"And other stories" (continued 2)

“As bad luck would have it, no sooner was my contract finished than the war with the English broke out. Then Lydenburg was in a state of siege, so I couldn’t get away. After a while a lot of Boers trecked on to the farm, and formed a ‘laager’ there. Then a commandant came from near Pretoria, and took charge. This happened to be a man who’d often enough seen me blind drunk in the streets between my spells of work. I’d done a job for him, too, and he’d humbugged me out of two pound ten. I felt sure he’d told my old man all about me, but beyond looking a bit strange for a day or two, it made no difference in him or in the old woman—they were just as kind as ever. But all the other Boers looked very sour at me, and would never answer when I’d speak to them.

“Jacob had a cousin who was a parson—and the dead spit of him—right down to the squint and the scowl. He was what they called a ‘dopper,’ (a South African Calvinist), which means in parsons one who sings very slowly, and speaks through his nose. This chap came one Sunday and preached to the Boers. His sermon was all about some folks called the Amalekites, and a chap called Agag, and that the Lord’s chosen people must hew to pieces all folks who weren’t chosen. He also told them they were to be careful of spies, and he talked a lot about wolves in sheep’s clothing. I was a long way off, but he ramped and shouted so loud, I could hear it all.

“Next day the old man told me on the quiet that I was suspected of being a spy, and that my life was in clanger. I told him this was ridiculous, because I’d been on the farm for months before the war began, and had no friends outside the ‘laager.’ He said he knew this, but that all the others were against me, and I must be careful.

“A couple of days after this the old man told me I’d have to clear out without further delay, because all the other Boers hated me like poison, and they meant to try me by court-martial for being a spy, and perhaps shoot me. He said that Jacob would take me away on horseback that night, and then I could lie by during the following day, and make my way to the English lines at Lydenburg when it got dark again. Just after midnight we were to creep away to a bush where our horses would be tied, and ride on from there. The old man gave me twenty-five pounds, which was all the money he had by him, and said he would send me the balance when the war was over, and I’d given him my address.

“That night I went into my room, and pretended to go to bed as usual. I just put my few little things together, and then I blew out the candle and sat waiting in the dark, feeling very lonesome and uneasy.

“By and by I heard a light tap at the door, so I opened it, and there I found Hessie with a Hottentot servant-girl named Griet, who used to wash my clothes. They came in on tip-toe, shut the door, and then Hessie drew me to one side and whispered very softly: ‘Vellum,’ says she, ‘you must do what I tell you now, quickly, and ask no questions.’ ‘All right, Hessie,’ says I, ‘what am I to do?’ ‘You must go into that corner of the room and take off all your clothes, and I will do the same in the opposite one. Then Griet will bring yours to me and mine to you, which you must put on. Do this at once, and then I will tell you the rest.’

“I could tell from the girl’s way of speaking that she was very much in earnest, so without saying anything I just went into the corner and took off my clothes. In a few moments Griet carried them away, and brought me Hessie’s, which I put on. They fitted me quite well.

“Just then Hessie stepped out of her corner and came to me in the dark. ‘Now, Vellum,’ says she, ‘just go with Griet, and when she tells you, steal out of the “laager” and follow her. Then walk as quickly as you can along the Lydenburg road until daybreak, when you must hide in the bush until night comes again. From there you can easily reach the Lydenburg “laager” before next morning.’

“She then took my two hands and pressed them very hard. ‘Vellum,’ says she, ‘we will never meet again; think kindly of me, for I love you very dearly.’ She then let go my hands, and put her arms around my neck. ‘Good-bye, Vellum,’ says she, ‘give that to your wife when you see her,’ and then she gave me a long, loving kiss. Then she and Griet left the room together, before I’d been able to say a word.

“Now that I knew I’d never see Hessie again, I felt more knocked of a heap than I’d ever felt in my life, and hot with shame at the lie I’d let her go away believing. I sat in the room and waited for about an hour, feeling quite queer in Hessie’s clothes, and liking to feel that what now touched me had touched her that was so good, and wondering whether, if I escaped, I’d have the grit in me to try and be a better man for her sake. I had a big ‘cappie’ on, which quite covered my face. I kept wondering why the plan for getting me away had been changed; but I guessed Hessie had some good reason for what she’d done.

“Then Griet came in and told me to follow her quickly. We went out by the front door. She was barefoot, and I just in my socks, and carrying my boots. We crept round the house in the shadow of the wall, and stole down the garden, which was long and narrow, with quince hedges on each side. We crossed a stream of water at the other end, and then walked quickly up the hill opposite, until we came to the road, along which we went as hard as we could. Then I wanted to put on my boots, so we turned a bit out of the road, and sat down under a bush.

“Griet then said she’d go back, so I gave her half-a-sovereign for herself, and my kind love and thanks to take to Hessie. Griet told me I was to listen for a horse’s footsteps, and when I heard this, to take cover until the horseman had passed. Griet then said ‘Good-bye, Boss,’ and we shook hands, and she went back.

“I walked along the road as quick as I could, and after going for about a quarter of an hour I heard a shot far ahead. This gave me a bit of a start, but I knew there was nothing for it but to keep my ears and eyes open, and go straight on, so straight on I went.

“Soon after this, I heard the sound of horses’ feet coming on in front, so I just went a few yards out of the road, and lay down among some rocks. In a few minutes a man rode past leading a horse by the bridle. This was Jacob, and he was laughing to himself quite loud. After passing me by a few yards, he stopped and dismounted. Then he let go the horse he had been leading, and gave it a heavy kick in the stomach. The horse just trotted away a few yards and began to feed. Jacob mounted again and rode on, still laughing. I tried to think what all this meant, but it got over me altogether. The last thing I heard of him was his laugh. What made it so queer was that I’d never heard him laugh before.

“After Jacob had got well past I went over to the horse, which was still feeding, and found it was my old moke, ready saddled-up. Here, thinks I, is a bit of luck; so I got on him and rode away, taking it easy, for I knew I could not reach Lydenburg that night, and I meant just to overhaul a gully full of scrub that I knew of about ten miles ahead, and where I could lie by next day.

“As I was going slowly along, my old horse began to cock his ears and snort, and then he gave a shy that nearly threw me out of the saddle. I looked, and saw something lying just at the side of the road. It was not a very dark night; there was no moon, but the stars could be seen every now and then through the flying scud. Seeing that the thing lay quite still, I got off to look more closely at it. I found it was a dead body... I at once thought of the shot and of Jacob’s laugh. I noticed a big slouch hat lying alongside, which somehow reminded me of my own.

“I laid my hand on the body, and found that it was quite warm. I felt farther and found... My God!... It was Hessie!

“She was quite dead, shot from behind through the back and chest... I was standing in a puddle of her blood... I saw it all now. That damnable scoundrel Jacob had brought her out here and shot her, thinking it was me. She had found out his meaning in offering to take me away, and come and died in my place...

“So now you can see, sir, why it is of no use your talking to me of ‘turning over a new leaf,’ and ‘leading a different life.’ I’m sick and tired of everything, and I’ll be a drunken tramp until I die in a ditch.

“When the war was over I went back to look for Jacob and kill him at sight. But the devil had got the best of me. Jacob’s neck had been broken by the capsizing of a wagon... I often hear that laugh of his... Some day I’ll hear it in hell.”

Chapter Five.

The Seed of the Church.

“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”

Tertullian.

One

Matshaka sat on a stone on the highest south-eastern spur of the Intsiza Mountain, just overlooking the Rodè Wesleyan Mission Station, one Sunday morning in the month of November 1880, and listened to the faint throbbing of the church bell. Beyond the mission, the broken hills of Pondoland, divided by the winding Umzimvubu—“the river of the sea-cows”—stretched away towards the ocean until they merged with the sky in an opaline haze. Around the Intsiza and on the surrounding mountain ranges the air was clear; and the distant features of the landscape looked unnaturally near—an almost certain sign of imminent rain.

It was the season of thunder-storms. The sun beat fiercely into the glowing valleys, but on the mountain-tops the air was cool. Already the heavy cumulus clouds were curdling over the distant Drakensberg, and raising their white and shining masses over the near Xomlenzi range. In the course of a few hours they would unite and sweep over valley and mountain, with shoutings of thunder and wind, and volleys of lightning, hail, and rain.

Along the almost invisible footpaths the people could be seen approaching the church from many directions. They suggested ants slowly creeping to a nest. Matshaka looked at them and thought deeply. The light breeze that almost invariably streams for hours against an approaching thunder-storm carried to his ear the clear notes of the bell. The beats grouped themselves in sets of three: what was the bell trying to say? It seemed as if a word were being repeated over and over again in the ringing. At length he found it—“Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza;” that was the word. “Intsiza” in the Kafir language means “refuge.” The mountain was so called on account of its broken and involuted valleys which, in the oft-recurring inter-tribal wars between the Pondos, the Bacas, and the Xesibes, afforded a refuge to the vanquished. And now the church bell tolled out the word so clearly that Matshaka wondered how the thing could ever have puzzled him—“Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza.”

