When Zalu Zako was notified of the verdict of the Council and the words of
Tarum the sense of the inevitable returned, extinguishing the spark of
rebellion that had been kindled by his passion for Bakuma. To Bakahenzie,
or to the wizards separately, or collectively, he had had the strength to
voice his own desires, but to the veritable voice of Tarum was no
resistance dared. He was bidden to preside by right and precedent at the
anointing of the warriors. He did not make any feint at refusal, for his
will was crushed, as it had been weeks before by the doom of godhood and
celibacy.
Beyond the fact that Bakuma would soon be forbidden to him for ever, he
did not think; desire was strangled. Even the recollection that Bakahenzie
had stated that Moonspirit had taken her gave him no reaction. To him as
to his brethren, while in physical love is bound up the control of the
universe, because it is vaguely apprehended as a creative force, it is of
no importance to the individual lover unless he be guilty of breaking the
sexual tabu: if the girl is not a consenting party to the illicit union
then she is free; if she is, then it is death to both of them, for as
every one knows, such criminal action endangers the balance of the burden
of the world upon the shoulders of the King-God. Thus it was that the
words of Bakahenzie had produced no reaction against Moonspirit in the
mind of Zalu Zako; indeed, if the words were true and he could yet obtain
Bakuma, she might have a son by the white which would obviously bring the
marvellous power of white magic to his successor, the next King-God; and
possibly, had mused Zalu Zako, dimly straining at such a radical thought
against the influence of the priesthood, make the king more powerful a
magician than the witch-doctors themselves.
But he obeyed the mandate and took his place as bidden. Bakahenzie had
caused preparation to be begun immediately for the ceremony of making
enchantment against the spirits of the night. In the circle of cleared
ground, where sat the temporary Council of Elders, big fires were lighted
as the dark wall of the forest drew in upon them. Bakahenzie squatted
before a big calabash, specially reserved and enchanted for the making of
magic, in which a mess of certain herbs whose spirits were violent haters
of the demons of all trees, rocks and streams, were to be released from
the vegetable bondage by stewing that they might be distributed among the
warriors for the night assault. These warriors, some fifty chosen from the
followers of Bakahenzie and Marufa, sat on their hams within the circle of
fires, uneasily casting glances behind them at the deepening sepia, from
whence arose the nocturnal chant of the spirits of the forest. In order to
insure no interference from malign animals, Bakahenzie caused to be
brought a pure white goat whose throat was cut and bled into the cauldron;
for as any one knows, that soul which is white must necessarily fight well
against anything that be black. Yet in spite of this potent magic the
warriors grew unquiet; they felt, rather than thought, that if the magic
of their witch-doctors had failed against one white why should it succeed
against another like unto him? And their faith thus weakened, doubts
regarding the efficacy of the same magic against spirits of the forest
bred as mosquitoes after rain.
Bakahenzie remarked the uneasiness, but the stronger grew his need to
restore the waning confidence in his powers by removing the white; the
blood desire had now been transferred from Bakuma to Moonspirit as the
most effective demonstration possible to him.
The fires smouldered and flickered yellow tongues upon the greens of the
warriors’ bodies and the blues of the wizards’ head-dresses. Faint blue
vapour swirled around the scarlet feather above Bakahenzie’s graven face
as he muttered incantations and stirred the cauldron. Then as the drums
throbbed and the warriors grunted rhythmically to Bakahenzie’s song of
enchantment came a squawk as of a parrot. The chant ceased. Branches
rustled. Every head quirked automatically towards the sound. Came a low
belly grunt of terror as if an invisible hand had punched them in their
solar plexus.
Just in the shadow line where the glow of the fires faintly tinted and
greened the curves of his bronze body against the sepia of his feathers,
appeared the figure of Marufa, his spear lifted on high as he cried out in
a loud voice:
“Greetings, O people of the Banana, I bring you tidings of him who is and
is not, of him who was lost and yet is come. ‘Behold, I show you a sign!’”
Against the gloom his left arm and hand glowed with a strange light. An
unanimous “Ehh!” rose from the assembled warriors and wizards alike.
“Raise your ears!” continued Marufa, “that the Voice may speak unto you!”
In the silence came a subdued click and commenced a high-pitched voice in
the dialect:
“Aie! Aie! I am the spirit of Kintu!
Aie! Aie! I am he who first was!
Aie! Aie! I am the Banana from whom I was made!”
Whites of eyes glimmered like butterflies in starlight. Nothing was
visible. The voice appeared to rise from every direction. The new miracle
petrified the limbs of all.
“Aie! Aie! My soul is defiled and my children enslaved!
Aie! Aie! My face hath been scratched by an alien claw!
Aie! Aie! I send you the revenge which is white!
Aie! Aie! I send you the One who is bidden!
Aie! Aie! Let that One arise who is I!
Aie! Aie! The mighty One who will blot out the curse!
Aie! Aie! I have spoken, I, the Father of Men!
Aie! Aie! I, Tarum; the soul of your Ancestors!”
