"And other stories" (continued 3)

It happened just about this time that Dhlaka, who had been out herding the flock of goats, returned to the kraal with strange news. In the veldt he had foregathered with other boys, who told him that a child had been heard crying under a stone near the kraal of ’Ndondo.

When this was communicated to Nomayeshè, she uttered one wild cry in which hope and agony were blended, and rushed forth. Her weakness had disappeared, and she climbed the steep, stony hills so fast that the two women who started with her were soon labouring on with heavy pantings, some distance behind. The seven miles she had to travel led her through many a tangled thicket, and along many a dizzy ledge with frowning buttresses above, and sheer precipices yawning beneath. She plunged into dark ravines, in the depths of which the light of day was almost lost, and scaled narrow, knife-back ridges so steep that hands as well as feet had to be used by the climber.

Nomayeshè reached the kraal of ’Ndondo alone, about the middle of the afternoon, and probably two hours after the return of the party from the scene of their unsuccessful attempt at appeasing the “imishologu” by means of the goats.

These hours had been spent by the men in heavy drinking; all had endeavoured to make up the time that had been lost, and the beer, being now fully fermented, was at its point of greatest strength, just before turning sour.

Nomayeshè, wild-eyed and quivering, strode into the circle and sank exhausted to the ground before ’Ndondo, who was the only one present with whom she was acquainted. In disjointed sentences she began asking about her child, for she knew that the one she had heard of as crying under the stone must be little Nodada.

’Ndondo was in a very maudlin state, and the only two clear ideas he had were: that he must on no account whatsoever affront the witch-doctors, and that the said witch-doctors had stringently forbidden any interference with the child beneath the stone, under peril of the vengeance of the “imishologu”; or rather, what concerned ’Ndondo more nearly, under peril of offending the witch-doctors themselves.

’Ndondo accordingly declared, with drunken emphasis, that he knew nothing of the matter, and that the account of the child crying under the stone was an idle tale set current by boys, who should be well beaten for speaking falsely.

The most celebrated witch-doctor, however, took a different line. He had reached that stage in his cups which brings to some immense self-confidence. He arose, albeit somewhat unsteadily, and made a vigorous and eloquent speech. He recapitulated all he had previously said about the danger of offending the “imishologu” by interference with their concerns. He drew attention to an occurrence of a few years back, which was still fresh in the memories of all present, when the solid earth had shaken until a bluff of the mountain slid down with thunderous roarings, and overwhelmed a kraal, not one of the inhabitants of which had escaped. Continuing, he depicted once more the happy condition of the child in the subterranean fields. He ended by pronouncing the direst anathemas upon any one becoming accessory to the impious deed which the woman contemplated.

Then Nomayeshè went around the circle, grovelling at the feet of each individual separately, and beseeching that she might be shown the spot where her Nodada, her little wild duck, the child she had carried in her womb and suckled at her breast, lay perishing in the cold and darkness. Some of the men were evidently inclined to tell, but the warning frowns of the witch-doctors deterred them, and they maintained the cruelty of silence.

Then Nomayeshè broke out into fierce rage, and cursed all present, and their fathers and mothers before them as dogs and apes. She wished that they might die under the spears of an enemy, and that the bodies of their children might shrivel and hiss under their burning roof-trees. This outburst came as a great relief to the men. Her invective was easier to endure than her entreaties, and the drunken crew only laughed at her fury.

While all this was going on, the two women who had followed Nomayeshè arrived at the kraal. They had found out, from some other women they had met, all that Nomayeshè wanted to know. These women described accurately the situation of the flat stone, so when Nomayeshè staggered back from the beer-drinkers, and met her two friends outside the circle of huts, she was led at once by them to the gorge where she knew that her lost child lay hidden.

It was dusk when they reached the stone. With unerring instinct the mother made straight for the largest crevice, through which she at once descended into the darkness. The two women waited in silence, standing apart from each other. Soon a faint shriek was heard issuing as though from the bowels of the earth. The women looked at each other with awe in their eyes... Nomayeshè emerged from the crevice, clasping her dead child to her bosom.

It was past midnight when the three women, carrying Nodada’s body, arrived at Zwilibanzi’s kraal. Their return journey was made by a longer but safer route. Nomayeshè placed the little body on a mat, and then laid herself down next to it. The two women lit a fire, and prepared some food. When they went to Nomayeshè to try and persuade her to eat, they found that she was dead.

Chapter Eight.

The Madness of Gweva.

“I have not left any calamity more hurtful to man than woman.” Table-talk of Mohammad.

One

“Yes, my father; for although your years are many less than mine, did you not protect me, even as a father, when these dogs of Fingo policemen would have made me guilty over the chopping down of that white iron-wood tree? I will now tell you the tale of Gweva, the son of Mehlo, which we yesterday spoke of when resting in the big forest during the hunt. Here, boy, bring fuel for the fire, for the night is cold and the tale is long. Fetch also the last pot of that beer which was brewed seven days ago. The new beer has not yet worked, and it tastes like water from a muddy puddle. Fetch also the large calabash spoon; then clear out, and come not near unless you are called.

“There is one subject, my father, upon which you and I will never agree, namely women. You tell me that the women of your race are wiser than those of mine. This is no doubt true in the same sense as that you, a European, are wiser than I, a Kafir; but experience teaches me that women are just women, whatever be their colour, and that men should be their masters. Where it is otherwise, trouble always follows. I grant you that some women are wiser and better than most men; your great Queen, for instance. Her I used to hear of when I was a boy, and I still hear of her now that my head is white. She must be strong and wise. Then, who has not heard of Gubèlè the wife of Umjoli, the cowardly chief of the Abasekunene, who, when her husband fled before Tshaka, remained behind with half of the tribe, and slew so many Zulus that men sang of her that she piled up the gateways of her kraal with Zulu heads to prevent the cattle from coming out.

“But such women, my father, are really men, and besides, one does not meet them, one only hears of them. I speak of the women one sees and knows and who become the mothers of our children, and I say that he who is their master, and holds them for his profit and pleasure, for the bringing forth of sons to fight for the chief (I forgot for the moment that we are under Government) and daughters for whom ‘lobola’ (dowry) cattle will be sent to his kraal, is wise, whilst he who sets his heart on one woman only, and desires her above all else, suffers from a madness that often leads to ruin.

“Hear then the tale of Gweva, the son of Mehlo, which tends to prove the truth of my judgment in this matter. I will relate it, so far as I can, in the words of my grandfather Nqokomisa, who told it to me many years ago; he being at the time a man extremely old, also blind and deaf, and bereft of the use of every member except the tongue.

“You have heard of our ‘great chief’ ’Ngwanya, whose body lies in the deep pool in the Tina river just below the drift where the wagons cross. They tied him to a green iron-wood log and sunk him in the water so that no enemy could obtain his bones wherewith to work magic against the tribe. Every year are cast into the pool slaughtered oxen and new bowls of beer as offerings. You may have noticed that no woman of the Pondomisi ever lifts her skin skirt, no matter how high the water is, in crossing the Tina.

“Well, in the days of ’Ngwanya, we Pondomisi occupied the whole of the country between the Dedesi, at the source of the Umzimvubu, and the Umtata. We were then a large tribe, and we feared no enemy. When we rose against the English in the last war, we should have regained our position had not our chief Umhlonhlo offended the ‘imishologu’ by killing his magistrate treacherously. Then an evil spirit put it into the minds of some of us to attack the Fingoes of the Tsitsa, who thereupon became our enemies instead of our allies, as had been arranged. When Makaula and his Bacas slaughtered us in the Tina valley the ‘imishologu’ had turned their faces from us, and we knew it.

“’Ngwanya was old when his father died, and was the father of many sons and daughters. The eldest daughter of his ‘great house’ was Nomasaba, and it is of the madness caused by her, which fell upon Gweva, the son of Mehlo, that I am about to tell.

“Mehlo was the younger brother of ’Ngwanya. He was killed in a battle with the Tembus, on the Bazaya Mountain. He was a young man of great courage, and his death was so much lamented that his uncle, who had been to him as a father, found his hair grow grey with grief. Mehlo had only one wife—he had only been married a few months before his death. The wife was, according to custom, taken into ’Ngwanya’s household, and when, half a year afterwards, she gave birth to a boy, it was said that his name should be ‘Gwevu,’ which means ‘grey.’ Soon afterwards she died, and the boy was formally adopted into ’Ngwanya’s ‘great house.’ Once he was gored by a grey ox, and thereupon the witch-doctors said that his name was an unlucky one, so they changed it to ‘Gweva,’ which means ‘one who spies about.’

“When Gweva was three years old, Nomasaba was born, and these two grew up together in one hut. According to native custom they were brother and sister. I have been told that amongst Europeans marriage is allowed between people so related, but with us such a thing would be looked upon as most horrible and unnatural.