Matshaka was a Pondo. A heathen and a polygamist, he had lived his fifty years without a single aspiration towards anything better than the surrounding savage conditions afforded him. A man of strong character, he had amassed considerable wealth, and attained to an influential position in his clan. From where he sat listening to the bell he could see a large herd of his cattle grazing in the valley below his kraal, which was situated about four miles from the Rodè Mission.

Pondoland, like every state under savage rule, was the scene of cruelty, oppression, and misgovernment in most forms. Exposed to the unchecked rapacity of the chiefs, the unhappy people were always in danger of death, or confiscation of their property upon some puerile pretext. The one quality which was of advantage to its possessor was cunning. Frugality and industry resulted in the amassing of wealth, and wealth excited the envy and cupidity of the rulers, who, through the agency of the witch-doctor, were never at a loss for a pretext for “eating up” the owner. Courage availed little, for what could one do against numbers? Honesty would have been ridiculously out of place; conspicuous ability minus cunning would have excited sure and fatal jealousy. Cunning combined with force of character generally enabled a man to die a natural death—even though rich; provided, of course, that he had been judiciously liberal in the right quarters, and had consistently supported the strong against the weak.

Matshaka had used strength and cunning, had used them unscrupulously, and prospered accordingly. Throughout his long life he had stood on the side of the oppressor, and shared the spoil of the oppressed. The words “right” and “wrong” had, practically speaking, no meaning for him. But quite recently, something like the first faint glimmerings of a moral sense awoke in his soul. The glaring and palpable frauds of the witch-doctor had never deceived him, his intellect was too acute and his temperament too reasonable. Lately, a vague and undefined sense of general dissatisfaction with his surroundings had gradually grown, and after this developed the conviction that everything he knew, himself included, was utterly and hopelessly bad. Thereafter the “beer-drink” knew him no more, he held aloof from the “eating up,” which had been his favourite and profitable diversion, and he begun to shun his fellow-men. Soon he became an object of suspicion.

Matshaka sat on the mountain-top and looked at the church far below him. It was built on a spur which ran out abruptly from the lower zone of the Intsiza. The bell had ceased ringing, but the beats still kept sounding in his head. Intsiza—Refuge. Yes, the mission was at least a refuge for those fortunate enough to escape from the dreadful “smelling out,” a sanctuary which had always been respected. He had, on the previous Sunday, attended church for the first time in his life, and what he heard there increased his dissatisfaction and unrest ten fold. He could not have told what it was that impelled him to go. He had, of course, often heard accounts of what was taught in churches, but the idea of an omnipotent God coming into the world in the semblance of a poor and insignificant member of a despised class, had always appeared to him as ridiculous. The son of God going out mightily to war with a blood-red banner streaming over him would have seemed appropriate to his conception of deity, but meekness and submission as attributes of Godhead were too preposterous.

Yet some of the things he had heard on the previous Sunday stuck in his memory. “Come unto Me, all ye who labour and are heavily laden,” impressed him particularly. He himself was one of the heavily laden; who and where was the God that gave relief to such? Matshaka sat thinking over this until long after the service was over, and he was still thinking of it when the faint beats of the bell, which was now sounding for afternoon service, fell upon his tense ear. As if in answer to his unspoken questions the wind swept up the one clear word: “Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza.”

The sun suddenly darkened, and, glancing to the westward, Matshaka saw the great bulging thunder-clouds sweeping up in a serried mass. He arose and quickly descended the mountain. He reached his dwelling just as the storm broke.

Two

The germ of unrest planted in the congenial soil of Matshaka’s mind grew and branched until it filled and dominated the man’s whole being. The result was a condition of hyperaesthesia. He seemed to be more alive than formerly; things previously unnoticed forced themselves on his attention and became significant with mysterious meanings. Everything in his environment hurt him. His wives were mere animals that he had purchased for his pleasure and use, his sons and daughters were mere savages without his force of intellect. He had hitherto held aloof from all who were Christians, and had strenuously opposed the missionaries. Now, however, he felt a pressing need for intellectual and spiritual communion, but there was not a living soul in the whole circle of his acquaintance with whom he felt he could speak of what was torturing him. His thoughts seemed to focus themselves upon the missionary at the Rodè, but he could not make up his mind to speak. What he really needed was some one to explain to him his own mental and spiritual condition, a talker rather than a listener. His longings were quite undefined, and their object utterly unintelligible even to himself; had one asked him as to the nature of his trouble he could hardly have even guessed at its nature.

During the week of suffering following the Sunday spent upon the Intsiza, one idea continually haunted Matshaka, the idea of becoming a Christian. When first this presented itself the notion was summarily dismissed, but it kept persistently recurring. Public opinion is probably a more potent coercive among savages than among civilised men, and for an intellectual savage with Matshaka’s antecedents to turn his back on the traditions of a lifetime, and cleave publicly to what his fellows held in contemptuous scorn, involved consequences that might well appal the bravest.

Next Sunday, however, found Matshaka at the Rodè Church. When he arrived there were not more than a dozen persons in the building. It was a rainy day, and the congregation was consequently small. He took his seat right at the back, in one of the corners, and from there watched the dripping worshippers as they arrived one by one. An old man named Langabuya especially attracted his attention. This man had been “smelt out” for witchcraft some seven or eight years previously, and Matshaka had assisted at his “eating up.” He had managed to gain the sanctuary of the mission, and thus to save his life. He had been a rich man, almost as rich as Matshaka, but all his possessions had been taken. Now he lived at the mission, his sole substance, as Matshaka knew, being a few goats. Yet he looked contented with his lot, and at peace with all men.

The service began with a hymn sung by the congregation. The natives are natural musicians, and they easily acquire the faculty of part-singing. The harmony seemed to intensify the discord and unrest of Matshaka’s troubled spirit; all the events of his turbulent life seemed to crowd in on his mind as the past is said to overwhelm the consciousness of a drowning man.

The hymn over, a prayer was said by the minister, but it made no impression on Matshaka; the ideas were pitched in a key to which his mind could not yet vibrate. After the prayer another hymn was sung, and then the minister opened the Bible and said he was going to read the Word of God. This statement set Matshaka’s mind on the alert; now he would hear the very words spoken by the majestic and all-powerful God to the men He had made. It was with an almost sick feeling of disappointment the forlorn man soon learnt that the words being spoken were not those of the God towards whom his spirit was passionately stretching forth its hands, but of one of His many prophets, who were, after all, only men.

The chapter happened to be the second in the Epistle of Paul to the Colossians. Matshaka listened to the sentences read by the minister in a sonorous voice and with excellent execution, and presently felt an unfamiliar stir within him. When the minister reached the thirteenth verse: “And you, being dead in your sins, and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath He quickened together with Him, having forgiven you all trespasses,” something seemed to transfix the heart and then the brain of the desolate man sitting in the corner of the church, with bent head, and face hidden in his hands.

Then happened to Matshaka what happened to Saul of Tarsus when on the road to Damascus: a great light from Heaven shone round about him. This was succeeded by a darkness as of death. Then the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw with a blinding clearness of vision. That strange new birth, that awakening of the soul which transfigures those who genuinely experience it, was his; let those doubt it who may, this experience is the great fact in some lives. Its existence is ignored by many, denied by a few, and explained satisfactorily by none. The Christian explanation is partly vitiated by attributing it solely to Christian influences; the fact being that it was well known in ancient times amongst Pagan nations. Moreover it is in these days realised by many to whom Christianity, in some of its most important aspects, is a book sealed with adamant. The materialistic attempt at an explanation is quite untenable. Conversion, the conviction of sin, the awakening to a higher life, that thunder-trump which separates the many goats from the few sheep of our past, and summons the soul to that seat of agony from which it can and must discern good from evil, without speciousness or self-deception, is as real and fundamentally natural as the earthquake, and as tremendous in its effects.

Matshaka broke into a passion of sobs which he vainly strove to stifle. At the conclusion of the reading the minister came down the aisle, and kneeling next to the penitent, besought the Lord to save this sinner, whose spirit was broken and whose pride lay in the dust. The congregation prayed silently in unison, not one turned his head to look. They well knew what was happening; most of the elder members had undergone a similar experience.

A short time elapsed and then Matshaka’s sobs ceased. When the ordinary service proceeded he became quite calm. After its close, the minister met the penitent, took him by the hand, and led him apart. It was eventually settled that he was to attend regularly for instruction each day at the mission, before being formally received as a church member.

When Matshaka left the mission for his home the rain had cleared off; the steep, green slopes of the Intsiza shone in the sunlight, and foaming cataracts shot down the gleaming crags. In his eyes was a new-born light, and his heart was the home of a virginal peace from whose gentle face the spirits of wrath had fled away—never to return.

