greeting as courteously as ever. When at length MYalu
reproachfully reminded him of the seven tusks which he had paid apparently
to secure his love’s terrible fate, Marufa replied uninterestedly:
“I have done that for which thou hast paid.”
“What man buyeth a bride for another?” retorted MYalu.
“When I did make magic upon ‘the things’ did I place in the power of the
spirits the owner. Behold, hath not the owner of ‘the things’ been
accursed?”
“Ehh!” gasped MYalu. “But how may that be? Didst thou not thyself take the
paring and the hair?”
“I bade the One who is tabu to bring them that he might be bewitched to
her girdle. She thought to deceive me by bringing that which was of
herself.”
“E—eh!” muttered MYalu, impressed at the awful effect of deceiving a
wizard. Marufa continued to stare. MYalu meditated ruefully.
“But the tusks,” murmured MYalu at length dismally.
“It is not I who have two tongues,” responded Marufa indifferently.
And with that MYalu had to rest content. Marufa indeed had no interest at
all in the passions of Zalu Zako, MYalu and Bakuma. Merely the time had
come for the witch-doctors to choose the victim for the Harvest Festival:
Bakuma was young and good looking, a dainty morsel that should please the
taste of the officiating doctors, and her owner and uncle was a man of no
importance: so accordingly he had made known the sin of her name through
the divination.
In the solitude of his own hut upon the hill Zalu Zako sat and pondered
sulkily. His young and fierce temper was stimulated and the seed of
rebellion against the domination of the priesthood was quickened by the
fate of his new love; although the masonic secrets of the craft were
denied to him, he, as son of the royal house, was suspicious of the powers
of the Unmentionable One and the priesthood, as many an one had been
before him; yet in spite of that the verdict was absolute, for he was too
crushed by terror of the consequences to permit of any hope of annulling
it.
The fiat not only doomed Bakuma to a terrible death at the third blooming
of the moon, but from that very instant the tabu came into force; for
being thus accursed by the possession of two sounds of the sacred name,
she was deemed unholy. Her half-sisters and their mother, with whom Bakuma
shared the hut, fled to another and were exorcised by the wizard, which,
as everybody knows, is an expensive ceremony; gourds and pots, spoons and
utensils of all sorts, were left to the sole use of the unclean one and
would be burned upon her demise. A magic line was drawn around the hut out
of which the soul of the girl as she slept could not escape to bewitch
anybody. Neither her name nor anything that had been hers would be ever
mentioned again; any word of a household article or any thing or beast
which had one syllable of the name “Bakuma” was changed, lest the user be
accursed and bewitched.
For the whole day, in this isolation, sat the girl Bakuma, Marufa’s
useless love charm clutched in her hand, as bewildered as if the earth had
suddenly turned inside out under this fact so stupendous and stupefying.
She did not weep. She squatted in the door, her eyes staring with the
glazed inquiring expression of a dying gazelle, a bronze question to Fate.
At the feeding time her mother threw her bananas into the circle. Bakuma
looked at them as they flopped near to her as if she did not realize what
they were. She made no stir to cook or prepare them. The cool twilight
came and passed like a blue breath. Above the insectile chorus of the
night beneath the crystal stars came the faint thrumming of a drum from
MKoffo’s hill. The sound of music and dancing reminded Bakuma of her
ambitious dreams. She could neither weep nor wail; she merely emitted a
faint gasping sound. But her mind began to work jerkily, yet more
fluently. Visions of the form of Zalu Zako were weaved and spun in the
darkness: the lithe walk of him, the haughty carriage of the head. Slowly
greened the sky until the banana fronds were etched in sepia against the
swollen moon. The dismal croak of the Baroto bird shattered the black
cocoon of Bakuma’s mind.
“Aie-eee! the foul bird of my despair!” she wailed, and at last wept. Then
she rose and flitted like some green ghost into the plantation and across
to the place of water where her lover had first spoken her sweet, recking
naught in her mist of despair of spirits of the night nor of the breaking
of the magic circle. The moon spattered the squatted form with blue
spangles and turned the falling tears to quivering opals. Bakuma broke
into wild lament.
“The black Goat hath cried three times in my hut!
My soul hath wandered and been caught in a trap!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A wizard hath stolen a hair from my head!
The beak of Baroto pecketh my gall!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A rival hath lain in wait for my love!
She hath slain my bird in the nest of his breast!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A porcupine dwells in the place of my heart!
The bird of my soul is fluttering faint!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
An ember of fire hath entered my mouth!
The milk of my breasts is curdled to-night!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
The strings of my bosom are tied with fine knots!