“Gweva grew up exactly like what his father had been—tall and strong, brave as a lion, and with eyes and voice that commanded the obedience of men, even against their will. When hardly more than a lad he could fling an assegai or a knobbed stick farther, and as true, as any man in the tribe. But for the madness that fell on him he would have been chief in the room of Pahlo, who was only of the right-hand house, the only son of the ‘great house,’ into which Gweva had been legally adopted, having died young, through being bitten by a snake.

“Nomasaba was said to be the most beautiful woman ever seen. She was not black, but of a rich brown colour; she had large, smooth, rounded limbs, a neck like the trunk of a young tree, a bosom fit to give milk to the son of a great chief, and pleasing features, which, however, but seldom smiled. Her voice, although soft, was said to resemble that of a man. Nomasaba was sought by many in marriage, but she treated all offers with disdain.

“When Tahli succeeded Dayènè as great chief of the Pondos, ’Ngwanya became desirous that Nomasaba should be his ‘great wife,’ so without the girl’s knowledge he sent messengers, of whom my grandfather was one, to the ‘great place’ in Pondoland, to open negotiations on the subject. My grandfather, being fleet of foot, was sent with the assegai and the ‘umlomo,’ or ‘word present’ for the intended bridegroom. These he dropped in the Pondo chiefs presence and then, according to custom, fled, pursued by the young men of the kraal. Although hard pressed, he succeeded in escaping; otherwise, had he been caught, he would have been driven homeward ignominiously with his hands bound behind him, and the ‘umlomo’ tied on his back.

“After this the women were sent to ‘hlolela’ or ‘spy’ for the bride, and whilst they were absent on this errand Nomasaba was informed for the first time of the marriage which had been arranged for her. To the surprise and embarrassment of all, she declared that she did not want to marry, and that nothing would induce her to go to the Pondo chief. However, we natives have our own ways of arranging such matters, so no notice was taken of her words.

“Gweva was absent on a military expedition against a clan of Tembus which dwelt amongst the mountains just over our inland border, and which had been raiding into our territory. He had departed shortly before the first messengers were sent, and he did not return until after the ‘hlolela’ party had come back, having arranged all preliminaries. Nomasaba was then told that she should start with the bridal party on a certain day, and after declaring over and over again with considerable violence that she would kill herself, and that they might take her dead body to the Pondo chief, she suddenly changed her tone, and cheerfully signified her willingness to accept Tahli as her husband.

“In due course the bridal party started. The bride was accompanied by twenty girls and fifty young men, including my grandfather and Gweva, who went as the representatives of ’Ngwanya. Amongst the girls was one Nonsimbi, who was known as Nomasaba’s shadow, for the reason that she hardly ever left Nomasaba’s side. She was a girl of fierce temper and great strength, and she loved Nomasaba as a dog loves its master.

“The ‘great place’ of the Pondo chief was distant about five days’ walk from that of ’Ngwanya. On the afternoon of the fourth day Nomasaba, at whose side Nonsimbi was walking, suddenly fell to the ground with a sharp cry. When questioned she said she had hurt her ankle, and that it was impossible for her to proceed any farther. They were then on the bank of the Umzimvubu river, close to the Lukawi drift, and there were no dwellings of men close at hand. The huts at which it had been arranged to sleep were still a long way ahead, so nothing could be done except halt for the night where they were. Some of the young men went into the forest close by to cut light poles and wattles which they meant to bind together in the form of a litter, whereon to carry Nomasaba next day unless, as appeared unlikely, she should prove to be better in the morning.

“Nomasaba, moaning and crying out, limped, with the assistance of Nonsimbi, to a spot a short distance apart from where the others had halted, and there lay down.

“Next morning at daylight when the men awoke they found that Gweva, the son of Mehlo, Nomasaba, and Nonsimbi had disappeared. Search was made in every direction, but a heavy dew had fallen, and consequently no spoor could be found. This, of course, indicated that the three must have taken their departure early in the night.

Two

“I will not say much about what happened to my grandfather, the men of the escort, and the companions of the bride. They did not proceed to the ‘great place’ of the Pondo chief, but after searching much and finding no trace of the missing ones, started for home, travelling so fast, that although the return journey was up-hill, they performed it in less than three days. They had much difficulty in persuading ’Ngwanya of the truth of their story, and the lives of my grandfather and, in fact, of all the men of the party, were in the greatest danger. To avoid so far as possible any cause of quarrel, ’Ngwanya, who was at the time at war with the Tembus, sent the fifty men who had formed the escort unarmed to Tahli to answer for their carelessness, and suffer such punishment as the Pondo chief might think fit to inflict. However, by that time Tahli’s wrath was no longer hot, so he sent them back unpunished.

“What now follows was told many years afterwards when, ’Ngwanya being dead and the Bahlo chief in his place, she ventured to return to the Pondomisi country to die among her own people.

“It would appear that the plan of escaping was arranged before the bridal party left ’Ngwanya’s ‘great place,’ in fact on the very day Nomasaba stated her willingness to accept the Pondo chief as her husband. The plan originated with Nomasaba herself, and she caused Nonsimbi to communicate the same to Gweva. No particular spot was fixed upon for the escape, it being settled that Gweva should give the signal agreed upon, on reaching some locality where, from the density of its forests and its lack of inhabitants, escape would be rendered easy.

“Through Nonsimbi’s good management the fugitives were enabled to take with them enough food to last several days. They fled quite early in the night, in fact whilst some of the men were still talking around the fires, and slipped at once into the forest. They then bore swiftly away towards the coast by a route which Gweva had discovered in the afternoon when cutting sticks for the litter whereon to carry Nomasaba.

“The coast country in this part of Pondoland is extremely broken, and even now is well wooded, but in those days it was covered by dense, almost continuous forest, which was full of elephants, buffaloes, and other kinds of game. All this had been ascertained by Gweva from the people of the kraals at which he and his party had rested on their way down. Gweva’s idea was to lie in hiding in the forest for some little time, and then work his way down until he could manage to cross the Umtata river and enter the country of the Amabonwane, who were reported to be hospitable to strangers.

“In the forest track, however, were living a number of Pondo outlaws, formerly the adherents of a chief who had rebelled against Tahli’s father Dayènè, and had lost his life in consequence. These people were fierce and brave; for years they had evaded the different expeditions sent against them. They always made welcome and incorporated among themselves any fugitives from Pondoland or elsewhere who were willing to join them. They lived principally by hunting, but had entered into a secret arrangement with those people living nearest the forest, who, in return for being left unmolested, grew a little grain for the outlaws and looked after the few cattle that they owned.

“One day Gweva and his two companions found themselves surrounded by a number of these people. Instead, however, of being killed, as they expected, the fugitives were civilly treated; eventually they were received into full fellowship by the outlaw community.

“Gweva represented that his house had been ‘eaten up’ after his father had been ‘smelt out’ by the witch-doctor, and killed, and that he, with his wife and sister, for he represented Nonsimbi as standing in the latter relationship towards himself, had fled in consequence from over the Pondo border.

“Gweva soon became a leader amongst the outlaws; his bravery, his skill in hunting, and his strength being very great. Nomasaba and Nonsimbi built huts in a glade deep in the thickest part of the forest, and there the three dwelt together for a time. But women were scarce among the outlaws, and soon Nonsimbi found herself asked in marriage after a manner which made it difficult for her to refuse, so she left the dwelling of Gweva, and went to live with one of the leaders of the outlaws as his wife.

“Gweva and Nomasaba dwelt together in the forest for four years, during which time the man’s madness did not abate, and it was said that the madness of the woman became worse as time passed. Although living very much to themselves and, in fact, avoiding other people as much as possible, they seemed to be happy and contented with their lot. Early in the second year Nomasaba bore a son, and in the year following she was delivered of a daughter.

“The forest being full of game there was never any lack of meat; much honey was to be found in the hollow trees: and the ground held many roots which were fit for food. Besides, some few trees bore fruits, and on the dead tree-trunks large mushrooms, good to eat, grew plentifully. After they had become accustomed to the life, Gweva and Nomasaba ceased to feel any hardship. Besides, their love-madness for each other was such that they were content only to be together.

“It was early in the fourth year of Gweva’s dwelling in the forest when messengers from the Pondo chief arrived offering forgiveness to the outlaws if they would consent to leave the forest and return to their homes. The outlaws assembled and heard the words of the messengers, who satisfied them that the proposals were made in good faith, and that the chief really meant to overlook the past. Most of the outlaws were tired of the life they were leading, so were glad to accept the terms proposed, and return to their allegiance.

“The word being given, the whole outlaw community moved out of the forest and assembled between the Umlengaan hill and the Umgazi river, at a spot agreed upon. Here they were met by the chief induna of Tahli, who had brought a herd of cattle given by the chief as a token of forgiveness. The appearance of the outlaws was extremely fierce—they were gaunt and worn from the effects of the hard life and the scarcity of food. The children born in the forest were as wild as apes, and showed great uneasiness in the open country. In passing through the Umzimvubu forest, several of them ran away and hid, and were only recovered after great difficulty.