Three

Probably no more villainous and unmitigated fraud than the Kafir “isanuse” or witch-doctor cumbers the earth. Pretending to the faculty of divination, he trains his powers of observation and memory to an extraordinary extent. Every trivial circumstance coming within the sphere of his cognisance is hoarded with a view to future use, and by means of spies he is kept informed of all going on among the people of his clan. Rich and influential men are, of course, the objects of his keenest regard. Nothing is too unimportant to claim his attention. The pattern of a snuff-box, a dent in an assegai handle or blade, the number of cowrie shells in a necklet or armlet—all facts of this description are noted with the view to possible use against the owner, should it be advisable to convict him of practising black magic. Such facts can be used in this way, for instance: if a man be accused of causing any one’s illness or death, it is very useful to be able to say—“You took the assegai with the crack in the handle that you mended with the sinew of a she-goat last spring, dug a hole with it in front of the sick man’s hut, and buried therein” (whatever the particular supposed magical substance may be). This knowledge of detail fills the spectators with awe at the witch-doctor’s powers of divination. All the friends of the accused know that he possesses an assegai mended in the manner described, and they at once feel that he is guilty.

Superimposed upon all this fraud is a growth of self-deception; no doubt many of these wretches believe themselves to be possessed of magical powers.

When a witch-doctor is consulted, a present, such as an ox, a sheep, or a goat—according to the rank and wealth of the person seeking his advice—is always brought.

Such person, with his friends, sits down in front of the witch-doctor’s hut. Having already been advised by a spy of the probability of such a visit being made, the witch-doctor—after asserting his dignity by keeping his visitors waiting for a suitable period—comes forward, and without any greeting, states to the startled strangers the object of their visit.

Those consulting a witch-doctor are bound by custom to “vuma,” or acknowledge the truth of every statement he makes, whether it be true or false. Thus, supposing a child to be ill, and the parents to have come to consult the witch-doctor as to who has bewitched it—for all illness is assumed to be caused by “umtagati,” or witchcraft—the witch-doctor might say: “You, Sogolima,” (or whoever it may be), “have come to find out who it is that has bewitched your child that is ill.” At once all would clap their hands loudly, and call out “Siyavuma,” which means, “we acknowledge.” A false statement is sometimes purposely made. For instance, in the case we are supposing, the witch-doctor might say next: “It is a girl that is sick,” whereas as a matter of fact it is a boy. The audience would, nevertheless, cry out “Siyavuma,” but involuntarily; the exclamation would not be so loud, nor would the hand-clap be so energetic as if a true statement had been made. Then the witch-doctor would say: “No, you are lying; it is not a girl that is sick, but a boy.” Then “Siyavuma” would break forth with a loud shout, and all would be struck with terror at the wonderful powers of the “isanuse.”

Usually the witch-doctor takes his cue from the chief as to the selection of victims. Women practise this horrible trade rather more often than men.

Whilst it was yet early morning of the Sunday following that upon which Matshaka had attended church, and floated away from his past life on a flood of penitent tears, small bodies of men could be seen trooping over the hills from every direction towards the kraal of Nomaduma, priestess and witch-doctor, renowned over the whole country-side for skill in occult arts. Her dwelling was situated at the foot of a conical hill which rose abruptly for about six hundred feet, and ended in a bare, rocky point, fringed close to its summit with large, loose boulders. This hill is known as the “Bonxa,” a word which means the breast of a woman, in some of the northern Bantu dialects. It is a striking object in the landscape, and has been the scene of many a horrible tragedy. All wizards detected anywhere in the neighbourhood were dragged thither for execution.

An hour after sunrise several hundred men had assembled, and fresh arrivals happened every few moments. The men were ranged in the form of a crescent along the hill-side, and facing the witch-doctor’s hut. A larger party than usual approached. This consisted of the chief Makanda with his councillors and other attendants. They took up a position midway between the central portion of the crescent-shaped crowd and the “isanuse’s” dwelling. Here they sat down and waited in silence.

All the men bore arms when they came. Some had guns, many had spears and assegais, and a few carried clubs, “amabunguza.” All the weapons, however, had been placed together in an empty hut about forty yards to the right of that occupied by Nomaduma. The sun shone fiercely from a cloudless sky, and not a breath of wind could be felt. The men sat absolutely mute and motionless.

About half-an-hour after the arrival of the chief, the wicker door of the hut was drawn suddenly aside, and Nomaduma, the “isanuse,” appeared. She was a tall, slender woman of about forty-five years of age. Her features were emaciated, and her hair drawn out into innumerable long locks, which were stiffened with grease and red clay. Her eyes were bright, and her cruel lips, partially withdrawn, showed her dazzlingly white teeth, which were beautifully small and even. Her only garment was a robe of tanned calfskin, which was draped around her waist and hips. Encircling her body, under her thin and pendent breasts, was a girdle made of the dried skins of snakes, twisted together. From her neck depended a number of pieces of bone, fragments of dried and polished wood of different sorts, and various little skin bags. But the most striking element of her attire was the innumerable dry, inflated gall-bladders which were fastened all over her in bunches and festoons. These were the gall-bladders of sheep and goats, some hundreds of which are an essential part of the witch-doctor’s paraphernalia.

When Nomaduma appeared, a low murmur, which lasted for a few seconds, arose, and then dead silence reigned. She stood erect and gazed fixedly at the sun; then she turned slowly towards the gibbous moon which was sinking in the west. She appeared to affect being unaware of the presence of the chief and his crowd of followers. Moving very slowly, she took a few paces towards where Makanda was sitting, and then she paused, closing her eyes and throwing her head back, as her body and limbs stiffened. After a silence of a few minutes, and without changing her posture, she spoke:

“The chief has come to seek my help against the false friends who seek to do him evil.”

From hundreds of eager throats the one word “Siyavuma” burst out in a great shout, to the accompaniment of a simultaneous clap from the same number of pairs of hands. Dead silence immediately followed, and after a short pause Nomaduma continued:

“The chief was about to go forth to attack his enemies.” (Here she made a sweep with her hand to southward, the direction in which the Cwera country lay.) “Siyavuma.”

“The chief bade his ‘war-doctor’ (inyanga) prepare the pot of magic medicines and place it on the roof of his hut, so that the spirits of his fathers (imishologu), that dwell in the unseen, might make his men brave and his enemies faint-hearted.”

“Siyavuma.”

“In the darkness of the night the stealthy steps of the traitor approached. Then his perfidious hands bore away the pot, which he afterwards gave with the potent medicines of the war-doctor to a messenger sent to receive it by the enemy.”

“Siyavuma.”

“When the spirits of his fathers came to the chief’s hut, and found that the medicines were gone, they departed in anger, thinking that the chief and his tribe held them in contempt.”

“Siyavuma.”

“Those who wish evil to the chief are few, but they are crafty. Two men only are guilty in this matter, one bore the pot of medicines away, and the other afterwards delivered it to the messenger of the enemy.” “Siyavuma.”

“These traitors were incited to this deed by greed, they having been promised large rewards by the enemy for their treachery.”

“Siyavuma.”

“The wicked ones have called themselves the friends of the chief, and they were trusted by him; one of them is present, but the other has feared to come before my face.”

There was no shout of “Siyavuma” at this, but a deep and confused murmur arose among the men. It seemed to swell and break and shrink, and then to wander backwards and forwards and up and down the curving lines of the crescent, as if endowed with volition. It was like an evil spirit seeking a victim to destroy. Each man looked at his neighbour with shrinking distrust, and tried to draw away from contact with a possible wizard. At length the shuddering sound died, and a tense and terrible silence reigned.

Nomaduma stamped with her foot on the ground, and a girl who looked to be about twelve or thirteen years of age ran out of the hut carrying a heavy stabbing spear with a broad and gleaming blade. This she handed to the witch-doctor, and then she ran back to the hut. Nomaduma took the spear and advanced slowly to where Makanda and his councillors were sitting. She paused when close before the chief, and said:

“At your right hand sits your councillor Rolobani; he and Matshaka, who has joined the Christians, are the guilty men.”

Rolobani started to his feet, his eye-balls starting from his head, and his face ashen-grey. He tried to speak, but could only gasp for breath. His companions fell away in every direction to avoid the contamination of his touch.

The crescent broke up in disorder, the men surrounding the doomed wretch in a furious, surging crowd. Nomaduma held up the spear, its head glinting brightly in the sunshine, and again dead silence fell on the throng. She then walked up to Rolobani and seized the necklet of charms which he wore, after the manner of most natives. This she dragged from his neck, and held out at arm’s length.

“In the pot of medicines prepared by the war-doctor for the chief, was the dried head of a water-snake; the war-doctor is present; let him declare if I speak the truth or not.”

The war-doctor called out from amongst the crowd that this statement was true.

“Look. I open this bag which I have taken from Rolobanis neck, and in it find the thing I have named. He stole it out of the pot which he sold to the Cwera chief.”

Here she held up the shrivelled snake’s head, so that it could be seen by all.

This was accepted as proof positive, in the face of which, had any man dared to lift his voice in favour of the doomed but guiltless victim, he would probably have been killed as an accomplice. The unhappy Rolobani again tried to speak, but his voice was drowned in shouts of rage. In a few moments his hands were bound behind his back, and he was led away by two men, each holding a thong which was noosed around his neck.

