In a bayou in the south-eastern corner of the Victoria Nyanza was the station of Ingonya, a brown scab on the face of the green earth. The round mud huts of the askaris were like two columns of khaki troops marching rigidly on each side of the parade ground. To the north, upon a slight rise of ground, were the white men’s quarters; the non-commissioned officers had four bungalows to the south of the orderly room and Court House; and beyond a green plot flanked by a store house and an ordnance building, was a bigger bungalow, florid in the amplitude and colour of the red pillared verandah, the residence of the Kommandant, Herr Ober-Lieutenant Hermann von Schnitzler und zu Pfeiffer.
On the northern side, overlooking the swamp and the distant lake, was a flagpole, before which paced an ebon sentry in a uniform of white knickers, tunic and lancer cap, red faced. The glow of sunrise stained the green of the moon with crimson. A trumpet blared. From the rear of the Residence marched with stiff-legged precision a squad of askaris and the stocky figure of a non-commissioned officer in a white helmet. Simultaneously appeared on the verandah of the large bungalow the tall form of a white man [pg 8] in pink silk pyjamas. The sergeant barked. The squad presented arms. A coloured ball slid up the flagpole. The first rays of the sun splintered the bloodied waters beyond into silver spikes and caressed a fluttering black, white and red flag.
Then the squad ported arms, relieved the sentry, and retired, their black legs gleaming blue points as they rose and fell. The pink figure disappeared. Sergeant Schultz strutted back to his bungalow, in the verandah of which squatted a native girl clad in gay trade cloths. He emerged lighting a cigar, and sjambok in hand, returned to the orderly room. Another trumpet blared. From beyond the askaris’ camp came a line of natives, young and old, their scrawny necks linked together by a light iron chain which clanked musically. Filing on to the parade ground they were divided into gangs by Sergeant Schneider to labour under guard at the interminable work of the camp.
The air above the swamp began to sizzle in the heat. The same slender figure clad in immaculate white reappeared upon the south verandah of the florid bungalow. Herr Ober-Lieutenant stood staring about the small square with a peevish glint in the fair eyes. A big negro in spotless white hurried around the house bearing a brass tray set with a cup, a liqueur glass and a decanter. Herr Lieutenant sprawled his legs on either arm of a Bombay chair. As he delicately mixed cognac with his coffee, his jewelled fingers sparkled in a shaft of sunlight which set afire the sapphires mounted in an ivory bracelet.
At a yard from the table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With a lazy insolence which marked [pg 9] his movements, the lieutenant sipped the café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the terrace of the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull, emphasized by the cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the boyish rotundity of the face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two separate moustaches bristled so fiercely that they suggested sentries on guard over the feminine softness of the lips. When he had finished zu Pfeiffer arose languidly, lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with care, took a gold-mounted sjambok from his servant, and strode across the square. The lines of his torso were so perfect that they suggested artificial aid.
The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was upon the floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north verandah. Zu Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk placed at an oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and papers. After tapping reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail zu Pfeiffer’s hand sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared at the farther door and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple. Zu Pfeiffer snapped instructions in Kiswahili without removing his cigar. The man grunted, shot his hand away at right angles with as much energy as if he were trying to knock down an elephant, and vanished.
“Sergeant!”
“Ja, Excellence.”
At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant Schultz in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into the semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a [pg 10] certain document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant. Zu Pfeiffer pushed a box of cigars across the table, lolled back with one foot on the table, and began to peruse lazily. The sergeant retired respectfully with the cigar to the outer office. A fly buzzed hopefully at the mosquito wire. The tap of a typewriter sounded like some other insect. On the hot air came the faint barks of a drill-sergeant on the parade ground. From behind the building rose fitfully the murmur of voices from a herd of natives squatted in the sun awaiting the opening of the Court House. Leaves rustled largely under the Lieutenant’s fingers.…
At length he pitched the report on to the table, carefully placed the butt of his cigar in an ash-tray, lighted another, and disposed of the match with equal care.
