WAR
Now men began to whisper together and Goza groaned at my side.
“Rather would I look down a live lion’s throat than see the dead,” he
murmured. But I, who was anxious to learn how far Zikali would carry
his tricks, contemptuously told him to be silent.
Presently the king called me to him and said—
“Macumazahn, you white men are reported to know all things. Tell me
now, is it possible for the dead to appear?”
“I am not sure,” I answered doubtfully; “some say that it is and some
say that it is not possible.”
“Well,” said the king. “Have you ever seen one you knew in life after
death?”
“No,” I replied, “that is—yes. That is—I do not know. When you will
tell me, King, where waking ends and sleep begins, then I will answer.”
“Macumazahn,” he exclaimed, “just now I announced that you were no
liar, who perceive that after all you are a liar, for how can you both
have seen, and not seen, the dead? Indeed I remember that you lied long
ago, when you gave it out that the witch Mameena was not your lover,
and afterwards showed that she was by kissing her before all men, for
who kisses a woman who is not his lover, or his mother? Return, since
you will not tell me the truth.”
So I went back to my stool, feeling very small and yet indignant, for
how was it possible to be definite about ghosts, or to explain the
exact facts of the Mameena myth which clung to me like a Wait-a-bit
thorn.
Then after a little consultation Cetewayo said—
“It is our desire, O Opener of Roads, that you should draw wisdom from
the fount of Death, if indeed you can do so. Now let any who are afraid
depart and wait for us who are not afraid, alone and in silence at the
mouth of the kloof.”
At this some of the audience rose, but after hesitating a little, sat
down again. Only Goza actually took a step forward, but on my remarking
that he would probably meet the dead coming up that way, collapsed,
muttering something about my pistol, for the fool seemed to think I
could shoot a spirit.
“If indeed I can do so,” repeated Zikali in a careless fashion. “That
is to be proved, is it not? Perhaps, too, it may be better for every
one of you if I fail than if I succeed. Of one thing I warn you, should
the dead appear stir not, and above all touch not, for he who does
either of these things will, I think, never live to look upon the sun
again. But first let me try an easier fashion.”
Then once again he took up the skull that he said had been his
daughter’s, and whispered to it, only to lay it down presently.
“It will not serve,” he said with a sigh and shaking his locks. “Noma
tells me that she died a child, one who had no knowledge of war or
matters of policy, and that in all these things of the world she still
remains a child. She says that I must seek some one who thought much of
them; one, too who still lives in the heart of a man who is present
here, if that be possible, since from such a heart alone can the
strength be drawn to enable the dead to appear and speak. Now let there
be silence—Let there be silence, and woe to him that breaks it.”
Silence there was indeed, and in it Zikali crouched himself down till
his head almost rested on his knee, and seemed to go to sleep. He awoke
again and chanted for half a minute or so in some language I could not
understand. Then voices began to answer him, as it seemed to me from
all over the kloof, also from the sky or rock above. Whether the effect
was produced by ventriloquism or whether he had confederates posted at
various points, I do not know.
At any rate this lord of “multitudes of spirits” seemed to be engaged
in conversation with some of them. What is more, the thing was
extremely well done, since each voice differed from the other; also I
seemed to recognize some of them, Dingaan’s for instance, and Panda’s,
yes, and that of Umbelazi the Handsome, the brother of the king whose
death I witnessed down by the Tugela.
You will ask me what they said. I do not know. Either the words were
confused or the events that followed have blotted them from my brain.
All I remember is that each of them seemed to be speaking of the Zulus
and their fate and to be very anxious to refer further discussion of
the matter to some one else. In short they seemed to talk under
protest, or that was my impression, although Goza, the only person with
whom I had any subsequent debate upon the subject, appeared to have
gathered one that was different, though what it was I do not recall.