Rolobani was dragged towards the Bonxa hill, followed by the furious crowd. On the least appearance of faltering he was freely prodded behind with spears, and by the time he reached the commencement of the steep ascent, he was streaming with blood. Then a frenzy seized him and he bounded forward, climbing over the rocks on his abrupt course so fast that he tugged at the thongs by which he was held prisoner. He knew he had to die at the top of the hill, and his only anxiety now was to get it over as quickly as possible. Consequently, he and the two men holding him got some considerable distance ahead, and reached the bare summit of the hill some seconds before the nearest of the crowd which straggled after them. Among the boulders forming the fringe gleamed white bones, and a shapeless horror, emitting a dreadful stench lay huddled in a cleft at the prisoners feet. As the men arrived one by one, they gradually formed a ring around the doomed wretch whose last hour had so nearly sped; their black, sinister, relentless countenances shining with the sweat that poured plentifully from them.

Rolobani was a man whose bravery had been proved in many a tribal fight. The terrible accusation of witchcraft combined with foul treachery had broken down his courage for a little space, but now he was his own man again, and, in the strength of his conscious innocence, could look steadily into the eyes of death. He glanced round the ring of angry faces contemptuously, and then stood stolidly awaiting his certain doom. After a short pause a man stole out from the circle armed with a heavily knobbed club, and struck him from behind a violent, smashing blow on the head. He fell forward on his face, and in a few moments was beaten into a shapeless mass.

Matshaka had not been bidden to the gathering at Nomaduma’s kraal. He was, however, aware of such through overhearing a conversation between two of his sons. His conversion to Christianity had been a fruitful topic among the Pondos during the previous week; at every “beer-drink” it had been discussed. His name became a by-word among the heathen, a shaking of the head among the people.

As the men passed his kraal on their way to the witch-doctor’s they shouted derisive and insulting words at him. His former friends had cut him dead in the public ways. All this was no more than he expected; he had helped to make others suffer what he now endured, and he felt that he deserved it.

When he thought of the future it seemed to be one mass of difficulties, not the least of which was presented by his four wives. His chief wife, old Nolenti, had been neglected by him for years past. He now determined to marry her according to Christian rites, and to send the other three back to their respective homes. He tried to explain this to Nolenti, but utterly failed to make her understand him. She was quite satisfied with her position of chief wife, and her consequent immunity from labour in the fields. It was, he felt, his appointed task to endeavour to make her see and appreciate the truth which illuminated his enfranchised spirit. His three eldest sons had married and were established in kraals of their own. They spent most of their days in going from beer-drink to beer-drink, leaving their wives to hoe in the fields. Several of his elder daughters were also married. His younger sons lounged about the huts all day, their only occupation being the herding of cattle, and keeping the calves away from the cows until milking-time. His younger daughters played, naked and unashamed, about the kraal, except when fetching fuel from the forest on the Intsiza, or scaring the long-tailed finches from the crops. He felt he must try and save the souls of his children; how to begin, that was the question. He was as much an object of suspicion among them as among strangers. He read distrust in every eye. Even at his own kraal, if a few were gathered together and he approached, silence fell upon all, and they would nervously disperse if he joined them.

And now, on this Sunday morning, Matshaka experienced his first revulsion of feeling against his new belief. Was it true, after all? He could hardly have told what it was that he believed in. How large the difficulties loomed! how bitter were the sufferings he was enduring! how the future lowered and threatened! Matshaka was naturally a sociable man, and the ostracism to which he was subjected caused him acute pain.

Musing miserably on all these things, he walked slowly towards the comb of the ridge about two miles from his kraal and in the direction of the Rodè. From this ridge the church could be seen by looking diagonally across a long, shallow, grassy valley. This was the day on which he was to have been formally received into the church as a member. Now his courage failed him, and he determined to postpone the matter, at all events for another week.

As he reached the top of the ridge, the sound of the bell came floating and quivering up through the limpid air. Being much nearer the church, the ringing sounded more clear and distinct in his ear than on the morning he had spent upon the mountain.

Away to the left, and distant about five miles, the upper half of the Bonxa hill could be clearly seen projecting over an intervening ridge. Matshaka could see the swarm of men around the summit; he knew by experience what that indicated, and a shudder went through him. He sat watching until he saw the crowd break up, descend slowly, and disappear behind the ridge.

The bell rang on, and again Matshaka saw the little knots of people moving in towards the church, like ants towards a nest. Then, suddenly, the doubter recovered his faith. His soul again became flooded with light. He bent his head and wept, partly with shame at his recent doubts, but mostly with relief and joy at the recovering of his faith.

He arose after a while and moved towards the church. After walking a few yards he recollected that he was wearing nothing but his blanket. He did not wish to enter the church unless properly clothed, so he sat down again, his brain reeling with the crowd of thoughts that hurtled through it, and his ears filled with the music of the mission bell.

Glancing to the left, Matshaka noticed a party of about thirty men coming along the footpath which led towards his kraal over the saddle where he was sitting. These men came from the direction of the Bonxa. Wishing to avoid them, Matshaka arose and walked slowly forward in the direction of the Rodè. Looking around again after a few moments, he saw to his surprise that the men had left the path, and were apparently endeavouring to intercept him. He quickened his pace, and they began to run. In an instant he saw what had happened: he had been “smelt out,” and this was the killing party sent to put him to a cruel death.

The instinctive love of life surged up in Matshaka, and he bounded forward in the direction of the church where, like Adonijah, he might catch hold on the horns of the altar. Matshaka well knew that the church was held to be an inviolable sanctuary even by the chiefs most rabid in their hatred of supposed wizards. He had himself helped to hunt a fugitive along the same course under similar circumstances, and had angrily grumbled when the man eluded his clutches.

But Matshaka was an elderly man, whilst several of his pursuers were young and in the prime of their strength. They did not succeed in intercepting him, but as the chase proceeded it could easily be seen that the hunted man was losing ground. He now crossed a shallow valley, the bulging side of which hid the church from view. Running up the hill sorely tried his strength. Glancing back over his shoulder he could see that the three foremost of his pursuers were rapidly gaining on him.

Just then the bell rang out once more to call the people together to a special class meeting held after the conclusion of the ordinary service. The sound nerved Matshaka to fresh effort. He knew that his time had conic—that he would never gain the sanctuary; so he now strove only to reach the top of the ridge from where the church could be seen. This he just succeeded in doing, and then he turned and faced his pursuers, who were only a few yards behind him. Instinctively he had thus far carried his knobbed stick; this he now flung away over the heads of his three enemies, lest he should be tempted to use it.

In a few seconds Matshaka was surrounded by a ring of implacable foes.

He stood as still as his panting would permit, with folded arms, and gazed fixedly at the church. He was quite naked, having long since flung away his blanket in the course of the pursuit. The bell had now ceased ringing, and the minister with his congregation stood bare-headed at the side of the building, sadly expectant of the impending tragedy. They knew they dared not interfere.

The leader of the pursuers, a tall, ill-looking man named ’Ndatyana, took a pace forward and said:

“Ha, Matshaka, son and father of wizards, so we have caught you.”

“Yes, and I am a dead man. Whatever I am, my children are guiltless. Give me but a little time to pray; then do with me what you will, but spare them.”

Matshaka knelt down, clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and turned his face upwards to the sky. His lips moved slightly. The men stood around him without sound or movement. After a short pause he stood up, folded his arms, looked straight into the eyes of ’Ndatyana, and said:

“I am ready.”

For some seconds no one moved. Then, at a nod from the leader, one stepped forward and struck Matshaka a violent blow on the head with a club. He fell heavily to the ground, and in a few seconds all was over.

The little congregation went back into the church, and soon the strains of a hymn arose. When this had ceased, the minister offered up a fervent prayer to the Lord that He might show mercy and forgiveness to those who thus ignorantly slew His servants.

By this time ’Ndatyana and his men were out of sight, so the male members of the congregation, headed by the minister, who carried a large white sheet, wended slowly to where the body lay. Then with reverent hands they lifted it from the ground and bore it into the church. They laid it, bleeding, in front of the little communion table at which they had so recently celebrated the Lord’s Supper.

And every one there knew it to be an acceptable offering.

Chapter Six.

Little Tobè.

“It wastes me more Than were’t my picture fashioned out of wax, Stuck with a magic needle, and then buried In some foul dunghill.” The Duchess of Malfy.

One

For nearly two years after Madilenda came to the kraal of Sikulumè as his third wife, she was fairly happy, Mamagobatyana, the “great wife,” was neither jealous nor exacting; she was fat and lazy, and took her highest enjoyment in sleeping in the hot sunshine on the lee-side of the hut. Nozika, the second wife, had apparently been selected by her spouse for her muscle; she was extremely stupid and not particularly well-favoured, but powerfully built, and equal to any amount of hard work in the fields.

Madilenda was of a type somewhat uncommon among native women. She was light in colour, with finely-formed features and very prominent eyes. Her figure was the perfection of symmetry. According to European taste she was very pretty indeed, but the ordinary native would have preferred a woman somewhat larger built, and generally of a coarser type.

Near the end of the first year her baby,—“Little Tobè,”—was born, and then for a time she was perfectly happy. The baby came just at the end of spring. During the previous four months she had not been expected to work, and she had a nice long rest to look forward to before the hoeing of the maize and millet-fields would commence.

