Just after sun-up next morning as Birnier was seated at the door of his
tent reading his _Melancholy_ and drinking his coffee, a startled “clk”
caused him to glance round. He saw Bakuma rise suddenly from the fire and
disappear. The next moment materialized out of the miasma of the morning
the figures of Bakahenzie and Marufa, followed by a file of warriors.
Portentously Bakahenzie stalked to the fire and squatted down without even
a murmur to Mungongo busy with the breakfast. Bakahenzie remembered
Infunyana very well, but nevertheless designedly Birnier ignored him in
return. So they sat, the two wizards taking snuff with grave concern
almost at the feet of the white who continued to smoke and to read.
The sign boded ill, for the insistence upon the punctilious etiquette
inferred that Bakahenzie was disposed to be suspicious, if not directly
hostile. And indeed the warriors’ description of the magic of Moonspirit,
vide Mungongo, had made Bakahenzie uneasy.
After a full half-hour Bakahenzie, as if beaten in this solemn game,
turned gravely and saluted the white. Birnier looked down from his chair
with the affectation of just having noticed that some one was there. After
a pause he returned the greeting, a little point which Bakahenzie
thoroughly appreciated. Birnier had learned that according to Mungongo and
the warrior, Zalu Zako had not yet been anointed king-god; therefore that
Bakahenzie evidently intended to keep the young man in the background.
After preliminaries, Birnier inquired after Zalu Zako and informed
Bakahenzie that he had journeyed expressly to see him. Bakahenzie ignored
the question and began to talk about Eyes-in-the-hands, demanding to know
whether Birnier was his brother.
“Nay,” said Birnier, “Eyes-in-the-hands is not of the same tribe as
Moonspirit,” for he sedulously followed up the title which Mungongo had
given him. “Eyes-in-the-hands comes from a country twelve moons distant
from my country.”
Marufa squatting beside him grunted; Bakahenzie took snuff nonchalantly as
if he did not believe a word.
“Eyes-in-the-hands is a mighty magician in his own country,” said
Bakahenzie in the form of an assertion.
“The magic of Eyes-in-the-hands to the magic of Moonspirit,” stated
Birnier, “is as water to the beer of the banana.”
“Eyes-in-the-hands,” remarked Bakahenzie indifferently, “hath magic to
make the souls of man to be seen by all.”
“Those are but the souls of the belly and body, but Moonspirit can enchant
so that the spirit of the head of man be seen at night,” boasted Birnier,
wondering what trick of zu Pfeiffer’s had produced the effect.
“Eyes-in-the-hands,” insisted Bakahenzie, “hath a spirit in a piece of a
tree which cries or laughs, sings or talks to his magic.”
“Moonspirit,” retorted Birnier (thinking “Gramophone, but I can go one
better, my friend”), “hath also a spirit in a piece of tree who will speak
words of wisdom unto thee in thine own tongue, who will repeat that which
is said unto him in thy tongue or in my tongue, who will speak words of
wisdom even unto thee.”
Bakahenzie seemed outmatched in the boasting tournament. He tapped snuff
woodenly. Marufa scratched his skinny ribs thoughtfully. Then Bakahenzie
remarked:
“He that hath not been cleansed may not look upon the Son-of-the-Snake.”
“He that hath not been anointed need have no fear of the evil eye.”
“Hath not one who was not cleansed entered and cast evil upon the tribe?”
demanded Bakahenzie.
“If the fence is not strong the leopard will enter.”
“If the leopard be not strong and swift indeed may he not be killed in the
hut?” inquired Bakahenzie.
“If a leopard and a wild-cat break in, then wilt thou not kill the leopard
first?”
“Even so,” retorted Bakahenzie; “then is water stronger than beer, even as
the beer does reveal?”
Birnier nearly smiled in recognition of the hit.
“Nay, does not beer make the fool to talk foolishness? Dost thou then cast
away the banana? Does not one talk foolishness also who is sick and yet
discardeth good medicine, because he feareth to poison his belly?”
“Even so,” said Bakahenzie obstinately, “does the sick man exorcise the
good medicine lest an enemy hath made magic thereupon?”
“Then,” said Birnier, whose only objection to the ceremony was the delay
and the messiness, “let the good medicine be purified.”
Bakahenzie grunted and covertly took stock of the tent and equipment
visible. Upon the pile of cases stacked just inside the tent his eyes
rested some time, but he would not make any inquiry. Marufa, too, was
occupied in the same manner. Bakahenzie was recalling the previous meeting
with Birnier in the village of MFunya MPopo—of that day when Birnier had
not made any attempt to impress the native mind with “magic” other than
the ordinary “miracles” in the routine of a white man’s life.
“When the Son-of-the-Snake,” inquired Birnier, who had learned as much of
the hagiocracy as Mungongo knew, “hath taken up the Burden, wilt thou then
drive Eyes-in-the-hands from the country?”
Bakahenzie slowly withdrew his eyes from the fascinating case as far as
Birnier’s booted foot.
“Hast thou, white man, the magic twig that makes fire?” he demanded.
“Even so.”