A faint whirr as of wings was drowned in the automatic grunt of acceptance
squeezed from all the warriors and the wizards by the sacred chant, except
those of the inner circle. In dread sat the warriors of the terrible magic
of their doctors which they had once doubted. But the minds of Bakahenzie,
Yabolo, and the other two master craftsmen were stunned. The phenomenon of
the glowing hand had they never seen before, but they recollected the
stones of Mungongo. Even was Sakamata, sophisticated to the wonders of
Eyes-in-the-hands, impressed and bewildered. Dormant awe for the
Unmentionable One was awakened in every one of them. Zalu Zako felt that
his doom was upon him; that the Unmentionable One was about to call him to
his duty, which invoked fear for the sacrilege he had committed in
entertaining such radical thoughts in the immediate past. But in
Bakahenzie was a streak of suspicion; how was it that Marufa was thus
chosen as the divine messenger? Yet perhaps the veritable god was, or gods
were, speaking! Doubt held him silent.
“O my brethren, would ye that we seek the voice of the Unmentionable One?”
cried Marufa.
“Ough! Ough!” grunted the wizards.
Marufa stalked slowly to the nearest fire, muttering a spell. From his
loin cloth he took the three digital bones of an enemy and proceeded to
discover the whereabouts by geomancy. And behold! the fingers pointed in
one direction which all could see. Oblivious to the tight indifference of
Bakahenzie the old man rose and began to gyrate, mumbling incantations,
towards a thicket of grass on the fringe of the undergrowth, holding aloft
the magic bones in the glowing hand. Anxiously the assembly watched the
skinny figure, half bent, glide out from the glow of the fires into the
blue shadows. A small log collapsed, throwing a red gleam upon the form
poised upright before the clump of grass as Marufa cried out:
“Let him who-may-not-be-mentioned speak that his children may hear!”
Immediately commenced a high voice chanting:
“Take up, O Marufa, the wise, the pod of my soul!”
Then in the sight of every man Marufa bent upon his knees, muttering, and
arose unharmed. Save for the slow turn of each head the better to follow
the progress of the magician no limb nor muscle moved as in silence Marufa
bore the like of which had never before been seen; a thing like unto a
stone, having an ear almost as large and as erect as an angry elephant,
the colour of a lion yet hairless. “The pod of the soul” Marufa placed
within the circle of the fires so that all should see. More incantations
did Marufa make, sitting fearlessly; he caressed it as a young man
caresses a maid and came forth again the voice of Tarum:
“Rejoice, O my children, for he that is bidden shall come!
Rejoice, O ye warriors, for he that shall lead you shall come!
Rejoice, O ye wizards, for he that is greater than ye shall come!
Rejoice, O ye women, for he that fertilizes shall come!
He shall eat up your enemies as a lion eateth buck.
He shall make your dead to be seen and your phantoms to talk!
He shall give to your women to have sons of your breed!
He shall give you that which was slain on the hill!
He that walks in a flame in the night!
He that is whiter than the flesh of the baobab!
He shall come forth bearing that which ye seek!
He shall come forth bearing that which is yours!
Hear me, my people, and give voice to my word!”
“Ough! Ough!” came the chorus of assent.
Not a limb nor a hand moved among the concourse of warriors and wizards
until a new voice, deep, as one who commands, cried out:
“Let the son of Kawa Kendi, the son of MFunya MPopo, the son of MKoffo,
move not; neither he nor Marufa, the son of MTungo! Unto ye others we say
unto you, depart that we speak in peace with this our son and priest!”
And simultaneously appeared in the gloom of the undergrowth three pairs of
eyes as luminous as the glowworm, vaster than any human; and beside the
souls of the dead King-Gods were terrible hands. Warriors and wizards, all
save Bakahenzie and Zalu Zako, literally leaped for the forest and village
in one convulsive bound and grunt. Zalu Zako had remained upon the ground,
green with terror. Bakahenzie stood upright, his scarlet feather
fluorescent in the fire-glow. The anthem of the forest was only broken by
the rustle of branches and the breathing of Zalu Zako and Bakahenzie. A
harsh voice cried:
“Begone, Bakahenzie, son of a dog! Lest we take thy soul to be with us!”
The eyes appeared to float nearer; hands pointed menacingly. Bakahenzie
boggled; hesitated; then the dignity of his pose melted into the graceful
bounds of a fleeing leopard. Even for the professional ghost manipulator,
such a phenomenon of the spirits, with whom he was supposed to be on
familiar terms, was demoralizing. But half-way through a thicket of
undergrowth, where he could no longer see the horrific eyes, his courage
began to return.
To his ears came a new voice chanting:
“Sweeter than warm honey is the scent of my man!
Fiercer than scorpions is the grip of his hand!
Whiter than a spear flash is the gleam of his teeth!
Smoother than river stone is the feel of his chest!
Bakuma rejoices!”
Peering through the interstices Bakahenzie could see the gleam of the fire
upon the bangles of the Son-of-the-Snake and the blue flash upon his spear
as he melted into the forest wall.