Shaka the Great (55 page)

Beja knew this, of course, and, as the evening wore on and the beer flowed like a suitor's promises, he silenced the drums and said, “I will teach you a new song.”

And he then said: “Listen!”

And he began to sing in his fine, deep voice: “Wo-vula ngase zantsi! Hou hou hou! Wo-vula ngase zantsi!”
Wo—open at the bottom! Hou hou hou! Wo—open at the bottom!

Louder and louder he sang. Louder and louder did the maidens clap.

Then, after a while, Beja called out that it was time to change the song again.

This is what he now sang, in his fine, deep voice. “Vula kwe samatole! Hayo hayo hayo! Vula kwe samatole!”
Open the pen! Hayo hayo hayo! Open the pen!

Louder and louder he sang. Louder and louder did the maidens clap
.

Then, after a while, Beja called upon the company to see if they could
better his song, and the young men strutted and stomped while trying to outdo the friendly stranger's verses.

And Beja melted into the darkness, to where Mi waited with the clan's cattle. Their plan had worked. Through his song, Beja had instructed his companion when it was safe to approach the cattlefold, and when it was safe to open the gates and herd the cattle out. The villagers continued to feast and drink, and it was only the next day that they discovered what had happened.

“By this time, Beja and Mi and the cattle were long gone,” says the Cat Man. “And long afterward could they hide out in the hills, growing fat on the stolen beef.”

And the boy can't loosen this fragment of meat stuck between his teeth, this aspect that's worrying him about the Cat Man's stories. There's something in one of those stories, but he just—can't—get—at it.

But is it in the tale or has it something to do with the teller?

Hai, the Cat Man might annoy people with his jibes at Shaka, but there's nothing sinister about him. If anything, it's his companion, Owethu, and the nephew who travels with them who need watching. Morose, sullen, suspicious, they're like dark clouds accompanying the Cat Man. Such is his way with words, however, he soon makes one forget those two dour presences.

And if it's not the Cat Man or his companions who are the cause of the udibi's unease, it has to be something in one of the stories.
But what?
What is this finger that keeps tapping his shoulder? What is that distant, distorted, but desperate, voice trying to say?

A sycophantic chorus of
No, Sire!
and
Wise words, Bold Buffalo!

“It is so. We must not underestimate the Beetle, or his lions.”

All know what the outcome of this meeting will be, but a certain amount of ceremony is needed, for his subjects to feel Ngoza and his ministers have the blessings of the shades. And many, many eyes will be fixed on this eyrie high in the sky. For there, in the valley below them, laid out over the gentle hump of a hill, and seen now in the moonlight as a collection of dark domes, is the Thembu capital, the Place of the Buffalo.

“Oh, how I would like to see this Beetle suffer,” says Ngoza.

“We'll do what we can, Sire,” says Zibhle, his commander-in-chief, who is a lean, scarred man only a few years younger than Ngoza's fifty-seven summers.

“For we would see him suffer at your feet, Sire,” adds one of the younger lieutenants, eager to attract his chief's attention.

“Yes, yes, suffer,” says Ngoza, with a languid wave of his hand. “That prospect is beguiling.”

“Which is why we must tread with caution,” says Zibhle with a glare in the young lieutenant's direction. For puppies need to know their place.

“Too true,” says the chief. “The important thing is for him not to escape. Convey my wishes to the men. Tell them I will be content with Shaka's head. And the man who brings it to me will profit greatly, as will his comrades and his commander.” Ngoza stands up. “But suffering … there can still be suffering.”

He strides to the edge of the ledge, the group of officers fanning out on either side of him. “Dumo!” he calls out. “Are you ready?”

“I am ready, Highness,” answers the big man, his voice like thunder rolling across the veld.

“Well, gentlemen, what's first?”

The men know to save the best for last—even the young lieutenant who spoke earlier. For when Ngoza leans forward to peer along the line and fix him with a stare, saying, “You, who were so eager to see suffering, tell me your pleasure,” the lieutenant grins and says, “I would see his head twisted, Sire.”

Ngoza nods and gives the order to Dumo.

Two of the guards lift one of the Zulu warriors on to his knees, and crouch beside him, each holding an arm.

“See,” says Ngoza. “See how he stares straight ahead.”

“But not for long, Sire,” says one of the older officers standing next to him.

