Shaka the Great (56 page)

He'd frowned, sensing a warning behind her words. “Yes,” he'd said, “but I think you think it's a mistake.”

“No …”

“Then what, Mother?”

“I just … well, are you sure you're ready for the consequences?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Are you sure you know what those consequences will be, Boy?”

“Clearly you think I don't. Well, then, tell me what you think those consequences will be.”

“The child sees a mealie he likes, but it's at the bottom of the stack. Hai! No matter! That's the one he wants, and he reaches for it and …”

“The other mealies all come tumbling down. I know what is meant by consequences, Mother.”

“But you do not really see my meaning, which is this. The child reaches a point where he can't change his mind. Once the mealies start tumbling, he cannot say: That's enough, I don't want to do this any more! And, once your messengers arrive at Ngoza's kraal those mealies will start falling. Do you understand?”

Shaka had nodded
.

“You nod, Boy, but your eyes still say no. Listen, once those mealies start falling, the child cannot change his mind. The only thing to be decided now is the severity of the end.” The child might, for example, be able to gather up and restack the mealies before anyone else is the wiser. Then again, he could be found out and punished, before he even has time to react. When it comes to what Shaka is proposing, however, he has to assume the worst.

“If you send your messengers, you must expect them to fail. You must expect Ngoza to see this as a provocation, and you must then expect him to come for you, for all of us.”

She had a point. He was happy to concede that then, but now he realizes he hasn't really spent much time contemplating—and preparing for—the worst.

And now it's too late.

Shaka wheels round, fists clenched.

“As always, you are a lion ready to pounce!”

“Mother!” exclaims Shaka, relaxing. “You must not startle me like that.”

“I come to see what ails you.”

“Sent no doubt by Pampata and the captain of the watch!”

“Your soldiers feel they cannot be fulfilling their duty, when they see you so restless. They feel you doubt their ability to guard you, and it pains them.”

“Better they do not know the real cause of my restlessness.”

“Perhaps.”

“Hai, Mother, I was just now recalling your words about the mealies.” A wry grin. “Your warning.”

“I intended no warning, Boy. I sought merely to guide you.”

“And I should have listened.”

“But you have this churning in your gut … ?”

“This is so.”

“You are like a man pestered by mosquitoes. There are sparks in your blood that would become a roaring fire.”

“You are truly wise, Mother.”

“No, just a mother. And I know how you feel because you have always been this way. It's impatience that burns inside you. It's impatience that
forced you to try and hurry things along, deal with the Thembus before you were quite ready. And it's impatience that keeps you awake tonight!”

“Tonight?”

“Yes! For now there is no more uncertainty. The way is clear: you must go to war—and I think you realize that. And now you are impatient for things to begin. But things can only really begin when that old Mthetwa bull returns.”

Shaka grins. “This is so, Mother.”

The man grips the wicker door, tugs it to one side and enters the hut. Without hesitating, he makes straight for the umsamo, the sacred section, in the far interior of every hut, which is allocated to the ancestors and where Nkululeko keeps the precious spear. But the boy holds it and is standing close to the entrance—to the left, on the isililo sesifazana, or women's side. He crouches, ready to make his move, relying on the fact that the intruder's eyes will take a while to adjust to the gloom of the hut. And expecting that the man knows exactly what he wants, and where it is. Or where it should be.

As the man crosses the center part of the hut, his back is to the udibi. Time for the boy to get out of there.

The ikotamo, the door-arch, is just one step away. One step and he's out.

There can be no hesitation—he's already worked this out beforehand—and he'll have to go through the door in a somersault because, the moment he's in the doorway, the interior of the hut will darken, thus alerting the man to his presence.

A step … keeping his eyes on the man, who's now tossing aside the saplings that mark the borders of the umsamo. Pushing pots over. Where is the spear?

Another step, then the udibi throws himself through the door.

Head over heels, clutching the spear tightly in his right hand, and up on to his feet again.

Running … He should be out and running, calling for help … But that doesn't happen.

Head over heels, chin tucked into his chest, spear clutched tightly, his feet just missing the upper arc of the doorway, then powering
him upward … He rises, and bounces his face off the knuckles of Owethu's fist.

He's thrown backward, hits the thatch, and sprawls across the mats laid out in front of the hut's entrance.

“See what I've caught!” says Owethu.

Chuckling, the Cat Man emerges from the ikotamo, steps over the udibi and wrenches the spear out of the boy's hand.

“A wily one!”

Blood streaming from his nose, his head full of mud, the boy stares up at the two of them. Today's the day the seclusion ends for the first batch of boys and girls who've had their ears pierced. Everyone else will be down at the cattlefold to greet them, and he'd thought Owethu would be there watching to see if Nkululeko or any of his family seemed about to return to the hut early. Doubtless that task was left to the nephew—who he had thought would be with the Cat Man, and who he had thought he could beat, had it come to a fight.

“I am watching you, Little Nephew, never forget that. He calls you ‘nephew' because he's so trusting. But not me, I'm not like that. I expect the worst from human beings, for I expect them to act as anything but. Hai, these savages that they mock—many of them are better than they are. And I'm rarely disappointed, Little Nephew, rarely. Nor do I think you'll be one of those who surprise me. No, I do not see that happening, do you? Because I can see you. I see your wounds have healed, but only on the outside, which is the way things normally go. We all have hidden scars, but yours aren't scars. Your hidden wounds continue to fester. And they poison you.” Owethu's words, snarled at Lungelo when he met the former at the cattlefold, after slipping through the hole in the fence he had prepared yesterday, and then taking their baggage to the meeting place they'd agreed upon—a clump of rocks on a hillock overlooking the umuzi.

“Were I to tell you … Stand up, Boy!”

