Shaka the Great (20 page)

There are fields here on the edge of the forest, well tended and kept free of the veld, but currently lying fallow. Mbilini moves past his son and makes his way across the center allotment. This is his ground, and by far the largest in the patchwork. Crops are also grown elsewhere, but every family in the clan has a plot here. Although the sun has yet to crest the hill, and the grass is still silver with dew, the shift in temperature that Mbilini spotted earlier is noticeable. In fact, there are even pockets of warmth amid the wintry chill.

With help from his son and the stick, being lowered by the former while pushing down on the latter, Mbilini manages to drop on to his knees. Leaning forward, he plunges his left hand into the ground. It goes in at almost the same angle as a spade might, and his fingers are pressed together to catch hold of clods of damp soil. He crushes the first clods in his fist, then, thrusting his hand deeper, he scoops up another handful.

Noticing that his son is watching him, he nods. Squatting a few paces in front of his father, but facing the old man, the son copies Mbilini's actions.

The soil is a deep, dark brown. This handful isn't as damp as the first one, but the earth is still sticky, with the consistency of maize meal porridge, albeit the drier kind that is eaten with one's fingers.

Mbilini glances at his son. “Can you feel it?”

He nods.

But Mbilini's not about to let his son off so easily. “What can you feel?”

It's damp, but not too damp. Not like dusty itshetshe soil, which is useless for farming: nor is it like swamp-like iboye soil, which will see the crops rot.

Mbilini's impatient nod says that's obvious.

It clings, but is also loose, adds his son.

“Yes?” urges the khehla.

“The belly will swell.”

Good, he's got it. This soil is ugade, tight enough to hold, loose enough to allow for expansion. The belly of this earth will indeed swell to accommodate a growing plant. There's more, of course: the texture tells Mbilini there's sustenance in the loam, felt as tiny fragments—roots, twigs, ant-size pieces of leaf—that are not of the soil but have been taken in by it. But such subtleties can wait, for his son is doing well so far.

Raising his palm to his mouth, the old man touches the soil with the tip of his tongue. Just as there are those who can take a sip of beer and tell you what's gone wrong in the brewing, what process has been rushed, what ingredient was overused, so Mbilini can taste whether the soil is ready or whether they must still wait a while. He's not the only one who can do this, of course. Any farmer who doesn't want to see his family starve needs to learn the taste of soil, but none can do it as well as the headman of the EmaCubeni clan.

And the taste isn't quite right, but Mbilini wasn't expecting any different. There's a lack that the change in temperature will rectify in due course. By the time the messengers have spread the word, the soil will be ready.

When his son has helped him to stand, Mbilini shows him how deeply his stick has sunk into the earth. That the iwisa went in so far, and no further, is another good sign.

Knowing from experience never to take his father's verdict for granted, the youth waits.

Mbilini regards his son's quizzical expression for a moment, then he nods slowly.

“Sekunjalo!” he says.
It is time.

He rises unthinkingly, lifted by the motion of the men on either side of him. The Bull
—
which is
his
Bull—is coming awake, called forth by the swallow-tail axes of the generals, and by the bellowing of the indunas.
They are his generals, his indunas.
But he is here, in the ranks, the Night Muthi mask as invisible as his identity is to those around him …

His comrades, he thinks with a grin, and wonders, if he were to turn and look back, whether he would see himself on the summit of the nearest high ground …

But there's no time and it's only a passing thought, for it's good to be here, spear and shield in hand, weapons so much simpler than the arsenal a king must master, and he doesn't want to find himself back in the hut. Not yet, anyway.

And they are on the move, he and his comrades. And he is remembering those days of himself and Mgobozi and the others marching shoulder to shoulder, of sitting on their shields and waiting, while sharing snuff and familiar stories. Then the orders …

Of course, that was when Dingiswayo stood on the hill, and the Way of the Bull was still an idea he would sketch in the sand and try to explain to Mgobozi.

The Way of the Bull: the horns to outflank and encircle, with discipline and well-trained officers enabling each to operate out of sight of the main body, for extended periods if need be; the chest to slam into the enemy; the loins held in reserve, comprising the men sitting facing Shaka, keeping their backs to the action and waiting for his signal. Total war.