“Sergeant.”
“Ja, Excellence!”
Zu Pfeiffer indicated a chair by a thrust of the chin. The sergeant sat. Tapping the report with the highly polished and very long finger-nail of the left hand, the lieutenant demanded:
“Who is the man who gave you this report?”
“Ali Ben Hassan, an Arab trader, Excellence.”
“Trustworthy?”
“Ja, Excellence. He has done much work for us.”
“Where?”
“On the Tanganika district, sub-division B II, Excellence. He brought papers of first-class recommendation from the Kommandant.”
“Ben Hassan speaks of one Sakamata, nicht wahr?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Of what tribe is he?”
[pg 11]“Wongolo.”
“A witch-doctor?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“He is here? Let him come in.”
The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a dirty loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his chest and belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small lack-lustre eyes were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost fleshless. He squatted upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of a white man’s table leg. Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man as one would a stray dog and nodded to the sergeant, who sat down.
“Does he speak Kiswahili?”
“Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech.”
“Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?”
“Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there—yet. They are too busy with the Uganda railroad.”
“Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or——” The lieutenant permitted a slight smile—“or Dis-established Church?”
“King-God, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.
“This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?”
The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A twitch of the lips recognized his superior’s pleasantry.
“Ja, Excellence.”
[pg 12]Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded idly the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.
“We must have the Wongolo country, c’est entendu. Now what’s your opinion of the method, sergeant?”
“With due deference, Excellence,” responded Sergeant Schultz, “I propose that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual manner.”
Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the yellow glare.
“Nein,” he said at length, meditatively, removed the cigar from his lips and delicately knocked off the ash. “Circumstances alter cases. That method is too expensive. Son Altesse cannot afford the blood of the Fatherland in return for such ignoble carcasses. We—the price paid in the Herrero campaign was insupportable.”
“Pardon, Excellence, but Treitschke said——”
“I know, sergeant. But Treitschke did not live in Central Africa.”
“True, Excellence.”
“Die Schweinhünde Engländer have had more experience than we have. Even a fool learns wisdom by experience—sometimes.”
“True, Excellence.”
Again fell a silence save for the buzz of the persistent fly.
“Also psychological research is more valuable than artillery—sometimes—in spite of Napoleon and Treitschke.” Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the sergeant who, beneath the mask of his features, appeared shocked. “Blasphemy, nicht wahr, sergeant?”
[pg 13]“If your Excellence thinks——”
“But remember if Napoleon invented the science of artillery, we invented psychology.”
“True, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smiled complacently and stroked his moustaches.
“Now for this animal here. Who and what was he?”
“One of the principal witch-doctors, Excellence, wealthy and powerful. He attempted to overthrow the Chief Witch-doctor, one Bakahenzie, and was discredited.”
“How discredited?”
“He attempted some form of magic, Excellence, which failed. Details are not given.”
“Who gave the dossier?”
“Ali ben Hassan, Excellence.”
“From whom did he get his information?”
“Name given as one Yabolo, another witch-doctor and relative.”
“This Saka—Saka”—zu Pfeiffer glanced at the document—“Sakamata. Is he in communication with this Yabolo?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smoked reflectively.
“When did the last agent come in?”
“But yesterday, Excellence.”
“And no report of any other white men in the country? No British missionaries or traders?”
“Nein, Excellence.”
“Where is Saunders?”
“On Lake Kivu.”
“No report?”
[pg 14]“Not since the last three months ago, Excellence.”
“Umph!—Now, pay attention.” Schultz leaned forward dutifully. Zu Pfeiffer unrolled a map on the wall beside him. “Here’s Ingonya. The Wongolo country is twenty days’ march from here, but across the lake it’s twenty hours with the launch, and five days from there.” The delicate finger-nail indicated a spot on the opposite side of the lake. “From here—what’s the place? Ach—Timballa. To hell with the British boundary! We must not give them time to get the news. Always rush the seat of government. Surprise them and they’re done.”
