John Ames, Native Commissioner Part 7

"What a strange life you must have to lead up there!" she went on; for he had told her a good deal about himself during the time of their acquaintanceship.

"Oh yes. It gets monotonous at times. But then, I take it, everything does."

"But it is such a useful life. And you have helped to open up the country, too."

"Not I. That is left to other people."

"But you were with the first expedition, and so of course you helped. I don't wonder you pioneers are proud of the part you took in extending the Empire. Isn't that the correct newspaper phrase? At any rate, it sounds something big."

John Ames smiled queerly. He was not especially proud of the extension of the Empire; he had seen a few things incidental to that process which had killed within him any such incipient inflation.

"Oh yes; there's a good deal of sound about most of the doings of 'the Empire,' but there--I must not get cynical on that head, because the said extension is finding me in bread and cheese just now, and I must endeavour to be 'proud of' that."

"You must have great responsibilities holding the position you do. Tell me, are you able to throw them off while you are away, or do you lie awake sometimes at night wondering if things are going right?"

"Oh, I try not to bother my head about them. It's of no use taking a holiday and thinking about 'shop' all the while. Besides, the man who is in my place is all there. He has been at it as long as I have; and if there is one thing I may say without conceit I do know--in fact, both of us know--it is the wily native and his little ways."

Ah, John Ames, so you thought, and so thought many others in those boding days! But at this moment the man who is in your place is drinking whisky and water and smoking pipes with the Police sub-inspector in a circular hut on the Sik.u.mbutana, and you are dallying beneath a radiant moon upon a fir-shaded road at Wynberg, with more than one lingering glance into the eyes of the sweet-faced, soft-voiced girl beside you. But one could almost read a leering derisive grin into the face of the cold moon, for that moon is now looking down upon that which would give both yourself and 'the man in your place' something very serious to think about and to do. It is looking down upon--let us see what.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE VOICE OF UMLIMO.

It is probable that the Matopo Hills, in Southern Matabeleland, are, as a freak of Nature, unique on the earth's surface.

Only a vast upheaval--whether through the agency of fire or of water, let the geologists determine and quarrel over--can have produced such a bizarre result. A very sea of granite waves, not smooth and rolling, but piled in gigantic, rugged heaps; cones of immense boulders, rising to the height of many hundred feet; t.i.tanic ma.s.ses of castellated rock; slab-like _mesas_ and smooth-headed domes all jumbled together arbitrarily side by side; it is as though at some remote age a stupendous explosion had torn the heart out of earth's surface, and heaving it on high with irresistible force, had allowed it to fall and settle as it would. Colossal boulders, all on end, anyhow, forming dark holes and caves, lead up to the summits of these marvellous cones; and in such clefts wild vegetation finds abundant anchorage--the acacia and wild fig and mahobo-hobo. Here a tall rock pinnacle, balancing upon its apex a great stone, which, to the unthinking eye, a mere touch would send crashing from its airy resting-place where it has reposed for ages and ages beyond all memory; there a solid square granite block the size of a castle, riven from summit to base as completely and smoothly as a bisected cheese. Grim baboons, of large size and abnormal boldness, bark threateningly from the ledges, and every crag is a perfect rookery of predatory birds--hawks and buzzards, and kites and carrion crows-- soaring and wheeling beneath the blue of the heavens. Valleys, narrow and winding, intersect this chaotic ma.s.s, swampy withal in parts, and harbouring reedy water-holes where, beneath the broad leaves and fair blossoms of radiant lilies, the demon crocodile lurks unsuspected.

Great crater-like hollows, too--only to be entered by a single way, and that a very staircase of rocks--the whole a vast and forbidding series of natural fastnesses, which even now have been thoroughly penetrated by but few whites, and at that time by the conquerors of the country not at all.

Evening is drawing down upon this rugged wilderness. The sun has gone off the world, but a rosy afterglow still tinges the piled boulders or smooth, balanced crags rearing up above the feathery foliage of acacia; and, save for an odd one here and there, the wheeling birds of prey have sought their inaccessible roosting-places. But such as have not--for these an unwonted sight lies beneath. The deathlike solitude of each winding valley is disturbed by an unwonted life--the life of men.