And now, on this battlefield he can't identify … how many have there been? And is that why he is here? To be reminded of the path that has no end, so that he can be reassured he is doing the right thing? No time, though. This is no time for such thoughts. For here, in the midst of the First
Fruits, he is on a forgotten battlefield, himself part of the Bull, which is
his
Bull …

And the Bull has risen and is on the move!

They are running now. First the slow lion-lope, with your isihlangu under your arm. Save it, madoda, save it; marshal the hunger that powers your muscles. Then the cheetah-sprint …

Comrades together, and bound by the drills. The stamping of the thorns, the long marches, the running. Sweat-slick backs and heaving chests, burning eyes and howling muscles. Bound by hardships shared: the hunger, the cold, the fear.

We drank the King's milk together … we came from far and wide, but we were closer than brothers, for we shared the season, were of a similar age … And, when it was time, our fathers brought us to the royal kraal and we drank the King's milk, and set about learning the meaning of pain. Of suffering.

But a cleansing pain, madoda! A suffering that hardened your muscles and set you free. To run all day without missing a breath. To rise up the next day and run again. To wield your shield as if it were no heavier than a cloak, and your arm an iklwa. Ngadla!
I have eaten!

Running faster and faster.

Running to and running away from. There will be shouts and groans, whimpers and pleas. There will be writhing bodies. There will be the desperate eyes of young men holding in their intestines with one hand, while reaching out for their mothers with the other. They know this, for theirs are the battle-weary eyes that look beyond the fires of the feast to court the darkness. But they also know that running to it is the only way to run from the horror.

When their wounds have healed and they are called to battle again, they can seek solace in the ranks, and once the ax is pointed, they can rise up and flee the horror. Flee it in the way that makes all soldiers brave: by running toward it. By raising your shield, thrusting your spear, meeting the horror head-on and vanquishing it. It will return inside in your head, late at night, when the beer runs out, or again on another battlefield, when you sit on your shield and watch its harbingers gather before you, listen to their taunts … But here and now, on this dusty day at
least, you've beaten it once more. And if the blood on your shins and chest, your knuckles and shield, is only the blood of its rebirth, you can still rejoice because you are alive.

There and then, here and now, that's the only thing that matters: you are still alive.

Running faster and faster.

Then the clash of shields.

The kloof guides a stream toward the sea. The stream is shallow, narrow enough for a man to leap over with little exertion, but the water is fast-flowing, as though desperate to reach the waves before it can be poached by the sun. Kholisa follows that rainfall sound until he comes to where the water has pooled behind a small dune of silt. Beyond lie the waves, their crashing and rolling now seeming to taunt the trapped water. It has spread out sideways, seeking a way around the sand barrier; then has receded, beaten back by the same sun that paints streaks of silver across its surface.

The sun is at its zenith, and the herdboys have brought the cattle home. It is now or never—it might even be too late. But Kholisa doesn't want to countenance such a possibility, for he has made reassurances, and the consequences of failure don't bear thinking about.

He pauses a moment to let the ache in his leg subside and to examine the slopes for any sign that he's been followed. He doesn't think so, and he carefully took a circuitous route before entering the ravine.

Finally he turns his attention back to the stream. The sand where the water has sought a way around the silt seems dry, but the moment one steps on to it, one's foot sinks through to a layer of dampness, making this an ideal spot for …

This.

Across one end of the mound of silt there's a strip of buckskin. It is held in place by rocks on either side of the mound—the rocks are kept from sinking too deep into the sand by the skin. The buckskin is about the size of a Zulu war shield, and turns the mound into a T-shape. The rocks notwithstanding, the skin lies loosely enough over the creature's face to allow for a passage of air underneath it.

Kholisa bends forward and presses his fingers against the rounded sides of the first rock. Straightening up, and holding the rock in front of his groin, he takes two steps away from the mound, and lets the rock drop into the damp sand with a
plop!
It sinks slowly.

