Shaka the Great (40 page)

And now they are taking him to the Portugiza at Delagoa Bay?

Another impolite question!

“This is so,” says the father.

He is young and seems healthy, so they can expect a good price.

The father nods and, seeking to divert Xola's attention, tells Thin Son to unroll their sleeping mats and start the fire.

“I would help you look for firewood, but …” Xola makes a vague gesture toward his ankle.

“Hai, no, this one can do that as well,” says the father.

After chivvying the boy along, he ties their Ndwandwe captive to a nearby tree and rejoins the graybeard. The two men proceed to exchange news, speak of their clans, the places they have visited. The questions they ask each other are unashamedly probing, for this is the way of the road: establishing that those you're about to spend the night with are actually who they say they are.

And the father is naturally suspicious, like a jackal buzzard always on the lookout for prey or predator, congratulating himself on his slyness but almost always ending up with mere carrion. The stranger's generosity has only amplified his distrust. Even when it comes to his own kin, generosity is anathema to him, and he's always uncomfortable
when he encounters that quality in others, seeing in it only subterfuge, an attempt to lull or out-maneuver. What's more, Xola's been a little too curious about their captive. The father doesn't want word of his intended transaction getting back to one of the district heads; Shaka has decreed that selling slaves to the Long Noses is punishable by death.

For his part, the graybeard can afford to be a little more relaxed, since he has nothing to steal. All the same, he ensures his stout iwisa remains a quick snatch away.

And because he enjoyed seeing the father's obvious unease when he mentioned the family's prisoner, he alludes to him again once he feels they've asked each other enough questions to be satisfied that each is who he claims to be. (Although it's clear to him that, as far as the father's concerned, any sign of satisfaction will be a sham, simply a chance to let his distrust regain its breath, stretch its legs a little, before re-entering the fray.)

“I am surprised to see a Ndwandwe,” says Xola. “I thought our Father had dispensed with them, once and for all. Although …”

He pauses as though in thought, his eyes on the fire Thin Son has built, but in truth he's savoring the father's expectant gaze. One of anxiety mixed with annoyance.

“… I have heard the stories,” he continues. “Could it be true?”

“What have you heard?” asks the father.

“But we have heard them, too,” interjects Thin Son. He's on his knees, stroking the burning wood with a green stick, spreading it out in the circle of stones so that coals might form faster.

“You have?” asks the graybeard.

Seizing this chance to show off his knowledge, Thin Son goes on to say they have also heard the rumors that Zwide has died, and that his heirs are planning to return his body to their old homeland. And perhaps then attempt to retake that homeland by force.

“Aiee, they never learn!” chuckles the graybeard.

“They are animals,” says Thin Son, leaning away from the fire to snort out a chunk of snot from his right nostril. “You cannot teach them anything,” he adds, straightening up. “Like this one.” He
indicates the isilwane. “See its shoulder! I've tried to teach it, but it won't learn. All it does is bleed. It will do nothing to help itself.”

The venomous glare the father turns on Thin Son goes beyond angry censure to encompass wrath, rancor, animus and demonic disapprobation, and it is enough to make even a basilisk blink. Terrified and unsure what he's done to provoke such a response, Thin Son's limited mental faculties are saved from overexertion by Short Son's return.

He's found the bull and is able to display some prime cuts of meat and favor his father with a slight nod to indicate there's more where that came from, all safely hidden from scavengers for the family's consumption tomorrow.

The boys thread dried sticks through the beef and cook it over the coals. The meat is then placed on a flattened stone, from which the men proceed to help themselves while the youngsters cook their own portions. At the graybeard's suggestion a few scraps are tossed the captive's way.

“See? No gratitude,” growls the father. “You are wasting your food.”

Xola watches the young Ndwandwe a moment. He seems the same age as the man's younger son, say sixteen summers old. And when the youth's eyes meet his, Xola allows himself a brief smile to show the Ndwandwe that he appreciates the self-restraint it takes him to sit there and not fall upon the meat immediately.

