The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier
Page 18
VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
"AT THE FULL OF THE MOON."
Midnight.
The silence of desolation. The river, plashing on its sandy bars, makesfaint, tuneful murmur. At intervals the wild weird hoot of an owl, highup on the wooded hillside, breaks startlingly upon the dead, solemnstillness. The air hangs heavy down here in this silent hollow, andabove, the dark face of the haunted cliff rises, stern and tremendous,in clear outline against the stars.
What are those shadowy figures ranged in a semicircle round the hollow,motionless as the grave? Are they of earth? Not a whisper, not amovement in that terrible phalanx. Only two hundred pair of eyes fixedupon vacancy, with strained and expectant stare, show that these ghostlyshapes have life, or had. But what are they? Grim phantom warriorsgathered there to re-enact the tragedy of blood which the dim legend ofsavage tradition associates with the spot.
And now a glow suffuses the sky, faint at first, then spreading nearlyto the zenith. A great golden disc peers above yonder bush-clad height,and slowly mounting upward, soars majestically into space. Half of thevalley beneath is flooded with light, but the face of the haunted cliffis still in gloom, casting a long black shadow upon the plashing riverwhence the mist is rising in white wreathe.
"At the full of the moon."
A dull, moaning sound is heard in the cliff, seeming to come from thevery heart of the rocky wall, now rising, now falling, awesome andmysterious. It is as the voices of the spirits of the dead. There isan overpowering and mesmeric influence in the very atmosphere. Thengleams forth a flickering green light which plays on the face of therock like a corpse candle. Suddenly the whole of that crouching phalanxstarts up erect. A deep-toned murmur, sounding like a muffled roar,goes forth from the throats of two hundred dark warriors, and theghostly light glints on a forest of bristling assegais.
"At the full of the moon."
Small wonder that the orb of night, about which poets love to rave,should be constituted the presiding goddess at the gruesome rites ofsavage and superstitious races all the world over; that its changingquarters should be endued with power to sway their weightiestundertakings in war or in the chase. It would be strange if the greatlustrous disc stamped with a cold, impassive, remorseless-looking humancountenance, floating silently over the darkened earth, did not appealpowerfully to the spiritual side of untaught and imaginative races. Andthen, just think of the myriads upon myriads of scenes of violence andtreachery--fraud, rapine, murder, and wholesale massacre--upon whichthat cold, spectral countenance has looked down, and still looks down;ay, and will continue to do as long as this miserable world shall bepeopled with countless generations of the tailless and biped demon knownas Man.
"At the full of the moon."
And now the black shadow passes from the cliff, revealing a shape--ashape which seems to have arisen from the earth itself, or peradventureto have sprung from the smooth wall of rock behind, so sudden is itsappearance. Amid dead silence it glides into the midst of the expectantsemicircle. Truly an appalling monster. The moonlight, now well-nighas clear as day, plays upon a pair of glittering, wolf-like eyes and alean, gaunt figure, about whose long limbs are dangling ox-tails andstrings of beads. The grinning head-piece of a hyaena rests helmet-likeupon this creature's skull, and from between the open jaws of the beaststarts forth the horrible head of a live serpent, whose sinuous coilsare wound about the wearer's body. The latter, smeared from head tofoot with a glistening pigment, is hung about with birds' claws, reptileheads and festoons of entrails. A horrible and disgusting object. Theright arm of the wizard is red to the elbow with blood, and in his handhe carries nothing but one short, broad-headed assegai.
"Hear the words of Sefele, the spirit of this place, speaking by themouth of his descendant, Nomadudwana, the son of Mtyusi."
Silently the whole phalanx of dark warriors sank back into a crouchingattitude, gazing upon the speaker, expectant and motionless.
"There are voices above and voices beneath. There are voices in the airand voices in the water. Lo, I see a mighty host; an army gathered forbattle; an army which fills the earth and the air; many warriors withtheir chiefs and leaders; and their right hands are even as this,"(holding up his gore-stained fingers), "and their shields are dinted andtheir assegais are broken. And the warriors are angry and they are sad,for they have fought and fought, always bravely, and now they are tiredand may not rest. And I see another army--an army not of warriors butof women--and they, too, cannot rest; they must take weapons and goforth to battle, for there are no men left."
