Shaka the Great (17 page)

Holding up a hand to silence her protestations: “I promise you I will look and see, but if Vala is the one who killed your father, then
he will suffer the consequences—and he certainly wouldn't deserve your loyalty.”

Does she understand?

A hesitation as, lips quivering, she fights back the urge to launch into yet another defense of her beloved. Then a nod.

“Now, know this as well. You are not to blame yourself for your father's death, so banish such thoughts instantly.”

A nod and a smile this time, a brave smile.

“Who was the sangoma you visited?” asks the Induna.

“It was Kholisa,” says Zusi.

The Induna grins. “Now there is a name I know!”

And they resume their journey, Zusi choosing to walk again because they are close to the homestead.

Mhlangana arrives just before midday with an escort of ten men looking suitably regal and important amid a profusion of amashoba and headband feathers, the prince liking to see his guard of honor almost as lavishly dressed as he himself is.

He orders everyone to the homestead's ibandla tree, where he commences to address them. They must cease this madness, he says. This is a matter that must be brought before the King, and Jembuluka is to be commended for realizing that.

Listen to the cows lowing! They must be milked. Pointing to the mats Ntokozo used to sit on, he insists they must be burned.

He calls Melekeleli, Jembuluka's sister and the dead man's main wife, or ingadi. Everyone is angry and shocked, he says, with eyes only for the accused. But, as ingadi, she has a duty to ensure that the day-to-day running of the homestead resumes, and that the anger of the sons is kept in check. And Dwanile, Ntokozo's second wife, she is to help Melekeleli.

As for the men, they are to listen to the wives. Mhlangana singles out Vuyile, the murdered man's eldest son, pointing at him with his isinkemba, a broad-bladed spear with a short haft carried for such purposes. “Come!” he says. “Do you believe your justice is stronger
than the King's? This may well be the murderer,” he adds pointing to Vala, who stands with Fynn and Jakot, “but what if he serves others? Would you not, as the son of your father, want to see these other miscreants rooted out?” They must leave justice to the King and instead see to the rituals needed to assuage the umkhokha. They must see to their chores!

“You are like old women,” says Mhlangana. “And here is another one,” he adds, leveling his isinkemba at Kholisa. “See how he hobbles!”

The sangoma bows. He had gone to fetch Mhlangana, but couldn't keep up with the pace the prince and his men set this morning.

He bows, and smiles to himself. Let them mock him! (Even Jembuluka, his ally of yesterday, is laughing.) He bears his infirmity with honor, because he was a soldier once and sustained the wound at Gqokli Hill. And also because it's a sign of how powerful the Calling was in him—for this is what the ancestors do to you if you try to ignore them: they visit mishap after mishap upon you, until you relent and seek out a senior sangoma to train you.

“Cha! He stamps, he throws out his arms, and he raises his voice—but, once the feathers have dropped to the ground and the dust has settled, what has he accomplished? He is merely trying to hide his own laziness! Not that I'd expect anything less from this one. Although perhaps such laziness here has an ulterior motive! Yes, this is a serious matter, and if he could see me thwarted without lifting a finger, what bliss for him!”

Shaka is standing up on the hill, yet able to hear every word, see every gesture in the scene playing out below him. His face is divided by the black and ochre of Imithi Emnyama, Black Medicine: muthi of the dead moon, isifile, and ngolu mnyama namhla, the dark day thereafter, when human beings are especially vulnerable to evil.

Mhlangana had to have known the import of this event, but any anger now will be wasted. After all, these are events that have happened already—and the Induna was there to ensure the matter was handled properly.

No, the frustration he feels—and which is one thought away from turning into rage—has a more immediate cause. It has to do with the fact that he now finds himself here on this hill …

Ignored by Mhlangana, Fynn and Jakot stand to one side, with Vala between them, watching the proceedings.

At this stage of his sojourn at Port Natal, Fynn, due to a constant lack of supplies from Cape Town, has adopted what might be termed a “Robinson Crusoe look.” His trousers are a pair of female bloomers that dangle loosely around his knees, because he's found that they dry more quickly and cut down on the chafing. Over this, covering his groin, is a Zulu kilt comprising the isinene and ibeshu. He also wears a sailor's peacoat, with the sleeves detached; these he keeps with him, and he can re-affix them with leather thongs at night when the temperature drops—or when the sun is especially hot. Although his skin has been gradually turning brown, the terrible sunburn he experienced on first arriving here has taught him to be more careful when venturing outside. His hands and shins are still discolored for, as he discovered, those rays will seek out the smallest patch of exposed white skin. Even the tops of his feet were seared lobster-red when his boots finally gave out, and he was then forced to resort to wearing sandals made for him by one of the refugees who have sought the White Man's protection at Port Natal. For the same reason, his disintegrating straw hat has been augmented with a piece of buckskin. Worn under the hat, it covers his ears—another early target for the African sun—and the back of his neck.

