Who Killed Piet Barol?

by Richard Mason

  “Fifteen cattles,” said Lundi. Sukude had agreed to a maximum of thirty, and Lundi did not intend to settle for a commission of less than fifty percent. “If you fail I will have you sent to the forest myself. Without,” he added, for he knew his mark well, “any guide to lead you through the trees.”

  Fezile looked at him, and then at the pretty village, and then at the trees in the distance. The sky had darkened and they had turned black.

  “Very well,” he said.

  —

  IT WAS DONE with a great deal of fanfare. Fezile wore his most impressive headdress, decorated with curving horns and the dark feathers of a sakabula. He wore a mantle stitched with cowrie shells and copper scales that he had bought from a theatrical costumier in East London, and a knee-length skirt of black sable skin. He tied the seed rattles of a witch doctor at his ankles and in this way ensured that all fell silent at his approach.

  Nosakhe watched him through narrowed lids. She clung tight to the strange prophecy that had come from the mouth of the meek boy Luvo, whose face shone with goodness. It was a talisman that halted her tears, but she had no strength to resist the swift flow of events. Conscious of many eyes upon him, including those of a Strange One, Fezile stood fully erect. He was a tall member of a tribe not known for the height of its men, and he was aware that he cut an impressive figure. He took from his bag a pouch of lambskin, soft as velvet, and emptied it onto the ground. Out fell bones, chips of elephant tusk, cowrie shells and beads. He scooped up the debris and spat twice on the objects in his hands, in imitation of the Strange One gamblers he had observed in King William’s Town, who often did this before they threw the dice.

  Then he spread the relics on the ground and said: “There is a woman here who is to blame.”

  —

  BELA HAD NOT BEEN PRESENT during Piet Barol’s presentation of Ntsina’s head. She had spent that day, as she had spent every day since her parents returned her to the Zinis, along with fifty of the cattles that Sukude had paid as her bride price, meticulously cleaning every inch of Nosakhe’s kitchen hut. She had not spoken one word, nor smiled. When she was awake, she cleaned, and pots that had been black for years now glowed bronze again.

  It was Kagiso who came to fetch her, while others ran for her parents. Kagiso had known Bela since their infancy, and was a man who respected fine conduct. She had always pleased him, but her desecration of her husband’s kraal left him disgusted. And wary. Possession by an evil spirit seemed the likeliest explanation for Bela’s conduct, so brutally discordant with her nature. Before he entered Nosakhe’s kitchen hut, he had to draw on deep reserves of courage. The blank gaze Bela turned to him at the mention of her name did nothing to reassure him. He had known those eyes dancing with laughter and merriment. Nothing of that remained, no spark of the life fire that had made people love her.

  No one in the three generations of Gwadana’s existence had been tried for demonic possession. Two adulterous wives had been branded with hot stones on their thighs, before their executions, but there is nothing fearful or potent about an adulterous wife. These women had aroused pity in Kagiso, and scorn for the men who had failed to keep them faithful—for he knew that even the most outwardly modest woman has needs as vital as any man’s. He did not feel pity for Bela, only concern for what might happen should the evil spirit within her do him a mischief as they descended the escarpment. He had with him a sharp spear, and was ready to drive it into her throat if necessary—but there was no need of this. At his summons, Bela rose with the grace he remembered, wrapped her blankets about her, and made her way serenely down the cliff path.

  The cattles watched her go and lowed mournfully—for cattles have a sympathy many humans lack, and they, who had seen so many slaughters, knew that danger attended the gentle creature who followed the warlike man so meekly.

  Under the Tree of Justice, Fezile the witch doctor was in full flow. He had questioned several wedding guests, who had confirmed that the bridal cow had not cried—a bad omen, as anyone knew, and an indication of the gravest displeasure.

  “The Ancestors always know what is to come.” He approached Nosakhe belligerently. “Why did you not heed this warning? You, who know better than any here what is the meaning of a cow who does not cry.”