A deep murmur from the listeners, who, squatted on their haunches, withbodies bent eagerly forward, drink in every word the wizard speaks.
"Again, I look. This time I see another army--differing tribes, but allone host--thousands and thousands and tens of thousands of fighting men;the land is red with them, but they are all asleep. They have arms--they have the sharp weapons which their fathers had, but they haveforgotten how to use them. They have more--they have the fire-weaponsof the whites, but they know not how to use them. The white fools puttheir weapons into our hands willingly, joyfully, for money, but we donot know how to use them. We drink of the white men's poisoned strongwaters and our hearts melt away--we become children--we wallow likeswine upon the ground. The fighting men of the Amaxosa have become dogsand slaves."
A fierce ejaculation here went round the circle, while many a sinewyhand grasped the tough wood of assegai hafts. The grim prophetcontinued, his deep tones waxing more and more ferocious like the savagegrowl of a beast:
"We are the dogs and slaves of the white men, even as the cowardlyAmafengu were our dogs. Not to the white men only, also to their women.Do not our warriors drop their weapons, and take service, and ploughthe land, and hoe corn, and milk the cows, and drive waggons for whitewomen? Ha! We, a free, a brave nation, whose fathers conquered theland ages and ages before one accursed white-foot trod these mountainsand valleys--our _men_ to be dogs to the white _women_! Ha! AskNcanda, there, who, at the word of a white woman, was tied up and lashedwith whips! Ask Mopela, the brother of Nxabahlana of the house ofSandili the Great Chief, who was beaten and kicked like a dog in thepresence of a white woman--Hah!"
A frenzied howl burst from the audience at these words of the wilywizard, while the two savages referred to by name, gnashed their teethwith rage.
"Who are these people that rule us? Who are they? As a calabash ofwater is to the Nxumba River in flood, as five stones are to the pebbleson the sea-shore, so are the whites in this land to the fighting men ofthe Amaxosa, to the warriors of the Amanqgika, and of the Amagcaleka,and even of the peace-loving Abatembu. And we call ourselves men!"
Then, raising his voice: "Let the omens be sought."
A stir among the throng. Two stalwart savages rose and stood before theorator. They were magnificent specimens of their race, prior to itsdeterioration in morale and physique through the destroying agencies ofardent spirits and contagious disease. Of commanding stature andherculean build, these men represented a type, once common enough, butnow becoming more and more rare among the border tribes. The wizardmuttered an incantation over each, and the two betook themselves to thebush. A moment of dead silence and they reappeared, dragging with themtwo goats--one spotlessly white, the other, jet black.
The animals were thrown upon the ground in front of the wizard, andsecurely tied; even their mouths being bound up, lest the sound of theiragonised bleatings upon the still night air, should reach unwelcomeears. Then, still chanting his hellish incantation, the cruel monsterbent down, and, with his keen assegai, gashed and mutilated the wretchedcreatures in a manner too shocking for detailment, beginning with thewhite one. A hoarse rattle, smothered by the precautionary gag, burstfrom their tortured throats, and their convulsive struggles werefrightful to behold. Yet they aroused no spark of compassion in thesemerciless breasts.
In silence the Kafirs contemplated the barbarous performance; then,una
ble to contain themselves any longer, they sprang to their feet andburst into a low war-song, rattling the shafts of their assegais as theybeat time to the savage rhythm. It was a weird and gruesome scene, sucha sight as a man might witness once and remember all his life long.Above, the great beetling cliff looming up against the midnight sky;around, the shadowy sleeping heights; in the midst that band of demonwarriors, the green light of the magic fire touching their grimcountenances with an unearthly hue as they circled round the hideouswizard and the quivering bodies of his tortured victims, chanting theirterrific war-song. Every now and again a convulsive shudder would heavethrough the bodies of the miserable animals, whose glazing eyes rolledpiteously as they writhed their necks and bared their jaws in theirterrible agony.
