She listened and could hear it quite distinctly.
‘Hunters hate them. They only make that sound when they’re disturbed. It warns other animals.’
‘Good for them.’
Moffat shook his head, smiling. ‘You have much to learn about Africa, Lana. Not all hunting is a bad thing.’
‘For food and clothing, like in the old days, certainly. Not for sport though.’
‘Why not?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘It can only be called sport if hunters challenge their prey with no more than the animals have for protection. Otherwise, it’s one-sided. Bit like expecting the local lads from the pub to take on Manchester United.’ She could see he didn’t understand. ‘It’s not sport if there can only be one outcome.’
‘Okay, I agree with that. Africans don’t hunt for sport anyway.’ He looked at her. ‘What about protection? What would you suggest using against a leopard?’
‘Why not leave him alone,’ she said succinctly.
‘And if that leopard had been stealing your cattle and goats? Or worse. What if he had killed someone in your village, maybe even your own child?’
‘Then,’ she said soberly, ‘the leopard should be despatched without delay.’
‘With kitchen knives? That would make it fair wouldn’t it?’
‘No. With a bloody great gun.’
Moffat stopped and looked at her. ‘You’re not making sense, Lana Devereaux.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘But you have to be white and not of this continent to understand it. Most Europeans have double standards. One is the ideal, the other is real. They’re rarely the same.’
He shook his head. ‘In Africa there is only the real. We know nothing else.’
She couldn’t resist it. ‘Like seeing a witchdoctor?’
‘That’s real,’ he said sincerely. ‘You wait and see.’
He set off again, walking with long, easy strides, comfortable in shorts, a loose shirt and sandshoes with no laces. She thought he looked quite at home. ‘Do you spend much time in the bush?’
‘Not as much as I’d like. Frances grew up in the bush. She prefers city life now.’
Lana stepped over the droppings of an animal then stopped dead. ‘Moffat, look at this. Is that lion spoor?’
He squatted down and looked at the ground, shaking his head. ‘Lion are rare in Malawi. Today most are in the game reserves. This is a serval.’
‘How can you tell?’
He was studying the spoor. ‘Mainly size, but also shape, depth of indentation.’ He grinned up at her.
‘Oh yes, and a friend in Game Department told me there are several families of servals in this area.’
She smiled, shaking her head at him. ‘For a moment there I was impressed. I’d love to see one.’
He rose, brushing sand from his hands. ‘You won’t. They sleep during the day. Probably down an old antbear hole.’ He set off again. ‘Come, we are expected. We must not keep the Nganga waiting.’
‘You mean he knows we’re coming?’ She didn’t think Moffat could have got a message to him since last night.
‘Oh yes. He knows.’
‘How?’
‘He is the Nganga,’ Moffat said. ‘Not only will he know we are coming, he will know you are white and why we come. You wait and see.’
Lana doubted it. Moffat must have got a message to him somehow. And yet his belief that the witchdoctor could predict their visit was obviously sincere. There was something else as well. From somewhere, she had heard or read that women were not regarded highly by medicine men. In that she was a stranger, white to boot, as well as female, she had grave misgivings that this Nganga would be overjoyed to see her. She mentioned it to Moffat.
‘Normally he would refuse to see you. Others have tried, journalists mainly. The Nganga is not interested in speaking with them. I’m hoping he will see you because you are with me. You must say nothing. I will translate if he agrees, otherwise you will have to wait until we leave for me to tell you what he has said.’ Moffat hesitated, looking worried. ‘If he gives you something to drink, you must swallow it immediately. Take my advice. Don’t smell it. Just drink it straight down and hand back the container.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘And try not to vomit.’
Lana’s misgivings had grown somewhat. ‘What’s it likely to be?’
‘Nothing that will harm you. I have no idea, the Nganga uses all sorts of things for his medicines.’
‘I’m not sure about this, Moffat. I have no business going to see a witchdoctor when I don’t believe in them. What if he realises? It might make him angry.’
He stopped and looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t have to think about it. She trusted him completely.
‘Then do as you are told.’
There was the red rag, fluttering in her face. Years of questioning that which made no sense, years of authority challenged, a lifetime demanding explanations, all scuttled aside like cowardly wraiths and remained in hiding. ‘Okay,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Good girl. Just think of it as an honour – it is an honour – and you’ll be fine. The Nganga will only be trying to help.’ Blissfully unaware of how close he had sailed to the edge of Lana’s sense of fair play, Moffat used the rest of the walk as a nature ramble, imparting both knowledge and stories of tradition.
‘How do you know so much about the bush?’ she said as they finally reached the trees.
‘No more than anyone else. Live in Africa and you are as one with the animals who share it. They are as much a part of life as the trees and flowers. It has always been so. Come, this is the way.’
He led her around the dense stand of trees. At first, Lana thought they were walking on the edge of an impenetrable forest but, going further, she could see that growth was actually a crescent shape. In the centre, hidden by the trees except for one small opening, huge boulders were strewn, like great grey marbles. Some balanced precariously on others. Some clustered together, others stood alone. It was as if the ancient gods had grown bored with their game and had simply abandoned them.