  Nosakhe said nothing. She could not refute his logic. In her heart she knew she had failed the sacred obligation of the sangoma—to judge without tenderness. She had allowed soft feelings to prevent her from halting the wedding of her beloved grandson. Had she acted properly, nothing that had subsequently happened would have happened. As she understood this, she began to weep.

  Consternation ensued. The villagers of Gwadana were accustomed to holding Nosakhe in high regard, and to living in fear of crossing her. This exhibition of human frailty destroyed her authority in their eyes. Sukude stepped forward. “You stole my son and made him unmanly. Now he is gone!”

  At this moment Bela and Kagiso entered the Chief’s homestead. All eyes turned to them.

  “But I did not enter the kraal,” Nosakhe said.

  —

  ZANDI WAS IN THE FIELDS, tending the mealies, when she saw a boy running over the hill. Not a single visitor had come to them since the day of Bela’s wedding, and the urgency of his movement told her that something dreadful was afoot. She laid down the scythe and hurried into the kitchen hut. Both her parents sat there, immovable. They had not spoken much since they had returned Bela to her husband’s family. They were used to facing the challenges of life together; but to this challenge there was no solution, and this left them silent and despairing. Zandi loved them dearly and did her best to care for them, cooking and cleaning and tending the garden. The cattles had not been taken to graze on the hillside, for no boy had come to take them. She had seen that they were all fed, and that the cows were milked. She had made the milk her parents had not drunk into a soft cheese she had flavoured with thyme. She had found, as she performed these tasks, that her heart was flooded with sorrow for the sister she had once believed she despised.

  There was a strength in Zandi, a protective instinct her mother knew. She had not been told what had happened in the bridal hut, but she knew Sukude, and she knew her sister’s beauty, and she had seen the blood trickling down Bela’s legs. She knew her sister had been sexed against her will. She found that she cared less for public opinion than her parents did, and was consumed by a desire to rescue Bela from the clutches of a man who had raped her. This desire allowed her to contemplate public disgrace without flinching. What she could not do was override her parents, and so she had burned within, and tended to them, and prayed earnestly to her Ancestors for their aid.

  When the Chief’s messenger, panting from his run, told them that they must go at once to the King’s Place, for Bela was shortly to be questioned beneath the Tree of Justice, she ran as fast as her strong legs would carry her—faster than her parents, who felt sapped of their strength by this news. She arrived to see the Strange One who had danced with her sitting on the grass, covered in blood and mud and sand, and her sister standing in the centre of a large crowd. A sangoma she did not recognize was haranguing her, his words whipping the indignation of his audience. She knew him at once for a cruel man, and only the strong training of her youth prevented her from shutting him up with her fists.

  Bela stared ahead, unseeing. She had withdrawn to a place deep within, and the accusations of this strange man in his headdress of sakabula feathers were far away—further than the cliffs on which the eagles perched. Her dignity did her no favours. Those who loved her most were most disturbed by the absence in her eyes, and everyone thought of the stories they had grown up on—of vulnerable people hollowed out by evil spirits, turned into zombies, to be used for the furthering of evil ends.

  “The cow did not cry because the Ancestors knew!” screamed Fezile. “The cow did not cry because the Ancestors knew that if the marriage went ahead you would defile their kraal!” He shook Bela’s delicate shoulders, violently. “I se
e you, Demon! The great Fezile sees you! Fly out! Be gone!”

  Bela’s parents arrived, and all their many friends felt sympathy for them—though none for the body of the girl they had loved as Bela. Her mother, whose impeccable conduct was the model for her daughters’, threw herself at the witch doctor’s feet. He kicked her savagely, his seed bracelets hissing like snakes, and turned to Bela.

  “Get out, vile spirit! Out! You who are in league with the monster in the forest! You who have come to destroy the legacy of the Great Founder and the people who thought for themselves! Out!! Out!!”

  From his cloak he removed the head of Ntsina that Piet Barol had carved, and held it inches from Bela’s face.

  For the first time, Bela’s eyes focused. It seemed to those watching that something stirred within her. Horrified, they stared as a recognizable humanity returned to her gaze—a sign they took as confirmation that she had been possessed. Suddenly she was herself again. She began to moan.