“But, Excellence, Treitschke says regarding retreat——”
“There will be no retreat. At MFunya MPopo’s is the idol, the fetish. We destroy it and they’re done!” He brought down his fist with a crash on the table. “Faith unites a people; in unity is strength. Break the faith and you’ve broken the people.”
“But, Excellence!” exclaimed the Lutheran sergeant, aghast.
Zu Pfeiffer’s blue eyes hardened.
“Understand, you fool, these are savages. You have an abstract deity—which you cannot break in the concrete—obviously: they have a concrete god which we can and shall smash.”
“Excellence, you are right,” said the sergeant humbly.
Zu Pfeiffer flicked cigar ash from his sleeve and lolled back.
“Those are your orders. Commandeer the necessary canoes and notify Ludwig to have the men in [pg 15] readiness for the full moon. Work out the details and give them to me to-morrow.”
“Ja, Excellence.” Schultz stood to attention. “But, Excellence, this creature——”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced casually at Sakamata.
“Oh, that? Take it away!”
Schultz saluted smartly and wheeled about.
“Njoo!” he commanded sharply.
Sakamata rose up quietly and disappeared through the door without glancing to the right or the left.
“The Court awaits your Excellence,” reminded the sergeant.
As zu Pfeiffer nodded languidly, a booted foot clopped on the verandah.
“Wa da?” queried Sergeant Schultz, startled at the intrusion of a stranger.
“Oh, only I,” responded a soft voice in English.
Through the screen door a tall figure in a Tirai hat was silhouetted in sepia against the yellow glare. A brown hand pushed open the door.
“Mon nom est Birnier, Gerald Birnier—er—Does any one speak English?”
Zu Pfeiffer, in the act of rising, sank back into the chair, placing his left leg in a favourite position and selecting a cigar simultaneously.
“Yes,” said he, almost without accent. “What do you want?”
“I wish to see the—the Herr Kommandant.”
Zu Pfeiffer struck a match without looking up.
“I am he.”
One hand upon the open door, Birnier stroked his shaven chin perplexedly with the other. He glanced from the sergeant, standing rigidly by the table, to [pg 16] the lieutenant engaged in stoking his cigar to a nicety.
“Well, it’s usual to invite a white man to sit down, isn’t it?” suggested Birnier, with a note of irritation.
Zu Pfeiffer looked across the table.
“Nein. This is the Orderly Room; not a general office.”
“Oh, I see. I beg your pardon!” There was a note of laughter in the voice. “Will you kindly instruct me where I am to apply?”
Zu Pfeiffer continued to regard the stranger from head to foot, smoking slowly.
“Please to come in,” he said at length, gesturing with his cigar, “and sit down.”
“Thanks so much!”
The trace of irony seemed to escape zu Pfeiffer. He gave a guttural order to the sergeant, who saluted and disappeared. The stranger placed his Tirai hat on the table, revealing rumpled brown hair flecked with grey, a high white forehead, and long features; the slight stoop of the shoulders and general carriage rather suggested a professional type than a hunter or trader. He regarded the slim figure staring insolently at him with a hardening look of disapproval.
“What is it you wish?”
“Well, principally I require an elephant licence and the usual permit to trade.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Kivu country.”
Zu Pfeiffer regarded his cigar tip interestedly.
“You are going to the Wongolo country,” he stated.
Birnier’s mouth tightened.
“Quite possibly.”
[pg 17]“You have been to the Wongolo country already?”
“Yes, I have been there, but what has that to do with it?”
“We know all about you,” stated zu Pfeiffer coldly, twiddling his cigar between slender fingers. He glanced at a gold repeater. “Pardon, but I must request you to return later. The Court is already awaiting me.” Birnier frowned slightly. “If you will be so good as to return at, let us say, five o’clock, I will be pleased to listen to your application.”
Birnier rose, taking his hat.
“Certainly,” he said curtly. “Good morning!”
Zu Pfeiffer watched him depart; then he struck the bell sharply. Sergeant Schultz appeared, a line of nervous expectancy upon his sallow face.