The only words that remained clear to me must, I thought, have come
from the spirit of Chaka, or rather from Zikali or one of his myrmidons
assuming that character. They were uttered in a deep full voice, spiced
with mockery, and received by the wizard with _Sibonga_, or titles of
praise, which I who am versed in Zulu history and idiom knew had only
been given to the great king, and indeed since his death had become
unlawful, not to be used. The words were—
“What, Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born, do you think yourself a
Thing-that-should-never-die, that you still sit beneath the moon and
weave witchcrafts as of old? Often have I hunted for you in the
Under-world who have an account to settle with you, as you have an
account to settle with me. So, so, what does it matter since we must
meet at last, even if you hide yourself at the back of the furthest
star? Why do you bring me up to this place where I see some whom I
would forget? Yes, they build bone on bone and taking the red earth,
mould it into flesh and stand before me as last I saw them newly dead.
Oh! your magic is good, Spell-weaver, and your hate is deep and your
vengeance is keen. No, I have nothing to tell you to-day, who rule a
greater people than the Zulus in another land. Who are these little men
who sit before you? One of them has a look of Dingaan, my brother who
slew me, yes, and wears his armlet. Is he the king? Answer not, for I
do not care to know. Surely yonder withered thing is Sigananda. I know
his eye and the _Iziqu_ on his breast. Yes, I gave it to him after the
great battle with Zweede in which he killed five men. Does he remember
it, I wonder? Greeting, Sigananda; old as you are you have still twenty
and one years to live, and then we will talk of the battle with Zweede.
Let me begone, this place burns my spirit, and in it there is a stench
of mortal blood. Farewell, O Conqueror!”
These were the words that I thought I heard Chaka say, though I daresay
that I dreamt them. Indeed had it been otherwise, I mean had they
really been spoken by Zikali, there would surely have been more in
them, something that might have served his purpose, not mere talk which
had all the inconsequence of a dream. Also no one else seemed to pay
any particular attention to them, though this may have been because so
many voices were sounding from different places at once, for as I have
said, Zikali arranged his performance very well, as well as any medium
could have done on a prepared stage in London.
In a moment, as though at a signal, the voices died away. Then other
things happened. To begin with I felt very faint, as though all the
strength were being taken out of me. Some queer fancy got a hold of me.
I don’t quite know what it was, but it had to do with the Bible story
of Adam when he fell asleep and a rib was removed from him and made
into a woman. I reflected that I felt as Adam must have done when he
came out of his trance after this terrific operation, very weak and
empty. Also, as it chanced, presently I saw Eve—or rather a woman.
Looking at the fire in a kind of disembodied way, I perceived that
dense smoke was rising from it, which smoke spread itself out like a
fan. It thinned by degrees, and through the veil of smoke I perceived
something else, namely, a woman very like one whom once I had known.
There she stood, lightly clad enough, her fingers playing with the blue
beads of her necklace, an inscrutable smile upon her face and her large
eyes fixed on nothingness.
Oh! Heaven, I knew her, or rather thought I did at the moment, for now
I am almost sure that it was Nombé dressed, or undressed, for the part.
That knowledge came with reflection, but then I could have sworn, being
deceived by the uncertain light, that the long dead Mameena stood
before us as she had seemed to stand before me in the hut of Zikali,
radiating a kind of supernatural life and beauty.
A little wind arose, shaking the dry leaves of the aloes in the kloof;
I thought it whispered—_Hail, Mameena!_ Some of the older men, too,
among them a few who had seen her die, in trembling voices murmured,
“It is Mameena!” whereon Zikali scowled at them and they grew silent.
As for the figure it stood there patient and unmoved, like one who has
all time at its disposal, playing with the blue beads. I heard them
tinkle against each other, which proves that it was human, for how
could a wraith cause beads to tinkle, although it is true that
Christmas-story ghosts are said to clank their chains. Her eyes roved
idly and without interest over the semi-circle of terrified men before
her. Then by degrees they fixed themselves upon the tree behind which I
was crouching, whereon Goza sank paralyzed to the ground. She
contemplated this tree for a while that seemed to me interminable; it
reminded me of a setter pointing game it winded but could not see, for
her whole frame grew intent and alert. She ceased playing with the
beads and stretched out her slender hand towards me. Her lips moved.