  “Look what you have done!” Fezile’s spit flecked her face. He was beside himself. “You have lent your body to a wicked spirit. You have defiled your husband’s kraal and turned him to wood.” It was a jump of logic, but no one noticed. Piet, watching, steeled himself to intervene. He had not anticipated the presence of another witch doctor, nor the way in which his story would ricochet against Bela herself. “If they try to kill her,” he decided, “I will save her.” But he had no weapon, and there were hundreds of strong men to block his path. He felt how far he was from the comforting civilities of the Mount Nelson Hotel—a lone white man, at the furthest extent of a great forest, surrounded by savage Kaffirs.

  But there was another man in the crowd who had no desire to see Bela dead.

  Sukude stepped forward. “I forgive you,” he said. “And I will ask my Ancestors to do the same.”

  It was an act of clemency without precedent in the annals of Gwadana Village, and Sukude Zini had no reputation for being softhearted. He turned to Bela’s parents. “You raised your daughters well. It is not Bela’s fault that a troublesome spirit has gained possession of her body. Human beings are not gods, and are not equal to them.” He looked at Fezile. “How can we make this spirit flee?”

  Fezile prised Bela’s mouth open. “I will pull you out, Demon!” He thrust his hand deep inside it. But Sukude prized Bela’s tiny white teeth and did not want them damaged. He was about to pull Fezile back when Zandi launched herself from the edge of the crowd, her bulk an effective battering ram, and sank her teeth into the sangoma’s arm.

  Shouts and cries and blood ensued. The Chief, aghast, looked instinctively to Nosakhe, to whom he had always gone in times of trouble. She was sitting, back straight, arms outstretched—no use. Kagiso, still smarting from the wound his father’s dithering had compelled him to inflict on his stepmother, did his best to keep silent. But as the Chief hesitated, and the crowd grew riotous, he found within himself the true calling of a Chief and at the top of his voice he roared: “STILLNESS!”

  The sound echoed off the distant cliffs, so loud it was. Everyone stopped. “You must chase this spirit without hurting her.” His voice was iron. “Step back.”

  Everyone retreated, even his father. Kagiso lifted Zandi to her feet. He moved Fezile away from Bela, who was crouched over Ntsina’s head, sobbing. Ntsina’s face had drawn her back to herself. For the first time she felt guilt at what she had done. The prohibitions of her youth rose up, and she saw the enormity of her action. For a young wife to enter her husband’s kraal! It was a breach so vast she had summoned a monster from its lair, and that monster had slain her life mate. She began wailing, and this sound overcame her friends’ fear. They went to her and held her tightly. Bela’s smell was the same, and her tears were warm. Her friends’ touch unleashed them in a torrent.

  Kagiso’s intervention made Fezile recover himself. It was clear that wounding this young woman would win him no friends—and less brandy. Instead, he threw dry mphepho leaves on the grass and lit them. The sweet smoke called everyone to their senses. He closed his eyes and went into a trance. He was very good at public trances, and soon he was swaying and his eyelids were bubbling. He murmured wild things beneath his breath. Nosakhe watched him. Her intuition, usually so true, was clouded today. She was deceived by his air of authority, her trust in herself profoundly shaken by his accusations—which were just. She looked at little Noni. She should be dust by now, eaten long ago by eagles. She had overturned the Law by allowing the child to live. Now she was an easy vessel for any spirit. It was clear that many were abroad. As the mphepho smoke struck her nostrils, she attempted to enter a trance herself—but none would come. All she could think of was her foolishness in throwing away the hair and toenail clippings that allowed her to operate on Ntsina at a distance. If his spirit were indeed abroad, she could have used them to call to him—she who had the gift of Summoning. She teetered on the edge of hopelessness, and all that kept her from fainting was the sense that she, alone of all who watched, had the power to lead the assault on the forces of darkness.

  She looked at Luvo and the Strange One who had followed Ntsina into the forest. Would they be her allies? She was looking at Piet’s face, in which she read intense alarm, when a memory of her grandfather surged through her, telling her that Pain is the ancestor of Courage.