“It was soon ascertained that Gweva, who was known amongst the outlaws by the name of Sondaba, and his family were missing. No particular attention was paid to this fact at the time, but some months afterwards, when the people had settled in their old homes, it began to be talked about. The late outlaws were naturally much given to discussion with their old friends as to all that had happened in Pondoland during recent years, and, as may be imagined, the disappearance of the daughter of the Pondomisi chief when on her wedding journey did not fail to be mentioned. Gradually the idea grew that the wife of Sondaba was the missing bride, and the shocking suggestion that these two who lived as man and wife were really brother and sister (as, according to our ideas, they were) was whispered from one to another. Nonsimbi, who had also changed her name, was questioned on the subject, but no information could be elicited from her.

“The rumour at length reached the ears of Tahli, who sent word of it to ’Ngwanya, asking what he wished to be done. ’Ngwanya’s wrath at the flight of Nomasaba had from the first been fiercer than Tahli’s, and his heart was such that he never forgave an insult or an injury. He sent back word to the Pondo chief that he wished his shameless daughter and her criminal lover to be captured and sent to him for punishment. Such punishment, the messengers added, would be of such severity that men would talk of it for many years.

“Tahli thereupon dispatched an expedition to capture Gweva and Nomasaba. Some of those who had been outlaws acted as guides, and accordingly, a few days after the arrival of ’Ngwanya’s messenger, the valley wherein the huts of Gweva were built was surrounded by armed men. But Gweva, who evidently had expected some such event, had removed from the valley just after the departure of the outlaws, and taken up his abode some distance away, nearer the sea.

“Gweva had great skill in the training of dogs to hunt, and it was through his dogs that he was betrayed to his doom. After vainly scouring the forest in unsuccessful search of the fugitives during several days, the induna in charge of the expedition decided to return home. He and the guides were of opinion that Gweva had fled across the Umtata river.

“On the first day of the return journey one of a hunting party, that had been led afar in pursuit of a wounded koodoo, heard a dog barking in the distance. Following the sound, the men went up a narrow, winding valley with steep, rocky sides, until they came to a cave. The dog had now ceased barking, having been, as they afterwards found out, tied up inside the cave. They had found tracks leading to the cave, so the men, who were ten in number, formed a line before its mouth, so that none who were inside could escape. They then advanced, and a man armed with a large stabbing spear and a shield made of buffalo hide, came towards them, calling out a warning that they were to advance no farther. Behind him was a woman also armed with a spear. She had two children with her, one she held to her breast, whilst the other clung to her skin skirt. The man and woman looked so fierce that the ten stood still for a space at their warning.

“‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ asked the man of the cave.

“‘Who we are matters not,’ replied the leader of the ten, ‘but we want you, Gweva, and this wife of yours who is also your sister.’

“‘My husband, it has come,’ said the woman in a deep but quiet voice; ‘I will do my work; see that you do yours as well.’

“With that she plunged the spear into the back of the little boy who was clinging to her skirt; then she withdrew it, and drove it through the body of the child which she held on her arm. This done, she flung down the spear, lifted her arms high over her head, and cried out in a loud voice:

“‘My husband, I am ready—remember.’

“The man turned, lifted his spear, and smote the woman downwards above the left breast.

“He withdrew the spear gently, and the woman sank slowly to the ground, he supporting her to save her from falling, and holding his hand under her head as she lay, until she ceased gasping.

“The man then lifted his shield from where he had placed it leaning against a rock, put his arm through the loop-thong, and turned towards the ten, who stood struck dumb and rigid by what they had seen. Those who were living when the sun went down that day said that the face of Gweva was like a thunder-cloud, and that red flashes darted out of his eyes. He lifted his spear and sprang upon the ten like a wounded lion. Their surprise at the deeds they had just witnessed was such, that they were taken quite unprepared. Three fell dead from as many rapid strokes, and then the others closed in on the desperate man, who did not seem to heed the many wounds which were dealt him. A fourth fell with his throat slit in such a manner that he soon afterwards died, and then Gweva drove his spear so hard into the head of a fifth, through the eye, that the weapon stuck by its edges between the bones of the aperture. Being thus disarmed, Gweva was quickly pierced through the heart from behind, so he sank dead to the ground.

“This was the end of Gweva, the son of Mehlo, who was smitten with such a strange madness of desire for a woman whom he could not lawfully take as his wife. Had he escaped this misfortune of love-madness, he might have been ‘great chief’ of the Pondomisi nation, and have taken a new woman to his kraal each year, through all the years of his life.”

Chapter Nine.

The Love Charm.

“Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee once; The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees.” A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Ca, ’mntan ’am (no, my child), I am too old, as you can see for yourself; my memory is no longer good, and all these things happened so very long ago. Besides, you have not yet told me why you want me to talk about these old days, you white people are so wise you cannot require to learn from an old woman such as I. Hear him now, what can the great people who live beyond the sea in those big houses you show me the shadows (pictures) of, and of which I never can tell the top from the bottom, want to know about the dead and gone Bacas? Yes, yes, I have heard all this before from you, and you know I only promised to talk on condition that you told me the true reason why you wanted to write down my words.

“You white people are very sly; you know most things, yet one thing you are always trying to learn, all of you: the magic of the native. And what is our magic compared with yours? With us the ‘isanuse’ (witch-doctor) calls to all in a loud voice, boasting of what he knows, yet you ‘abelungu’ (white people) are for ever trying to persuade the natives that you are not wizards. Don’t tell me. Does not one of you speak with your mouth close to the end of an iron string at Umzimkulu, while another listens at Matatièlè where the string passes over the big poles, and hear the words spoken? and this over a distance which it takes a man six days to walk. I know myself that such is the case, because when my grand-daughter’s baby was born at Umzimkulu last spring, did I not learn it from the pink paper which the constable read to me on the same day. I asked Rachel particularly about the date afterwards, and she swore to me that the child was born two days before the new moon, and that was the day on which the constable came.

“Did you not yourself open the eye of a box at me, with a click, and show me the next day the water-shadow of myself upon paper; and was not the very torn place in my blanket, which I had not yet mended, there too? Magic, I know magic when I see it.

“Yes, I am very old. I remember, like it were yesterday, the time when Ncapay was killed by the Pondos, when he and his ‘impi’ were driven over the cliff on the Umzimvubu, and I have seen our chief, Makaula, herding calves when he was a boy. My first husband was old Palelo (he died when I was away at Umzimkulu), and my second was Momlotyolo, who got his head broken with a club in a fight with the Pondomisi. He came home with his head tied up, and laid himself down on a mat. Next day he could not speak. He lay snoring for five days, and then died in a fit. I had only been married to him three years, and we had three children. The first was a girl, she died when still a child, and the second a boy whom we called Tutani. He was drowned trying to cross the Umzimvubu after a beer-drink.

“The first time I was married? That is long ago, and I have almost forgotten all about it. We were then living in what is now Cweraland. I was quite a young girl when old Palelo took me as his wife. Yes, he had six other wives then living, and several others had died. Palelo was a very old man, but he was rich and my father was poor. Eighteen head of cattle were given as my dowry, and a new hut was built for me. In this hut old Palelo nearly lived for two years, and I was quite glad when I heard that he was paying ‘lobola’ for another girl, as I knew that when he married her, he’d leave me alone for a time.

“Who told you that I went to Umzimkulu? So, so, I had forgotten mentioning it. Well, I suppose I may as well tell you everything about it now, because you might hear it spoken of by others who do not know all that happened, and thus come to think evil of me, not knowing that it was Lamla’s fault, and that I was blameless.

“You have heard of the charm which a man places upon a woman to make her follow him. Perhaps you do not believe in such things, eh? I thought not. It is strange what a lot of true things you wise people disbelieve in. Well, well, if you do not believe in such things why do you want to hear about them? I think I know the reason, but it runs on a different spoor to that of your words. Whether you believe in them or not, these things exist. I have lived much longer than you in spite of the drought on the top of your head, and I have not only seen, but experienced the effect of such a charm. No, no, although you are old enough to know better, you are also old enough to have seen that the eyes of a young woman do not shine on you as on younger men, and this knowledge might lead you into mischief.