She spoke in a sweet, slow voice, saying—
“O Watcher-by-Night, is it thus you greet her to whom you have given
strength to stand once more beneath the moon? Come hither and tell me,
have you no kiss for one from whom you parted with a kiss?”
I heard. Without doubt the voice was the very voice of Mameena (so well
had Nombé been instructed). Still I determined not to obey it, who
would not be made a public laughing-stock for a second time in my life.
Also I confess this jesting with the dead seemed to me somewhat unholy,
and not on any account would I take a part in it.
All the company turned and stared at me, even Goza lifted his head and
stared, but I sat still and contemplated the beauties of the night.
“If it is the spirit of Mameena, he will come,” whispered Cetewayo to
Umnyamana.
“Yes, yes,” answered the Prime Minister, “for the rope of his love will
draw him. He who has once kissed Mameena, _must_ kiss her again when
she asks.”
Hearing this I grew furiously indignant and was about to break into
explanations, when to my horror I found myself rising from that stool.
I tried to cling to it, but, as it only came into the air with me, let
it go.
“Hold me, Goza,” I muttered, and he like a good fellow clutched me by
the ankle, whereon I promptly kicked him in the mouth, at least my foot
kicked him, not my will. Now I was walking towards that Shape—shadow or
woman—like a man in his sleep, and as I came she stretched out her arms
and smiled oh! as sweetly as an angel, though I felt quite sure that
she was nothing of the sort.
Now I stood opposite to her alongside the fire of which the smoke smelt
like roses at the dawn, and she seemed to bend towards me. With shame
and humiliation I perceived that in another moment those arms would be
about me. But somehow they never touched me; I lost sight of them in
the rose-scented smoke, only the sweet, slow voice which I could have
sworn was that of Mameena, murmured in my ear—well, words known to her
and me alone that I had never breathed to any living being, though of
course I am aware now that they must also have been known to somebody
else.
“Do you doubt me any longer?” went on the murmuring. “Say, am I Nombé
now? Or—or am I in truth that Mameena, whose kiss thrills your lips and
soul? Hearken, Macumazahn, for the time is short. In the rout of the
great battle that shall be, do not fly with the white men, but set your
face towards Ulundi. One who was your friend will guard you, and
whoever dies, no harm shall come to you now that the fire which burns
in my heart has set all Zululand aflame. Hearken once more. Hans, the
little yellow man who was named Light-in-Darkness, he who died among
the Kendah people, sends you salutations and gives you praise. He bids
me tell you that now of his own accord he renders to me, Mameena, the
royal salute, because royal I must ever be; because also he and I who
are so far apart are yet one in the love that is our life.”
The smoke blew into my face, causing me to reel back. Cetewayo caught
me by the arm, saying—
“Tell us, are the lips of the dead witch warm or cold?”
“I do not know,” I groaned, “for I never touched her.”
“How he lies! Oh! how he lies even about what our eyes saw,” said
Cetewayo reflectively as I blundered past him back to my seat, on which
I sank half swooning. When I got my wits again the figure that
pretended to be Mameena was speaking, I suppose in answer to some
question of Zikali’s which I had not heard. It said—
“O Lord of the Spirits, you have called me from the land of Spirits to
make reply as to two matters which have not yet happened upon the
earth. These replies I will give but no others, since the mortal
strength that I have borrowed returns whence it came. The first matter
is, if there be war between the White and Black, what will happen in
that war? I see a plain ringed round with hills and on it a
strange-shaped mount. I see a great battle; I see the white men go down
like corn before a tempest; I see the spears of the _impis_ redden; I
see the white soldiers lie like leaves cut from a tree by frost. They
are dead, all dead, save a handful that have fled away. I hear the
_ingoma_ of victory sung here at Ulundi. It is finished.