  Fezile stood before Bela and opened his eyes, as though returned to himself. He had the showman’s gift for contrast and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have spoken to the Ancestors.” All fell quiet. “The wicked spirit within you yearns to enlist others in her battle against the forces of light. If we are to preserve your body”—he could not help glancing at Sukude, who looked away—“then the only way is to ignore your spirit entirely.” He turned to the crowd and raised his voice. “This woman is to return to the home of her husband. She must toil there, to atone for the sins of her body. No one must speak to her.”

  Zandi gasped, and regretted it—because Fezile turned to her and said: “No one.”

  “I will go with her.”

  “That is a risky thing.” But Sukude might as well have two young women as one, thought Fezile to himself—even if the second is not so comely as the first. He smiled. “Very well. But you must swear an oath to abide by my verdict.”

  “I swear on your life,” said Zandi, smoothly.

  “And what of the forest? And the creature there?” Kagiso asked.

  Now Piet Barol was called on, and Luvo translated. He was questioned minutely about the creature: the colour of its scales, the length of its hair; where he had seen it. Piet invented freely, and Luvo translated unwillingly.

  “The creature came from the stream that runs beside the Grove of your Ancestors,” said Piet, to wails from the women.

  “How did you escape?” asked Noni’s mother.

  “I did not look in the creature’s eyes.” Taking in the crowd, holding their attention, Piet delivered the most calculated detail of his story: “It is her glance that turned Ntsina to wood. The same will happen to any who look upon her, or venture near the Ancestor Grove.”

  Fezile had no wish to be asked to eliminate this creature. Nor did he want to seem afraid. “No one must enter the forest,” he said, “on pain of death. Until I have consulted further with the spirits of goodness, any who enter will end as zombies, drawn to the service of this creature.”

  “But our Ancestors?” cried an elderly lady.

  “You must worship them in your homes.”

  And thus it was decided.

  The gathering dispersed, exhausted. Parents held their children close to them, wives took their husbands’ hands. For some time the Gwadanans had heard tales of great suffering beyond the forest that had been their fortress wall. Now that fortress had been breached, and even the bravest of them were afraid. In homestead after homestead that night, mphepho was lit, and prayers were uttered to the Ancestors. There were many who knew, in their hearts, that they had neglected the worship of their Ancestors, and they redoubled their eff
orts, fearful of the consequences.

  Bela climbed the hill to the Zinis’, Zandi beside her. Sukude waited a decent interval before following. He could hardly contain himself. As he was leaving, Piet Barol put his hand on his shoulder and said, in flawless isiXhosa: “If you sex this woman, the monster will come for you.”

  Sukude was astonished to have his innermost thoughts read so plainly. He muttered a curse under his breath and strode away, his leopard-skin kaross fluttering behind him.

  NOVEMBER 1914

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  8

  Stacey Barol sat in the drawing room of the Mount Nelson Hotel wondering whether, in such dangerous times, she might drink a cocktail in public. In her years at the Opéra Comique, she had seen more than one of her friends succumb to the charm of a handsome adventurer, who got her with child only to leave her again. In the months since she had last heard from her husband, her certainty that Piet was not like these men had begun to quiver.

  The departure of men of all nationalities from the Colony had left the room full of women.

  She thought of her friend, Emilienne de Villeroy—a noted beauty, who had resisted legions of importunate suitors, only to fall at last for a scoundrel. She was now managing a boarding house at Marseilles. The chance that such a fate might befall her, if Piet did not return, had begun to haunt Stacey. So, too, the possibility that he might have died.

  Throughout the long summer she had drawn comfort from the smell of Piet’s suits, preserved in his closet. When she smelled, she believed. She remembered his devotion to their son, his painstaking attempts to please her, in bed and out of it. She had often been sharp with him, and now regretted it. If he had abandoned her, she would hate him. If he had died—even the thought could make her cry. The not knowing was terrible. She replayed over and over their last conversation, on the day Britain declared war on Germany. He had offered to come home, and she had told him not to. Had she done right?