and if it pleases you to tell me, Umslopogaas, what might be the names of those forefathers of yours, who have heard of this doctor for generations? They must have been short-lived men and as such I should like to know of them.”
“That you cannot,” replied Umslopogaas shortly, “since they are hlonipa (i.e. not to be spoken) in this land.”
“Indeed,” I said again. “I thought that rule applied only to the names of kings, but of course I am but an ignorant white man who may well be mistaken on such matters of your Zulu customs.”
“Yes, O Macumazahn, you may be mistaken or—you may not. It matters nothing. But what of this message of yours?”
“It came at the end of a long story, O Bulalio. But since you seek to know, these were the words of it, so nearly as I can remember them.”
Then sentence by sentence I repeated to him all that Zikali had said to me when he called me back after bidding me farewell, which doubtless he did because he wished to cut his message more deeply into the tablets of my mind.
Umslopogaas listened to every syllable with a curious intentness, and then asked me to repeat it all again, which I did.
“Lousta! Monazi!” he said slowly. “Well, you heard those names to-day, did you not, White Man? And you heard certain things from the lips of this Monazi who was angry, that give colour to that talk of the Opener-of-Roads. It seems to me,” he added, glancing about him and speaking in a low voice, “that what I suspected is true and that without doubt I am betrayed.”
“I do not understand,” I replied indifferently. “All this talk is dark to me, as is the message of the Opener-of-Roads, or rather its meaning. By whom and about what are you betrayed?”
“Let that snake sleep. Do not kick it with your foot. Suffice it you to know that my head hangs upon this matter; that I am a rat in a forked stick, and if the stick is pressed on by a heavy hand, then where is the rat?”
“Where all rats go, I suppose, that is, unless they are wise rats that bite the hand which holds the stick before it is pressed down.”
“What is the rest of this story of yours, Macumazahn, which was told before the Opener-of-Roads gave you that message? Does it please you to repeat it to me that I may judge of it with my ears?”
“Certainly,” I answered, “on one condition, that what the ears hear, the heart shall keep to itself alone.”
Umslopogaas stooped and laid his hand upon the broad blade of the weapon beside him, saying,
“By the Axe I swear it. If I break the oath be the Axe my doom.”
Then I told him the tale, as I have set it down already, thinking to myself that of it he would understand little, being but a wild warrior-man. As it chanced, however, I was mistaken, for he seemed to understand a great deal, perchance because such primitive natures are in closer touch with high and secret things than we imagine; perchance for other reasons with which I became acquainted later.
“It stands thus,” he said when I had finished, “or so I think. You, Macumazahn, seek certain women who are dead to learn whether they still live, or are really dead, but so far have failed to find them. Still seeking, you asked the counsel of Zikali, Opener-of-Roads, he who among other titles is also called ‘Home of Spirits.’ He answered that he could not satisfy your heart because this tree was too tall for him to climb, but that far to the north there lives a certain white witch who has powers greater than his, being able to fly to the top of any tree, and to this white witch he bade you go. Have I the story right thus far?”
I answered that he had.
“Good! Then Zikali went on to choose you companions for your journey, but two, leaving out the guards or servants. I, Umhlopekazi, called Bulalio the Slaughterer, called the Woodpecker also, was one of these, and that little yellow monkey of a man whom I saw with you to-day, called Hansi, was the other. Then you made a mock of Zikali by determining not to visit me, Umhlopekazi, and not to go north to find the great white Queen of whom he had told you, but to return to Natal. Is that so?”
I said it was.
“Then the rain fell and the winds blew and the rivers rose in wrath so that you could not return to Natal, and after all by chance, or by fate, or by the will of Zikali, the wizard of wizards, you drifted here to the kraal of me, Umhlopekazi, and told me this story.”
“Just so,” I answered.
“Well, White Man, how am I to know that all this is not but a trap for my feet which already seem to feel cords between the toes of both of them? What token do you bring, O Watcher-by-Night? How am I to know that the Opener-of-Roads really sent me this message which has been delivered so strangely by one who wished to travel on another path? The wandering witch-doctor told me that he who came would bear some sign.”
“I can’t say,” I answered, “at least in words. But,” I added after reflection, “as you ask for a token, perhaps I might be able to show you something that would bring proof to your heart, if there were any secret place——”
Umslopogaas walked to the gateway of the fence and saw that the sentry was at his post. Then he walked round the hut casting an eye upon its roof, and muttered to me as he returned.
“Once I was caught thus. There lived a certain wife of mine who set her ear to the smoke-hole and so brought about the death of many, and among them of herself and of our children. Enter. All is safe. Yet if you talk, speak low.”
So we went into the hut taking the stools with us, and seated ourselves by the fire that burned there on to which Umslopogaas threw chips of resinous wood.
“Now,” he said.
I opened my shirt and by the clear light of the flame showed him the image of Zikali which hung about my neck. He stared at it, though touch it he would not. Then he stood up and lifting his great axe, he saluted the image with the word “Makosi!” the salute that is given to great wizards because they are supposed to be the home of many spirits.
“It is the big Medicine, the Medicine itself,” he said, “that which has been known in the land since the time of Senzangacona, the father of the Zulu Royal House, and as it is said, before him.”
“How can that be?” I asked, “seeing that this image represents Zikali, Opener-of-Roads, as an old man, and Senzangacona died many years ago?”
“I do not know,” he answered, “but it is so. Listen. There was a certain Mopo, or as some called him, Umbopo, who was Chaka’s body-servant and my foster-father, and he told me that twice this Medicine,” and he pointed to the image, “was sent to Chaka, and that each time the Lion obeyed the message that came with it. A third time it was sent, but he did not obey the message and then—where was Chaka?”
Here Umslopogaas passed his hand across his mouth, a significant gesture amongst the Zulus.
“Mopo,” I said, “yes, I have heard the story of Mopo, also that Chaka’s body became his servant in the end, since Mopo killed him with the help of the princes Dingaan and Umhlangana. Also I have heard that this Mopo still lives, though not in Zululand.”
“Does he, Macumazahn?” said Umslopogaas, taking snuff from a spoon