Birnier took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. Bakahenzie
and Marufa watched him solemnly. Then a lean bronze hand was outstretched.
Birnier gave him the box. Slowly and gravely Bakahenzie, the chief
witch-doctor, extracted a match, turned it over and over, smelt it, tasted
it, regarded it, and struck it on the top of the box. It was a safety
match, so nothing happened. Birnier, without a vestige of a smile,
instructed him to strike it only upon the black piece at the side. That
impressed Bakahenzie and Marufa. The former tried again as directed and
succeeded. Holding the match too near the head he burned the quick of the
nail, but not a muscle quivered. He would not even admit that the white
man’s devil stick had bitten him. But he was still more impressed.
At a sign from Birnier, Mungongo brought from the tent a nickel-plated
revolver and cartridges, which he placed at the feet of Bakahenzie without
comment. Apparently Bakahenzie did not notice the action or the gift. He
held out the matches to return to the white man. Birnier requested him to
keep them. He wrapped up the box in his loin-cloth and fell to further
contemplation of the cases. He was cogitating. The value of this white had
suddenly increased. Evidently he could make small magic. Perhaps he could
make as much big magic as Eyes-in-the-hands. Who knew? But then if that
was so he could make greater magic than he, Bakahenzie, could. Bakahenzie
saw that if Moonspirit were such a great magician he would be difficult or
impossible to control. Naturally Bakahenzie could only understand his own
motives in others. His problem now was to discover some means by which he
could control Moonspirit, make of him a familiar to work to his own ends.
Why was he so insistent upon seeing Zalu Zako? Bakahenzie became more and
more suspicious. He saw another reason why the white man must be kept away
from Zalu Zako. To refuse to purify him would give a valid excuse that he
may not look upon the Son-of-the-Snake. But he did not wish to displease
him; also Marufa could perform the purification.
Again Birnier repeated the question regarding the overthrow of
Eyes-in-the-hands. Bakahenzie took snuff, regarded the revolver lying at
his feet idly, and deigned to reply.
“When that which must be hath come to pass, then shall the children of the
Snake eat up their enemies as a lizard eats flies.”
“And what is that which must come to pass?”
Bakahenzie sat silent awhile, slightly shocked at the directness of the
question; then as if to humour the white man, he replied:
“When the Bridegroom hath taken the Bride.”
The ceremony of purification could not take place until the following day,
because such things may not be hurried; and moreover, various potent
charms had to be sent for to the native village. Meanwhile Bakahenzie
squatted by the fire, contemplating the nickel-plated revolver and affairs
of policy, and opposite him sat the meditative Marufa.
From the hour of the monkey, Bakahenzie, unconscious of the small face and
anxious eyes watching the camp from the tangle of green, was busy
muttering spells over a calabash containing a magic concoction composed of
the entrails of a white goat, certain herbs and the eyes of a black
wild-cat. When the roof of the forest was a patterned ceiling against an
incandescent glow, Birnier stripped to the waist, and submitted himself to
the hands of the wizard who, after scattering the feathers of a scarlet
parrot into the calabash, smeared the left breast, the forehead and the
right arm of the white man, to the accompaniment of an incantation. These
insignia and specifics he must not remove for three suns; nor could he be
permitted to look upon the semi-divine Zalu Zako until whatever evil
influence his foreign body might possess should have been exorcised by
this powerful medicine.
To sit around half nude in such heat was no arduous undertaking, but to
sleep without rubbing off the concoction was another matter; also the
odour thereof was not pleasing to the nostrils of a white man. But Birnier
accomplished the feat by smoking excessively and by marking with a pencil
the various nostrums recommended by the amiable Burton, many of which were
hardly less disagreeable than Doctor Bakahenzie’s prescription.
That worthy’s slaves had erected a hut for him nigh to the tent in the
door of which he squatted, usually with Marufa beside him, throughout the
day, with ever a contemplative eye upon his victim, an eye which Birnier
was sure was eagerly seeking some excuse to plead that he had
inadvertently rendered the magic impotent, and must accordingly have the
ceremony repeated.
Amused by the ridiculous sight he presented, plastered over with this
filth, Birnier made Mungongo, whom he had taught to operate a camera, take
a photograph of him, which would entertain Lucille, as well as be of
scientific interest. Bakahenzie and Marufa watched this performance from
the fire with amazement, for they imagined that the camera was some kind
of gun. When they heard the click, they grunted as if expecting the white
man to fall dead. Birnier of course knew the universal native belief in
the picture being the soul, or one of the souls. He summoned Bakahenzie
and Marufa and showed them a photograph which, after some difficulty, they
recognised as Mungongo.
“Eh,” grunted a warrior, “indeed is Mungongo the slave of the white man,
for hath he not imprisoned his soul?”
Mungongo laughed, yet he believed in the superstition as implicitly as any
of his compatriots, for said he:
“It is a wise man who hath that which is his always within his hand, even
as Moonspirit hath the soul of his favourite wife with him always, so that
she may not be unfaithful unto him.”
“Eh, he is wiser than the Banana Eater!” grunted the warrior in
admiration.
