Shaka the Great (18 page)

Leaving the girl with the headman's son, the Induna approaches the prince. “Brother of our Father, I greet you and I am yours to command.”

“Aiee, Nduna, I am glad it is you!” Since the Induna is particularly adept when it comes to these matters, Mhlangana is happy for the warrior to take over.

He will leave eight of his men in the Induna's charge, lest this mob become unruly again. And, because he understands Shaka will want to hear of the death of an Uselwa Man as soon as possible, he will not be expecting the Induna to report his findings to him in person. A messenger that the Shadow of Shaka trusts will suffice. Instead, the Induna is to go straight to KwaBulawayo, taking as many of his men with him as he sees fit.

The Induna inclines his head, thanks the prince for the faith he has evinced in his abilities and for the loan of the men and says he will gladly do as the prince desires.

Him!

But Kholisa is forced to stop skulking among Mhlangana's entourage and straighten up when the prince calls him forward, saying: “My personal sangoma happened to be here at the time and he found the body, so he might be of some assistance.”

Noting Kholisa's expression—a valiant attempt at stony formality—Mhlangana grins. But of course! He's forgotten that they have met before. Indeed, agrees the Induna, and under slightly similar circumstances. Although this present matter seems to involve finding a body rather than losing one. All the same, does Kholisa feel a Smelling Out might be necessary? “Although,” adds the Induna, making a show of looking past the sangoma, and scanning the empty cattle-fold behind the wives, “I do not see your impi about.”

Kholisa's hands come up. Please! The Induna must understand he learned his lesson that day. Besides, the King has not given his permission.

Yes, yes, the King, interjects Mhlangana; they must consider the King. And his wishes. “Talk of a Smelling Out is surely premature—is that not so, Nduna?”

The Induna nods.

“Nonetheless,” says Mhlangana, pointing his isinkemba at the sangoma, “Kholisa will remain behind to assist the Induna in any way he can.”

Why this place?

He has only stepped back a few paces tonight, but why has the muthi sent him here? What is he supposed to see?

Is he meant to see that those who said this was a bad omen were right?

And thus forget the fact that the Induna's presence could be interpreted as the ancestors favoring Shaka, helping him right this wrong which had been caused by a human agency and had nothing whatsoever to do with the First Fruits.

And he had other things on his mind at the time, indeed other things to worry about. If he stills his heartbeat and listens, he can hear himself berating that stubborn old-timer at the Nkandla Forest, while Pampata tries to soothe him. The season is here, the time is right, so why won't Mbilini give the word? And Pampata telling him to be patient. This he cannot hurry. He cannot be seen to usurp Mbilini over this, not with what he has planned: a whispered conversation in the background, quietly supplanting the sound of crickets and rustling grass.

It was easy, then, not to brood upon this death, to let his inner circle see that while he allowed it was a tragedy—and the killer or killers had to be found, so that his Slayers could deal with them—he didn't think it was a bad omen.

Turning, turning again, in the hut of his seclusion, turning in the sweaty heat so that he is back where he started, is he now meant to realize the Uselwa Man's death was indeed a bad omen? A harbinger of failure?

Because see here, see how he struggles, night after night, reaching for his objective only to be sent somewhere else …

No! It will work! It must! He will know their secrets!

He forces himself to return to the hillside, and watches as Mhlangana and the remainder of his men take their leave.

Mhlangana?

Has the Imithi Emnyama brought him here to show him Mhlangana—to show him, in effect, an omen of a different sort?

“Mhlangana,” he whispers, “my brother …”

“Hai, but you more than anyone else should know how troublesome brothers can be to a king! Especially the ones you're likely to forget about!”

“Ngwadi!” The King turns. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because I am dead?”

There is that, too, allows Shaka, but he was thinking more of the matter of Sigujana.

“Another brother,” smiles Ngwadi.

“I was not responsible for what happened. Blame the jackal who was my father.”

“Yes, fathers can be as bad as brothers.”

“Forgetful, malicious, or both.”

“And getting worse as they grow older,” says Ngwadi, who is Shaka's half-brother—which is to say Nandi's son, but not Senzangakhona's, and the product of a later liaison. The result of Nandi using her wiles with a grumpy chief so that she and Shaka might be sheltered just a while longer.

“Heirs, too,” says Shaka. “And this is why I have not bothered with wives and sons.”

Ngwadi nods. The King's views on marriage are well known.

“A man strives his whole life, so that his sons can bicker and fall out over his hard work, trample his memory in their haste to divide his property. And his loving wives are little better!”

“You have just your sisters,” says Ngwadi, for this is how Shaka's concubines are referred to. They are his “sisters.”

The King grins.