“The second matter is—what shall chance to the king? I see him tossed
on the Black Water; I see him in a land full of houses, talking with a
royal woman and her councillors. There, too, he conquers, for they
offer him tribute of many gifts. I see him here, back here in Zululand,
and hear him greeted with the royal salute. Last of all I see him dead,
as men must die, and hear the voice of Zikali and the mourning of the
women of his house. It is finished. Farewell, King Cetewayo, I pass to
tell Panda, your father, how it fares with you. When last we parted did
I not prophesy to you that we should meet again at the bottom of a
gulf? Was it this gulf, think you, or another? One day you shall learn.
Farewell, or fare ill, as it may happen!”
Once more the smoke spread out like a fan. When it thinned and drew
together again, the Shape was gone.
Now I thought that the Zulus would be so impressed by this very queer
exhibition, that they would seek no more supernatural guidance, but
make up their minds for war at once. This, however, was just what they
did not do. As it happened, among the assembled chiefs, was one who
himself had a great repute as a witch-doctor, and therefore burned with
jealousy of Zikali who appeared to be able to do things that he had
never even attempted. This man leapt up and declared that all which
they had seemed to hear and see was but cunning trickery, carried out
after long preparation by Zikali and his confederates. The voices, he
said, came from persons placed in certain spots, or sometimes were
produced by Zikali himself. As for the vision, it was not that of a
spirit but of a real woman, in proof of which he called attention to
certain anatomical details of the figure. Finally, with much sense, he
pointed out that the Council would be mad to come to any decision upon
such evidence, or to give faith to prophecies, whereof the truth or
falsity could only be known in the future.
Now a fierce debate broke out, the war party maintaining that the
manifestations were genuine, the peace party that they were a fraud. In
the end, as neither side would give way and as Zikali, when appealed
to, sat silent as a stone, refusing any explanation, the king said—
“Must we sit here talking, talking, till daylight? There is but one man
who can know the truth, that is Macumazahn. Let him deny it as he will,
he was the lover of this Mameena while she was alive, for with my own
eyes I saw him kiss her before she killed herself. It is certain,
therefore, that he knows if the woman we seemed to see was Mameena or
another, since there are things which a man never forgets. I propose,
therefore, that we should question him and form our own judgment of his
answer.”
This advice, which seemed to promise a road out of a blind ally, met
with instant acceptance.
“Let it be so,” they cried with one voice, and in another minute I was
once more conducted from behind my tree and set down upon the stool in
front of the Council, with my back to the fire and Zikali, “that his
eyes might not charm me.”
“Now, Watcher-by-Night,” said Cetewayo, “although you have lied to us
in a certain matter, of this we do not think much, since it is one upon
which both men and women always lie, as every judge will know.
Therefore we still believe you to be an honest man, as your dealings
have proved for many years. As an honest man, therefore, we beg you to
give us a true answer to a plain question. Was the Shape we saw before
us just now a woman or a spirit, and if a spirit, was it the ghost of
Mameena, the beautiful witch who died near this place nearly the
quarter of a hundred years ago, she whom you loved, or who loved you,
which is just the same thing, since a man always loves a woman who
loves him, or thinks that he does?”
Now after reflection I replied in these words and as conscientiously as
I could—
“King and Councillors, I do not know if what we all saw was a ghost or
a living person, but, as I do not believe in ghosts, or at any rate
that they come back to the world on such errands, I conclude that it
was a living person. Still it may have been neither, but only a mere
picture produced before us by the arts of Zikali. So much for the first
question. Your second is—was this spirit or woman or shadow, that of
her whom I remember meeting in Zululand many years ago? King and
Councillors, I can only say that it was very like her. Still one
handsome young woman often greatly resembles another of the same age
and colouring. Further, the moon gives an uncertain light, especially
when it is tempered by smoke from a fire. Lastly, memory plays strange
tricks with all of us, as you will know if you try to think of the face
of any one who has been dead for more than twenty years. For the rest,
the voice seemed similar, the beads and ornaments seemed similar, and
the figure repeated to me certain words which I thought I alone had
heard come from the lips of her who is dead. Also she gave me a strange
message from another who is dead, referring to a matter which I
believed was known only to me and that other. Yet Zikali is very clever
and may have learned these things in some way unguessed by me, and what
he has learned, others may have learned also. King and Councillors, I
do not think that what we saw was the spirit of Mameena. I think it a
woman not unlike to her who had been taught her lesson. I have nothing
more to say, and therefore I pray you not to ask me any further
questions about Mameena of whose name I grow weary.”