“Well, I will tell you of some, but not of the strongest. There are many things which can be used as charms, and some work quite differently from others. Some are of use only to a young man, and some to one who is old. There is the ‘duba’ (wild garlic: Tulbaghia alliacea) which is pounded up with fat and clay, and kept in the tip of a goat’s horn. If a young man touch a young woman with this it will make her think of him night and day, until the ‘umdhlemnyana’ (a kind of hysteria) seizes her. This will never leave her unless he releases her, or she can steal the charm from where he has to keep it, wrapped in a skin, in the roof of his dwelling. Then there is the ‘insonga ’mazwe’ (literally ‘turner’ or ‘wrapper up’ of words—Commelyna speciosa—a little blue, furry flower, with bright yellow anthers). If a young man bathes, and then rubs himself all over with this, his words become so wise and sweet to the ear, that no woman can deny him anything. Besides, there is that stuff which can be bought at the big stores, ‘zamlandela’ (camphor; literally ‘that which leads,’ or ‘induces’). If a young man rub his hands with this, and he touch a girl on the cheeks, she will dream of him whether she be asleep or awake. There are other things; roots and flowers which, if placed by a man in the water-pool at which the girls drink, or in which they bathe in hot weather, will have such an effect that their fathers and brothers will want to shed blood. Then there is another flower which, if broken up and scattered on a path along which a woman walks, will make her follow the man who scattered it wheresoever he leads her. It was in this way I was charmed and led away to Umzimkulu, where I dwelt for a year.

“Lamla came to dwell in our neighbourhood nearly two years after I had married old Palelo. He was a young man of Umzimkulu. He had been obliged to flee for a time from there on account of having broken the law. He was related to some people of a kraal near ours, and with them he stayed. He was a very big man and a strong dancer, and was nearly always laughing.

“Old Palelo had many sons and daughters, and as he was rich, there was plenty of feasting at our kraal. Lamla often visited my hut and seemed to be very fond of talking to Palelo about old times, and about the deeds my husband had done in his youth. The two would often sit over the fire, far into the night, and I used to lie on my mat, my head covered with a kaross, listening. There was a little hole in the kaross, and through this I used to watch Lamla, who always sat with his face towards me. I do not know how it was, but somehow that part of the kaross with the hole in it was always just in front of my eyes. It was strange to see how fond old Palelo was of Lamla; I think it was because Lamla listened to him so quietly, and just let him talk.

“Lamla said very little to me on these occasions, but we used often to meet when I went down to the pool to fetch water, or to the millet-field to hoe. I did not altogether like meeting him alone, because the way in which he talked and went on annoyed me. It was not so much his words as his ways that made me angry. Whenever we were alone he mimicked old Palelo—his walk, his voice, his way of taking snuff—everything. Although I could not keep from laughing, I did not like Lamla to go on like this. He said he meant to make himself so like Palelo that none would be able to tell one from the other, and that he came to practise before me, so that I could tell him how he was getting on.

“Sometimes he would tell me about what a lot of girls were in love with him at Umzimkulu, and when I told him to go back to them and not trouble me any more, he said he had got so fond of Palelo that he could not bear to think of departing. Occasionally he would come down to the field where I was hoeing, and if it were a hot day would make me sit with him under a tree, chewing ‘imfe’ (sweet reed), and listening while he blew music on the ‘ugwalo’ (a musical instrument formed of a single string attached to a quill, and stretched along a stick), or talking nonsense.

“One day as I was returning from the pool carrying a pot of water, I met Lamla coming out of the bush with a lot of yellow flowers in his hands. I inquired as to what he was going to do with these, and he said he was going to do some ‘doctoring.’ ‘Who, then, is sick?’ I asked. ‘I am,’ he replied. I laughed at this, because at the dance the day before he had tired all the others out. ‘Do you know what sickness these are to cure?’ he asked, looking at me very hard. ‘No,’ said I, ‘unless it be the sickness that makes people think they are not themselves; that is the only sickness you have got.’ ‘Why, you are almost as good as a doctor yourself,’ he replied; then he laughed and went away.

“Next morning I saw some little bits of yellow stuff on the ground just outside my hut, and also strewn along the pathway leading to the millet-field. I picked a piece up, and found it to be very like a portion of a flower such as Lamla had been carrying when I met him coming out of the bush. I soon picked up a whole flower. This, without considering what I was doing, I stuck into the carrying-hole of my left ear. Then it suddenly seemed as if something began to sing inside me, and I felt very happy, but rather frightened.

“On that day I could not work. I felt as if quite changed in every way. I could not forget the yellow flowers, or Lamla. I just stuck my hoe into the ground and went to the spot under the big tree where he and I used to sit. It was very hot, so I lay down and soon fell fast asleep.

“I had a strange dream. I thought that Lamla came to me with a lot of yellow flowers tied around his head in the way the Pondos tie the ‘imvani’ (wild asparagus) when they want rain to fall. I thought he kept changing into old Palelo, and then back into himself again, and that I was running away from him and at the same time feeling sorry that he could not catch me. Just as I thought he had caught me, I woke up suddenly, and there he stood.

“I got such a fright that I screamed out and then began to weep. Lamla sat down next to me. I told him to leave me alone, but he would not, so I jumped up and ran away home.

“That night I could eat nothing, and the ‘umdhlemnyana’ sickness seized me so badly that old Palelo became quite frightened, and said he would fetch the witch-doctor next day to see who had bewitched me. When I felt better I lay down to try and sleep, but it was of no use. I dreamed of Lamla’s coming, but when it got late and he had not come, I felt like a long-tailed finch trying to fly against the wind on a wet day. I kept wondering as to where he was, and the thought that he might be at a feast at another kraal where there was a girl who I knew liked him, troubled me so much that I got another ‘umdhlemnyana’ fit, and when old Palelo came to me with a pot of water, I threw the water all over him, and broke the pot. This made me feel a little better, so I lay quiet, pretending to be asleep.

“Old Palelo went to sleep on his mat, but I lay long awake, until at length I felt I could not stay in the hut any longer; something seemed to draw me outside. I took my kaross and left the hut. The moon was large and yellow. The stream of water in the kloof just below was making a noise exactly like some one speaking, and at length I found out what it was saying. It was ‘lam-lam-lam-la-la-la-lam-la-la-lam-la-lam-la-lam-la,’ that the water was calling out over and over again as it ran over the stones. Lamla seemed to be all about me, and I kept looking behind me to see if he was not there.

“A jackal up on the hill was calling out ‘yonk, yonk, yonk, yow-a-a-ow,’ like a man singing through his nose. The bats and night-jars were flitting about, and two owls were crying out to each other among the tops of the yellow-wood trees.

“I first sat down near the hut, but old Palelo was snoring like a big frog, so I walked away beyond the cattle kraal, and laid myself down on the short, green grass, which was cool and wet with dew.

“All this time I could think of nothing but Lamla, and I kept wondering why this should be so. Why did I feel so strange and so changed? My thoughts went back to the first time I had seen him. It was at the wedding feast of one of Palelo’s daughters. I remember thinking I had never seen any one dance so well. Then I went over, one by one, all the occasions upon which we had since met. Although they were many I think I remembered every one of them. I began to laugh when I thought of the way he used to mimic my husband. Then I thought of the long talks in the hut at night, so I lay back and covered myself up with the kaross, looking through the same little hole at a post standing near me, and trying to imagine it was Lamla, giving his ears to Palelo and his eyes to me.

“Next I remembered his coming out of the bush with the yellow flowers, and this set me thinking of what had been strewn on the path. Then I suddenly understood the whole thing—I was bewitched. Lamla had said the flowers were for medicine, and this was what he had meant, the rogue.

“When the thought first struck me I felt very much frightened, and I jumped up, meaning to run into the hut at once. However, I remained where I was for a little time, and then my fright seemed to pass away. Then I walked on a few yards and sat down on the grass.

“I listened to the water calling out Lamla’s name, and thought seriously over the whole matter of Lamla and his doings. After considering for a while I concluded that in spite of the ‘umdhlemnyana’ sickness, being bewitched was, after all, not so very terrible. I had often heard of girls being charmed in this way, and I knew that one cure for it was to follow the man about, and make him take off the charm. ‘Ah, ha, my friend Lamla,’ thought I, ‘I am up to your ways and tricks, and will let you know it the next time we meet. You have not got a silly girl to deal with this time, but a woman who has been married nearly two years, and who can take care of herself very well, in spite of the “umdhlemnyana.”’

“The dogs suddenly began to bark all together, and then they rushed round to the back of the cattle kraal, where they all ceased barking. Just afterwards a man walked out into the moonlight from behind the kraal-fence, and came slowly towards me. It was Lamla. The dogs knew him, and were running after him and fawning.

“He came up to where I was sitting, and without saying a word took my hands in his and drew me gently towards him. I stood up, and then he walked on, and I followed. I could not have resisted then, even if I had wanted to, but I do not think I wanted to at all. You see, the charm had influenced me more strongly than I had thought. I was no longer myself, but just Lamla and nothing else.

“I followed Lamla down the hill along the path to the millet-field, and then we sat down under the tree. The dogs came too, and Lamla got very angry because he could not at first manage to drive them back. ‘Lamla,’ said I, ‘you have bewitched me with those yellow flowers, and we will both be killed by Palelo’s sons.’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘it is you that have bewitched me, and I only used those flowers to cure myself.’