The area within the crescent was no larger than a football field. There was a strange stillness about the place and, although shade from the surrounding trees did not reach far, the temperature seemed to have dropped considerably.
Lana stopped. ‘Wow!’
‘Something else isn’t it?’
She grinned at the expression. Sometimes Moffat seemed so Western in his ways yet deep inside him lay ancient African traditions which he never questioned. He was a man, as she supposed most Africans were these days, poised between two worlds. She thought it sad in many ways that one must ultimately give way to the other. So much was already lost. Africa had changed a great deal in the past hundred years. The momentum now was simply too great to stop. Perhaps Moffat was one of the lucky ones. Or did it confuse him? She filed the thought away to ask him at some other time.
They reached a jumble of boulders and Moffat, with no hesitation, walked straight towards the largest. ‘Through here.’ He led her through a crack between two enormous rocks. Lana had not even noticed it – so well concealed was the opening.
‘Been here before have you?’
His answer surprised her. ‘Never.’
‘Then how did you know . . .’
He silenced her scepticism with a look.
Once through the crevice, Moffat stopped. ‘Now we wait. No more talking please.’
They were in a clearing, completely hidden from the world beyond. At the far side, set against and under the overhang of a large grey rock, was a hut. She hadn’t known what to expect but she hadn’t expected anything as run down and basic. An Nganga would, she’d have thought, have a grander dwelling. An oblong shape of grass and cracked dry mud, two squares left for windows, a doorway with no door and a verandah which had a thatched roof supported by four spindly and twisted branches. It sagged at one end, the reed thatch hanging f
orward and down like a waterfall of dry grass. The floor beneath was swept earth. To stand upright, a person could be no taller than 120 centimetres.
There were pots and pans, several blackened stone circles where fires had been lit, gourds, the complete skeletal remains of animals, masks, spears, sticks, pouches made of animal skin, and, looking rather out of place, an old refrigerator, rusted and leaning on its side. Chickens, goats, pigs and three scrawny dogs scavenged half-heartedly on the bare earth of the compound. The area smelled of old cooking fires, animal dung and rancid fat.
She stood next to Moffat, wondering what happened next. He said quietly, ‘There has been an Nganga here for as far back as the storytellers remember. Two hundred years at least. The strength of their spirits remain. It is this which makes the Nganga so powerful.’
As if on cue, the Nganga materialised in the doorway. He was tiny and of immense age. The delicate bones of his small body pushed against creased and leathery skin, stretching it taut to near breaking point. He had a small pot belly and wiry legs. Lana could not help but wonder how Moffat held this delicate old man in such awe. As the Nganga shuffled slowly towards them she could see that he was unable to stand erect, bent slightly forward, as if years of living in his too-small hut had caused him to be permanently folded from the waist. He was barefoot, wearing a loin cloth of animal skin. Feathered armlets and anklets were so tight on his limbs they were in danger of cutting off his blood supply. A string of old cowbells hung from his waist. On his torso, painted in white, was his own skeleton. Human and animal teeth, bones, small pouches and several coins were strung on leather thongs around his neck. Draped over one shoulder and dangling in folds down his back and chest, a leopard skin thumbed its nose at world opinion.
To look at them, the Nganga had to lean back-wards. When he did, Lana was able to see his face clearly. The skin was like old parchment, crinkled and worn. He had only one blackened tooth jutting upwards and out from his lower jaw like a defiant tree stump after a bushfire. But it was his eyes. They were the eyes of a young man. Clear and deep, they burned with life. They flicked over Lana, assessing and knowing. Great wisdom and compassion swam in those dark pools but ruthless calculation swam with them. A shiver ran through Lana as the Nganga’s eyes cut through her mortal skin and bone, penetrating to the soul within. That one look seemed to expose her entire life.
When the old man spoke, his voice was thin and frail. Moffat listened respectfully, only responding when the Nganga stopped. The medicine man’s eyes roved Lana’s face and then he nodded abruptly, turned and indicated that they should follow.
Moffat spoke to her softly. ‘It is all right for me to translate. He doesn’t usually allow anyone to speak but on this occasion he’ll make an exception.’
They were led crouching low into the Nganga’s hut. It was gloomy and smelled of alien things, the hard earth floor partly covered with animal skins. There was no furniture as such but an assortment of boxes, tins and bottles were stacked against every wall and a pile of skins formed a couch of sorts.
‘Sit down after he does and cross your legs. Just do what I do.’
Lana nodded silently. She had been told not to talk and found she didn’t want to anyway.
The Nganga folded himself to the floor with surprising agility. Moffat waited until he was settled, then did the same. Lana followed. When they were completely still, the Nganga spoke again. ‘The woman doubts me,’ Moffat translated. ‘Tell her this. I see a door. It has this writing on it.’ Each individual hair on the back of Lana’s neck had a simultaneous erection as she watched, with ever-increasing disbelief, as the Nganga wrote 251 on the dirt floor with his finger. It was her room number at the Capital Hotel, not known even to Moffat.