“But what happens to all of your hard work, Brother? A man has heirs, despite the trouble they might cause him one day, because he would see his hard work continued, and his wealth grow. What of your achievements, Brother? Who will—”

“I have something in mind, never you fear.” Although he has spurned the thought of marriage and sons—why raise your own murderer?—it did bother Shaka that his conquests might become merely old ashes blown away by an irritable wind. Look what remained of Dingiswayo's empire. And of Zwide's.

Then the White Men came …

After the prince leaves, the Induna asks Kholisa to lead him to where they'd found the body.

The path that Ntokozo took on the night he was killed slips through a side entrance to the compound, ducks under some bushes, and opens out on the crest of a shallow slope with a view of the sea.

It was here that Kholisa and Jembuluka had come upon the Uselwa Man's body. Melekeleli had sent them out to look for her husband. “He was irritable that night, and Jembu said we would find him here seeking solitude,” explains Kholisa.

“What had annoyed him?” asks the Induna.

“Aiee! That one, he didn't need anyone around to feel troubled and put upon! He would chastise a path for being too steep, that one!” But, adds the sangoma, Ntokozo had also been feeling unwell.

But it wasn't an illness that saw the Uselwa Man eating dirt, observes the Induna.

No, it wasn't, says Kholisa. Ntokozo was found lying face down and, as he knelt to examine him, he noted a wetness about the man's head which he suspected was blood. This was confirmed after they had carried the Uselwa Man back to his compound. It was also clear he had been hit over the head, probably with an iwisa—a stout stick with a knob at the end. “As you know, Nduna, I was a soldier before I accepted the Calling, and I have seen such wounds before,” says Kholisa.

Jembuluka confirms the sangoma's version of events. He was the one to set up the hue and cry after they had carried Ntokozo back to the compound, and Kholisa showed him how the Uselwa Man had been bludgeoned. Although the fragment of moon offered them some light to see by, he knew there was a good chance of missing any spoor left behind by the killer—but something had to be done while the women wailed.

He divided the menfolk up and sent some to follow the paths that radiated out from the homestead. The younger sons, meanwhile, he set to searching the huts.

“Why did you do this?” asks the Induna.

Jembuluka shrugs. There was always the chance the killer had gone to ground somewhere within the homestead, while fully expecting the menfolk to go charging about the open veld.

“What made you suspect Vala?” asks the Induna.

Nothing, says Jembuluka—until Gudlo, Ntokozo's second oldest son, found the iwisa in the boy's hut.

Twice he'd asked Gudlo if he'd personally checked all the huts in the sector assigned to him and to a few of his younger brothers, and twice Gudlo reassured him that he had. “What about Vala's hut?” Jembuluka had demanded, the second time he confronted the boy. “Yes, of course,” was the response, which showed what a liar the boy was. “Well, check it again,” Jembuluka had snapped. Not that he tells the Induna any of this—and he doubts anyone else will remember him singling out the little savage. It was then close to dawn, and everyone was tired and still in shock.

“Where was Vala?” asks the Induna.

Helping with the search, says Jembuluka. They thought he'd fled, but he'd been with the group checking the vegetable gardens.

After dismissing the big man, the Induna asks Kholisa to show him Vala's hut.

It is a sad thing about the general, says Kholisa, as they make their way across the hard-packed dirt. But, then, doubtless that's how he would have wanted to go—in the thick of things, commanding his troops, leading by example.

“I always respected him, despite the nature of our last encounter,” says Kholisa, with a rueful grin. “Aiee, he tormented me, but doubtless I deserved it!”

Certainly, as the Induna can now see, he has learned his lesson. Mgobozi's words weren't wasted. No longer does Kholisa seek to don the mantle once worn by The Lion or Nobela, and then gather together his own retinue of sycophants.

“I saw I was on the wrong path before it was too late, and I have Mgobozi to thank for that. And perhaps I am mistaken, perhaps I am speaking out of turn, but I believe that beneath
his
bluster there was … Well, I think I confused him. I think there was even, perhaps, a little surprise, a drop of respect.” Another pause, then: “Because, after all, I had been in the ranks, and I think that fact must have confused him, because he couldn't call me a coward, or a shirker; because I was there at Gqokli Hill!”

Then, slapping his right thigh: “That's where I got this affliction. But I was there, and I killed my share of Ndwandwes! And I think knowing that must have confused the general somewhat. Which is not to say he let me off lightly that day! Aiee!”

“Is this it?”

Distracted from his monologue, Kholisa nods.

It's a dilapidated old storage hut, and the Induna doubts there's room for Vala to stretch out fully in it. It would be hard to hide one's breath in this cramped straw hole, never mind an iwisa.

“This boy …” says the Induna, pausing and dusting off his hands. “He is an isilwane, not Zulu?”

“That is so,” says Kholisa.

“And you?”

“Me?” says Kholisa, startled. “I am not—”

“I meant how came you to be here?”

“Ah!” The sangoma gnaws his lower lip for a heartbeat, then says: “Would I be right in assuming Zusi, the girl, has told you that she came to me seeking help?”