Sikulumè was a man whom every one found it easy to get on with, and he made in every respect a capital husband. He was kind to his wives, and they were very fond of him. He was rich, and the skin bags and calabashes at his kraal were full of milk. Winter and summer, food was plentiful, work was easy, and the three wives were not jealous of each other. Truly, Madilenda’s lines were cast in comparatively pleasant places.

Sikulumè’s kraal was situated in a deep valley through which one of the tributaries of the Kenira river runs. He was a Hlubi Kafir. Living in one of the territories administered by the Government of the Cape Colony, he had nothing to fear from the rapacity of the chief, or the malice of the witch-doctor.

Little Tobè grew rapidly both in stature and intelligence. His father was fond and proud of him, and his mother not only thought, but knew him to be the finest baby in the world. She fastened charms around his neck, the seeds of the “rhiza” to keep away convulsions, and a piece of “mooti” or medicinal wood as a preventive against illness generally. Besides these, Madilenda’s father gave her the tooth of a leopard, which she hung next to the “mooti” for the purpose of making her boy brave.

Mamagobatyana, the “great wife,” was very clever as a maker of mats. She used to send her daughters down to the banks of the Kenira river in the autumn, before the grass-fires swept over the country, to collect green rushes—of which they brought back great bundles. Of these rushes she would construct mats which, for excellence of workmanship, were renowned throughout the district. As soon as she had three or four mats completed she would take them up to the trader at the Mandilini, and dispose of them, obtaining sugar, bright-coloured handkerchiefs, brass ornaments, and beads in exchange.

One day, when little Tobè was about a year old, Mamagobatyana returned from the trader’s, laden with treasures. She had carried up and disposed of an unusually large number of mats, and with the proceeds had purchased, amongst other things, twelve yards of print of a particularly striking pattern and hue. With this she meant to have a dress made. She had never yet worn such a garment, but a woman from a mission station, who was visiting her relations at a neighbouring kraal, was wearing a dress made of similar material. This woman was of about Mamagobatyana’s age and build, and the sight of her dress had kindled in Mamagobatyana’s soul a strong desire to possess a similar garment. Thus when she saw the material at the trader’s she at once purchased sufficient for her purpose. The other woman happened to be in the shop at the same time, and she agreed to cut out and make the dress for a reasonable remuneration. Mamagobatyana, however, was so proud of her purchase that she could not bear to relinquish the material to the modiste before exhibiting it to Madilenda and Nozika, so she tied it up in a bundle, placed it under her arm, and bore it away in triumph to her kraal.

The day was cold, and most of the people were indoors warming their hands at the little fires lit in the centre of the different huts. Around these fires men, women, and children crouched on their hams, keeping their heads as low as possible, so as to be out of the upper stratum of thick smoke, which was sharply defined from the lower zone, about a yard thick, of quite clear air. When you enter a Kafir hut in which there is a fire, you must always keep your head low, or else you will be stifled. The greener the wood that happens to be burning is, the denser the smoke and the thicker the smoke-zone will be. Sometimes in damp weather you may have to lie down on the ground to get a breath of clear air, and from within three inches of the tip of the nose through which you are breathing comfortably, you may watch the sharply-defined and undulating under-surface of an opaque cloud of acrid, stinging smoke.

At the kraal of a polygamous Kafir each wife has her own particular hut, which is, in a very real sense, her castle, and the door of which she can shut against all except her husband; and even against him sometimes. When, however, the wives of a family live on fairly good terms mutually, they often exchange visits, and enjoy a considerable amount of reciprocal friendly intercourse.

On the occasion when Mamagobatyana returned to her kraal, proud in the possession of the twelve yards of print, she found no fire lit in her own hut, her children having gone to the hut of Madilenda, where they were sitting playing with little Tobè. She therefore decided to remain in Madilendas hut, and there dry her damp blanket and exhibit her purchases, whilst a fire was being lit by her daughters in her own dwelling.

Mamagobatyana was stout and consequently had some difficulty in stooping; more especially after unwonted exercise. When, therefore, she entered the hut through the low doorway, she found her head surrounded by an atmosphere of pungent smoke arising from the combustion of damp sneeze-wood. This made her eyes smart excessively, and caused her to cough and gasp.

She sat down on the ground close to the fire, and handed the parcel containing the dress material to Madilenda, asking her to open it. This was soon done, and the material, in yard-length folds, was laid out for admiration on a clean mat at the other side of the fire.

Just then Mamagobatyana got another bad fit of coughing. Between her gasps she begged for a drink of water which Madilenda, after placing little Tobè on the ground, went to fetch in a cleft calabash.

Now, little Tobè was an extremely lively child, and was of an inquiring turn of mind. The thing of all others that had a special attraction for him was fire. Repeated burnings and many slaps had not abated this attraction. Whenever left to himself in the vicinity of a fire he would endeavour to seize one of the burning sticks and drag it away to play with. On two occasions he had narrowly avoided setting fire to the hut by this means. On the present occasion, no sooner had his mother left him to himself upon the ground, than he seized from the fire an attractive brand, one end of which was glowing charcoal, and turned to investigate the bright-coloured print which was close at hand.

Madilenda returned with the water, and saw, to her horror, that Tobè had laid the fire-stick on the print, six or seven folds of which had been already burnt through. She snatched away the firebrand, and quenched the burning material with the water which she had brought for Mamagobatyana. The dress, of course, was completely ruined. Mamagobatyana broke out into fierce lamentations and tears of rage. She refused to be comforted. In a few moments she went off to her own hut, muttering threats and calling little Tobè all the abusive names she could think of. Little Tobè, much to his astonishment, received from his mother a spanking more severe than any he had previously suffered.

Two

About two months after the ruination of Mamagobatyana’s dress by little Tobè, measles of a virulent type broke out among the native children, and nearly decimated the kraals. It was not so much the disease itself, as its after effects, that were so fatal. The children usually got over the measles easily enough, but they were allowed directly afterwards to run about naked, no matter how cold the weather might be. Inflammation of the lungs then often supervened, usually with a fatal result.

Little Tobè got the disease in the first instance in a very mild form, but just at the critical stage of convalescence, very cold, wet weather set in, and he soon developed a bad cough. Soon afterwards he began to pine, and lose his appetite. His eyes became unnaturally large and bright, and he evidently suffered severely from pains in his poor little chest. Sometimes the cough nearly left him, but at the least recurrence of unfavourable weather another violent cold would ensue.

A “gqira” (native doctor) was sent for, and a goat killed for his entertainment. He made an infusion of ashes obtained from burnt roots of different sorts, frogs’ feet, baboons’ hair, lizards’ tails, and other items included in his grotesque pharmacopoeia, and with this poor little Tobè was heavily dosed. He then hung some infallible charms tied up in a little skin bag around the invalid’s neck by a string made of twisted hairs from the tail of the “ubulunga” (see Note) cow. Next morning, after promising a speedy recovery, he departed, taking a fat ox as his fee. But poor little Tobè became worse and worse; his legs and arms that had been so chubby were now mere skinny sticks, and his ribs were sharply defined under the dry, feverish skin of his thorax. When not coughing he wailed almost incessantly, and he hardly ever slept.

Madilenda grew very thin and hollow-eyed herself, and she went her weary way the picture of utter misery. Sikulumè was very much distressed at the poor little boy’s plight, and he sent to a distance for another “gqira,” a most celebrated practitioner. Upon arriving at the kraal this one required a fat black ox to be killed, with the blood of which he sprinkled every member of Sikulumè’s family, poor little Tobè coming in for an extra share.

After speaking in the most slighting terms of the former doctor’s treatment, he made a powder of the burnt bones of several kinds of snakes and birds. He then made small incisions with a sharpened stick across the chest, and around the neck, arms, and body of the patient, and into these rubbed the powder. After this he applied a plaster of fresh cow-dung to little Tobè’s chest, and then wrapped him up in the skin of the black ox killed on the previous evening. Then he carried him out of the hut and laid him in the middle of the cattle kraal. This occurred at noon, and until sundown the “gqira” danced and chanted around his patient in the most violent and grotesque manner conceivable. Just after sundown he fell down in a kind of fit, foaming at the mouth and yelling horribly, and then appeared to go off into a swoon. When he awoke from this he crawled over to where the poor little child was looking out from among his wraps with wondering eyes, inserted his hands between the folds of the skin, and drew forth a lizard about four inches in length. This he held up to view of the admiring and applauding crowd. Here was the cause of the malady, rid of which the child would at once mend. Madilenda wept tears of joy as she released little Tobè from his unsavoury durance.

The “gqira” left next morning with a reputation more firmly established than ever. He took with him two of Sikulumè’s best cattle.