Along with his knapsack, which includes a complement of medicines, Fynn carries his Brown Bess. But his powder got wet while crossing a river the morning before they arrived here (well, in his journal it will become a river; the truth is it was a stream, a slippery rock, and about fifteen centimeters of water that saw the powder rendered useless).

The weapon's intended for hunting—and to protect them from marauding wild animals. When it comes to the locals, Fynn is happy
to rely on Shaka's decree that none of the White Men is to be harmed. Or, rather, he has no doubt this decree will be obeyed, since the discipline evinced by the Zoolas was one of the first things he noticed in his dealings with them.

For his part, Jakot wears sandals, the remnants of a pair of nankeen trousers, and a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has introduced certain members of the expedition to the joys of the marijuana smoked by the Zulus and other tribes in this region. As the sole supplier, and the only one who knows how to prepare the plants, he is repaid in certain luxuries, such as the shirt and trousers. Items denied to Fynn and some of the others, who have to make do as best they can, these seem to appear magically out of thin air as soon as Jakot produces his special rhino horn.

In addition, the interpreter carries a pouch, blankets and a Zulu isijula, or long hunting spear.

Given the tension of last night, he's happy to be ignored for a while, and has already whispered to Fynn that it's perhaps better if they both remain silent and let Mhlangana take charge.

He watches as the prince turns to Jembuluka once more. “Hai! But I know you. I thought you looked familiar and now I remember—you are the Skin Man!”

Beaming, the big man bows. “You do me a great honor, Brother of our Father!”

The prince slaps his right shoulder with his left hand: these items were prepared by him. Jembuluka nods and respectfully suggests he has recognized the garment. It comprises two pelts sewn together, with space for the prince's head to slip through, and reaching down to just above his chest. The pelts, with their black and white stripes, were taken from the inyengelezi, or African weasel, and are testament to Jembuluka's skill as a Skin Man. The creature itself is hard to catch, and small, meaning there's little margin for error and wastage when skinning it. It also secretes a disgusting odor, just like a skunk, and a lot of ingenuity (not to mention a closely guarded family recipe) is needed to get rid of that smell.

“Highness!” calls one of the prince's men.

Mhlangana looks in the direction the warrior is pointing, and sees the Induna making his way down the side of the hill.

Him!

The Induna was one of those present when Shaka questioned Jakot on the day he was first dragged into KwaBulawayo. He and the other one, the old general who died—Mgobozi, that's the one!—and a few others … Well, put it this way, Jakot believes it was partly due to their counsel that Shaka treated him not as he had expected to be treated. (And when the most powerful King in the region, whose capital is called The Place Of He Who Kills, mark you, isn't sure what to do with you—that's not a good feeling. Jakot will be forever grateful to his ancestors that he was out of harm's way, with the Englishmen, when Nandi died and Shaka went mad.)

Fynn is almost as unsettled as Jakot is to see the Induna. When Shaka had heard that one of the savages from the sea was on his way inland, seeking to make contact with him, he set about ensuring Fynn would be taken “the long way round,” with numerous delays at kraals en route, so he might gain an idea of just how large the Kingdom was. To help accomplish this, the Induna, with ten other men—including big Njikiza, The Watcher Of The Ford, who prefers a massive club with a head bigger than a medieval morning-star over the puny iklwas the others carry—were assigned to keep an eye on the Englishman.

Fynn wasn't fooled, though. Even if they were there to cater to his every need, they were also his jailers. Later, in his journal, he would say of the induna in charge of this “bodyguard” that there was “something so frightfully forbidding in this man's countenance that, in addition to the conviction that one of his duties was to spy and report on my every action, I felt he looked as much like a murderer as it was possible to infer from his countenance.”

Not that it's evident in the published “diary” that emerged years after most of the original journal was lost, but Fynn has since had occasion to revise his initial opinion of the Induna, but he can't
stifle that initial jolt of fear whenever their paths now cross and he's confronted by that “frightfully forbidding” countenance once more.