CHAPTER TWENTY TWO - DEFENDING THE STONES
When the last of the old men had left the hill, Gatsheni at last allowed himself to collapse to the ground. The strain of the act he had put on for them had severely weakened him and for some minutes, he could not move a muscle. He rubbed his throat, trying to ease away the soreness he felt there after throwing everything into his performance. He knew he could not perform again for some time. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to.
The others had quickly fallen into line after his rouse and they had established a plan. They would need help and it was suggested they use a witchdoctor they knew of from the Lupane, always ready to do some extra work for the appropriate payment.
‘Money!’ spat Gatsheni, the curse had infected his people too and any amount of commitment to the cause could be bought for the right amount, even as real loyalty to the Matabele nation was impossible to find.
It was strange, he thought, that he had never managed to kill any member of this white family, even though he had tried many times. It was as if they too were protected by the spirits. This was a matter he had puzzled over many times during his lifetime, wondering if the spirits were testing the people to see how loyal they were by sending them time and again.
There had been deaths of course. The children had died, he remembered now, three of them, all descendants, he supposed, but surely innocent.
Then there was the man. He didn’t know quite how, but he had been able to tell long ago when the husband of the strong woman had come in search of the secret, that he was not of the blood of this family. This man was evil; he had sensed it then and knew already that his children had died as a result of his envy. This man had killed Gatsheni’s first son too, out there near the river where Gatsheni had sent him to protect the secret. However, he had still had the strength to summon the spirits upon him then, and he knew that the man’s death had followed, as he had heard in the village of it, the blame being put on the white woman, something even he had not counted on, but was glad of. His rage increased even further, though, when he heard that the authorities had found her innocent of any wrongdoing. If only they had talked to him, he would have told them just how guilty she was. How she and her family had caused the demise of the Matabele people, an indefensible crime, and for which there was only one penalty.
But this woman, she was different and she had come again twenty years ago with two others. The man had been of the family’s blood and so, as before, even when he had lured them out to the Lupane, he had not managed to kill him; his wife had survived too, a mistake he vowed he would not make again. His own grief from that occasion filled him once more as he thought about what had happened and what he had lost: another child...the end of his line.
Now this time, these two scared him because he could sense something in both of them. The man had it stronger, but the girl was also capable he knew, of causing great problems for them. It was the girl that he wanted to die first though; personal revenge would be sweet for him after so much grief.
He also pondered on the fact that no one actually knew where the treasure was. His father had not known and nor his grandfather, but it was there, he knew it. A thought struck him. Perhaps these two were here now to lead him to it. Perhaps this was the time when it would be used to help the great Matabele nation back from a long and ignominious slavery at the hands of first the white man and now the Mashona dogs. Maybe this was a time of change throughout southern Africa. After all, wasn’t the Apartheid government in South Africa letting Mandela free, which could only mean the end of white rule there. Perhaps after so long, the time had come for his nation too. It was a good thought and he smiled as he considered the possibility that this could happen in his lifetime, at a time when he was guardian of the stones.
However, now he focused again on the task at hand, he worried about the other indunas, as they would only be fooled for so long by his charade. As soon as they realised they had been tricked, then it would be all over for him and perhaps for the nation. This deception was necessary though he knew. The people didn’t believe any more but while doubt remained in the minds of the elders then he could manipulate them enough to achieve his aims.
For whatever his faults and motivations, Gatsheni was a true believer in the legend of the stones and their meaning to his people’s future. He was distraught at the loss of genuine contact with the spirits, spending night after night out on the veld waiting for a sign that he had not been abandoned by the world beyond this one. There was no Mlimo anymore, despite what he chose to tell the other indunas, since the white man encroached further and further into the lands of his ancestors, so the human embodiment of the spirits was forced to flee the advance. But, small signs like that he had experienced when the white man had appeared at his stall, told him there was something still there and spurred him on.
The old ways had been slowly forgotten and so had the pride in the nation established so long ago by the great Mzilikasi and continued by Lobengula. He cursed the young men of today who would never be part of the amadoda, warriors, part of a great impi sent out to attack their enemies. They would never feel the joy of the “washing of the spears” in the blood of their enemies and the thrill of the great cry, “jee, jee”, that the ranks of warriors would call before battle. Beating their spears against their shields, stamping their feet against the hard earth, creating the thunder and striking fear into the hearts of those enemies. He felt sad for them and at the same time he felt ashamed of them too as they were weak now, like women, or worse like the dogs who ruled over them, some of them even crossing to the other side to obtain the power of leadership. Those in particular would pay the price one day, when the spirits chose the time of retribution.
He stirred himself now though and rose from the spot in which he had lain for the past hour. The first tourists were arriving and he did not want to be seen here like this, the chance that they would believe him to be a beggar too great a risk for him and his pride. He quickly made his way down the hill, keeping clear of the brightly dressed white holidaymakers here to see how their ancestors had ruled over his people, to revel in the glories of the past, with hardly a thought to the consequences for the nations that had been trampled underfoot in the headlong rush for land and riches.
First of all, he had to ensure that the witchdoctor was ready to play his part. There were spells to weave and potions to mix of course, but Gatsheni was realistic enough by now to understand that more worldly methods would have to be used as well. The others would have to fulfil the promises they had made and this was his greatest concern. Even if they did what was asked of them, would they be able to persuade the people to give them the support that would be needed?
The plan was simple really, he was happy with it as it was, as it used the tactics employed in many so battles by the amadoda of years gone by; a classic attack with the great head of the bull in the centre and the two horns on either side, gradually closing in, encircling the enemy until at last they met giving their foe no chance. This time, there were only two people and though the lessons of the past were of no real use, he decided to stick to the traditional ways. He considered it be the cunning of an old man with a willingness to complete the task. He would kill the white man and his woman who came to steal his people’s future away from them.
Once they had led the witchdoctor to the secret place, they would be lured to the place chosen for the killing. Then he would start the attack silently, leading at the bull’s head, calling for the horns to encircle, closing off any chance of escape before their quarry even knew of the danger. The warriors would then pour in from all sides, surrounding the two, coming closer and closer until they could stab them with spear and assegai. They would destroy them; stamp them into the ground, leaving nothing but a red, bloody smear where their bodies had been. He laughed out loud at the thought of this final victory, a loud cackle that cracked the early morning air, causing tourists and wildlife alike to stop for an instant, wondering what beast had emitted such a terrible sound.
Acacia - Secrets of an African Painting Page 23