“Why have you not reported that man’s arrival?” demanded zu Pfeiffer harshly.
“Excellence,” returned Schultz, saluting, “he has but arrived within the hour in a launch, loaned to him by the Engländer.”
“Ach! An English spy!”
“I do not know, Excellence.”
“We ought to know. Why have you not a report of the man’s movements? He admits that he has been in the Wongolo country.”
“Excellence, it is already done.” Schultz hurriedly searched a card index cabinet and handed a document to the lieutenant. “There is Saunders’ report, Excellence; more than six months old.”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the page indicated and began to read while the sergeant stood stiffly at attention.
“You may go, sergeant,” announced zu Pfeiffer without looking up. Schultz saluted and departed. [pg 18] Zu Pfeiffer finished the report leisurely, put down the paper, and stared meditatively.
No, he decided, as he rose, all the English are spies.
Like a topaz set in a jade ring was the city of the Snake, the place of Kings, a village of some eight hundred huts huddled upon a slight rise above a sea of banana fronds, some two hundred miles to the west of Ingonya.
On the summit was a large conical hut like an enormous candle snuffer, the dwelling place of Usakuma, the spirit of the Snake, whose name was forbidden to all save the Priest-God and Rain Maker, King MFunya MPopo, who was so holy that after succeeding to the sacred office he was doomed to live within the compound, even as were the Kings of Eutopia, Sheba and China, a celibate for the remainder of his life: for, as the incarnation of the Idol, Usakuma, and therefore the controller of the Heavens and the Earth, his body must be kept from all danger of witchcraft lest the rains cease and the blue skies fall.
From the compound, looking towards the north-west where the snow-capped Gamballagalla rose violet against the horizon, another brown cone peeped above the green fronds, the late residence, and now the tomb of King MKoffo, predecessor of MFunya MPopo. For where a King-God dies there is he buried, he and his wives after him; the site becomes holy ground, a place of pilgrimage and sanctuary.
In each of the small huts to the rear of the temple of MFunya MPopo, but outside the sacred enclosure, lived [pg 20] his wives who, although forbidden to their husband, were permitted a royal promiscuity. Just within the precincts was a small replica of the temple where dwelt a young chief, also bound to celibacy, whose duties were to keep the royal fire burning as long as the king should reign. No one was allowed to converse with the king, save on matters of state, except this man; through him was spoken the royal will—what there was left of it—to the council which sat in a long rectangular building opposite to the temple entrance and open to the village, a body of witch-doctors and chiefs.
Solely the kingly office existed as a beneficent agent, a matter of self-preservation on the part of the tribe. The King-God’s functions were divine; to make magic for the victory of his warriors and principally to make rain, on which, of course, the alimentary needs of his subjects depended—an incarnation of a god who was in reality the scapegoat of the god’s omissions.
The office was hereditary. Perhaps no one else would willingly accept such an onerous post. The making of magic was performed before the god with the assistance of the chief witch-doctor, an exceedingly lucrative post won upon merit, occupied by one Bakahenzie, a tall muscular man in the prime of life, whose bearing was that of the native autocrat, fierce and remorseless. The King’s personal wishes could be safely granted as long as he did not endanger the existence of the people by a desire to break any of the meshes of the tabus designed to ensure the safety of his sacred body, and therefore that of the tribe, on the assumption that if the incarnation were injured the god would be injured, and so would his creations be [pg 21] affected: any infringement of these laws entailed the penalty of death, a code which revealed the native logic in the confusion of cause and effect, the concrete and the abstract.
In the door of a hut on the outskirts of the village squatted a wizened man with a tuft of grey beard upon his chin. He was clad in a loin-cloth fairly clean, and about his neck was suspended by a twisted fibre an amulet wrapped in banana leaves containing the gall and toenail of an enemy slain by a virgin warrior, a specific against black magic whose powerful properties were proven by the undisputed influence and wealth of the owner.