“All the same,” he says, returning his attention to the father, “I would've thought you'd want to deliver your cargo in the best possible condition.”

“We give him what he needs, not that which he can't appreciate.” Realizing he's close to being rude, the father sits up straight and tells Short Son to pass him the gourds.

“Now we will drink,” he says.

With due reverence, the graybeard takes a mouthful from the first gourd. Smacks his lips with pleasure. Good Zulu beer.

He accepts the second gourd, clasps the rounded bottom in both hands and raises it slightly, offering it to the father. The latter inclines his head, indicates that Xola should drink first. This one contains
the lethal Sweet Innocence, and Xola's gulp and swallow is a lot more controlled than the coughing fit that follows it might lead one to think.

The boys' laughter is stilled by a raised hand and a cobra hiss from their father, but Xola himself chuckles, when he regains his breath, to show he doesn't mind being the source of their amusement.

“Aiee,” he says, “we need not fear the cold tonight!”

“What of Beja?” asks Short Son. “Is he not worse than the cold?”

“And more cunning than a python,” adds Thin Son, his brother's interjection giving him the courage to speak out again.

“This is so,” says Xola, stroking his gray beard. “This is so.”

“Our Father sent one of his best regiments after him,” says Short Son, “and even they couldn't catch him.”

“Couldn't catch him!” adds Thin Son.

“What do you expect?” says the father. “The King has been kept busy destroying our many enemies.” He indicates their captive. “Zwide's crocodiles, for one.”

“This is so,” agrees the graybeard, noticing the scraps of meat thrown to the young Ndwandwe have now vanished. He raises the gourd to his mouth to hide his smile.

“And the Thembus are proving a nuisance, now that Zwide is gone,” he adds, after swallowing a mouthful of beer.

The father nods as Xola passes him the gourd. It's dangerous to seem critical of Shaka, especially among strangers, and Xola's response is a reassurance that he won't hold the father responsible for any nonsense his boys might utter.

“Aiee! You are right there,” says the father.

“So you have heard these other stories, too?”

“That Ngoza of the Thembus grows restive? Yes.”

“Hai, but we are strong!”

“And stronger now that the Qwabes have joined us.”

“Has that come to pass?”

The father shrugs. “So I've heard.”

Both men fall silent, contemplating the coals, and the prospect
of another war. But the youngsters don't know any better, and soon, at his brother's prompting, Short Son breaks the silence to ask the graybeard if it's true this is Beja's land.

“To hear them speak, young one, everywhere is Beja's land!”

Yes, but they have heard that Beja was born somewhere in these hills and, no matter how far he roams, he always returns here. Is that so? The graybeard is also from around here, so he must know. Perhaps he even knows Beja!

Xola laughs, and the father tells Short Son that is not the kind of rumor their host will welcome, and he'd better be still.

“Your father is right,” adds Xola. “But I have never met Beja. And I will say this, too, I am not even sure he exists.”

Aghast looks from the youngsters. In fact Thin Son is so stunned by this prospect that Xola is sure he sees the boy's left iris disappear completely and reappear momentarily alongside his right iris. Then again, perhaps that's the beer and the Sweet Innocence kicking in.

“It is so,” he grins. “If all the stories are to be believed, many is the time Beja was in two—even
three
—places at once!”

“Well, he
is
a wily one,” says Thin Son, which earns him a punch from his less gullible brother.

“But he is real,” adds the latter.

“Perhaps. And there is respect in your voices, I think, so you admire him?”

“Well,” says Short Son, “he
is
Beja.”

“What will he do, do you think … what will he do should he overhear your words tonight? Will he say: Hai, let me find some less admiring wayfarers to rob?”

Short Son grins. “That is not Beja's way.”

“No,” adds Thin Son, “he is Beja. He fears nothing!”

“But there are many of us here, so what have
we
to fear?” says the graybeard. “Unless,” he adds, tapping the father's knee, “
you
are Beja …”

A moment of stunned silence, fringed by the sounds of stridulating crickets and the guttural
wur-wurrr
of the bullfrogs.

