CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE VOICE OF UMLIMO.
It is probable that the Matopo Hills, in Southern Matabeleland, are, asa freak of Nature, unique on the earth's surface.
Only a vast upheaval--whether through the agency of fire or of water,let the geologists determine and quarrel over--can have produced such abizarre result. A very sea of granite waves, not smooth and rolling,but piled in gigantic, rugged heaps; cones of immense boulders, risingto the height of many hundred feet; titanic masses of castellated rock;slab-like _mesas_ and smooth-headed domes all jumbled togetherarbitrarily side by side; it is as though at some remote age astupendous explosion had torn the heart out of earth's surface, andheaving it on high with irresistible force, had allowed it to fall andsettle as it would. Colossal boulders, all on end, anyhow, forming darkholes and caves, lead up to the summits of these marvellous cones; andin such clefts wild vegetation finds abundant anchorage--the acacia andwild fig and mahobo-hobo. Here a tall rock pinnacle, balancing upon itsapex a great stone, which, to the unthinking eye, a mere touch wouldsend crashing from its airy resting-place where it has reposed for agesand ages beyond all memory; there a solid square granite block the sizeof a castle, riven from summit to base as completely and smoothly as abisected cheese. Grim baboons, of large size and abnormal boldness,bark threateningly from the ledges, and every crag is a perfect rookeryof predatory birds--hawks and buzzards, and kites and carrion crows--soaring and wheeling beneath the blue of the heavens. Valleys, narrowand winding, intersect this chaotic mass, swampy withal in parts, andharbouring reedy water-holes where, beneath the broad leaves and fairblossoms of radiant lilies, the demon crocodile lurks unsuspected.Great crater-like hollows, too--only to be entered by a single way, andthat a very staircase of rocks--the whole a vast and forbidding seriesof natural fastnesses, which even now have been thoroughly penetrated bybut few whites, and at that time by the conquerors of the country not atall.
Evening is drawing down upon this rugged wilderness. The sun has goneoff the world, but a rosy afterglow still tinges the piled boulders orsmooth, balanced crags rearing up above the feathery foliage of acacia;and, save for an odd one here and there, the wheeling birds of prey havesought their inaccessible roosting-places. But such as have not--forthese an unwonted sight lies beneath. The deathlike solitude of eachwinding valley is disturbed by an unwonted life--the life of men.
On they come--dark forms in straggling lines--threescore here, twothere; a dozen further back, even as many as a hundred together. Andthey are converging upon one point. This is a hollow, the centre ofwhich forms an open space--once under cultivation--the sides a perfectruin of shattered rocks.
On they come--line upon line of dark savages--advancing mostly insilence, though now and then the hum of a marching song, as some freshgroup arrives at the place, rises upon the stillness in clear cadence.None are armed, unless a stick apiece and a small shield can be definedas weapons; and there is a curiously subdued note pervading theassembly--an elated look on some of those dark faces, a thoughtful oneon others--but one of expectancy upon all.
Each party as it arrives squats upon the ground awaiting the next. Andstill the tread of advancing feet, the hum of approaching voices, andpresently the open space is filled with dark humanity to the number ofseveral hundreds. During the period of waiting, chiefs, leaving theirown following, greet each other, and draw apart for converse amongthemselves. Suddenly, and with startling nearness, there echoes forthfrom a crag overhead a loud resonant bark. It is answered by anotherand another. A volley of deep-voiced ejaculation, first startled--fortheir feelings are wrought up--then mirthful, arises from scores ofthroats. A troop of baboons has discovered this human concourse, and,secure in a lofty vantage ground, is vocally resenting its presence.
But such levity is promptly checked by a sense of the serious nature ofthe gathering. It is clear that all are assembled who mean to come.And now the gloom lightens with amazing rapidity, as the broad disc of afull moon sails majestically forth above the jumble of serrated crags;and to it turns that sea of wild dark faces stamped with an unwontedexpectation and awe, for as yet the bulk of those present have but a dimidea of the end and object of this mysterious convention.
In the lamplike glow of this new light faces are clearly discernible,and amid the group of chiefs are those of Madula, and Zazwe, andSikombo, and Umlugula, and several others holding foremost rank amongtheir tribesmen. On this occasion, however, they are not foremost, forit is upon another group that the main interest and expectation centres.