On they come--dark forms in straggling lines--threescore here, two there; a dozen further back, even as many as a hundred together. And they are converging upon one point. This is a hollow, the centre of which forms an open s.p.a.ce--once under cultivation--the sides a perfect ruin of shattered rocks.

On they come--line upon line of dark savages--advancing mostly in silence, though now and then the hum of a marching song, as some fresh group arrives at the place, rises upon the stillness in clear cadence.

None are armed, unless a stick apiece and a small shield can be defined as weapons; and there is a curiously subdued note pervading the a.s.sembly--an elated look on some of those dark faces, a thoughtful one on others--but one of expectancy upon all.

Each party as it arrives squats upon the ground awaiting the next. And still the tread of advancing feet, the hum of approaching voices, and presently the open s.p.a.ce is filled with dark humanity to the number of several hundreds. During the period of waiting, chiefs, leaving their own following, greet each other, and draw apart for converse among themselves. Suddenly, and with startling nearness, there echoes forth from a crag overhead a loud resonant bark. It is answered by another and another. A volley of deep-voiced e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, first startled--for their feelings are wrought up--then mirthful, arises from scores of throats. A troop of baboons has discovered this human concourse, and, secure in a lofty vantage ground, is vocally resenting its presence.

But such levity is promptly checked by a sense of the serious nature of the gathering. It is clear that all are a.s.sembled who mean to come.

And now the gloom lightens with amazing rapidity, as the broad disc of a full moon sails majestically forth above the jumble of serrated crags; and to it turns that sea of wild dark faces stamped with an unwonted expectation and awe, for as yet the bulk of those present have but a dim idea of the end and object of this mysterious convention.

In the lamplike glow of this new light faces are clearly discernible, and amid the group of chiefs are those of Madula, and Zazwe, and Sikombo, and Umlugula, and several others holding foremost rank among their tribesmen. On this occasion, however, they are not foremost, for it is upon another group that the main interest and expectation centres.

The members of this are decked out in the weird array of sorcerers, are hung around with entrails and claws, mysterious bunches of "charms,"

white cowhair and feather adornments, and the grinning skulls of wild animals. One alone is dest.i.tute of all ornamentation, but the grim hawk-like countenance, the snaky ferocity of the cruel stare, the lithe stealthiness of movement, stamps this man with an individuality all his own, and he is none other than Shiminya. These are the "Abantwana 'Mlimo," the hierarchy of the venerated Abstraction, the "Children of Umlimo." Of them there are perhaps two score. They are seated in a circle, droning a song, or rather a refrain, and, in the midst, Shiminya walks up and down discanting. The chiefs occupy a subsidiary place to-night, for the seat of the oracle is very near, and these are the mouthpieces of the oracle.

By degrees the a.s.sembly gathers around. Voices are hushed. All attention is bent upon these squatting, droning figures. Suddenly they rise, and, bursting through the surrounding ranks, which promptly open to give them way, start off at a run. The crowd follows as though magnet drawn. But the run soon slows down to a kind of dancing step; and, following, the dark a.s.semblage sweeps up the valley bottom, the long dry gra.s.s crackling as the excited mult.i.tude crushes its way through. On the outskirts of the column a great venomous snake, disturbed, trodden on, rears its hideous head, and, quick as lightning, strikes its death-dealing fangs into the legs of two of the crowd, but in the exaltation of the hour no thought is given to these. They may drop out and die; none can afford to waste time over them.

For nearly an hour the advance continues, the black ma.s.s pouring, like ants, over every obstacle--over stones, rocks, uprooted tree-trunks-- winding through a tortuous valley bottom, the granite crags, towering aloft in their immensity, looking down as though in cold scornful indifference upon this pigmy outburst of mere human excitement, and then the way opens, becoming comparatively clear. The "Abantwana 'Mlimo"

slacken their pace, and then the whole body is brought to a halt.

The spot is a comparatively open one save for the long dry gra.s.s. In front is a belt of acacias; but behind, and towering above this, there rises an immense ma.s.s of solid granite, its apex about two hundred feet above the bottom of the hollow--a remarkable pile, smoother and more compact than the surrounding crags, and right in the centre of its face is a black spot about twelve feet square.

The blackness, however, is the effect of gloom. This spot is the mouth of a hole or cave.