A tall lithe savage, bearing upon his arms and ankles the ivory bracelets of the royal house and the elephant hair chaplet of the warrior, advanced leisurely towards him from the banana plantation. Marufa continued to gaze in rumination at the opposite hut. But as they had not met since the rising of the sun, he did not fail to make the orthodox greeting at the exact moment that the chief’s shadow passed in front of him, which Zalu Zako returned punctiliously, thereby averting an evil omen. As soon as the young man had passed beyond the next hut appeared in the grove a girl, modelled like a bronze wood nymph. She wore the tiny girdle of the unmarried and walked furtively, carrying in her hand a parcel wrapped in banana leaves. In the shadow of a compound fence she halted, one slender brown arm set back in apprehension as her eyes followed the lithe figure of Zalu Zako.
Motionless sat Marufa staring in mystic contemplation. Bakuma glanced swiftly about her. Apparently satisfied that no one was observing her save a lean dog [pg 22] and two gollywog children, she continued on as if to pass the old man, her eyes still ranging like a fawn’s. But when she was beside Marufa she subsided on her haunches beside him, clutching the bundle as she whispered:
“Greetings, O wise one!”
“Greeting, daughter,” returned Marufa without lessening the fixity of his gaze.
“I would talk with thee.”
“Aye.”
Again she glanced around furtively.
“I would talk in thine ear, O my father.”
“The knots of my hair are tied.”
“I thank thee. There’s a fluttering bird in my breast.”
“And a snake around thy heart, O my daughter.”
“Aie-e!”
“The grandson of the snake hath tied thy girdle.”
“Ehh!”
The girl clasped her breast in surprised terror.
“How dost thou know?”
“All things are known to the son of MTungo,” declared Marufa solemnly, still regarding the opposite wall. “Thou desirest a love charm.… What hast thou?”
Tremulously Bakuma put down the green package on the ground, darting terrified glances to right and left. Slowly the skinny hand of the wizard gently tore open the leaves; very impressively the eyes slanted down to appraise the stock of blue and white beads.
“The spirit of Tarum hath a big belly,” he announced tonelessly.
“O wise one, intercede for me,” pleaded Bakuma, [pg 23] “for more have I none, I, Bakuma, daughter of Bakala, a girl of the hut thatch.”
“The true love charm, infallible and powerful, is difficult to obtain, O Bakuma. The young huntress aims at big game.”
“Ehh! But I have no more, great one!”
“The hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of a forest rat, the tongue of a Baroto bird—these must I have to mix with thy blood to be drunk by thy man when the moon is full.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“Such is the magic that no young man can resist.”
“Ehh-h!”
“But these things are difficult to obtain.”
“Aie! Aie!” wailed Bakuma, clasping her hands in despair.
“Difficult to obtain.”
“Aie-e!”
“On the night of the half-moon will I take upon me the leopard form.”
“Ehh!”
“I will talk with the spirits.”
“Ehh! Ehh!”
“But they must be propitiated with the blood of a fat goat.”
“Aie! Aie! But I have no fat goat.”
“If there be no fat goat then will the spirits be wroth with me.”
“Aie-e-e!”
Bakuma sat staring in dismal perplexity.
“No fat goat have I, a girl of the hut thatch! Aie! Aie!”
[pg 24]Marufa fumbled within the loin-cloth and thrust a tiny package along the ground.
“See and know the power of my magic.” Bakuma greedily snatched up the amulet. “Begone!” he whispered, jerking the parcel of beads behind him. “MYalu approaches.”
“Ehh!”
Bakuma rose and fled with the grace of a startled antelope as appeared a tall, strongly built man, having a low-browed face, across which was a deep scar. Behind MYalu came two young slaves bearing a small elephant tusk. Opposite to Marufa the slaves stopped. Their master, careful that his shadow fell well away from the figure of the magician—for the shadow is one of the souls, so woe unto him who shall leave his soul in the hands of an enemy!—squatted gravely.
“Greeting, son of MTungo!”
“Greeting, son of MBusa!” returned Marufa.