For about a week after the function described the weather was mild and dry, and little Tobè really appeared to be somewhat better. Unfortunately, however, the improvement did not last. A cold rain set in, and the cough became worse than ever. The mother then grew desperate; she loved the child so passionately that the thought of the possibility of losing him maddened her. The idea that little Tobè had been bewitched had gradually developed in her mind. Among the uncivilised natives, illness, especially in the case of one who is young, is almost always attributed to witchcraft. Some enemy, by means of occult arts, has caused the disease, embodied in a snake, a lizard, or a toad, to enter the body of the sufferer during sleep. The unhappy mother strongly suspected Mamagobatyana of having committed some iniquity of this kind in revenge for the spoiling of her dress. She was confirmed in this idea by an old woman from a neighbouring kraal, who had a spite against Mamagobatyana, and who suggested to Madilenda what she had loner been thinking of. As a matter of fact, however, it had been for some little time whispered throughout the neighbourhood that Mamagobatyana had bewitched little Tobè.

Here and there among the Hlubi kraals are to be found the dwellings of Basuto waifs who have drifted over the Maluti and Drakensberg mountains to find a refuge from deserved punishment or despotic oppression. Among the natives an alien is often believed to be an adept in magic more effective than that practised by their own local tribal doctors, and the sorcery of the Basuto, being associated with the awful, mysterious, and cloudy mountains of his (in parts) almost impenetrable land, is held to be very potent indeed.

Now, an old Basuto, named Lotuba, dwelt high up in the valley in which Sikulumè’s kraal was situated. Lotuba was famed far and near for his skill as a wizard. It was believed that he could reveal the secrets of the past as easily as he could foretell the future. His methods were quite different to those practised by the Hlubi witch-doctors, and consisted principally of divining through the medium of the “dolossie” bones. These are the metatarsal and metacarpal bones of sheep, goats, antelopes, and other animals, coloured variously. Lotuba would sit on a mat, gather up two or three dozen of these bones, shake them up together in the corner of his calfskin kaross, and then fling them down on the ground after the manner of dice. From the different combinations formed by the bones as they lay on the ground he would read the answer to any question put to him. It was usual for those consulting him to pay a goat as a fee in advance. In this manner he had accumulated considerable wealth.

One night Madilenda asked Sikulumè to let her take a goat from his flock and drive it up to the kraal of Lotuba, whose advice as to little Tobè she wished to ask for. It happened, however, that Sikulumè had reasons of his own for disliking the Basuto doctor, whose kraal, by permission of the chief, was built on what Sikulumè considered to be by right his own particular run of pasturage, so he refused Madilenda’s request, telling her rather roughly that he had had enough of doctors. Madilenda heard him in silence. She sat the whole night through, rocking little Tobè in her lap, and trying to soothe his cough.

It was now mid-winter, and when the frosty dawn glimmered faintly through the latticed door of the hut, the hapless mother arose, wrapped the suffering child warmly in a blanket, stole quietly out, and hurried up the rugged valley towards the dwelling of Lotuba. She had to walk but a little more than a mile, but the road was steep and stony, and she was weak from the effects of long-suffering anxiety and sleeplessness. Besides she was again enceinte; she expected the baby to be born in about two months. Slowly and painfully she climbed her way along the zigzag pathway, sitting down on a stone to rest every now and then. When she reached Lotuba’s kraal the sun had just risen. She did not approach the hut at once, but sat down to rest on the sunny side of the stone goat-enclosure. Here she found a spot sheltered from the keen breeze, so she laid little Tobè down gently upon the ground. The child, protected from the raw air by the thick blanket which was loosely laid over his head, slept soundly, being exhausted from the sufferings of the night.

Madilenda then proceeded to divest herself of all her ornaments. She removed her double bracelets and anklets of cowrie shells, and the brass and copper bangles from her arms and legs. From her throat she untied the necklet of goats’ teeth strung on twisted sinew. Around her waist was tied a small bundle; this she opened, and thus revealed two brightly-coloured cotton handkerchiefs and a small paper packet containing five silver sixpences and four three-penny pieces. The money had been given to her by her husband, coin by coin, out of the proceeds of the hides which she had from time to time carried up to the trader’s and sold.

She spread out one of the handkerchiefs and wrapped the other articles loosely in it; then she lifted the child and walked up the slope to the witch-doctor’s hut, in front of which she sat down and waited, trying at the same time to soothe the child, who was now awake, and who wailed pitifully in the intervals between the racking fits of coughing.

After a short time the door of the hut was opened, and Lotuba the witch-doctor appeared. He was an old man, with wizened features and small, bright eyes. His limbs were thin, and he walked with a stoop.

Lotuba stood, wrapped to the throat in a calfskin kaross, and looked intently at Madilenda, who returned his gaze. After a few moments he re-entered the hut, and beckoned to her to follow him. He seated himself on a mat just inside the door, and Madilenda knelt down, sitting on her heels, opposite him on the floor.

“Those who seek my advice,” he said, “bring something as payment.”

For answer Madilenda held out the little bundle tied in the handkerchief. Lotuba took this, opened it deliberately and examined the contents. Then he tied it up again and hung it to one of the wattles of the hut. Suspended from the central pole was a bag made of the skin of a red mountain cat. This Lotuba took down; then he emptied the “dolossie” bones which it contained into one of the corners of the kaross. Taking a double handful of the bones he flung them down with a sweeping throw on the bare, clay floor.

Bending over the bones with the appearance of one calculating deeply, he kept silence for some little time, and then began to speak in a droning, monotonous, sing-song voice:

“The wife of Sikulumè comes in the early morning with her sick child. She has held it to her breast for many days and nights. It eats not. It gets thinner day by day. It coughs from the rising of the sun to the falling of the darkness, and again until day comes.”

Here he gathered up the bones and again flung them to the ground.

“The delight of the child before it got sick, was to play with fire. The ‘imishologu’ (ancestral spirits) meant the child to be one who would sport with danger.”

Here he again gathered up the bones, waved them to and fro, and scattered them on the ground. Madilenda sat gazing with wide eyes. Her features were drawn and set. She held the child, which once more slept, tightly to her bosom. The witch-doctor continued:

“The ‘great wife’ of Sikulumè had anger against the child in her heart. She dreamt a dream which made her fearful. Then she went to the wise woman of the Vinyanè, who told her that this child would overcome the sons of her house as the autumn fires overcome the grass.”

Madilenda sat like a statue with eyes aflame. Lotuba threw the bones again, and continued:

“She told her husband of this, and he too feared for the sons of his ‘great house’. In the night they talked over the matter, and they determined that the child should die, so they buried the magic medicines that draw the poison-lizard to the side of the sleeper, in the floor of the hut of the child’s mother. Soon afterwards the child sickened. He will die before the coming of the spring rains, for no skill can save him.”

Madilenda waited for no more. She arose, left the hut, and walked down along the pathway by which she had come, clasping little Tobè to her breaking heart.

After walking a few hundred yards she turned abruptly to the right and ran swiftly along another footpath which led over a saddle to the next valley, in which her brother, Galonkulu, dwelt.

Three

Sikulumè soon ascertained that Madilenda was at the kraal of Galonkulu, and on the second day of her sojourn there he followed with the intention of persuading her to return to her home. She confronted him with blazing eyes and heaving breast, and bade him begone and never again approach her. Galonkulu and all the others at his kraal were fully persuaded of the guilt of Mamagobatyana, and they strongly suspected Sikulumè of complicity. He, conscious of his innocence, was thunderstruck at the accusation, the foulest that can be made against a native, and at once withdrew, filled with indignation.

Madilenda and little Tobè were given a hut to live in, and were provided with milk and corn. The poor little child only lived for a week after his removal. One morning, after a night of terrible coughing, he lay very still in his mother’s arms. Fearing to disturb him she sat still until she became quite stiff. By and by he grew cold, and when she moved her hand to reach for a blanket to cover him with, his head fell back loosely. He had been dead for a long time whilst she thought he was sleeping.

They dug a grave close to the kraal; a pit was first sunk to a depth of about five feet, and then in the side a little chamber was excavated. In this the emaciated little body, which had grown so long, was laid facing the north. It was wrapped in white calico obtained from the trader, and beneath it was a mat. The opening of the side-chamber was then walled up, and the grave filled in. The desolate mother would sit for hours on a stone next to the grave-cairn, and weep bitter tears.

The unhappy woman brooded day and night over her sorrow, and, as the time for her confinement approached, she was filled with a fresh dread. She had persuaded herself that Mamagobatyana and her husband had bewitched her unborn child, and that it would die like little Tobè. This delusion preyed upon her mind to such an extent that she became almost insane. The people of the kraal feared and avoided her. They still supplied her with food and left her in possession of the hut, but otherwise neglected her completely. She took to lonely wanderings and often talked to herself. Sikulumè, wroth at the undeserved aspersion cast upon him and his “great wife,” did not again come near her, and thus she ate her own heart out in grief, terror, and loneliness.

It was now September, and the spring rains set in with a cold deluge. The Kenira river roared in flood through the rocky gorge below the northern face of the Umgano Mountain.

One morning, the second after the rain had ceased, Madilenda wandered down the valley she dwelt in, to where it joins the river, and then lay down to rest in a sunny nook just below a rocky bluff. The deep-thrilling murmur of the brown flood as it churned along in its winding course soothed her, the warm sunshine brought a sensation of physical comfort which to her weary and debilitated body had long been unknown, and she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was late in the afternoon. She tried to rise, but found she was unable to do so. A succession of sharp pains racked her. Her time had come.

