When Jabu called the apprentices to supper Sidumo ate his food with a smirk on his face, his eyes returning again and again to Mandla’s plate, a sly smile playing on his lips. It was during one of these glances that Mandla saw Sidumo’s smile freeze on his face and gradually change to a grimace of pain. Within minutes Sidumo was clutching at his belly and rolling on the ground in a ball of agony.
The stomach cramps and purging continued the whole night. The apprentices were kind to Sidumo, taking it in turns to help him to the pit latrine and suggesting different remedies to relieve the pains. Logwaja wondered aloud whether Sidumo couldn’t have accidentally swallowed some of the powder from the bulb of the tumbleweed which she had been grinding that very day, but Sidumo just scowled and maintained an irritable silence.
Shortly after this incident Grandmother told Mandla that it was time for him to travel to the bushveld to find his muti bag. “I have made enquiries,” said Grandmother. “The Indumba you seek is near Lunwabu’s family homestead near Bulandzeni, far up the Komati River valley. You will travel there with Sidumo. He has offered to accompany you on this sacred quest, to help you find your inheritance.”
Sidumo was standing impassively beside Grandmother, his arms folded across his chest, and Mandla immediately felt a twinge of misgiving. Did Sidumo really want to help him fetch his muti bag or did he have some other reason for coming on this journey? Yet he had no choice. He had to obey Grandmother.
***
On the chosen day, Grandmother walked with Mandla and Sidumo to the top of the hill. The two young men wore java-print loincloths and monkeyskin aprons, but their feet were bare. They carried small skin bags containing food slung across their bare backs and Mandla had a gourd of sour porridge in a pouch tied to his belt.
The sky was dark, but the pink shimmer of dawn outlined the eastern horizon. Grandmother held Mandla by the shoulders and spoke softly so that Sidumo could not hear. “It is a great thing for a sangoma to claim his muti bag, especially when it is given him by a noble sorcerer like Lunwabu,” she began. “The Ancestors know of this event, and while the good spirits rejoice that the powers and virtue of Lunwabu shall return to protect the Nation, there are dark spirits who wish Lunwabu’s magic to be destroyed forever. These evil ones have their servants amongst the wizards of this land.” Grandmother paused to draw breath. “Take care, Mandla,” she continued. “If you lead that wizard of yours to the muti bag, and he carries it away, great harm will come to the Nation and Lunwabu will be trapped forever in the shadowlands of the Ancient Ones.’’
Grandmother turned to Sidumo, who was leaning on his knobstick looking bored, and handed him a folded piece of paper. “I have made marks on this paper to show you how to get to Lunwabu’s homestead. Keep it safe so that you don’t lose your way.” She pointed towards the path leading over the crest of the hill. “Follow the travellers’ path until you reach the crossing place at the Komati River. My directions will show you where to go from there. I will look for your return by the evening of the third day. Remember, Sidumo, this is the boy’s quest. You are his companion, not his leader.” She paused to allow what she had said to sink in. “You know the law,” she continued, “do not tell anyone the reason for your journey, do not permit anyone else to go with you, and do not sleep in any homestead along the way. Go … and bring my grandson safely home.”
Sidumo took the paper from Grandmother without looking at it and pushed it into the small muti bag he wore tied around his neck. Then he turned abruptly and set off along the path without a word to Mandla or Grandmother. He quickly settled into an easy loping walk and Mandla had to stretch his pace to keep up, the thick porridge in the pouch at his belt sloshing gently against his thigh as he walked.
The path crossed over the brow of the hill and descended into the valley. As the red arc of the sun began to appear above the distant mountains, Mandla looked back to where he had bade farewell to Grandmother. For a brief moment he saw her framed in the sunlight as it struck the hilltop. Mandla grinned and waved, then he turned back to the path and hurried to catch up with Sidumo.
9
The boys travelled on rough footpaths, threading their way through the hills until the land flattened into bushveld. Here the long grass gave way to scrub and twisted thickets of thorn trees and it wasn’t long before they began to follow a path beside a broad river.
At noon the boys stopped to rest under the shade of a leafy matumi tree that grew on the bank of the river. Since leaving the homestead that morning Sidumo had not spoken a single word to Mandla, and the silence between them hung in the air like a bad odour.
After drinking from his gourd of sour porridge, Mandla lay down in the cool shade and closed his eyes. He wanted to doze, but a feeling of uneasiness kept him awake and alert, and when Sidumo rose and moved into the bushes, he did so with such stealth that Mandla instantly suspected he was up to no good.
Mandla stood up, and in one agile leap he caught the lower branch of the matumi tree and swung himself up into its leafy canopy. Climbing up a ladder of branches, he soon found a place where he could see over the surrounding bush. His sharp eyes quickly spied Sidumo. He was squatting down behind a thorny thicket, and at first Mandla thought he must be answering a call of nature, but then he saw that Sidumo was not alone. There was another figure squatting behind the thicket, his back towards Mandla.
As Mandla watched, the other man rose and passed something to Sidumo, a small object that flashed in the sunlight. Sidumo carefully placed it in the muti bag that he wore around his neck. Who was this other man? Mandla wondered as he peered through the branches. And why was Sidumo breaking the rules of their journey by meeting with him? But even as he pondered these questions, Mandla leaned too far forward, and the branch he was pressing against suddenly made a loud snapping sound.
Sidumo’s companion spun around at the noise. He was dark and heavily built, with a low brow and a dog-like face. There was something animal-like in his manner, a kind of fierce cunning and alertness, and Mandla shrank back into the cover provided by the leaves of the matumi tree, but the stranger continued to look in his direction.
When Sidumo returned he found Mandla dozing under the tree, just as he left him. He shook Mandla by the arm, and when Mandla opened his eyes, blinking with mock sleepiness, Sidumo gestured towards the path and grunted: “Time to go, cockroach.”
The path led on endlessly through thorn scrub and thickets of riverine bush while the afternoon sun beat down. Sidumo moved forward relentlessly, but behind him Mandla was wracked by indecision. He couldn’t decide whether he should go on or turn back. He would feel such a fool returning empty-handed to the homestead, especially if Sidumo had a reason for stopping to talk to the stranger. Yet something told him not to ask Sidumo directly about the meeting. Grandmother had said that the wizard might be following his quest, hoping to be led to Lunwabu’s muti bag. What if the stranger was a servant of the wizard? Perhaps Sidumo had made a pact with the wizard and agreed to help him steal Lunwabu’s muti bag. He remembered Grandmother’s warning: if he led the wizard to the muti bag, and it was taken from him, great harm could come to the Nation and Lunwabu could be trapped forever in the shadowlands. He could not allow that to happen. He must make a plan.
Mandla’s thoughts began spinning. He could hardly catch his breath. What could a child apprentice do against the strength of a wizard? If he was right about Sidumo he would be defeated and the powers of his guardian would be turned to evil.
He clenched his fists, trying to overcome the fluttering panic in his stomach. “Think, Mandla, think,” he said to himself. “What would Lunwabu do?”
As soon as he remembered Lunwabu – the slow deliberation of the chameleon, its way of stillness, its poise before