The members of this are decked out in the weird array of sorcerers, arehung around with entrails and claws, mysterious bunches of "charms,"white cowhair and feather adornments, and the grinning skulls of wildanimals. One alone is destitute of all ornamentation, but the grimhawk-like countenance, the snaky ferocity of the cruel stare, the lithestealthiness of movement, stamps this man with an individuality all hisown, and he is none other than Shiminya. These are the "Abantwana'Mlimo," the hierarchy of the venerated Abstraction, the "Children ofUmlimo." Of them there are perhaps two score. They are seated in acircle, droning a song, or rather a refrain, and, in the midst, Shiminyawalks up and down discanting. The chiefs occupy a subsidiary placeto-night, for the seat of the oracle is very near, and these are themouthpieces of the oracle.
By degrees the assembly gathers around. Voices are hushed. Allattention is bent upon these squatting, droning figures. Suddenly theyrise, and, bursting through the surrounding ranks, which promptly opento give them way, start off at a run. The crowd follows as thoughmagnet drawn. But the run soon slows down to a kind of dancing step;and, following, the dark assemblage sweeps up the valley bottom, thelong dry grass crackling as the excited multitude crushes its waythrough. On the outskirts of the column a great venomous snake,disturbed, trodden on, rears its hideous head, and, quick as lightning,strikes its death-dealing fangs into the legs of two of the crowd, butin the exaltation of the hour no thought is given to these. They maydrop out and die; none can afford to waste time over them.
For nearly an hour the advance continues, the black mass pouring, likeants, over every obstacle--over stones, rocks, uprooted tree-trunks--winding through a tortuous valley bottom, the granite crags, toweringaloft in their immensity, looking down as though in cold scornfulindifference upon this pigmy outburst of mere human excitement, and thenthe way opens, becoming comparatively clear. The "Abantwana 'Mlimo"slacken their pace, and then the whole body is brought to a halt.
The spot is a comparatively open one save for the long dry grass. Infront is a belt of acacias; but behind, and towering above this, thererises an immense mass of solid granite, its apex about two hundred feetabove the bottom of the hollow--a remarkable pile, smoother and morecompact than the surrounding crags, and right in the centre of its faceis a black spot about twelve feet square.
The blackness, however, is the effect of gloom. This spot is the mouthof a hole or cave.
In dead silence now the multitude crouches, all eyes fixed expectantlyupon the black yawning mouth. Yet, what can appear there within, forthe rock face is inaccessible to any save winged creatures? A cleft,passing the hole, traverses obliquely the entire pile, but asunavailable for purposes of ascent as the granite face itself. Noliving being can climb up thence. Another vertical crack descends fromabove. That, too, is equally unavailable. Yet, with awe-strickencountenances, the whole assembly, crouching in semicircular formation,are straining their eyeballs upon the gaping aperture.
In front are the hierarchs of the grim Abstraction. If here indeed isthe home of the latter it is well chosen, for a scene of more utterwildness and desolation than this weird, granite-surrounded fastness ishardly imaginable. The great round moon, floating on high, seems to theimpressionable multitude to lower and spread--almost to burn.
And now the "Abantwana 'Mlimo" rise from their squatting posture, and,forming into a double line, their faces lifted towards the black, gapinghole, begin to sing. Their
chant rolls forth in a regular rhythm, butthe usual accompaniment of the stamping of feet is at first absent. Butthe song, the wild savage harmony of voices fitting well into theirparts, is more tuneful, more melodious, than most barbaric outbursts ofthe kind. Its burden may be rendered somewhat in this wise--
"Voice from the air, Lighten our way! Word of the Wise, Say! shall weslay? Voice of the Great, Speaking from gloom; Say! shall we waitDarkness of doom?"
The echoes ring out upon the still night air, rolling in eddies of soundamong the granite crags. The company of sorcerers, every nerve andmuscle at its highest tension, softly move their feet to the time, asagain and again they repeat their awesome invocation, and with eachrepetition the sound gathers volume, until it reaches a mighty roar.The multitude, stricken motionless with the awe of a great expectation,gaze upward with protruding eyeballs, awaiting a reply. It comes.
The singing of the Abantwana 'Mlimo has ceased. There is a silence thatmay be felt, only broken by a strained breathing from hundreds ofthroats. Then, from the black cave, high above, sounds forth a voice--asingle voice, but of amazing volume and power, the voice of the GreatAbstraction--of the Umlimo himself. And the answer is delivered in thesame rhythm as the invocation--
"Dire is the scourge, Sweeping from far: Bed is the spear, Warming forwar. Burned is the earth, Gloom in the skies; Nation's new birth--Manhood arise!"
