coming from deep inside the cave, and from the rich smell of dung he knew that he had disturbed a family of rock rabbits.
As soon as there was enough light, Mandla opened his pouch and felt for the folded square of paper that Grandmother had given Sidumo, the directions to the Indumba of Lunwabu. As he did so his hand touched the metal box and he shuddered at the thought of the wizard’s evil eye within.
Finding the paper, he unfolded it, and immediately a smile broke out on his face as he saw Grandmother’s childlike drawing. The directions, however, were clear enough. He would have to follow the eastern path until he came to the ford at the mighty Komati River. After crossing the river, he would take the right hand path that followed the course of the river as it flowed and tumbled on its rocky journey to the ocean. Eventually he would come to a small tributary of the Komati, and if he followed this stream through the northern hills he would finally reach the homestead of his spirit guardian.
Once he had committed the directions to memory, Mandla had a slow drink of sour porridge from his gourd. The fermented porridge was refreshing, but Mandla thought hungrily of the dried meat and baked sweet potatoes packed by Grandmother into Sidumo’s food bag. He wondered briefly if Sidumo was having breakfast this morning, or if he was still an umkhobo, then tied his pouch to his belt and was ready to go.
As he ducked out of his shelter under the rocky overhang a lone rock rabbit gave a short bark of warning, alerting the females grazing on the dew-sparkled grass that Mandla was approaching. The dumpy rock rabbits scampered away to their tunnel entrances amongst the rocks, peeping at Mandla while he relieved himself against a boulder.
The air was crisp and fresh, and a thin mist hung in the valley between the granite outcrops as the boy moved quickly down the slope of the hill. After pushing his way through a thicket of bushes he reached the path and even though the mist made it impossible for him to see for any distance he looked cautiously in both directions before he broke into a jog.
***
It wasn’t far to the Komati River. Mandla had been enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs after his night’s sleep, but after only half an hour or so the path began to descend steeply and Mandla had to walk carefully to avoid slipping on the many loose pieces of shale.
When he reached the water’s edge, he was astonished by the power of the river. It was deep and icy-green, surging in a torrent through a wide channel carved into the granite ravine by centuries of floodwater. Mandla’s heart sank. No man or beast could hope to cross such a river without being swept away. He was sure that any journey to the other side of the river would have to be abandoned, or at least postponed until the waters had subsided.
With no better plan, Mandla followed the path downstream to where it made a sudden turn and disappeared from view behind the wall of the ravine. He was busy making his way around the bend when he stopped short in confusion. Before the bend the river had been hurtling along in a torrent, but after the bend there was no water at all, only the dry rock bed of an empty river. As he advanced he saw the reason for this miracle of nature. In the middle of the granite riverbed there was a large section of black dolomite rock. The water had gradually eroded the softer dolomite until a great hole had been carved in the riverbed. As the water had whirled in this hole it had continued to whittle away at the softer rock until the underground seam of dolomite had been eaten away to form a giant pipe. Now the torrent of water flowed into the pipe in a great whirlpool, disappearing under the riverbed and reappearing about a stone’s throw further downstream, leaving a wide rock bridge for travellers who wished to cross the mighty river.
Mandla leapt from the path onto the dry riverbed and began to walk across the bridge. The opening of the sinkhole looked like the dark wet gullet of the snake in his dream, stretched wide open to swallow the thrashing, frothing river. A tree trunk had wedged itself across its mouth and he saw a large fish leap above the whirlpool before the water caught it and swept it down into the pipe. Mandla looked down into the dark gullet and shuddered. When he looked up again, he saw that he was not alone. At the end of the rock bridge, where it met the bank on the far side of the river, were three young men.
The youths stood with their legs apart, blocking his way off the bridge. Each of them carried a long fighting stick and they watched Mandla impassively as he approached, making no attempt to move out of the way. When he got closer Mandla saw that two of the boys were of his own age; the eldest and tallest of the three looked about eighteen. He held a stout wooden staff in one hand, planted solidly on the rock and angled across his body. “You cannot pass,” he said. “Here begins the land of the Ndwandwe. Chief Magudu does not allow strangers to travel through our land.”
Mandla stopped and raised his hand in salutation. “Sanibonani, you people of Magudu,” he greeted them politely. “I am Mandla, of the Tsabedze clan.”
The older boy scowled. “I have heard of the Tsabedze. Your totem is the leopard. They say that the leopard never likes to get its feet wet. Is that why you dare to walk on our bridge?”
“And I have heard of the Ndwandwe,” said Mandla. “Your totem is the fish. They say that this is the reason you have to hunt cane rats in the marshes, although you live beside a river full of food.”
One of the younger boys, the chubby one, gave an angry snort and bent to pick up a loose stone from the rocky ground, but the older boy put a restraining hand on his arm. “Not until I say you can, fatty!” he said sharply. Then he turned back to Mandla. “Where are you coming from and what is your business here?” he asked.
“I have come from the Mdzimba Mountains and I am journeying to the homestead of Lunwabu, the sangoma,” said Mandla.
“He’s dead, this Lunwabu that you seek, so your journey is wasted. Go back to your mountains, leopard boy.”
“I have a reason for visiting the homestead of Lunwabu. I have been sent to fetch something there, so let me cross in peace,” Mandla replied.
“Just as I thought, another of the fortune hunters,” said the older boy to his companions. “You are not the first dreamer to come seeking the treasure of Lunwabu,” he sneered at Mandla. “If the old sangoma had hidden gold coins and jewels in his Spirit House before he died, do you think we would not have found them by now? But still you travellers come, dreaming that you are sent by the Ancestors to fetch something that never existed. They even say that a wizard comes at night, riding on a baboon – if you can believe the stories of drunkards. So now Chief Magudu has given us the task of turning away strangers. If there is a treasure, it belongs to the Ndwandwe, not a stray dog from Mdzimba.”
“Lunwabu himself has sent me to fetch his muti bag. It is not treasure I want,” said Mandla. “You must let me pass. I cannot return without the bag.”
The chubby boy whispered something that Mandla couldn’t hear and the other younger boy guffawed and nodded with approval. After some urging and whispered encouragement, the older boy struck the ground with his staff. “My brothers and I have decided to let you pass … on one condition. You have to beat me in a stick fight first.”
Mandla looked at the taller boy’s long arms and muscled legs and shoulders. He had fought many stick battles with his age-mates at home, but he had never fought a boy so much older and bigger than himself. Yet he had to try, because he could not fight all three boys. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll fight you. But I don’t have a stick.”
“You can use this one,” said the older boy, seizing the stick of his chubby companion and tossing it to Mandla.
Mandla caught the stick deftly and felt its balance. It was a good stick, supple yet strong. “Where shall we fight?” he asked, looking beyond the bridge