At this point Zikali seemed to wake out of his indifference, or his
torpor, for he looked up and said darkly—
“It is strange that the cleverest are always those who first fall into
the trap. They go along, gazing at the stars at night, and forget the
pit which they themselves have dug in the morning. _O-ho-ho! Oho-ho!_”
Now the wrangling broke out afresh. The peace party pointed
triumphantly to the fact that I, the white man who ought to know, put
no faith in this apparition, which was therefore without doubt a fraud.
The war party on the other hand declared that I was deceiving them for
reasons of my own, one of which would be that I did not wish to see the
Zulus eat up my people. So fierce grew the debate that I thought it
would end in blows and perhaps in an attack on myself or Zikali who all
the while sat quite careless and unmoved, staring at the moon. At
length Cetewayo shouted for silence, spitting, as was his habit when
angry.
“Make an end,” he cried, “lest I cause some of you to grow quiet for
ever,” whereon the recriminations ceased. “Opener of Roads,” he went
on, “many of those who are present think like Macumazahn here, that you
are but an old cheat, though whether or no I be one of these I will not
say. They demand a sign of you that none can dispute, and I demand it
also before I speak the word of peace or war. Give us then that sign or
begone to whence you came and show your face no more at Ulundi.”
“What sign does the Council require, Son of Panda?” asked Zikali
quietly. “Let them agree on one together and tell me now at once, for I
who am old grow weary and would sleep. Then if it can be given I will
give it; and if I cannot give it, I will get me back to my own house
and show my face no more at Ulundi, who do not desire to listen again
to fools who babble like contending waters round a stone and yet never
stir the stone because they run two ways at once.”
Now the Councillors stared at each other, for none knew what sign to
ask. At length old Sigananda said—
“O King, it is well known that the Black One who went before you had a
certain little assegai handled with the royal red wood, which drank the
blood of many. It was with this assegai that Mopo his servant, who
vanished from the land after the death of Dingaan, let out the life of
the Black One at the kraal Duguza, but what became of it afterwards
none have heard for certain. Some say that it was buried with the Black
One, some that Mopo stole it. Others that Dingaan and Umhlagana burned
it. Still a saying rose like a wind in the land that when that spear
shall fall from heaven at the feet of the king who reigns in the place
of the Black One, then the Zulus shall make their last great war and
win a victory of which all the world shall hear. Now let the Opener of
Roads give us this sign of the falling of the Black One’s spear and I
shall be content.”
“Would you know the spear if it fell?” asked Cetewayo.
“I should know it, O King, who have often held it in my hand. The end
of the haft is gnawed, for when he was angry the Black One used to bite
it. Also a thumb’s length from the blade is a black mark made with hot
iron. Once the Black One made a bet with one of his captains that at a
distance of ten paces he would throw the spear deeper into the body of
a chief whom he wished to kill, than the captain could. The captain
threw first, for I saw him with my eyes, and the spear sank to that
place on the shaft where the mark is, for the Black One burned it
there. Then the Black One threw and the spear went through the body of
the chief who, as he died, called to him that he too should know the
feel of it in his heart, as indeed he did.”
I think that Cetewayo was about to assent to this suggestion, since he
who desired peace believed it impossible that Zikali should suddenly
cause this identical spear to fall from heaven. But Umnyamana, the
Prime Induna, interposed hurriedly—
“It is not enough, O King. Zikali may have stolen the spear, for he was
living and at the kraal Duguza at that time. Also he may have put about
the prophecy whereof Sigananda speaks, or at least so men would say.