In dead silence now the mult.i.tude crouches, all eyes fixed expectantly upon the black yawning mouth. Yet, what can appear there within, for the rock face is inaccessible to any save winged creatures? A cleft, pa.s.sing the hole, traverses obliquely the entire pile, but as unavailable for purposes of ascent as the granite face itself. No living being can climb up thence. Another vertical crack descends from above. That, too, is equally unavailable. Yet, with awe-stricken countenances, the whole a.s.sembly, crouching in semicircular formation, are straining their eyeb.a.l.l.s upon the gaping aperture.

In front are the hierarchs of the grim Abstraction. If here indeed is the home of the latter it is well chosen, for a scene of more utter wildness and desolation than this weird, granite-surrounded fastness is hardly imaginable. The great round moon, floating on high, seems to the impressionable mult.i.tude to lower and spread--almost to burn.

And now the "Abantwana 'Mlimo" rise from their squatting posture, and, forming into a double line, their faces lifted towards the black, gaping hole, begin to sing. Their chant rolls forth in a regular rhythm, but the usual accompaniment of the stamping of feet is at first absent. But the song, the wild savage harmony of voices fitting well into their parts, is more tuneful, more melodious, than most barbaric outbursts of the kind. Its burden may be rendered somewhat in this wise--

"Voice from the air, Lighten our way! Word of the Wise, Say! shall we slay? Voice of the Great, Speaking from gloom; Say! shall we wait Darkness of doom?"

The echoes ring out upon the still night air, rolling in eddies of sound among the granite crags. The company of sorcerers, every nerve and muscle at its highest tension, softly move their feet to the time, as again and again they repeat their awesome invocation, and with each repet.i.tion the sound gathers volume, until it reaches a mighty roar.

The mult.i.tude, stricken motionless with the awe of a great expectation, gaze upward with protruding eyeb.a.l.l.s, awaiting a reply. It comes.

The singing of the Abantwana 'Mlimo has ceased. There is a silence that may be felt, only broken by a strained breathing from hundreds of throats. Then, from the black cave, high above, sounds forth a voice--a single voice, but of amazing volume and power, the voice of the Great Abstraction--of the Umlimo himself. And the answer is delivered in the same rhythm as the invocation--

"Dire is the scourge, Sweeping from far: Bed is the spear, Warming for war. Burned is the earth, Gloom in the skies; Nation's new birth-- Manhood arise!"

Strong and firm the Voice rolls forth, booming from that black portal as with a thunder note--clear to a marvel in its articulation, cold, remorseless in the decision of its darkly prophesying utterance.

Indescribably awe-inspiring as it pours forth its trumpet notes upon the dead silence, small wonder that to the subdued eager listeners it is the voice of a G.o.d. Thrice is the rhythm repeated, until every word has burned deep into their minds as melted lead into a beam of soft-grained wood.

And now in the silence which ensues there steps forth from the ranks of the Abantwana 'Mlimo one man. Standing alone a little in front of the rest, he faces upward to the great cave overhead. In the absence of weird adornment, and with the moon upon his bird-like countenance, stands revealed Shiminya.

"Great Great One! Voice of the Wise!" he cries. "Thy children hear thee. They are brought even unto death. The scourge which Makiwa has brought upon them strikes hard. It is striking their cattle down by scores already. There will be no more left."

There is a pause. With outstretched arms in the moonlight, the mediator stands motionless, awaiting the answer. It comes:--

"There will first be no more Makiwa."

A heave of marvel and suppressed excitement sways the crowd. There is no misunderstanding this oracular p.r.o.nouncement, for it is in the main what all are there to hear. Shiminya goes on.

"Oh, Great Great One, the land is burned dry for lack of rain, and thy children die of hunger. Will the land never again yield corn?"

"Makiwa has laid his hand upon it;" and the dull, hollow, remorseless tone, issuing from the darkness, now seems swept by a very tempest of hate, then replies, "Remove the hand!"

Sticks are clutched and shields shaken to the accompaniment of a deep growl of wrath forced from between clenched teeth.

"Remove the hand!" runs in a humming murmur through the mult.i.tude. "Ah, ah! Remove the hand!"

Again, with hollow boom, the Voice rolls forth.

"Even the very skies are darkening. Behold!"

Every head is quickly jerked back.