Birnier’s training to control his features was strained in the effort not
to express surprise. He could not imagine from what Mungongo had derived
this astonishing statement, until he recollected that the boy had seen a
photograph of Lucille among his papers.
After this successful demonstration of his sophistication, Mungongo was
anxious that Moonspirit give an exhibition of his magic to dumbfound the
chief witch-doctor, desiring most ardently to work the gramophone, to
operate which he had also learned. But on reflection, Birnier decided that
it was not his policy to make his thunder too cheap.
Each evening as the last subtle violet quivered in the trees had Bakuma
glided from the shelter of the undergrowth under the flap of Birnier’s
tent, where she had lain until the first tint of dawn on the foliage of
the forest. Birnier had wished her to leave for some village until
Bakahenzie had left the camp, but Bakuma had frantically pleaded to
remain, knowing that the craft was seeking her throughout the country
since Bakahenzie’s latest interview with mighty Tarum.
But upon the third day as Birnier was seated reading philosophically at
his tent door, the inevitable happened. A loud outcry arose and from the
tangle of creepers started the lithe figure of Bakuma, who darted past him
into the tent. For a moment there was silence. But Birnier guessed what
the matter was. Bakahenzie emerged from the wall of green and cried out in
a loud voice. Instantly the warriors around leaped to their feet, and
broke out into great clamour.
Mungongo, busy with the cooking pots, rushed to Birnier’s side,
gesticulating wildly. Inside the tent crouched Bakuma. Towards Birnier
advanced Bakahenzie and the warriors, whose dilated eyes and spears in
their hands betokened that Bakahenzie had stirred their deepest feelings
of terror and murder. Birnier smoked placidly, neither stirring nor
permitting a sign of their presence to cross his features.
Mungongo, startled out of his confidence in Moonspirit, excitedly bade
Bakuma go forth as Bakahenzie, stopping in front of the white man, broke
into a harangue, bidding him to give up Bakuma whose sacrilege in breaking
the magic circle, as he had said, had brought the terrible
Eyes-in-the-hands upon them; that the welfare of the tribe depended upon
her sacrifice to the angered Unmentionable One even as she had been
doomed; and threatening that they would take the insolent white man, whose
magic was as water, and sacrifice him as well, as was desired by the
spirit of Tarum.
The longer he spoke the more excited he grew. Motivated by the sudden
conviction that the sacrifice of Bakuma, whose action he had foretold so
successfully, and the slaughter of the white would really restore to him
his repute and remove at the same time the problem of controlling a
superior magician who threatened to become his rival, Bakahenzie began to
work himself up into the necessary state of prophetic hysteria. Cowering
against the camp-bed Bakuma whimpered with terror; Mungongo incoherently
begged Moonspirit to give up the girl.
Not a muscle moved upon Birnier’s face; nor even did his eyes turn in the
direction of the menacing crowd who with uplifted spears joggled each
other around Bakahenzie. Birnier knew that it was a supreme test of nerve;
knew that any attempt to snatch a rifle or a movement of any sort, would
precipitate action on their side. He had no intention of surrendering the
girl to a hideous fate, and also he saw beyond the incident that if
Bakahenzie were to triumph over him now, not only would his prestige with
the natives be gone for ever, but that his fate would be surely sealed.
Slowly, exaggeratedly, as if he were alone, he killed a mosquito upon his
bare right breast and lighted his pipe anew.
Bakahenzie advanced a step followed by the warriors. His voice had reached
the falsetto timbre. Mungongo lost his head entirely and seizing Bakuma,
began to drag her out of the tent. Birnier turned his head leisurely
towards him. Said he very loudly:
“It is not seemly to rape a woman in my presence, O Mungongo. Let her be,
for I will buy thee one.”
Mungongo ceased to pull at Bakuma’s arms and stared as if paralysed.
Birnier saw the eyes switch in a terrified glance at the warriors behind
him and heard Bakahenzie’s yell to kill.
For one moment he thought that indeed the end had come. Before he could
reach the rifle a dozen spears would be in his back. He sat motionless,
the _Anatomy of Melancholy_ still in his hand, and watched the gauge of
Mungongo’s eyes. Bakahenzie’s voice rose to a screech. Suddenly Birnier
wheeled round in his chair, snatched up the pencil and staring hard at
them, began to sketch faces on the open page of the book.
At the sight the warriors ceased their shuffling dance, were arrested with
the spears in their hands in as many poses. Bakahenzie’s scream was
stoppered as if by a hand upon his mouth. In the silence their heavy
breathing rivalled the twitter and hum of the forest. Birnier sketched
furiously, glaring portentously from the group to the paper. Bakahenzie
took a step forward, a nervous step, and yelled, “Kill!” but his voice
released those of the warriors. In one loud shout they cried:
“He bewitches us! He bewitches us!”
As Birnier bent his head to make another magic mark upon the magic book he
heard the rush of feet.
“They have fled!” squealed Mungongo, still clutching Bakuma.
Birnier sighed and dropped his pencil as he glanced up. Bakahenzie and the
warriors had disappeared, but by the fire squatted Marufa unconcernedly
scratching his skinny ribs.