Strong and firm the Voice rolls forth, booming from that black portal aswith a thunder note--clear to a marvel in its articulation, cold,remorseless in the decision of its darkly prophesying utterance.Indescribably awe-inspiring as it pours forth its trumpet notes upon thedead silence, small wonder that to the subdued eager listeners it is thevoice of a god. Thrice is the rhythm repeated, until every word hasburned deep into their minds as melted lead into a beam of soft-grainedwood.
And now in the silence which ensues there steps forth from the ranks ofthe Abantwana 'Mlimo one man. Standing alone a little in front of therest, he faces upward to the great cave overhead. In the absence ofweird adornment, and with the moon upon his bird-like countenance,stands revealed Shiminya.
"Great Great One! Voice of the Wise!" he cries. "Thy children hearthee. They are brought even unto death. The scourge which Makiwa hasbrought upon them strikes hard. It is striking their cattle down byscores already. There will be no more left."
There is a pause. With outstretched arms in the moonlight, the mediatorstands motionless, awaiting the answer. It comes:--
"There will first be no more Makiwa."
A heave of marvel and suppressed excitement sways the crowd. There isno misunderstanding this oracular pronouncement, for it is in the mainwhat all are there to hear. Shiminya goes on.
"Oh, Great Great One, the land is burned dry for lack of rain, and thychildren die of hunger. Will the land never again yield corn?"
"Makiwa has laid his hand upon it;" and the dull, hollow, remorselesstone, issuing from the darkness, now seems swept by a very tempest ofhate, then replies, "Remove the hand!"
Sticks are clutched and shields shaken to the accompaniment of a deepgrowl of wrath forced from between clenched teeth.
"Remove the hand!" runs in a humming murmur through the multitude. "Ah,ah! Remove the hand!"
Again, with hollow boom, the Voice rolls forth.
"Even the very skies are darkening. Behold!"
Every head is quickly jerked back.
"_Whou_!"
Just the one ejaculation, volleyed from every throat, and in it there isbut one consent, one expression, that of marvel and quaking dread. Forin the tense excitement of awaiting the utterances of the oracle nonehave noticed that the flooding light of the moon has been graduallyfading to darkness, albeit not a cloud is in the heavens. Now, as theylook up, lo! the silvern orb is half covered with a black shadow.Onward it steals, creeping further and further, until the broad disc isentirely shrouded. A weird unnatural darkness lies upon the earth.
In silent awe the superstitious savages gaze blankly upon thephenomenon. There are those among them who have beheld it before, andto such under ordinary circumstances it would be looked upon with littleconcern. Now, however, worked up as they are, it is different. Thereare even some among them who have heard of the darkening of the sunduring the first struggle of the great parent race of Zulu against thewhite invasion. Then it presaged great slaughter of their whiteenemies. And, as though reading the thoughts of such, the awful voiceof the Great Abstraction broke in upon the oppressive, unnatural gloom--
"Children of Matyobane, [Father of Umzilikazi, founder and first king ofthe Matabelo nation], hearken. When Makiwa thought to eat up the mightystock from which ye are sprung the very sun withdrew his light, and theplains between Isandhlwana and Umzinyati were red with the blood ofMakiwa. Such as were not slain fled from the land. For the children ofZulu the sun grew black. For the children of Matyobane the moon. Lo,the blackening of the moon is the hiding of the nation, crushed,blackened, beneath the might of Makiwa. But the blackness does notlast; so is the foot of Makiwa removed from the neck of the people ofMatyobane. Behold!"
Every face, which has been turned towards the bark mouth of the oracle,again looks skyward. The black disc is moving back. The outer rim ofthe broad moon once more shines forth in a shaft of light. Broader andbroader does this become, the strained eyeballs of the wrought-upsavages bent upon it with concentrated stare. Then the Abantwana'Mlimo, falling prone to the earth, once more raise the chant, and thistime the whole multitude joins, in a great rolling volume of chorus:--
"Burned is the earth, Gloom in the skies; Nation's new birth--Manhoodarise!"
In wild uncontrollable excitement the multitude watches the now fastlightening orb; then, when the shadow has entirely left it, shining inbright, clear radiance as before, all faces are once more turned upwardto the great granite pile, looming huge against the stars, its front adull grey in the moonlight. Once more is the silence dead--expectant.
"Oh, Great Great One!" cries Shiminya, standing with arms outstretched,"we behold a nation's new birth. But the time, O Word of the Wise? Thetime?"
"The time!" And now the Voice rolled from the black cavern mouth in avery thunder roar that reverberated among the mighty granite walls in ashock of echo that struck the entranced auditors speechless. "The time,Children of Matyobane? The time? _Before next moon is dead_."
John Ames, Native Commissioner: A Romance of the Matabele Rising Page 7