Then the father chuckles. “That
would
be interesting,” he says.

“Because that is his way,” says Xola, suddenly solemn.

“How so?” asks Thin Son.

“Let beer refresh my memory!” says Xola.

The gourd is passed around, with the brothers now allowed to partake.

“It is so,” says Xola, slapping his stomach with both hands. “I have heard it told how Beja, and his friend Mi, will approach travelers in the night. Strangers, they say, we come in peace.”

“This is a familiar story,” grins the father.

“Indeed.”

“And do the strangers share a fire?”

“Indeed,” says Xola. “And there they sit, and eat and drink. And soon talk will come round to Beja, as it always does in these parts. Because you are right, young one, this is Beja's country. These are his hills and valleys, his streams and ravines.”

And the leader of the strangers will regale his hosts with tales of Beja the Bandit. And they'll drink and laugh, laugh and drink, bellow and burp, and they'll say, “Tell us more. Tell us more!”

Xola leans toward the rapt faces of the two boys. Tell us more, they plead, tell us more. For whose heart doesn't beat quicker to hear of Beja's exploits?

And the leader of the strangers will say:
Cha! There is but one more thing to say!
“What is it?” ask the wayfarers. And he'll leap up and roar:
I AM BEJA!
And before they know it, the travelers have tasted the assegais of Beja and his friend Mi.

Xola takes another swig of beer, and burps. “This is Beja's way.”

“Then our ruse is ended,” says the father.

The men stare at each other for a second, then burst out laughing. It is a braying fit to scare away the jackals and silence the bullfrogs.

The father is the first to recover. He upends the gourd. “The beer is finished, so we are left with Sweet Innocence.”

“That is not altogether good news,” says Xola.

“Perhaps a drink of it will help you to better face the prospect.”

“A good idea! But now I must piss. Will you help me?” Because the graybeard has asked him, the father can't delegate the task to one of his sons without appearing rude. Besides, he realizes as he stands up, he could also do with a piss.

“Let the regiments come,” says Short Son, as the two men move away into the darkness. “They will come, they will go, and Beja will remain.”

“Your sons, they are good boys,” murmurs Xola, leaning on the father's arm and using his iwisa as a walking stick.

The father looks back toward the fire and shrugs. Praise is a foreign concept to him.

“A moment, please!” The graybeard's iwisa is stuck between two roots. “Yes,” he continues, after freeing it, “good boys. You must be proud.”

Again the father shrugs. “I don't know about that,” he ventures.

“Aiee, do not let their veneration for Beja concern you. They speak with the brashness of youth.”

As Xola steps away, the father turns aside, reaching for his own kilt.

“Yes, the brashness of youth. How well I remember it,” says the graybeard, pissing into the darkness.

Turning toward his companion once he's done: “Do not worry, for they will soon see Beja for what he is: a bloodthirsty scourge. Oh, yes,” a sigh, “this I know better than most.”

“How so?” mutters the father, still concentrating on getting his own flow going.

“Because I am Beja.”

A sudden searing, tearing pain. The father looks down.

The old-timer's iwisa hadn't really got stuck between the roots back there. It was simply the means he used to remove the tip and unsheathe the slender blade.

Which is now sticking in the father's gut.

Beja, who is not as old as a bit of judiciously applied ash has made him appear, raises his foot and pushes the other man off the blade—pushes him backward into the long grass.

By the time he reaches the pool, Mi has emerged out of the night to dispense with the two brothers. Now, his iklwa blade raised and glistening red in the firelight, he's eyeing the captive.

“Wait!” calls Beja.

Later, surrounded by the African night, their fire an orange glow within its circle of rocks, the boy asks him how he knew.

The Induna grins. He lays a branch across the embers, to give himself a little more time to gather his thoughts. For these are like the snail shells the boy carries in a small hollowed-out horn stuffed with dry grass: it takes a while to find the right ones, and then they are delicate, and have to be handled with care. And the tongue can be so clumsy at times.