The witchdoctor watched Lana’s face. Then, with no outward expression, his eyes smiled and were satisfied. He took a pouch from around his neck, rattling it and chanting before spilling the contents on the ground between them. Lana knew what to expect but the hair on her arms joined those on the back of her neck as the age-brown bones fell to the ground. She guessed they would be human bones. The Nganga studied them for a long time.
Finally, he reached over and picked up Lana’s hand. He closed his eyes and began to croon, an eerie and monotonous sound which went on and on. Lana was beginning to feel a little foolish. She was sitting in a tiny ramshackled hut in the middle of nowhere with a witchdoctor holding her hand. But, just as the thought crossed her mind, the crooning stopped abruptly and her hand was released. The Nganga spoke to Moffat who then translated for Lana.
‘When isi-Kombazana no longer calls over the great water and the silent ones gather where witches burn, the drums of retribution will stop beating and music of the spirits will be heard.’
Judging by the look on Moffat’s face, he didn’t know what it meant either.
The Nganga took one hand from each of them in his and spoke again. Moffat translated.
‘Great Mother’s shame lies hidden, two men seek her secret and the eyes that cannot see will lead the way.’
The witchdoctor sprinkled some liquid over the bones on the earth.
‘Two are from one womb and yet they are not.’
He leaned forward, his face almost touching the bones.
‘The one who fears all eyes and ears will find the jaws of silence.’
The Nganga let go of their hands and collected up the bones, running his thumb over each in turn, his eyes closed.
‘One will speak yet say not a word.’
The Nganga opened his eyes and stared directly at Lana. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke again. Although she had to wait for Moffat, Lana knew the Nganga was speaking directly to her.
‘There is fear and sorrow for this woman and she is in danger. Beware. The grave has three mouths and one is hungry.’
The Nganga threw the bones and picked up their hands. His eyes were closed again and he rocked silently, as if in sorrow himself. Lana felt her concentration focus on that wrinkled face. She could not have looked away, even if she tried. The medicine man’s eyes flew suddenly wide, glazed with a trance-like haze of venom.
‘Fisi feeds on the skill of others but takes the young and weak for himself. There is power in the old arts which can be summoned through belief.’
Silently, he produced two earthenware cups and handed one each to Moffat and Lana.
‘The spirits have been called. Drink.’
Following Moffat’s example, and feeling her stomach churn at what might be in the watery-looking liquid in the cup, Lana swallowed hers immediately. The taste wasn’t unpleasant, it had a mild mint flavour, yet she felt a warmth take over her body.
The Nganga rose and left the hut. Although she tried hard to fight it, Lana could not keep her eyes open and a woolly drowsiness crept into her head. Beside her, Moffat toppled silently to the floor. A few seconds later, Lana did the same.
It was midday when she regained consciousness. Of Moffat there was no sign. She rose, remembering to stoop, and stepped quickly from the Nganga’s hut, aware that she had never felt so alive, so vibrant, as she did right now. Moffat was sitting outside, playing with one of the sorry-looking dogs. When he saw her he jumped to his feet, smiling. ‘Come, it is time to leave.’
Lana contained her questions until they were out of the protective ring of boulders. ‘Can I speak now?’
Moffat nodded.
‘Where did the witchdoctor go?’
‘I have no idea. I woke just before you. How do you feel?’
‘Marvellous.’
‘Me too.’
‘Have you ever done this sort of thing before?’
Moffat slowed his steps and she adjusted her own until they were walking side by side like two people without a care in the world. That was exactly how she felt. Whatever was in that cup had left her relaxed, confident and full of energy. ‘The Nganga has many faces. He uses his powers sparingly. He is as capable of harm as he is of good and beware those who ask his help lightly. No. I have n
ever been to him before.’
‘It’s just that you seem to be taking this in better than me. What happened back there?’
Moffat smiled. ‘What happened back there is as old as Africa. Power, magic and secrets. He knew we were coming, he knew why, and he helped us. I believe he did anyway, the Nganga is part of my heritage. How about you? Still a disbeliever?’
‘I really couldn’t say. He knew my room number at the hotel, that surprised me. As for the rest of it, I couldn’t make head or tail of anything. Did you make any sense of what he said?’
‘Some. He spoke in riddles but a little made sense.’ Moffat stopped, listening. ‘Hear that bird?’
In the distance a wood dove was calling du du du du du du in a long descending series of notes.
‘That’s isi-Kombazana. The wood dove. We believe he is saying, “My mother is dead, my father is dead, all my family is dead and my heart goes du du du du du du”.’
‘What did the Nganga say? When isi-Kombazana no longer calls over the great water. Is he referring to us? To our fathers?’
‘Could be.’ Moffat looked approvingly at her. ‘You’re beginning to think like an African.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Laterally.’
Lana laughed. ‘Was his whole message an exercise in lateral thinking?’
‘I have no idea. The true meaning is shrouded in parables and symbols. We cannot take his words literally.’
‘What do you think he means then?’
Moffat looked thoughtful. ‘The first part seems pretty clear. The wood dove never flies over large expanses of water but the Nganga can hear it calling for its family over the great water.’
‘What’s the great water?’
‘Lake Malawi. The people who lived near the lake before the white man came and named it Lake Nyasa simply referred to it as the great water.’
Echo of an Angry God Page 24