Let him give us a greater sign than this that all may be content, so
that whether we make war or peace it may be with a single mind. Now it
is known that we Zulus have a guardian spirit who watches over us from
the skies, she who is called Nomkubulwana, or by some the
Inkosazana-y-Zulu, the Princess of Heaven. It is known also that this
Princess, who is white of skin and ruddy-haired, appears always before
great things happen in our land. Thus she appeared before the Black One
died. Also she appeared to a number of children before the battle of
the Tugela. It is said, too, that but lately she appeared to a woman
near the coast and warned her to cross the Tugela because there would
be war, though this woman cannot now be found. Let the Opener of Roads
call down Nomkubulwana before our eyes from heaven and we will admit,
every man of us, that this is a sign which cannot be questioned.”
“And if he does this thing, which I hold no doctor in the world can do,
what shall it signify?” asked Cetewayo.
“O King,” answered Umnyamana, “if he does so, it shall signify war and
victory. If he does not do so, it shall signify peace, and we will bow
our heads before the _Amalungwana basi bodwe_” (i.e., “the little
English,” used as a term of derision).
“Do all agree?” asked Cetewayo.
“We agree,” answered every man, stretching out his hand.
“Then, Opener of Roads, it stands thus: If you can call Nomkubulwana,
should there be such a spirit, to appear before our eyes, the Council
will take it as a sign that the Heavens direct us to fight the
English.”
So spoke Cetewayo, and I noted a tone of triumph in his voice, for his
heart shrank from this war, and he was certain that Zikali could do
nothing of the sort. Still the opinion of the nation, or rather of the
army, was so strong in favour of it that he feared lest his refusal
might bring about his deposition, if not his death. From this dilemma
the supernatural test suggested by the Prime Minister and approved by
the Council that represented the various tribes of people, seemed to
offer a path of escape. So I read the situation, as I think rightly.
Upon hearing these words for the first time that night Zikali seemed to
grow disturbed.
“What do my ears hear?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Am I the _Umkulukulu_,
the Great-Great (i.e., God) himself, that it should be asked of me to
draw the Princess of Heaven from beyond the stars, she who comes and
goes like the wind, but like the wind cannot be commanded? Do they hear
that if she will not come to my beckoning, then the great Zulu people
must put a yoke upon their shoulders and be as slaves? Surely the King
must have been listening to the doctrines of those English teachers who
wear a white ribbon tied about their necks, and tell us of a god who
suffered himself to be nailed to a cross of wood, rather than make war
upon his foes, one whom they call the Prince of Peace. Times have
changed indeed since the days of the Black One. Yes, generals have
become like women; the captains of the _impis_ are set to milk the
cows. Well, what have I to do with all this? What does it matter to me
who am so very old that only my head remains above the level of the
earth, the rest of me being buried in the grave, who am not even a Zulu
to boot, but a Dwandwe, one of the despised Dwandwe whom the Zulus
mocked and conquered?
“Hearken to me, Spirits of the House of Senzangacona”—here he addressed
about a dozen of Cetewayo’s ancestors by name, going back for many
generations. “Hearken to me, O Princess of Heaven, appointed by the
Great-Great to be the guardian of the Zulu race. It is asked that you
should appear, should it be your wish to signify to these your children
that they must stand upon their feet and resist the white men who
already gather upon their borders. And should it be your wish that they
should lay down their spears and go home to sleep with their wives and
hoe the gardens while the white men count the cattle and set each to
his work upon the roads, then that you should not appear. Do what you
will, O Spirits of the House of Senzangacona, do what you will, O
Princess of Heaven. What does it matter to the
Thing-that-never-should-have-been-born, who soon will be as though he
never had been born, whether the House of Senzangacona and the Zulu
people stand or fall?
“I, the old doctor, was summoned here to give counsel. I gave counsel,
but it passed over the heads of these wise ones like a shadow of which
none took note. I was asked to prophesy of what would chance if war
came. I called the dead from their graves; they came in voices, and one
of them put on the flesh again and spoke from the lips of flesh. The
white man to whom she spoke denied her who had been his love, and the
wise ones said that she was a cheat, yes, a doll that I had dressed up
to deceive them. This spirit that had put on flesh, told of what would
chance in the war, if war there were, and what would chance to the
King, but they mock at the prophecy and now they demand a sign. Come
then, Nomkubulwana, and give them the sign if you will and let there be
war. Or stay away and give them no sign if you will, and let there be
peace. It is nought to me, nought to the
Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born.”