“After a while we went on together, Lamla leading me by the hand. When we reached a little bush near the kraal he was living at, he left me for a short time, and then he returned with two bundles, one of which he gave me to carry. We walked on all night. Just before daybreak we turned to the left and entered a thick forest. Here we spent the day. We did not light a fire. Lamla had brought some millet already boiled, in a skin bag. We ate this, and also some roots which he dug up with the blade of his spear. From a hollow tree he brought some of the sweetest honey I have ever tasted. He did not seem to mind the bees stinging him at all.

“All this time we hardly spoke a word. In the afternoon we were sitting together hidden in some thick, green brushwood; I heard a rustle and, looking up, saw a long green snake gliding through the branches just over Lamla’s head. I called out: ‘Look, there is a snake.’ He just smiled and, without standing up, killed the snake with one blow of his stick. It nearly fell on him, so I screamed out, but he laughed and comforted me and said that he had been doctored by a great wizard against all dangerous things except me.

“Then he asked me how I liked being bewitched. I replied: ‘I like it very well now, because the charm is on me, but I know that by and by I will be very angry.’ He laughed very loud at this. Afterwards he asked me if I knew what had really happened. I answered: ‘Yes, Lamla, you wicked man, you have bewitched me and made me follow you away from my home.’ ‘No, you are mistaken,’ said he, ‘I am not Lamla at all, but your husband Palelo in Lamla’s body; Lamla is still at the kraal in the body of Palelo.’ I could not understand how this could be, and I now know that he was talking nonsense, but at the time the charm was so strong on me that I would have believed anything he told me.

“That night we crossed the Umzimvubu, and reached the big forest below the Tabankulu. Here we laid down and slept. The sun was high when we awoke. We travelled on through the forest, and again rested and spent the night on the other side.

“Next day we went on without concealment through the open country. We were now in Pondoland, so had nothing to fear, so we just wandered on quietly from kraal to kraal, getting food in plenty; for Lamla had such pleasant ways, especially with the women, that we were always made welcome. Lamla said I was his wife, whom he had fetched from the Pondomisi country, and no one seemed to doubt his words.

“When we reached the Baca country at Umzimkulu, we went straight to the kraal of Lamla’s father, and when he told his relations that I was his wife, and that he had paid ‘lobola’ for me, they all laughed at him, and asked whether horns or feathers grew on the ‘lobola’ cattle. I did not see at the time why they should have doubted his words, but I found out the reason afterwards.

“At first we lived very happily, for the charm was still strong upon me, but after some months Lamla began to go away from home very often, and then I heard that he was courting another girl. Well, he married her, and she and I quarrelled, and he took her part and beat me, so I became very miserable. It was nearly a year after we came to Umzimkulu that my baby, a boy, was born.

“One day, when my baby was over a month old, who should walk up to the kraal but the Matshoba, old Palelo’s ‘great son.’ I picked up the child and ran away into the bush, but next day I got hungry and had to return. Matshoba was not very angry. It turned out that Palelo was dead. Matshoba said that I must return with him. I was not sorry to do so, because the charm had now quite passed away from me.

“Matshoba brought a law case before the chief against Lamla for taking me away. I told all about the charm which had been used, and Lamla did not deny having used it. He was ordered by the chief to pay ten head of cattle as a fine. These his father had to pay, because Lamla had no cattle of his own. The chief said that if Lamla’s father had got him a wife Lamla would not have gone about bewitching the wives of other people. When the cattle were paid the chief took five head, and Matshoba and I drove the other five to my old home. Soon afterwards I was married to Momlotyolo.

“My baby grew up and became just like his father both in appearance and ways. When quite a young man he was ‘smelt out’ for bewitching one of the wives of the chief, and had to flee for his life. I have never heard of him since.

“No, no; I am not going to tell you anything more about the flower. It was not a yellow flower at all, but one of quite another colour. Besides, it is a young man’s charm, and therefore would be of no use to you.”

Chapter Ten.

Derelicts.

“God help all poor souls lost in the dark.”

The Heretic’s Tragedy.

“There is, after all, nothing equal to philosophic cultivation of the mind for enabling one to withstand misfortune,” said the man, as he entered the room.

The woman looked up at him from where she was sitting, with a start of surprise. Pain, love, pity, and yearning made worlds of her eyes.

“Now take my case,” continued the man; “it is only four days since Wallie died, and it was but yesterday we laid him in his grave, and yet to-night I feel hardly any grief. Of course, the shock unmanned me at first, but now I am quite myself again. I have never been able to make you see the uses of—”

The man ceased speaking and began to cough. Then he walked slowly backwards and forwards with an air of extreme preoccupation. The woman said nothing, but kept her eyes, which were now swimming in tears, fixed on him.

“Really, my darling,” he continued after a pause, and in an impatient tone, “you must try and look at the thing as I do. He is dead, and we saw the lid of the coffin screwed down over his cold body, yet, wonderful to relate, he is so close to us that I can bring him back at will. I have only to close my eyes and I see him. Look here, I hold his cap just three feet from the floor, and there he stands below it, with his face under the peak, and his curls behind. Now cover your face with the cap, and draw in your breath;—so—did I not tell you?—He has only just taken it off. Now, look: can you not see him there before you? Now he is here nestling up, and just going to beg for a story. There, he has gone over to his rocking-horse. Now close your eyes and rock it; to close your eyes at the right time is the great secret.”

Here the man’s voice was again interrupted by the cough. The woman stood up and laid her hand caressingly over his shoulder. Then she tried to move in front of him and look into his eyes. With an impatient gesture he shook himself free, and resumed his walking to and fro, always avoiding her eyes.

“How foolish you are,” he resumed, “not to help me, not to participate in this new creation which I have discovered the secret of effecting. Look here, be reasonable, every night we will make up his bed and place his clothes ready for the morning. Then we will tie the string to your wrist so that he can pull it and waken you without disturbing me. Now just try it, and I am quite positive you will feel the string being pulled just when he wants you to kiss him at the usual time. You have always been pitching into me for reading metaphysics, but look at the difference between us now. You remember what Fichte—”

Here the man’s voice was once more interrupted by the cough. He turned and leant against the wall, resting his forehead against his arm. The woman tried to make him sit down on an easy-chair, which she drew towards him, but he refused with the same impatient gesture. Soon he resumed his walking, and continued:

“I am even prepared to maintain that in some respects we are better off than if he had lived. I do not imagine that either of us will last very long, and think what it would have been to leave him behind, uncared for. Then, if he had grown up, who knows what mistakes he might have made, and what he might have suffered. As it is now, he will always be the same to us. I am glad you are not crying any longer. Now I will go and carry his cot back into the bedroom. Do not come in until I have things arranged.”

There was a smell of carbolic disinfectant throughout the house, for the boy had died of diphtheritic croup, after an agonising illness of five days. This smell continually suggested death to the woman; it seemed to have got into her nostrils permanently, go where she would she could not avoid it. She now stood up from where she had been sitting near the fireplace, and walked into the drawing-room, which had a south-eastern aspect. It was winter, and the night was somewhat unseasonably warm. The weather had long been dry. A bright moon was high in the heavens. The woman stood in the dark room and looked out of the window to where the bare, silvery rods of a willow swayed and undulated to the faint, intermittent breeze. Then her gaze wandered to an oak, out of the leafless boughs of which hung the ropes of the boy’s swing, oscillating gently. Every now and then she coughed, and the sound of the man’s coughing reached her at short intervals from the next room. The rising wind began to sough and moan over the house, and to call ghostly whisperings from the bare, chafing branches of the crowded oak trees. Stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon was a curved fringe of delicate snow-white cloud, suggestive of an ostrich feather in shape and texture. This came nearer every moment. It hung for a breath like a broken, opaline halo round the moon. Now it was over the house, and the moon was again clear, but low down on the southern horizon from whence it had arisen, dark clouds of gradually increasing bulk were surging up, and faint lightnings flickering.

The man came from the bedroom into the passage and called to the woman, who silently joined him, and again passed her arm over his shoulder.

“Come along, darling,” he said, as they went towards the bedroom; “see how I have arranged it all. What a pity we did not think of this last night!”

The little cot had been moved back to its place, and in it the boy’s bed had been made, pillow, white sheet turned back, and little eider-down quilt, all complete. In the middle of the pillow was a dent, as if a head had just been lying there, and the bed-clothes were slightly tumbled. On a chair at the foot of the cot were carelessly thrown a flannel shirt, a blue-striped tunic, and a pair of blue serge knickerbockers; upon these lay loose a pair of cardinal-coloured socks, and two shoes with bright steel buckles stood close by on the floor. The woman walked up to the cot, her face was ashen. Her lips had ceased quivering, but she could not speak. Her heart stood almost still. Her mental tension was such that she almost lost consciousness. Two impressions dominated all others, the smell of the carbolic, and the swelling moan of the wind over the roof. The man went on garrulously, and in a cheerful voice:

“Look here, we will hang his plaid over the side of the cot, and when we light the candle in the night to see if he is covered properly, we can just know that he is there, behind it. He lies so quietly that we never can hear him breathe.