Gravely they spat into each other’s palm, the sign of amity as they who exchange bonds of good behaviour inasmuch, as is well known, magic can be worked upon that which has been a part of the body as upon the body itself. Then solemnly they rubbed the spittle upon their respective chests.
“The spirit of the snake nourisheth not the life of the banana.”
“Nay, for nigh unto two moons hath there been no blood of the snake,” returned the old man perfunctorily, as he lifted his eyes from a swift appraisement of the tusk to his favourite mud wall.
“Nay, the crops sprout not. Maybe the Dweller in the Place of the Snake hath been visited by one from the forest.”
[pg 25]“Aye, but old blood runs not as swiftly as young blood.”
“Nay,” replied MYalu, in answer to the reference to himself, “but the girdle is not yet tied by another.”
“When the first twig of the nest is laid,” remarked Marufa, indolently eyeing the tusk, “it is difficult to entice the hen to another tree.”
“Here is a goodly twig with which to tempt spirits of the forest,” and significantly, “Maybe there are others.”
“A mighty potion shall be prepared for thee, O son of MBusa,” declared Marufa, moving slightly to conceal the package of beads. “A mighty potion, infallible; made from the hair of a rutting leopardess, the liver of the forest rat and the tongue of the Baroto bird; these must she take that she shall speak thee softly, together with a portion of that which remains from the ceremony of the lobolo. Infallible is it; never known to fail.”
“Ehh!”
Marufa stared interestedly at a wandering hen. MYalu watched him covertly. Like bronzes sat the two young slaves. From the distance came a faint chanting and the beat of a drum.…
“The tusk is here, Marufa,” remarked MYalu casually.
“My eyes see it,” observed Marufa, without altering his observation of the hen.
“Where then is the potion?”
Marufa glanced at the tusk, appraised it again, and fumbling within his loin-cloth, thrust another tiny package along the ground. MYalu greedily picked up [pg 26] the amulet and stared in awe, turning it over and about.
“The tusk,” murmured Marufa.
MYalu gestured to his slaves. They rose and placed the tusk beside the old man, shuffled backwards and squatted again. After lifting one end to test the weight, Marufa examined the grain. Then sliding it behind him as if he wished to sit upon it, remarked:
“The potion must be eaten at the full moon.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu glanced up from an absorbed examination of the amulet.
“And within the quarter shall the fruit be ripe for the plucking.” The whites of MYalu’s eyes gleamed. “Unless,” continued the old man uninterestedly, “there be stronger magic made against thee.”
“Ehh!”
The two hands holding the amulet came down.
“If,” explained Marufa, “another hath tied the grasses of her father’s roof, will there be required a stronger spirit to overcome such magic.”
“But thou hast told me,” expostulated MYalu, regarding the tusk regretfully, “that this is a mighty magic, powerful and infallible, never known to fail.”
“Thus is it,” asserted the old man imperturbably, “for all save a stronger magic.”
MYalu’s eyes wandered from the tusk to Marufa and back. He scowled.
“Why didst thou not tell me?” he demanded sourly, dropping the amulet on the ground.
“It is for thee to tell the wizard all that thou knowest. How else may he reckon with thine enemies?”
[pg 27]“Enemy!” exclaimed MYalu. He stared questioningly at Marufa. “Enemy! Dost thou know whom I seek?”
“Do not all the hens remark the strutting of the cock?” inquired Marufa unconcernedly, tapping his snuff box.
“Ehh!”
MYalu observed the taking of snuff as if he had never seen the operation before.
“Ehh!” he remarked again succinctly.
Marufa replaced the cork of twisted leaves, let fall the snuff box made of rhinoceros horn suspended from his neck by a copper wire, and contemplated a skinny goat scratching itself violently. MYalu stirred as if to rise, but subsided, cogitated and said slowly:
“In the house of MYalu are four more tusks.”
“Four more tusks,” repeated Marufa dreamily.
“Bigger than this one,” said MYalu suggestively.
“Bigger than this one.”
“Knowest thou by whom the girdle is tied?”
“By the grandson of the Snake.”