Thus he rambled on, as it occurred to me who watched and listened,
talking against time. For I observed that while he spoke a cloud was
passing over the face of the moon, and that when he ceased speaking it
was quite obscured by this cloud, so that the Vale of Bones was plunged
in a deep twilight that was almost darkness. Further, in a nervous kind
of way, he did something more to his wizard’s fire which again caused
it to throw out a fan of smoke that hid him and the execution rock in
front of which he sat.
The cloud floated by and the moon came out as though from an eclipse;
the smoke of the fire, too, thinned by degrees. As it melted and the
light grew again, I became aware that something was materializing, or
had appeared on the point of the rock above us. A few seconds later, to
my wonder and amazement, I perceived that this something was the
spirit-like form of a white woman which stood quite still upon the very
point of the rock. She was clad in some garment of gleaming white cut
low upon her breast, that may have been of linen, but from the way it
shone, suggested that it was of glittering feathers, egrets’ for
instance. Her ruddy hair was outspread, and in it, too, something
glittered, like mica or jewels. Her feet and milk-hued arms were bare
and poised in her right hand was a little spear.
Nor did I see alone, since a moan of fear and worship went up from the
Councillors. Then they grew silent and stared and stared.
Suddenly Zikali lifted his head and looked at them through the thin
flame of the fire which made his eyes shine like those of a tiger or of
a cornered baboon.
“At what do you gaze so hard, King and Councillors?” he asked. “I see
nothing. At what then do you gaze so hard?”
“On the rock above you stands a white spirit in her glory. It is the
Inkosazana herself,” muttered Cetewayo.
“Has she come then?” mocked the old wizard. “Nay, surely it is but a
dream, or another of my tricks; some black woman painted white that I
have smuggled here in my medicine bag, or rolled up in the blanket on
my back. How can I prove to you that this is not another cheat like to
that of the spirit of Mameena whom the white man, her lover, did not
know again? Go near to her you must not, even if you could, seeing that
if by chance she should _not_ be a cheat, you would die, every man of
you, for woe to him whom Nomkubulwana touches. How then, how? Ah! I
have it. Doubtless in his pocket Macumazahn yonder hides a little gun,
Macumazahn who with such a gun can cut a reed in two at thirty paces,
or shave the hair from the chin of a man, as is well known in the land.
Let him then take his little gun and shoot at that which you say stands
upon the rock. If it be a black woman painted white, doubtless she will
fall down dead, as so many have fallen from that rock. But if it be the
Princess of Heaven, then the bullet will pass through her or turn aside
and she will take no harm, though whether Macumazahn will take any harm
is more than I can say.”
Now when they heard this many remained silent, but some of the peace
party began to clamour that I should be ordered to shoot at the
apparition. At length Cetewayo seemed to give way to this pressure. I
say seemed, because I think he wished to give way. Whether or not a
spirit stood before him, he knew no more than the rest, but he did know
that unless the vision were proved to be mortal he would be driven into
war with the English. Therefore he took the only chance that remained
to him.
“Macumazahn,” he said, “I know you have your pistol on you, for only
the other day you brought it into my presence, and through light and
darkness you nurse it as a mother does her firstborn. Now since the
Opener of Roads desires it, I command you to fire at that which seems
to stand above us. If it be a mortal woman, she is a cheat and deserves
to die. If it be a spirit from heaven it can take no harm. Nor can you
take harm who only do that which you must.”
“Woman or spirit, I will not shoot, King,” I answered.
“Is it so? What! do you defy me, White Man? Do so if you will, but
learn that then your bones shall whiten here in this Vale of Bones.
Yes, you shall be the first of the English to go below,” and turning,
he whispered something to two of the Councillors.