One advantage which women of the uncivilised races possess over their European sisters is this, that for them the curse of Eve is lightened to such an extent as to be hardly a curse at all. That ordeal which the artificial life of our race through so many generations has made pathological, is, with the majority of native women, a process so easy that in normal instances little suffering and hardly any danger is entailed. But in Madilenda’s case mental agony and bodily fatigue during the terrible months she had just lived through had lowered her vitality to such an extent that she completely collapsed. The sun went down on her ineffectual pangs; throughout the long, cold, winter’s night the stars swept over her anguish.

The sun arose and thawed the thick hoarfrost that had crusted over the shrubs and the grass, and still she lay moaning between frequent swoons. A troop of wild baboons came searching along the mountain-side, turning over the stones in their pursuit of lizards and scorpions; the leader looked at Madilenda where she lay, and darted aside with a startled cough. A jackal slinking home to his burrow after a night of depredation, crept close up to her, looked long and carefully, and then hid amongst the stones near by, awaiting further developments. A wandering vulture made a loop in its course and then swept upwards in a widening circle. Soon afterwards, other vultures, that had read the signal aright, came flocking up from all directions in increasing numbers.

Late in the afternoon exhausted nature made a final effort, and the child was born. The mother fainted immediately and then lay long unconscious. When she again came to herself she turned with painful difficulty and drew the child to her. It was cold and dead.

So the curse had fallen here as well, as she had expected. A wild indignation surged up in Madilenda and conquered the weakness of death that was stealing over her. The sky seemed to have turned black, and the swirling river blood-red.

A shadow slid over her. She looked up and saw the sweeping vultures which were now rapidly drawing in their spirals over where she lay. She knew what that meant. One of them swooped so close that she felt the wind of its wings, and heard the horrible skur-r-r-r of the pinions. The bird alighted on a stone a few yards off, and began to preen the vermin from its filthy feathers.

Drawing the dead child under her arm, Madilenda crept backwards on her hands and knees in the direction of the river. From the ledge on which she had been lying, a steep slope of about twenty yards, which ended in an abrupt drop of a few feet where the water had undermined the bank, led to the swirling torrent. Down this slope she slowly and painfully crept. When she reached it, the undermined bank gave way under her, and she dropped like a stone into the water. One dull splash, scarcely to be heard over the growling of the flood, and Madilenda slept in the soft and merciful arms of Death.

Note. When a native woman marries, her husband presents her with a heifer, which is thereupon considered a sacred animal. It may never be slaughtered, under any circumstances, and should it die untimely, such is regarded as a token of evil fortune. The hairs of the tail are thought to have peculiarly protective properties for members of the “house,” in respect of illness. This animal is known as the “ubulunga.”

Chapter Seven.

The Imishologu.

There is no bird in any last year’s nest.

One

Whoever has traversed the valley of the Umzinivubu river below the Tabankulu Mountain, in that vicinity where the Tsitsa, the Tina, and the Umzimhlava streams have carved their several devious courses almost through the vitals of the earth to the main water-way, has seen the roughest part of Pondoland, and seldom feels inclined to repeat the experience. However, ponies accustomed to such regions will clamber up and down precipices which would make a domestic cat that is only habituated to the house-top of civilisation nervous, and accidents on such journeys seldom occur.

It has been my fortune twice to penetrate these rugged regions, an interval of a year elapsing between the expeditions. Hence the following tale.

The season was late autumn. I had made a very early start, and my horses were tired. I decided, therefore, to camp where I was, between the precipice from which I had just escaped and another, equally dangerous, frowning just before me, and which it seemed impossible to avoid. The place was a small, flat ledge upon a rugged tongue of land running from the mountain out to a sheer bluff, under which the river, still slightly swollen from the late summer rains, murmured, hundreds of feet below.

A native kraal consisting of three huts, a stone cattle enclosure, and a small goat-pen made of bushes, stood on the ledge. Two of the huts were occupied by human beings, and the third, ordinarily used as a corn store, was civilly placed at my disposal by the head of the kraal, an old Pondo named Zwilibanzi. His son, one Madolo, and the latter’s wife and two children, were the only other occupants of the kraal.

I was particularly struck by the air of cleanliness and neatness pervading the whole establishment. This was in strong contrast with the condition of the other kraals I had visited. The Pondos are, it may be stated, much dirtier in their habits than are other natives. Their huts are usually ragged and disorderly on the outside, and as to the interiors—why, the less said about them the better.

The night was cold, so after assisting my after-rider to make the horses as comfortable as circumstances would permit, I entered the hut of Madolo, who, with the old man, was sitting on the ground next to a bright, almost smokeless fire. I then, for the first time, noticed the two children, one boy named Dhlaka, aged about ten years, and the other a little girl aged about six, whose name turned out to be Nodada, a Kafir word meaning “wild duck.” The mother was absent, but was momentarily expected to return.

Nodada was a remarkably pretty child. All she wore in the way of clothing was a small apron of strung beads, unless a necklet of charms hung on hairs from the tail of the “ubulunga” cow can be counted as such. She made friends with me at once, although, as her grandfather assured me, she had never previously seen a European. The boy, on the other hand, would not come to terms at all, but crouched on the ground near the door, ready to spring up and flee, as he did whenever I attempted to make advances, After a short interval, the mother, a good-looking woman of about thirty, arrived. Her name was Nomayeshè. After greeting her husband, her father-in-law, and me (as guest) with politeness and ease, she turned to the children; the evidently genuine affection manifested between her and them was truly remarkable. She sat down on the floor of the hut and they flung themselves upon her. They were immediately clasped to her breast, with many an endearing epithet. I could not help wishing at the time that some of those who believe the Aryan race in South Africa to have a monopoly of the gentler feelings and emotions could have been present. It could easily be seen that the warmest feeling on the part of the mother was for the little girl, who, up to the time when I retired for the night, never left her side.

Next morning, shortly after daybreak, I bade farewell to my kind hosts, and resumed climbing the anything-but-delectable mountains. In pausing to take breath just before passing out of sight of the kraal I looked back, and saw Nomayeshè at the hut door looking after me, and the little girl holding on to her mother’s skin skirt.

Within a few days of a year afterwards, I travelled over the same course, but in an opposite direction. I had attempted to reach old Zwilibanzi’s, with the view of spending the night there, but when the sun went down, leaving me still several miles away from that spot, I found it necessary to seek shelter at another kraal, where my entertainment was somewhat indifferent. However, I reached Zwilibanzi’s next day at about noon. Even from a distance it was apparent that things were changed for the worse in comparison with what I had seen a year previously. The huts looked dilapidated, and there was an atmosphere of dreariness over the whole establishment. I found old Zwilibanzi asleep on a mat on the sunny side of his hut, but could see no sign of another human being. I wakened the old man, but it was some time before I could bring myself to his remembrance. He was totally blind and extremely deaf, and had aged considerably in every respect. At length he remembered me, and then he seemed extremely pleased.

Where were Madolo, Nomayeshè, and the children? I asked. Alas! Nomayeshè and the little girl Nodada were both dead, Madolo had left the neighbourhood, and the boy Dhlaka had gone to stay with an uncle at another kraal. Of the happy family I had so often thought of, only this old man remained. A nephew, with his two wives, had come to dwell at the kraal, but I gathered from Zwilibanzi that they were not kind to him, that the nephew was idle, and too much in the habit of going to beer-drinks, and the wives lazy, ill-tempered, and fonder of emptying than of filling the milk-sack and the calabashes.

There was much that was tragic, and some that was sordid, in the old man’s tale. What follows is an account of the tragedy.

Two

It was just at the merging of autumn and winter; the last of the maize crop was being gathered in, and the first touch of frost was browning the hill-tops. The field cultivated by Zwilibanzi’s family lay in a ravine a few hundred yards below the northern side of the ledge on which the kraal was built. Thither Nomayeshè, with another woman who came to assist at the harvesting, went every day for the purpose of stripping what remained of the maize-cobs from the withered stalks, and carrying what they gathered in baskets up to the kraal. At this work Madolo was not supposed to assist, so he took his departure for the “great place” of the paramount Pondo chief, for the purpose of attending an “umkandhlu,” or “meeting for talk,” of which general notice had been given.

Early in the afternoon of the second day after Madolo left, there remained little more than two basketfuls of grain to remove, so Nomayeshè, with the other woman and Dhlaka, went down with baskets to fetch it. Some little gleaning had to be done, so they expected to be away, more or less, for the whole afternoon.

The day was cold, and old Zwilibanzi was lying asleep in his hut, where a fire had been lighted. Little Nodada, who was very intelligent for her age, was left behind with instructions to attend to the fire and see that it neither went out nor endangered the hut by blazing too freely. This was an occupation to which she was quite accustomed. Thus, when Nomayeshè and her two companions went to the field, the old man and the child were the only ones left at the kraal.

The cattle were within sight on the hill-side, and the little flock of goats was close at hand. Just before he disappeared over the lip of the ledge, Dhlaka called out to Nodada, asking her to keep her eye on the goats, among which were a few strange ones that might be liable to stray.