“Ehh!”
MYalu squatted motionless. The old man appeared to doze. Women bearing gourds of water upon their heads passed in single file, their loins swaying rhythmically. The shadows dwindled. From close at hand began the rapid beat of a drum. A stir began through the village as each man herded his women and slaves to his own hut.
“O Marufa,” said MYalu, speaking with a slight snarl, “hast thou such a powerful medicine that can surely trap the soul of Zalu Zako when perchance it wanders (in sleep)?”
[pg 28]“All things are possible to the son of MTungo,” mumbled the old man.
Two chiefs appeared walking through the grove at a middle distance. MYalu glanced round apprehensively.
“Two tusks will I give thee,” he whispered, “if thou wilt do this thing.”
“Three tusks. No less, for the matter is dangerous.”
“Two, two.”
“Nay.”
The old man stirred to rise.
“Three be it,” gasped MYalu. “But I must see the magic done.”
They rose together.
“Bring me of his toe-nails one paring, of his hair one, and his spittle and a footprint. Then shalt thou come with me to the sacred grove where the magic shall be done.”
“Ehh!”
“But the three tusks must be given to Yanoka, my first wife.”
MYalu hesitated.
“Aye, thus shall it be done,” he assented reluctantly.
“It is agreed?” inquired Marufa.
“May my cord be lost!” swore MYalu, and gesturing to the slaves, hurried away.
A slight grin flecked the old man’s eyes as he turned into the hut.
“Already hath he drunken of her blood,” he mumbled. “Ya, Inkombana! take the tusk!”
When Marufa emerged, a head-dress of the tail feathers of the green parrot, professional uniform and potent specific against evil spirits, fluffed gently as he [pg 29] slowly stalked towards the council house. From the other side of a hut walked MYalu as if he had come from a different direction. In the open gate of the royal enclosure sat a muscular young man upon his haunches, tending the royal fire, which fed hungrily upon small faggots. Beyond him across the yellow glare upon the cleared ground beneath a thatched awning, stood an idol of wood, whose lopsided mouth snarled beneath a bridgeless nose; narrow slits for eyes squinted; baby arms stuck down beside triangular breasts above a melon belly having a protuberant navel like a small cucumber—the incarnation of the Snake-god, Usakuma.
Without the palisade of the sacred ground was a taller one, barring the doings of the council of witch-doctors and chiefs from the lay public, who were confined to their own huts under the penalty of a hideous death, or an enormous fine, as the witch-doctors should decide.
To the rear of the idol, cross-legged against the wall of the entrance to the conical hut, were the musicians beating a monotonous rhythm upon big and small drums and twanging a primitive lyre of five strings. Just as Marufa and MYalu took their respective places without among the wizards and the chiefs, a young goat skipped into the open and stared inquisitively at the Keeper of the Fires. As the man waved the animal back from the sacred ground, the goat lowered its head and threatened to charge, suddenly recollected its mate lying in the shade a few feet away, and began to bleat absent-mindedly.
Gravely and silently sat the assembly: continuously throbbed the drums. The sun beat diagonally. As a [pg 30] lizard darted like a flash of a prism from the grass palisade, the band ceased. A man emerged from behind the idol. Although the grey woolly tufts upon his chin, the sacred snake skin around his waist above the cat skin loin-cloth, the jingle of the ivory bangles on arms and ankles, and his stature, imparted an air of barbaric royalty, King MFunya MPopo advanced with the manner of a pariah dog ordered to his master’s side.
As the King approached, the Keeper of the Fires hastily threw on a handful of faggots and bowed his head. In the centre of the opening of the enclosure the King squatted down with his back to the fire which streamed blue smoke. Not a limb or a muscle moved among the group of wizards and chiefs in the council house. Attracted by the movement, the goat stopped bleating and stared at the King; then, putting down its head, charged him.