“Sit down now and I will read a chapter of the Bible to you. It is past our usual time.”

The man stretched forth his hand and took a Bible down from a small book-shelf which hung on the wall close to the head of the bed. Then he began to speak, turning over the leaves at the same time.

“Let me see, what shall we read to-night? I forgot to-day to pick one out that Wallie will not ask awkward questions about.

“Ah! here is the one about King David’s child dying; you remember he lost a child, a boy too, his son and Bathsheba’s... I will read this. Come close; I believe Wallie is asleep, so I must speak low... How the wind is wailing;... but you know, wind always makes him sleep more soundly.”

The woman bent forward and hid her face in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. The man began to read:

“And it came to pass on the seventh day that the child died. And the servants of David feared to tell him that the child was dead: for they said, Behold, while the child was yet alive, we spake unto him, and he would not hearken unto our voice: how will he then vex himself if we tell him that the child is dead?

“But when David saw that his servants whispered, David perceived that the child was dead: therefore David said unto his servants, Is the child dead? and they said, He is dead.

“Then David arose from the earth and washed, and anointed himself; and changed his apparel, and came into the House of the Lord, and worshipped; then he came to his own house; and when he required, they set bread before him, and he did eat.

“Then said his servants unto him: What thing is this that thou hast done? Thou didst fast and weep for the child while it was alive, but when the child was dead thou didst arise and eat bread.

“And he said, While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept: for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live?

“But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not come to me.”

The wind had gradually increased in violence, and now there came a strong gust and a sudden clash of rain against the iron roof. The man ceased reading, and looked up with a light of wildness in his eyes. Then he flung down the book, started up, and ran around to the other side of the bed, where the cot was. He looked into the cot, and a long cry of agony broke from him when he saw that it was empty. He staggered and would have fallen but for the woman, who supported him for a moment, and then let him sink back on the bed. Another fit of coughing came on, after which white foam, slightly tinged with blood, appeared on his lips. The rain, with which hail was now mixed, swept down on the roof in a roaring torrent.

Suddenly the man sprang up, and before the woman could restrain him, had reached the passage leading to the front door.

“Come, come,” he shouted, “he is out in the cold and wet, and we are in here warm and dry. Let me go; I will take his plaid to put over him. You do not care, or you would not try to stop me. Let me go.”

All this time he was struggling to escape from the woman’s clasping arms, and at length he succeeded. He rushed back into the bedroom, seized the plaid from where it hung on the cot, and again made for the door. The woman followed him with an overcoat, and caught him as he was turning the handle.

“Wait one moment, Fred,” she said in a low-toned voice, which had the immediate effect of calming him, “we will go together. Come back with me until I get my cloak.”

He followed her back to the bedroom, and there walked impatiently about, struggling to get into the overcoat, and coughing incessantly. She put on a waterproof ulster, and then opened a little jewel-case which stood on the dressing-table. From this she took a thick, glossy lock of dark, curly hair, which she hid in the bosom of her dress.

The woman took the man’s arm, and the two walked out into the wild night. It was not dark, for the moon was nearly full, but swift on the wings of the screaming gale low, combing clouds were hurrying over the land. From these heavy showers of piercing sleet fell. Each shower only lasted for a few minutes, but the intervals between them were hardly longer. As the storm grew, the duration of the showers increased, whilst that of the intervals diminished. As yet, how ever, the moon shone out brightly after each shower.

The graveyard was on the spur of a mountain which overhung the river about a mile below the village. Thither the man and the woman wended. Fortunately the wind was behind them. It was this circumstance that made their progress possible. They never could have faced the howling storm. Faster and faster they staggered onward, the woman supporting the man by means of her left arm, which she had passed around his body, and holding his left in her right hand. They both coughed dreadfully, but the paroxysms of the man were the worse.

They reached the graveyard at length, and sank down exhausted on the boy’s grave. Just then, a furious shower of hail lashed out of a driving cloud, and in a few moments the whole world was white. They managed to spread the plaid over the little mound. The woman being on the windward side, held it for a while in position, and soon the hail lay thickly on it.

In a short lull between two of the worst gusts the woman managed to creep around to the other side of the grave where the man was lying huddled. She passed her arm around him in the old protective manner, and laid her cold lips against his cheek, which was like frozen marble. He was only just breathing. Then the cough seized him again, and he struggled violently. The woman closed her eyes, and held him fast. He gave a great gulp, a shudder passed over his limbs, and then he lay still.

The woman opened her eyes. The moon was shining brightly through a narrow rift between the storm-cloud that had just passed over and the one hurrying on its track. The dazzlingly white hail covered everything, and lay in heaps against the graveyard wall, the tree-trunks, and the tombstones. It half covered the man and the woman, and on the white heap against which his head was lying, was a dark stain.

The woman closed her eyes and lay with her head against the man’s body. She soon fell asleep, and dreamt a dream. She thought she was swinging in the hammock which was slung between the verandah poles of the cottage, reading to the boy his favourite story. It was a slight and simple allegory which the man had composed for him, and was based principally upon the last chapter of Revelation, the description of the Delectable Mountains, and Augustine’s City of God. The story was written in the man’s happiest vein, and was full of the loveliest fancy-play. The best passage in it was that description of the valley through which runs the River of the Water of Life. She read as far as this, and lo! in the twinkling of an eye she was in the valley. There stood the grove of those wondrous trees which bear twelve different kinds of fruit, and the leaves of which are for the healing of the suffering nations.

But she was alone in the midst of all this wonder and beauty. She wandered along in a state of disquietude, seeking something or somebody, she knew not who or what. Then she heard a halloa far away in a voice that seemed familiar, and that sent a thrill of agonising bliss through her being. Soon a well-known, pattering footstep sounded down one of the spacious avenues, and the boy rushed into her arms. After an ecstatic moment she lifted her face out of his dark curls, and saw the man hurrying towards her with shining face and outstretched arms.

Chapter Eleven.

The Return of Sobèdè.

“There is a deal of human nature in mankind.”

Josh Billings.

One

Sobèdè stood in the prisoners’ dock before the Circuit Court at Kokstad, between his fellow-prisoners Kwekwe and Gazile, and pleaded “Not Guilty” to the charge of having stolen four head of cattle from one Jasper Swainson, a farmer dwelling in the valley of the Indwana river, Umzimkulu district, whom he had served as a shepherd two years previously.

Sobèdè belonged to the Hlangweni tribe, whilst his companions were Gaika Kafirs from near King William’s Town. But the important difference between Sobèdè and the others lay in this: that whereas they were guilty of the crime laid to their charge, he was as innocent as was his Lordship the learned judge who, clad in a gorgeous vestment of crimson silk, was trying him.

Appearances were, however, strongly against Sobèdè. The evidence showed that the stolen cattle had been found by the farmers who followed on their spoor in the possession of the three prisoners, and were at the time being driven up one of the gorges of the steep Drakensberg range, in the direction of Basutoland, that great and grievous receptacle for stolen stock of all kinds. When Sobèdè told his story, namely, that he had casually joined the other two but a few minutes before he had been apprehended, having come from his kraal along one of the many footpaths leading through the same gorge, no one believed him, although the relation was perfectly true. His wife, Mampitizili, with her two-months-old baby slung on her back and hushing it as she spoke, gave evidence to the effect that her husband had left her after the sun was high on the same day for the purpose of fetching medicine from a native doctor for the week-old baby, which happened at the time to be ailing, whereas the cattle had been stolen thirty hours previously. His old, half-decrepit father, ’Mbopè, corroborated Mampitizili’s statement in a voice that rose to a quavering shout. The old man’s lips trembled, his eyes flashed for a moment through the blue film that had gradually overspread them during the past few years, and he held his shaking right hand with the two first fingers extended high over his head. He really afforded a very fine tragic spectacle, and suggested a kind of Bantu Lear in appearance and mien, but to judge by the behaviour of the jury the exhibition was rather comic than otherwise, for they put their heads together and laughed consumedly. They knew the dodges all these old niggers get up to, and it was quite clear that the old man had pitched it too strong for sincerity. The old man’s display evidently impressed his Lordship, but was nevertheless of no use to Sobèdè. The damning fact remained that the cattle had been stolen from a farmer in whose service he had for some time been, and when the passing flash of insight had faded from the mind of the judge, no one in court except Sobèdè’s wife and father had the slightest doubt as to Sobèdè’s guilt.