Now I saw that I must either obey or die. For a moment my mind grew
confused in face of this awful alternative. I did not believe that I
saw a spirit. I believed that what stood above me was Nombé cunningly
tricked out with some native pigments which at that distance and in
that light made her look like a white woman. For oddly enough at that
time the truth did not occur to me, perhaps because I was too
surprised. Well, if it were Nombé, she deserved to be shot for playing
such a trick, and what is more her death, by revealing the fraud of
Zikali, would perhaps avert a great war. But then why did he make the
suggestion that I should be commanded to fire at this figure? Slowly I
drew out my pistol and brought it to the full cock, for it was loaded.
“I will obey, King,” I said, “to save myself from being murdered. But
on your head be all that may follow from this deed.”
Then it was for the first time that a new idea struck me so clearly
that I believe it was conveyed direct from Zikali’s brain to my own. _I
might shoot, but there was no need for me to hit._ After that
everything grew plain.
“King,” I said, “if yonder be a mortal, she is about to die. Only a
spirit can escape my aim. Watch now the centre of her forehead, for
there the bullet will strike!”
I lifted the pistol and appeared to cover the figure with much care. As
I did so, even from that distance I thought I saw a look of terror in
its eyes. Then I fired, with a little jerk of the wrist sending the
ball a good yard above her head.
“She is unharmed,” cried a voice. “Macumazahn missed her.”
“Macumazahn does not miss,” I replied loftily. “If that at which he
aimed is unharmed, it is because it cannot be hit.”
“_O-ho-o!_” laughed Zikali, “the White Man who does not know the taste
of his own love’s lips, says that he has fired at that which cannot be
hit. Let him try again. No, let him choose another target. The Spirit
is the Spirit, but he who summoned her may still be a cheat. There is
another bullet in your little gun, White Man; see if it can pierce the
heart of Zikali, that the King and Council may learn whether he be a
true prophet, the greatest of all the prophets that ever was, or
whether he be but a common cheat.”
Now a sudden rage filled me against this old rascal. I remembered how
he had brought Mameena to her death, when he thought that it would
serve him, and since then filled the land with stories concerning her
and me, which met me whatever way I turned. I remembered that for years
he had plotted to bring about the destruction of the Zulus, and to
further his dark ends, was now engaged in causing a fearful war which
would cost the lives of thousands. I remembered that he had trapped me
into Zululand and then handed me over to Cetewayo, separating me from
my friends who were in my charge, and for aught I knew, giving them to
death. Surely the world would be well rid of him.
“Have your will,” I shouted and covered him with the pistol.
Then there came into my mind a certain saying—“Judge not that ye be not
judged.” Who and what was I that I should dare to arraign and pass
sentence upon this man who after all had suffered many wrongs? As I was
about to fire I caught sight of some bright object flashing towards the
king from above, and instantaneously shifted my aim and pressed the
trigger. The thing, whatever it might be, flew in two. One part of it
fell upon Zikali, the other part travelled on and struck Cetewayo upon
the knee.
There followed a great confusion and a cry of “The king is stabbed!” I
ran forward to look and saw the blade of a little assegai lying on the
ground and on Cetewayo’s knee a slight cut from which blood trickled.
“It is nothing,” I said, “a scratch, no more, though had not the spear
been stopped in its course it might have been otherwise.”
“Yes,” cried Zikali, “but what was it that caused the cut? Take this,
Sigananda, and tell me what it may be,” and he threw towards him a
piece of red wood.
Sigananda looked at it. “It is the haft of the Black One’s spear,” he
exclaimed, “which the bullet of Macumazahn has severed from the blade.”
“Aye,” said Zikali, “and the blade has drawn the blood of the Black
One’s child. Read me this omen, Sigananda; or ask it of her who stands
above you.”
Now all looked to the rock, but it was empty. The figure had vanished.
“Your word, King,” said Zikali. “Is it for peace or war?”
Cetewayo looked at the assegai, looked at the blood trickling from his
knee, looked at the faces of the councillors.
“Blood calls for blood,” he moaned. “My word is—_War!_”