For upwards of half an hour the dance went on, the chief men deeming itnecessary from time to time to put in a restraining word, lest thesuppressed excitement of their followers should break bounds; for soundtravels far at night, and it would never do to attract attention.Suddenly several voices exclaimed:
"The omen! The omen!"
In a moment all gathered round the gory and mangled carcases. One ofthe goats had ceased its struggles. The wizard pricked it with hisassegai, but without producing the smallest sign of sensibility. Thepoor creature was stone dead. _It was the black one_.
The savages stared at each other in awed silence, then theirastonishment found words.
"Ha! The black goat dies! The black goat dies and the white goatlives! Ha!"
This patent fact established, they troubled themselves no more about theother wretched victim, which showed unmistakable signs of lingering forsome time to come, but turned attentively to the wizard in subdued andeager expectancy. Nomadudwana's tone was now no longer one of fieryexhortation. When he spoke it was with deliberation, even solemnity.
"The omen is sure. The black goat dies and the white goat lives. Thisnight I have heard a voice--the voice of Sefele whom his brethren castfrom yonder height and thought to slay. To slay! One who holdsconverse with the spirits! This night I have talked with Sefele in thatcave which none can find but he who is loved by the shades of ourancestors. These are the words of Sefele: `The fulness of time is notyet. Though it be long in coming, let not the fighting men of theAmaxosa fall asleep; let them watch the whites with sure and wakefulglance; let them take of their flocks and of their herds, when they can.Let them go and work for the whites and cast dust in their eyes--evenas we have led away on a false search the fool who lives yonder,'(pointing to Armitage's homestead, lying silent and deserted on theother side of the river) `and have made helpless with drink thewallowing Hottentot, his dog. But above all, let them acquire thefire-weapons of the whites and plenty of ammunition.' Thus speaksSefele. Take his words with you. The fulness of time is not yet, butthe omen is sure. Lo, the dawn is not far distant. Return as youcame."
An awed murmur went round the band. The magic fire disappeared. Theylooked wonderingly at each other. Nomadudwana had vanished.
Breaking up into twos and threes the Kafirs rapidly dispersed, eager tobe gone from the dreaded spot when no longer under the protectingpresence of the powerful magician who communed with the spirit in theunknown cave. They were impatient, but not disheartened. They mustcontinue to deceive the hated and masterful whites with soft words andlying promises. These superstitious souls, with their faith in theassurances of their wizards, saw their triumph ahead. What they did notsee was their broken and decimated tribes hunted and starving, drivenout of the land of their forefathers, utterly cowed and submissive.What they did not see was the flower and pick of their manhood strewingtheir native hills and kloofs with stiffened corpses in thousands, tothe advantage of the _aasvogel_ and the jackal.
There was something else that they did not see. They did not see arecumbent human figure which, from the very brow of the sacred cliff,had watched the uncanny and repulsive rites from beginning to end. Theydid not see this figure, snugly concealed and motionless, watch till thelast of their outlying scouts finally left his post and moved away, andthen descend from the airy vantage ground with the dry chuckle of onewho has stolen a march on an uncommonly shrewd adversary, and going towhere a horse was securely hidden, mount and ride off. Even their keenvision failed to descry this.
By sunrise these fierce warriors, who had borne such eager part in thewild war-dance and the hideous and cruel rites of the night through,would be once more so many quiet, civil herds and waggon-drivers, for,with few exceptions, they were all in farm service in the surroundingneighbourhood. But how came they here, how did they preserve soinviolate the secret of the nocturnal gathering? The whole thing isvery simple. Two or three natives, inoffensive of aspect anddeferential of manner, provided moreover with unimpeachable passes, hadgone the round of the various employers of labour seeking for work here,come to visit a relative there, anxious for a day or two's job inanother place, and so on. And wherever they had been they had deliveredtheir "word" among all fellow-countrymen there employed, provided thesewere to be trusted, that is to say. That "word" was brief if slightlyobscure to the uninitiated. Moreover, it occurred quite incidentally inthe thick of conversation on ordinary topics. But those to whom it wasaddressed understood perfectly its import.
"At the full of the moon."