Dumo moves up behind the Zulu. Pressing a hand firmly against each of the soldier's ears, he turns the man's head gently to the right. When the Zulu's chin is poised above his shoulder, Dumo steps briefly to the left, past the Thembu soldier crouching there.

Once more he twists the Zulu's head to the right. This time there's a loud crack, and the man is left staring backward.

“Well, what say you, my friends?” asks Ngoza, as the guards drag the limp body to one side.

“Too quick,” says one of the lieutenants.

“He didn't even cry out,” says another.

“Sire, Honored Buffalo,” says Zibhle, “we must not forget old Enza!”

He's referring to the tribe's head shaman, and Ngoza nods. “Yes, yes, of course. Dumo!”

“Sire!”

“Gather what Enza needs.”

Another bow from the big man, which brings to mind an avalanche, or at least the beginnings of one mysteriously curtailed by the ineffable whims of the gods. “Sire!”

The second Zulu is hauled to his knees and held fast.

This time Dumo reaches over the warrior's head, slips two python
fingers into the man's nostrils, and tears off his nose with a single backward jerk.

This time Ngoza and his officers are rewarded by a shriek.

With the Zulu panting, and trying to turn his head away from the giant's big fingers, Dumo calmly grabs an ear—and twists that off, too, taking with it a flap of skin that reveals the Zulu's molars.

The sudden pain drives the Zulu upward and backward. Dumo steps aside, but the two guards foolishly try to hold on to the man, and so are carried alongside him over the cliff, with a plummeting scream.

“Do you see?” says Ngoza calmly. “We must not underestimate these Zulus.”

“Wise words, Mighty Malefactor,” adds Zibhle, “and therefore let our men know the price of failure.”

“Indeed. Did you see that?” calls Ngoza, addressing the remaining guards standing down below. “You will tell your comrades that they underestimate these Zulus at their peril.”

The men swallow their shock, and bob their heads in acknowledgment.

“And now,” says Ngoza, rubbing his hands together, “our big friend's specialty. Dumo!”

All move closer to the edge in greedy anticipation.

Two men yank the Zulu's arms away from his body. With his ankles tied together, there's no easy way he can get to his feet. His pupils are like pebbles rolling about his eye sockets, as he tries to track Dumo's movements. The big man is toying with him, making as if he's about to step right, and then moving left, all the while laughing at the way the Zulu twists his head. As Dumo's helpers chortle, the Zulu tries to regain his composure. But he's seen a friend's face turned around so that he's staring at the ancestors; he's seen another comrade's face torn apart, bit by bit—better to die on a battlefield than this. If only he, too, could throw himself over the cliff, but right now it's as far away as the moon.

Then the men on either side of him are raising his arms behind him, forcing him to bow his head. Do they mean to tear his arms from his shoulders?

Suddenly, amid writhing, screaming tendons, and as vivid as the snap of a dry twig in a world of silence, he feels a point—a point he just knows is the tip of a spear-blade—pressing down and then
into
the top of his skull. The pain retreats long enough for him to note that the movement has two parts to it: first you feel the tip of the blade touch your scalp, then there's the pushing-into that dents, but doesn't break the skin.

Why is he noticing this? Think of your family. Of your proud father. Of your mother, always concerned, always pleading with you to be careful, but proud in her own way. Think of …

Why's he noticing this? Because it's a positioning, an aiming, a getting just right—

—and before the Zulu can respond, Dumo has brought the stone down on the flattened end of the blade.

Brains are a delicacy among Ngoza and his inner circle. You fast, you eat the brains, you become a god, or at least until you defecate. But that gives you time enough to decide the fate of nations with a god's wisdom.

As Ngoza and his myrmidons watch Dumo practice his specialty, the Zulu's screams becoming the sweetest sounds they have ever heard, Thembu messengers make their way through the night. There are three of them, each approaching their destination from a different direction. Ngoza's taking no chances: the message has to get through, and the message in this instance is simply the arrival of the messenger himself. The generals know what to do next.

Too soon, too soon … But you precipitated this, so no sense in whining now. You knew it was too soon, your regiments still below strength, the new call-ups still busy with their training.

He's pacing up and down the enclosure that's his own special space. Sent the guards packing. Stop. Raise your face to the stars; squeeze your balls. What to do?

Too soon, too soon—it becomes the beat that accompanies his feet. Silly to ask what to do. You precipitated this. He remembers Nandi's response, when he told her he was going to send a deputation to meet with Ngoza. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?” she asked.