The udibi obeys, swaying slightly. He lets his eyes meet the Cat Man's, uses the older man's gaze to steady himself.

“Were I to tell you that the induna, your host,
our
host, sent me …” A glance at Owethu. “Sent
us
to fetch this extremely valuable Spear of the Spirits for him, would you believe me?”

The udibi shakes his head.

“Impudent little shit, isn't he?” observes Owethu.

“It is not impudence that makes me say no. I say no because I do not believe it's in Beja's nature to run errands!”

The Cat Man's grin spreads. “Ho-ho, I see I wasn't mistaken when I said you were a wily one. How did you know?”

“Hai!” interrupts Owethu, who must be Beja's companion, Mi. “They will be back soon. Let us slit his throat and be gone.”

“No, no, Lungelo will warn us, and I always have time to learn how I might perfect my craft. And if a herdboy can see through us …” allowing his gaze to rest once more upon the udibi, “although I do not think this one is an ordinary herdboy. So speak, then! Tell me what makes you think I'm not a humble cat man.”

“Your hidden wounds continue to fester,” said Mi, “and they poison you. And they poison those around you. You should be showing gratitude to your uncle, but instead you are sullen. Why he rescued you, I don't know. I told him, I warned him. It was a stupid risk, for those three had nothing of value, but he wouldn't listen. And don't think I haven't heard the two of you talking when you believe me to be asleep. Don't think I believe you. He might, but not me. We already have one Shaka, we do not need another shunned prince seeking vengeance.” Spiteful words! Words made even more hurtful by the fact that Mi knew he couldn't retaliate.

It was jealousy, of course. Mi had his uses. He was a shield. A spear. A pack animal. A threatening snarl. But he would never be Beja's equal. And it hadn't taken Beja long to realize just who it was he had adopted as his nephew. Unable to see beyond his jealousy, Mi refused to believe it, but Beja knew …

“Speak,” demands Beja. “Tell me what makes you think I'm not a humble cat man.”

“You say you are a cat man, yet you avoid your little herd,” says the boy, whose nose feels as if it's been stood on by an elephant.

“You leave your nephew to look after them,” says the boy, tasting blood. “Yet his arms are covered in fresh scratches. Would one who works with these creatures be so clumsy?”

And, yes, those creatures are free with their claws, but why has the boy only ever seen fresh scratches on Lungelo's forearms?

“We already have one Shaka, so we do not need another shunned prince seeking vengeance,” said Mi. “But be whoever you want to be, for I don't care. Just know this: we are soldiers on the eve of a great battle! We are outnumbered, but we are brave and cunning. We will triumph. We have to triumph. Failure is death here: a painful, terrible death. This is why I warn you that my eyes are on you. We all have our tasks to perform, and failure for one is failure for all, and failure means death. So be who you are, or who you want to be, but just do not let us down. Because before they get to me, I will get to you. And I will enjoy it for, unlike your uncle, I do not like you, and I certainly do not trust you.”

They were words meant to hurt, but now Lungelo can afford to smile. Even given the current circumstances—this unexpected, exceedingly dangerous contingency—he can smile. Mi, of course, had been referring to the theft of the spear, but he's about to get his battle. Oh, yes!

Which reminds him—as enjoyable as this might be, he has to get out of here alive.

Aiee! Can it be? Will surprise be so complete?

Another smile. That's not something he has to worry about.

He pulls aside the poles they had carefully cut, so that this portion of the fence would seem untouched, and steps boldly through the opening, not caring if he's seen, because he knows he needs to be seen if he's to survive this.

The amakati and the “disguise” probably came from the last group of wayfarers Beja and Mi robbed and murdered, says the udibi. It was the body of one of these unfortunates that Philani had found. And doubtless Lungelo went out that day to make sure the gang had covered their tracks. What a shock he must have got when he saw one of the bodies had surfaced.

“He said nothing about it to us!” Mi tells Beja angrily. “I told him to slice open the bellies.”

“We can discuss this on the road!”

“Then there was the other story you told …” interrupts the boy, hoping to play for more time. If only someone will return to the hut!

“What story?”

“The one about how Beja tricks wayfarers.” This is what had been bothering the boy all the while: that fragment of meat stuck between his teeth. “When Beja attacks travelers, he leaves no survivors. Who, then, would know how he goes about winning their trust, except for Beja himself?”

“Aiee, wily one, do you not know the purpose of a story is to thrill and entertain?” asks Beja. “Beja has to trick those he robs somehow. What you say—that is not necessarily proof that I am Beja, merely that I am a good storyteller. I see now, though, that I am also perhaps one who is too fond of irony.”

“I've warned you about all those stories,” mutters Mi.

“So you have.”

“Now let us kill this one, and be off.”

Beja opens his mouth to speak.

But then …

A moment of incomprehension. Are they really hearing what they are hearing?

He had returned to the fence and, glancing through the gaps between the poles, he had seen them. Three, four, five men spaced far apart, moving through the grass, heading toward the palisade. They weren't carrying shields, just a spear each. As one drew closer, Lungelo saw his face and upper body were covered in dried mud of a khaki-gray hue that helped him blend in with the grass. Thembu scouts! And they wouldn't come so close to a settlement of this size if they weren't part of a larger group.

Lungelo waited while the Thembu moved along the palisade, pushing at the poles. Waited until he found the loose ones, and then carefully stepped through.

Then Lungelo was on the man, taking him by surprise.

They went down, the spear flying out of the scout's hand, and Beja had taught Lungelo well, for he rolled over, pulling the man with him, and
had snapped the Thembu's neck before the warrior could make a sound.

Lungelo did the best he could with the waterskin the Thembu had been carrying, making earth into mud and smearing it over his chest and face, reckoning it could be expected that some of the covering would rub off, as the scouts crept and sweated.