My belly is void! My nipples are dead!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A monkey hath bitten the back of my tongue!
Hath stolen my breath to make magic by night!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
The blood in my veins hath turned to sour porridge!
My throat is choked up by the sudd of the Lake!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A grey forest rat hath swallowed my heart!
My thighs have been scratched by a poisonous thorn!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!”
As the last quiver of the wail blended with the anthem of the forest came
from a figure squatted above the ford of the river, his spear a blue flame
in the moonlight, an answer:
“My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her flesh will be tasted by a hungrier mouth!
Her flesh which is sweeter than honey and wine!
Her flesh which is softer than a newly born kid!
Ough! My spear is bent!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her breasts will be pillowed by a much broader chest!
Her breasts which do swell like a tender young gourd!
Her breasts which are as firm as the meat of the plum!
Ough! My spear is bent!”
And answered Bakuma’s wail:
“Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her chines will be gripped by a far fiercer hand!
Her chines which are smoother than elephants’ tusks!
Her chines which are as plump as the breast of a fowl!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her eyes will be touched by longer fingers than mine!
Her eyes which are like unto moons veiled by rain!
Her eyes which are like the starlit river at dawn!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her scent will be drunk by nostrils broader than mine!
Her scent which is pungent and sweet like the smoke!
Her scent which slakes thirst more than driest of beer!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her breath will be sipped by a thirstier throat!
Her breath which is hotter than the flame of a fire!
Her breath which makes more drunken than enemies’ blood!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her voice will be heard by ears mightier than mine!
Her voice which is like unto burbling beer!
Her voice which is gentler than the rustle of fronds!
Ough! My spear is bent!
Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
A slight breeze stirred gently the trees. The crickets shrilled their
perpetual chorus. A crocodile flopped in the river. Dogs yapped from a
village down the river. Again Bakuma lifted up her voice:
“Mightier than elephants was the tread of my man!
Keener than a leopard was the flash of his eye!
Stronger than an oak tree was the strength of his arm!
Swifter than lightning was the stroke of his spear!
Enemies died!
Taller than the wine palm was the height of my man!
Broader than the temple was the span of his chest!
More graceful than antelope was the carriage of him!
More slender than saplings was the build of his legs!
Women lamented!
Sweeter than warm honey was the scent of my man!
Whiter than a spear flash was the gleam of his teeth!
Fiercer than scorpions was the grip of his hand!
Smooth and like stone was——”
A gale of yells and shots destroyed the song of Bakuma like a foot
crushing a flower.
Zalu Zako leaped to his feet and stood for a moment listening intently.
Across the river some strange beast spat spears of red flames. A little
farther down another beast coughed violently like a hippopotamus. The sky
seemed falling. Such volumes of sound he had never heard before.
As he raced with the speed of a koodoo through the plantation he saw the
glow of fire ahead and heard the moan of some terrible monster near him.
He leaped five feet in the air as the world appeared to crack in half
beside him. He felt a sting like a brand of fire in his shoulder, but he
ran on towards the village from whence fled dim figures on all sides amid
shouts and screams and wailing.
Several huts were already blazing. The leviathan coughed and moaned again
and once more the earth seemed to crash to pieces near him. Appalled and
bewildered, choking with rage, he reached the outer enclosure where his
fellow warriors were shouting and yelling that the white gods were
attacking. Bakahenzie, gun in hand, was bidding them charge they knew not
what. Then out of the clutter of the village broke line upon line of
yelling figures clothed in uniform. Screaming the battle-cry, the warriors
charged, led by Zalu Zako, Bakahenzie, and Kawa Kendi, who in the
excitement had dashed from the enclosure. Howls and yells were drowned in
the spiteful crackle and cough. Warriors were mown like weeds under a
sickle. Scarce a hundred scrambled inside the enclosure at the rallying
call from Bakahenzie.
Again came a short rush of those uniformed figures; again scarlet spears
pierced the green moonlight like a hailstorm; small red flames rippled in
a line resembling a forest fire as the soldiers charged through and over
the palisade. Hand to hand was the fighting, spear and sword against
bayonet and rifle around the idol, the askaris outyelling the warriors.
The temple was on fire. In the light of the flames they saw a tall figure
in white with a glow of fire in his mouth and magic eyes upon his hands,
eyes which flashed rays of scarlet and blue as he cut and hacked at the
base of the idol.…
“Tarum hath come!” screamed some one, and as the cry was taken up, the
Unmentionable One tottered and crashed to the ground.
They fled, Zalu Zako, Bakahenzie and those that were left.