The prosecuting barrister finished his address to his own entire satisfaction, and then, sitting down, leaned back in his seat and contemplated the recently-painted ceiling, conscious of having done his duty to society. Then the judge made a few remarks of an analytic nature, inclining at the same time towards the jury-box with that well-known and well-studied air of forensic friendliness which so tends to establish a good understanding between all parties concerned; except, perhaps, the prisoner at the bar. After this the nine heads of the jurymen bent towards each other in a whispered colloquy which may perhaps have lasted for thirty seconds. Then the jurymen all stood up together, and the foreman communicated their verdict as one of “guilty” against the three prisoners.

Then the judge, pushing back the forensic friendliness stop, and drawing out that of judicial austerity, began to admonish the prisoners, and it could be seen that it was at Sobèdè his harangue was chiefly aimed. Although the address was well interpreted, Sobèdè could not follow the drift of it, his attention being divided between the wails of his child sounding faintly from the court-house yard where the witnesses were kept, and the little white tippets which waggled a silent accompaniment to his Lordship’s eloquence over the breast of his Lordship’s beautiful red silk robe. The baseness of ingratitude (it had transpired in the course of the evidence that Sobèdè had, in recognition of meritorious service, been sent away with four goats over and above his specified wages) was enlarged upon, and the ineradicable nature of the furtive bent in the average Bantu was treated from an ethnological point. Eventually Sobèdè found himself sentenced to three years’ imprisonment with hard labour, whilst his companions, who could not help smiling at the peculiarity of the situation, got off each with a year less.

After sentence, as he was being hurried through the court-house yard to the lock-up, Sobèdè caught a glimpse of old ’Mbopè crouching with bent head in a corner, and then he passed Mampitizili. She was still hushing the baby, who as yet refused to be comforted, and as her husband passed her with the horror of the prospect of three years of unmerited, painful servitude darkening his uncivilised soul, these two exchanged such looks as are never forgotten on this side of the grave.

Two

Mampitizili and ’Mbopè took two days wherein to perform the return journey to Sidotè’s location, where they dwelt. Owing to his infirmities the old man walked with great difficulty, but he kept a good heart, and endeavoured his best to comfort the miserable wife of his unhappy son, reminding her from his vantage coign of old age that three years pass very quickly and do not, after all, make much of a slice out of a lifetime. This is quite true when the lifetime is regarded from near the wrong end of it, but such philosophy is unintelligible to the young. The poor woman had only been married about a year, and the baby, a boy, was not yet three months old. It had not as yet even been given a name.

They reached home one cold, misty evening, and it was then that the full significance of their misfortune came home to them for the first time. The friends who had taken charge of the premises during their absence left next morning taking with them a goat, as a reward for their services, and all day long the two miserable creatures sat and hugged their misery. The hearth was cold, the milk-sacks were empty, and the strong arm and shrewd head of Sobèdè were missed at every turn.

The season was early autumn, and the crops were nearly ready to reap, but during their absence the cattle, the birds, and marauding children from kraals in the next valley had so damaged them that they were now hardly worth the reaping. The calves of two of the best cows had died, and consequently milk was scarce. Everything seemed to be falling into disorganisation. A boy of about twelve years of age, a grandson of the old man, was sent to dwell at the kraal for the purpose of assisting in looking after the stock, but the loneliness weighed upon him to such an extent that he repeatedly deserted and ran home, in spite of repeated heavy beatings from his father, who had been promised a cow in payment for the boy’s services.

Mampitizili struggled on bravely, and carried up basket after basket of grain from the depleted field, but when the last cob had been harvested there was hardly enough grain to last half-way through the winter, to say nothing of seed for the ensuing spring.

’Mbopè had another son whose name was Manciya. Manciya’s mother had been the “great wife,” and consequently he took precedence of Sobèdè, whose mother was the wife of ’Mbopè’s “right hand.” All the rest of ’Mbopè’s children were daughters, and they had all long since been married. Sobèdè was ’Mbopè’s youngest child and his favourite.

Manciya and his father did not agree, and consequently ’Mbopè had dwelt with Sobèdè since the latter had married and set up a kraal of his own on a sheltered ledge near the head of a deep valley on the eastern fringe of the Hlangweni location. Manciya had, under pretext of seniority, seized the lion’s share of the cattle. He had, it is true, a right to a great deal of it, but he took more than his share, and it was only after much trouble that he was compelled to disgorge. However, a herd of about twenty head had been rescued from his clutches and formally ceded to Sobèdè as his prospective share in his father’s estate, to be his unconditionally after ’Mbopè’s death.

Manciya now and then called to see his father. His kraal, where he dwelt with his several wives, was situated about five miles away. His visits were not welcome, for the reason that he always appeared to assume that Sobèdè was guilty, and this was resented by both ’Mbopè and Mampitizili. Theft of cattle, especially if it happens to be on a large scale, is probably regarded by the native of to-day more or less as it was regarded by the moss-trooper of the Scotch Border in the sixteenth century. In Sobèdè’s case, however, his wife and his father knew him to be suffering for a sin he had not committed. The ever-present sense of injustice made them sensitive, and they felt the inconvenience of their position most keenly.

Two years passed, full of misery to the widowed wife and the old man who now felt his death approaching, and keenly longed for a sight of his favourite son to carry with him into the grave. They did not even know at which of the convict stations Sobèdè was serving his time, for no word from him had ever reached them since the day of his conviction. The little boy grew strong and tall. He was now able to run about. “Kungayè” was the name given to him. This word means “It was through (or owing to) him.” This name, the significance of which will be obvious, was not given as a reproach, but so that, in after life, the son might remember and deplore his father’s unmerited sufferings, of which he had been the innocent cause.

Three

One evening old ’Mbopè, who had the habit of pottering about digging out medicinal roots with an iron spike, returned and laid himself down on his mat after refusing to eat any supper. The season was again early autumn, and a bitterly cold wind swept down from the snow-flecked Drakensberg range. Next day he was unable to arise, and he lay moaning then and throughout the following night in a burning fever, whilst a cruel cough racked his spent frame. His talk, as he wandered in delirium, was ever of Sobèdè, and the “red chief” who had punished him undeservedly. The poor old man appeared to imagine that he was still giving evidence at the trial. In the early morning he tried to stand up, but fell back dead on his mat.

Manciya came over and buried his father, and then Mampitizili, with little Kungayè, accompanied him back to his kraal. Manciya was now the head of the family, and according to native custom the interests of Sobèdè were vested in him for the time being. The cattle and goats were driven over, and the mats, calabashes, and other lares and penates, with the assegais and clubs of Sobèdè, were taken to Manciya’s kraal. Mampitizili found herself disposed of as joint occupant, with Manciya’s oldest and ugliest wife, of a large hut on the left-hand side of the cattle kraal.

For a time Mampitizili was left to herself, but within a few months she had come to find that all the inconvenience she had previously suffered was as nothing compared to what she now had to endure.

A rumour was set afloat to the effect that Sobèdè was dead; this at first caused her much terror, but when all efforts to trace it to its source had failed, Mampitizili ceased to give it much credence; nevertheless, it left a rankling thorn of uneasiness in her mind. Soon after this she began to see far more of Manciya than she liked, and then he commenced paying her attentions that were extremely distasteful. Among the many Jewish customs followed by the Kafirs is the one prescribed in the fifth verse of the twenty-fifth chapter of the book of Deuteronomy, and Manciya, assuming the report as to Sobèdè’s death to be true, proposed to follow this custom in Mampitizili’s ease. She, it may be stated, was an extremely attractive young woman. Manciya found himself repulsed with indignation over and over again. Then he began to try the effect of harsh and even cruel treatment where soft measures had failed.

The wife whose dwelling Mampitizili shared had been neglected by her husband for years, and was now savagely jealous of the attentions which he paid, in her hut and before her face, to a young, good-looking woman, and she accordingly gave full vent to her spite when she saw from Manciya’s changed demeanour that it was safe for her to do so. Soon Mampitizili’s life became one of continuous misery. It was through little Kungayè that she suffered most severely. The child was bullied or beaten every day by the other children, who were encouraged to torment him, and all attempts at defence or retaliation on the mother’s part proved to be worse than useless. The hardest drudgery fell to Mampitizili’s lot, and the worst food was her scanty portion, but all this she regarded as nothing in comparison with what she had to endure in respect of the treatment to which her child was subjected.

Sometimes she would manage to steal away and carry little Kungayè over to the old kraal, there to muse miserably over the short-lived happiness that she and Sobèdè had enjoyed. The three huts were falling into decay, the corn-pits in the kraal were full of water, and the whole place was overgrown with weeds. But here she had at least peace; the leering, libidinous eye of Manciya no longer affronted her, and she was free from the constant nagging of his jealous, spiteful wives. Here, moreover, little Kungayè could play in peace with the little toy oxen she had made for him out of mud, free from the persecution of his malevolent cousins.