Seconds … minutes … hours later, he finds himself staring at the buckskin, focusing on its patterns. There's a brown a shade darker than the sand he's standing in, a grubby white a shade lighter, and streaks of black. Who knows what he will find when he removes the covering.

Do it!

Leaning forward Kholisa grips the nearest edge of the hide and pulls it aside. And straightens.

Except for a certain gray cast to his skin, Ntokozo could be asleep.

Which, in a sense, he is.

Bending again, Kholisa touches the Uselwa Man's forehead with the back of his hand.

Still warm—meaning there's still a chance he can be revived.

Working fast, he collects some bone-white twigs and branches among the wind-bent trees that fringe the beach, then piles them behind a buttress of dunes and gets a fire going. Next, he removes a small pot from his muthi bag. Before he left the homestead, he placed some of the ingredients he'd need in this pot. Taking out a pestle made from a cow bone, and using the pot as the mortar, he begins to grind up the mixture.

Finding some way of administering the muthi to Ntokozo had been a weakness in their plan, until the girl Zusi had come to Kholisa …

She came to him before he even cast the bones to seek guidance about any alternatives—a procedure he'd been putting off, as reading the bones isn't one of his specialties. And was this not a sign that the ancestors favor this undertaking, even though it involves sorcery?

After all, they are planning to bring down a sorcerer! An umthakathi capable of great ubuthakathi, great evil, a manipulator of the manifest
moon-less darkness that infests humans. And, by guiding Zusi to him, the ancestors showed their approval. That's a thought to cling to, as Kholisa examines the contents of the pot and decides that it will do. For this too is an act of ubuthakathi, and he runs the risk of finding his abilities as a sangoma diminished as a consequence. Especially if he's wrong about the ancestors. But he's not, he assures himself, as he reaches into his muthi bag and removes a sticky substance wrapped in green leaves. He's not wrong.

The pot is a small ukhamba known as the umancitshane, the miser's pot, since it is bad manners to serve a guest food or drink in such a vessel. After unwrapping the leaves and dropping the foul, malodorous mixture he has prepared beforehand into the pot, he immediately adds some sea water from his waterskin. Placing the umancitshane on the edge of the fire, he picks up a stick and maneuvers a few embers into place around the pot itself. Now it's a matter of stirring and adding sea water to get the consistency right, while the mixture is slowly brought to the boil.

When Ntokozo had started acting even more erratically than normal, Zusi returned to Kholisa. Feigning concern and mystification, he was able to give her the second batch of medicine the process required, promising her he would come and see her father for himself. He gave her a reassuring grin, and, when the time was right, he paid the clan a visit.

A lazy bubble eases to the glutinous surface of the mixture. Using a piece of cowhide, Kholisa pulls the pot away from the fire, but not so far it will be allowed to cool down too much. After dropping a few more sticks on to the embers, he makes his way over to the mound.

He grabs Ntokozo's legs and drags the Uselwa Man toward the fire.

Can he do this?

Never done it before, never even seen the ritual performed before, but yes … Yes, he can do it! He can change Ntokozo into an impundulu who will do anything they desire—or rather, anything
he
desires!

Something he's so far neglected to tell the others: whoever creates the impundulu becomes its master.

He edges the pot closer to the embers. Adding a bit more sea water, he starts stirring again, using the bone that had served as his pestle to break up any clotting that has occurred while he was moving the Uselwa Man.

A glance at the body glistening in the sun—hai, but Ntokozo had impressed him in the end. Kholisa had given Melekeleli a last dose of the muthi and told her to administer it to the man's food secretly. Tired of her husband's moods, Melekeleli had been happy to oblige. That final dose would have seen the Uselwa Man's symptoms greatly intensified. His skin would have been on fire, and his head would have felt as if it was being pounded against a boulder. Ntokozo would have felt dizzy, disoriented, angry for no reason, yet also close to tears. And if he had looked down, he would have seen that his feet had become like swollen waterskins about to burst. But, by and large, he had managed to disguise whatever he might have been feeling, as he blundered out of the hut, announcing that he was going for a walk. And any doubts the sangoma had retained that Ntokozo might not make it to the spot where they were to waylay him were then put to rest.