The sun was still shining when Nomayeshè returned. She found old Zwilibanzi asleep next to the fireplace, which was quite cold, but little Nodada was missing. At first she felt no alarm, but rather anger at the child’s disobedience in thus absenting herself, but after the sun sank behind the ’Ngwemnyama Mountain, and the child was still absent, she began to feel uneasy. When the shades of night began to darken over the valley she became alarmed, and began searching all around the edge of the plateau, calling loudly the child’s name. The woman, her assistant in the harvesting, helped in the search. Up and down the stony gullies, among the narrow rock fissures, below the precipice with which the ledge where the kraal was built ended, the frantic mother and her companion sought with flaming brands throughout the greater part of the long, cold night, but no trace of the child could they find.

The kraal nearest to that of Zwilibanzi was about three miles away, and thither Nomayeshè hurried some time before daybreak, upon her companion’s suggestion that the child might have taken refuge there. At this kraal, however, nothing could be heard of her. When day broke all the men, women, and children turned out and scoured the country. The alarm was wailed out to all the surrounding kraals, and the inhabitants of these joined in the search. When the all too short day drew towards its close, little Nodada was still missing. The hills resounded with the shouts of the seekers, and dwellers in the more distant valleys, flocking in to see what was the matter, had swelled the number of the searchers to a considerable crowd. But all in vain. The sun again sank, and night descended from an untarnished sky of throbbing stars, and the poor little child was still lost in the maze of bare, frowning peak and yawning chasm.

The unhappy mother was now nearly insane. Throughout the whole day she had never rested for a moment, and since the previous noon she had not tasted food. When darkness fell and the seekers returned to their homes, she kindled a large fire on a stony ridge just above the kraal, and all night long she wandered about carrying firebrands, and calling the name of her lost Nodada into the cold ear of the night that mocked her with wild echoes.

Daylight found the searchers again at work, but the experience of the second day was only a repetition of that of the first. Late in the afternoon Nomayeshè fell exhausted to the ground, and was carried senseless to her dwelling. Then the searchers again wended sadly homewards, feeling that further effort would be vain.

Three

The kraal of ’Ndondo was built in a particularly inaccessible part of the valley of the Umzimhlava, and about seven miles from the dwelling of Zwilibanzi. Here, on the second day after the disappearance of little Nodada, was held a small and select gathering. A fat ox had been slaughtered for the occasion, and the pink foam of beer was visible over the lips of several large earthen pots, some of them nearly three feet high.

’Ndondo was related to the heads of several important kraals in the neighbourhood, to which he had only very recently returned. He had, a few years previously, been “smelt out” upon an accusation of having, by means of black magic, caused the death of one of the wives of his chief. Luckily, however, he had got wind of the matter in time, and accordingly had managed to escape—not alone with his life, but with the bulk of his cattle—to the Cwera country. His alleged confederate had not been so lucky. This unhappy man had been tortured to death, his kraal had been destroyed, and all his property confiscated.

Subsequently, however, ’Ndondo, by means of judicious bribery, had managed to convince the chief of his innocence, and had accordingly been permitted to return, as it were, on probation of good behaviour. He was rich in cattle, and was now celebrated for generosity and hospitality to the “isanuse” and “inyanga” fraternities, members of which were generally to be found at his kraal.

On the present occasion, no less than four witch-doctors—one a most celebrated man, a very Matthew Hopkins among witch-finders—were present, the occasion being an attempt to cure one of ’Ndondo’s daughters of what was really epilepsy, but which was supposed to be an attack of “umdhlemnyana,” or “love frenzy,” believed to have been induced by a young man of the neighbourhood by means of the casting a love spell.

It was about mid-day. Long strips of roasted meat were circulating among the feasters, and the beer, which was of a very heavy brew, was being handed round freely in small pots, each with a cleft-calabash spoon floating in it. Then one of the boys who had been herding cattle on the mountain-side rushed in, breathless, and told a strange tale. He had, so he said, been seeking honey in a steep gorge, the entrance to which was visible from the kraal, when he heard cries, as of a child, issuing from beneath a large flat stone. The gorge was not far off, and thither the feasters wended, some gazing back ruefully at the liquor and the baked meats.

They reached the flat stone; it was evidently part of an old land-slip, and lay as a sort of bridge across the bottom of the gorge. On each side the ground was flush with the top. Below it were piled stones which had been carried over by aeons of floods, and above it boulders, too heavy to admit of their being moved by water over the obstacle, had lodged. Among these were a few crevices, this being probably due to a general shifting of the whole mass under exceptionally violent pressure of water from above.

All the men listened carefully, but at first nothing could be heard. The boy, however, was evidently in earnest over his tale, so they all sat down and waited. Sure enough after a few moments they heard a faint wail issuing from under the stone. Here was a portent which the witch-doctors welcomed as something coming specially within their province, and towards an explanation of which they alone could give a clue.

The most celebrated witch-doctor was asked his opinion. He did not give an opinion; he gave a full and positive explanation of the case. There was, he said, undoubtedly a child under the stone, but it had been placed there by the “imishologu,” or spirits of the earth, and under no circumstances whatever should it be interfered with so long as it was in their august charge. The “imishologu” might, of course, be asked in some appropriate and orthodox manner to deliver the child back to the light of day, but any attempt to violate their domain would certainly be followed by severe punishment.

The three other witch-doctors at once declared that they had each independently arrived at exactly the same conclusion.

Upon being asked as to what form the request to the “imishologu” should take, the most celebrated witch-doctor claimed to have had it as a direct personal communication from some most potent spirits of this class, that the sounds most delectable to their shadowy ears were those caused by the trampling hoofs and clashing horns of cattle, the lowing of which was also grateful to them, but in a minor degree. He, the witch-doctor, therefore recommended that the cattle be collected and driven round and over the spot, so that haply thereby might the earth-spirits be propitiated to the extent of permitting the imprisoned child to return to the light of day. So the boys, of whom several were present, were sent to collect the cattle on the mountain-side, and drive them down the gorge for the appeasing of the “imishologu.”

All this time the pitiful wail of a little child who was dying in the cold and darkness could be heard coming at intervals from under the stone, which had lain through immemorial ages, not more deaf to pity, or more senseless, than the fraud and superstition of man.

The cattle were not far off, so within a short time the lowing herd was hurried down the gorge by the shouting boys. The men then formed a ring about a hundred yards in diameter, the flat stone being in the centre, and in this circle the cattle were driven round and round, the animals being crowded together so that their horns might clash, and beaten with sticks to make them low and bellow loudly. This went on for some time; until, in fact, the afternoon was well spent. Then the cattle were driven away, and the witch-doctors, jointly and severally, shouted down the crevices leading under the rock, conjuring the “imishologu” to permit the imprisoned child to return to the light of day.

But, perchance, the “imishologu” slept, like Baal of old. They gave no answer, nor did the child come forth. When the sun went down the men returned to ’Ndondo’s kraal, and resumed their feasting.

Next morning one of the minor witch-doctors stated that he had, on a former occasion, been told by some “imishologu,” in a vision, that the light pattering of the hoofs, the varying bleat, and the rank smell of goats were things that pleased them. After consultation it was decided to try the experiment of propitiation by means of goats, where the cattle had failed. The most celebrated witch-doctor, whilst admitting the possibility of some result from the goat function, gave it as his opinion that as the “imishologu” had remained obdurate in spite of the cattle function, they would not now relent.

The witch-doctors again went up the gorge to the flat stone, the goats being driven after them by the people of the kraal. They bent over the cleft and listened carefully. After a while a faint moaning could be distinctly heard. Then the goats were hurried in, made to crowd over the stone, and to rush backward and forward. This went on until nearly noon, when the flock of goats was driven away.

A most solemn invocation of the “imishologu” followed this, but they were still unappeased. The child did not come forth, nor could any sounds now be heard issuing from under the stone. Perhaps Death had at length shown mercy.

The most celebrated witch-doctor now apparently became epileptic, and soon fell into a trance. Upon awaking, he claimed to have been in spiritual communication with the “imishologu.” The child had, he declared, been taken by the spirits of the earth, but was being well treated, and was, in fact, much happier than it ever had been before. It was now playing in the wonderful underground fields where the sun never scorched nor wind chilled, with numerous companions. It would never more suffer hunger, thirst, nor any other pain. It was so happy that it did not wish to return to the regions of day and night. Much of this may, after all, have been true.

Four

After Nomayeshè had been carried down to her hut on the afternoon of the second day of the search for her lost child, she lay long unconscious, and when she awoke, it was to raging delirium, which lasted until late in the night, when sleep suddenly overcame her.

Next morning, just after sunrise, she opened her eyes, and lay for a long time wondering as to what had happened. At length she remembered, and with a cry she started up for the purpose of going forth again to search. She staggered out of the hut, only to fall helplessly to the ground before the doorway. Several women from the nearest kraals had come to tend her, and these tried to persuade her of the uselessness of further search. Tears came to her relief, and she became calmer. At length she was persuaded to drink a little milk, after which she sank to the floor in a stone-like sleep. When she awoke, it was nearly noon.