As may have been inferred, it was Manciya who had for his own purposes set afloat the rumour as to Sobèdè’s having died at the convict station. He knew that Sobèdè’s return home might be expected in a few months, and he determined, therefore, to overcome Mampitizili’s resistance to his amatory advances with as little further delay as possible. With this end in view he again changed his tactics, and began once more to treat her with kindness. Amongst other manifestations of this may be mentioned his buying a gaudy blanket for her at a traders, and his administration of a most unmerciful thrashing to her hut-companion—to whom, very unfairly, he had failed to notify the change in his tactics, and who inopportunely was guilty before his face of a spiteful act towards the object of his desires. Mampitizili felt grateful, but kept, nevertheless, strictly on her guard.

One day Manciya sent messages to the surrounding kraals inviting a number of his friends to a beer-drink. For some days previously every one had been kept busy grinding the “imitombo,” or partly-germinated millet from which the beer is made, in large earthen pots. The banquet began early in the forenoon, and by the time the sun went down many heads had been broken, and all the revellers were extremely drunk. Shortly after nightfall Manciya staggered into the hut in which Mampitizili dwelt. The other woman was crouching at the central hearth over some faintly-glowing embers, and her he struck brutally with one of the door-poles which he had stumbled over. The woman rushed with a yell out of the hut, and Manciya began to grope about in the darkness for Mampitizili.

Mampitizili took in the situation at once. She was crouching against the wall at the back of the hut when Manciya entered, clasping little Kungayè close to her. Manciya passed her in his search, and she leaped to her feet and rushed out into the night with her child.

The unhappy woman at length felt that her burthen was greater than she could bear;—that she must get away from Manciya’s kraal now and for ever,—even if she had to fling herself into the cold, dark, deep pool of the river just below the waterfall. But that might happen to-morrow; for to-night she would return to the old kraal, for the last time. She felt she would like to sleep once more in the hut that she and Sobèdè had occupied together. The season was late winter. She hurried on through the darkness with hot head and cold, bruised feet. The night was cloudless and still, and a heavy frost was settling down through the keen, crisp air. Soon the eastern sky began to whiten, and then the moon lit up the snowy masses of the Drakensberg rising abruptly to her left. The child shivered and clung to her mutely; he had acquired the habit of mutely enduring.

At length she reached the rocky ledge upon which the three huts stood, facing down the valley. Broken and dilapidated as they were, they seemed to her like a city of refuge and peace. The largest hut was that which stood in the centre facing the entrance to the stone cattle enclosure. Mampitizili approached this hut from the back, with faltering steps, half-blinded with her tears, and shaken by sobs wrung from the depths of her despair.

A portion of the wall of the hut had fallen in at one side, and, as Mampitizili passed the aperture thus formed, she uttered a cry and fell to the ground in terror, for a fire was alight in the centre of the hut, and a man with his back towards her lay next to it, half covered by a blanket.

Four

Sobèdè, after his sentence, was drafted with other convicted prisoners to the convict station at Port Saint John’s, on the coast of Pondoland and at the mouth of the Umzimvubu river. Here, every working day, he trundled a wheel-barrow filled with gravel at the bluff that was being broken down for the purpose, and tipped it into the lagoon which, before it was thus filled up, wound sinuously through the little village. When each day’s work was done, he was marched with the other convicts to the prison, which was built of galvanised iron on the flattened top of a sand-hill overlooking the deep blue wonder of the Indian Ocean, and the lovely river-mouth with its beetling cliffs and steep forest-fringed slopes. He was well fed and comfortably housed; the work was not heavy, nor were the working hours distressingly long. The only things that troubled him much, after the first wild, desperate feeling of being trapped had passed away, were the monotony of the life, the restraint, always so specially irksome to uncivilised man, and the longing to obtain news of his wife and child, of his father and his cattle.

The climate of Port Saint John’s, the gentle haze that seems to steal into the soul and allay every irritation, the health-giving breath and the commiserating murmur of the great ocean, all brought him peace. Thus the time passed more quickly and less painfully than he had expected. Moreover, he obtained the remission of six weeks for each year of his sentence, such as is allowed to all well-conducted convicts whose sentences exceed a certain limit. Of the regulation authorising this he and his family had been unaware.

At length he one day found himself a free man, with a clear conscience and in perfect health. In spite of having herded with evil-doers he came out of prison a better man than he had entered it. He had endured heavy tribulation without losing hope; he had never lost hold of his past and his future; he had instinctively and insensibly acquired a healthy philosophy under the stress of his unmerited misfortune.

Now he looked forward to meeting, within a few days, the wife, child, and father whom, in spite of his black skin and his uncivilised nature, he dearly loved. Conscious of his innocence and buoyant with hope, Sobèdè, as he walked down the hill from the convict station after his release, held his head erect and looked every man he met straight in the face. He was probably a better man than most of those who would have felt themselves contaminated by touching him.

It is a long day’s walk from Port Saint John’s to Sidotè’s location, and the whole course lies up-hill. Sobèdè was, however, in perfect condition, and although he hurried on, walking all day long and half the night, he felt less and less fatigue the farther he went. The cold was severe in the higher altitudes, and he felt it considerably after his nearly three years spent at sea-level, but this he did not mind. His warm hearth, with Mampitizili and the child, who, he thought, must now be big and old enough to run about and talk, was waiting for him, and once there his troubles would all be forgotten.

Upon taking his discharge, a few shillings wherewith to buy food on his homeward journey had been given to him by the superintendent of the convict station. Of this money he spent hardly any. Natives are extremely hospitable to strangers, and all through Pondoland and the Xesibè country Sobèdè never lacked food to eat.

The last day of Sobèdè’s journey dawned at last. His course now lay along a main road running over farms occupied by Europeans, so he met with hardly any people, nor did he see a single one whom he knew. Just before sundown he came to a wagon outspanned, the owner of which had just slaughtered a goat. Thinking it probable that there would be no fresh meat at his kraal, Sobèdè invested a shilling of his maintenance-money in goat-flesh. He cut a hole in the lump of meat, stuck his stick through it, and carried it over his shoulder.

Sobèdè’s kraal was situated almost on the verge of the Hlangweni location, and the footpath leading to it from the main road passed no other dwellings of men. It was sundown when he reached the point at which the footpath diverged, leading up the valley at the upper end of which the huts were built. His feet were worn and sore from the long walk, but he hurried along the steep, rugged course with firm nervous steps. It was almost dark when he began to ascend the short, steep lip of the ledge. It struck him as being strange that he had seen no signs of cattle or other animals, nor had he even heard the bark of a dog. Perhaps, he thought, those at the kraal had gone to sleep, and the dogs crept in under shelter from the cold. Of course, he was not expected for another four months, as his family knew nothing of the good-conduct remission.

He reached the top of the ledge; there sure enough, he could see the outline of each hut in the shadow of the dark hill-side, beneath the faintly-gleaming western sky.—But what was the matter? Not only was there no sign of life, but he was surrounded by indications of desolation and decay. The weeds were growing thickly all around him. Sobèdè stepped forward with faltering steps and a sinking heart and made for the largest hut. He saw that the wall had partly fallen in on one side, the door had disappeared, and a gleam of stars showed through a ragged gap in the roof. Sobèdè flung himself to the ground before the threshold, and sobbed like a tired and despairing child.

He lay until the keen frost chilled him to the bone. Then he arose and began to search for fuel, which he found without any difficulty. Then he drew a little of the tinder-dry grass from the roof, and by means of his flint, steel, and touchwood, soon lit a fire on the cold and barren hearth. The hut was in a fearfully dilapidated and dirty state, but with a broom extemporised out of a small bush which he plucked outside, he swept the place out. Amongst the rubbish he found several of the little clay oxen which Mampitizili had made for Kungayè, and the sight of these formed a small nucleus of hope in his mind, around which shreds of comfort began to gather. No doubt, he thought, Mampitizili and the old man had, for good and sufficient reasons, removed to Manciya’s or to some other part of the location. To-morrow he would, no doubt, find them. To-night he felt far too weary, after the shock of his disappointment, to seek them even at Manciya’s kraal. All the fatigues of the previous five days seemed to creep into his bones at once, and he felt, for the time being, completely crushed.

Sobèdè cooked a portion of the goat-flesh, ate it, and then laid himself down, wrapped in his blanket, at the side of the fire. The wind had completely died away, and the frosty night seemed tense with utter silence.

With the keen senses of his race Sobèdè became aware of an approaching footstep. It was not so much that he heard any sound, as that he felt a slight rhythmic tremor of the ground beneath him. The footstep drew nearer, and then the sound of sobbing could be heard. Sobèdè did not move; he was not in the slightest degree alarmed, and was far too weary and heartsore to feel interested in anything just then. Then he heard a cry and a sound as of some one falling heavily to the ground.