With a horrified click, the Keeper of the Fires sprang. But he was not swift enough to prevent the impact of the animal’s horns with the royal arm thrust out in self-defence. Three young chiefs came running; one caught up the goat and carried it away bleating bellicosely; the others knelt, and while one carefully collected a gout of blood upon the King’s forearm in a piece of banana leaf, his companion wiped the wound. When they were satisfied that the bleeding had ceased, the pieces were meticulously wrapped in another leaf and borne away by the Keeper of the Fires to be deposited in the temple: for as every man knows, the royal blood must not be spilt upon the ground lest the site be accursed for ever and like the tooth of the dragon of Colchis, arise from the spot ghostly warriors to annihilate the tribe.
[pg 31]Neither upon the face of any of the elders nor upon the features of MFunya MPopo, the King, had a muscle moved. Yet the incident was regarded as an evil omen.… Then suddenly did Bakahenzie, the chief witch-doctor, plumed with a tall scarlet feather in addition to the green ones and a necklace of finger bones upon his bronze chest, who sat in the centre with Kawa Kendi, the King’s son upon his right, and Zalu Zako, the grandson, upon his left, begin to chant in a high wailing voice to the rapid rhythm of the drums:
And from the group within the council house, immobile, came the bass chorus of assent:
The throb of the drums grew faster. Bakahenzie [pg 32] leaped from the crowd. Immediately in front of the King he began to dance and to scream:
Kawa Kendi, a man in early middle age, powerful and lithe-limbed, sat as motionless as the King, his father, staring, as did all, with the fixed stare of the anagogic.
Abruptly the drums ceased. Again came a hot silence as Bakahenzie paused in front of MFunya MPopo. Then with a piercing yell, the witch-doctor spun on his toes. The drums broke into an hysterical rhythm. Bakahenzie leaped high in the air; whirled around and around screaming hoarsely; leaped and spun continually.
The chiefs and doctors began to grunt; continued in [pg 33] crescendo until the whole body throbbed and grunted to the rhythm of the drums. Yet immobile sat MFunya MPopo.
Suddenly Bakahenzie changed the erratic course of his wild dance. He whirled and screamed in front of the King and fell headlong, as if in a fit, with eyes injected and foam upon the black tufts of beard. Bakahenzie clutched his belly and began to howl like a hyena at the moon. The drums stopped. Howl and writhe did Bakahenzie as if a thousand fiends were tearing out his entrails.
He lay rigid. The air seemed to quiver. The lines of every man’s limbs, except the King’s, were drawn in tension. Then from the prostrate body of the witch-doctor, whose legs and arms were twisted as in agony, whose dribbling mouth was closed like a vise, came a ventriloquous falsetto:
From the assembly came the belly grunt of acceptance. In silence rose Kawa Kendi, the heir-apparent. His face was as expressionless as his father’s. He stepped around the body of Bakahenzie and across the open space followed by a young man, Kingata Mata. Ten feet away from the enclosure, Kingata Mata sank upon his haunches. Before MFunya MPopo squatted his son. They spat each in the other’s hand and swallowed the spittle. Then the head of Kawa Kendi bent to the lips of MFunya MPopo to receive the sacred Name.
In unison with Kawa Kendi rose Kingata Mata, who to him handed a cord of twisted bark. Bending behind the King, who remained motionless with the closed eyes of one already dead, Kingata Mata swiftly adjusted the cord and handed it back to the son, Kawa Kendi.…
When the muscular young Keeper of the Fires had poured solemnly a gourd of water upon the royal fire of MFunya MPopo, he knelt submissively and was strangled beside his master.…
From the assembly went up a great shout:
“The fire is put out!”
And from the village, listening in awe to the mighty doings, came like an echo:
“The fire is put out! Aie! Aie-e!”
Then shouted the elders and wizards:
“Let there be a new fire!”
Again came the wailing repetition from the village:
“Let there be a new fire!”
As in the Place of Fires was kindled a new fire by Kingata Mata with two sacred sticks, one of which is [pg 35] male and the other female, the assembled chiefs and magicians groaned in allegiance to the new King-God of the unmentionable spirit of the Snake, Usakuma, the Idol.