Shaka the Great (47 page)

But his conservatism can be annoying, too. Why must the traditions be so scrupulously honored? Because the ancestors deem it fitting, he'll say, and it's a way of keeping them happy. But how can he be certain this tradition or that ritual is exactly the same as it was in his great-grandfather's day? Even she can see how some of the rites have changed since she was a little girl! It's a debate they've often had, with Ndlela always resorting to some vague declaration that the ancestors will guide one, if one is willing to honor them by upholding the traditions …

What does worry her is Jakot's revelations about certain savages wanting to seek out Shaka. She's just as skeptical of his pronouncements as her
nephew is, but like him—and Mbopa and Mgobozi—she feels there's no reason to doubt this aspect of his tale. Plans will have to be made. As yet unaware of the depths of Shaka's obsession with the White Men, she agrees with Mbopa that some kind of accord needs to be reached with those barbarians. If all they want is gold and ivory, well and good! But let them see what the izilwane offer in return.

Nandi is the only one of the King's inner circle who doesn't seem interested in the Swimmer's claims. She's more concerned with encouraging her son to complete his wars of conquest by subjugating the remaining tribes in the region—and perhaps moving further afield. Like Ndlela, she is also bothered by Shaka's refusal to seek out his Ubulawu, the talisman every Zulu king must find. The king will know it when he lays eyes on it and, once he's found his Ubulawu, he'll become stronger, more powerful. This is very like Nandi—she's always been short-sighted and lacking in imagination, in Mnkabayi's estimation—and it's another cause for concern. Instead of being pestered about such nonsense, Shaka would be better advised to consolidate his position and first deal with the White Men.

Yet now Nandi also seems to want him to taunt the Thembus into taking the field.

The only consolation is that the last time Mnkabayi saw the Queen Mother, she was shocked by how frail Nandi had become; and Shaka's mother is younger than her! Perhaps the Great Journey is not far off, in which case Mnkabayi has plans to take Nandi's place in Shaka's inner circle. To this end she has long been cultivating Pampata's friendship and trust.

The sangomas who arrived yesterday afternoon have ordered the villagers to gather in the cattlefold in the center of the umuzi. They have supplanted the village chief, and now they are calling his people to their death. And they will be obeyed. For no matter how much you might curse them behind their backs, you can't stop from shrinking before their gaze, because you have been raised to fear them. The respect and reverence everyone talks of are simply alternative words for dread and terror. Nostrils flare, a finger is curled or pointed, and that's that—you are guilty. And so sons will be pulled from mothers, wives from husbands, fathers from shrieking children. Guilty because they say so; because they dwell where
then
and
now
overlap to create something else: a glimpse into the future. And they rule this land, having been called to rule by the ancestors. And when they stride forth … watch out! Young or old, a mother or a grandmother, a baby or an invalid, it matters not to them, for they know wizards and witches assume many forms, though no umthakathi's disguise can fool them. And they are never wrong, no never; their nostrils cannot be deceived, for they are guided by the ancestors. And the village unumzane can do nothing but stand aside. No one protests, for to speak out against the sangomas is to draw suspicion upon oneself. To challenge them is a sign of guilt akin to being found holding a bloodied spear over a dead body. Until Shaka came to power, even kings had to tread carefully. And some of the old ways have returned today, because there is, after all, the matter of the vanishing man.

He has gone away, stolen by wizards, and in his place have appeared these creatures.

They are led by a sangoma called Kholisa. Shaka long ago punished the Lion for his treachery, and later forced a showdown
with Nobela that saw her sent to pester the ancestors personally. With a personality as fit for inspiring loyalty as his right foot is for walking, Kholisa will never be as powerful or respected as those two, but for now the matter of the Vanishing Man has enabled him to gather together this band of six sangomas and their retinues, which triples their number. And he is aided by the fact that many of the villagers are genuinely unsettled, and believe a Smelling Out is needed.

Wearing their animal skins and pelts, and with their faces painted or hidden by masks, the sangomas will move among the villagers, chanting and wailing, hissing and keening. Some of their apprentices will assist them here, while others beat the drums.

Meanwhile, in a conscious attempt to imitate Nobela, Kholisa will stand aloof with the two men he has designated as his bodyguards. Like Nobela, he would like to make it clear that such exertions are not for him. Like Nobela, he will focus on those who have been chosen by the others and dragged forward, while seeking the ringleaders in this band of abathakathi—these wizards who have brought misfortune upon the village.

And the drums are beating, and the izangoma are working themselves up into a frenzy. Here a short, wiry male wears the head of a hyena; there, naked except for a loincloth, a woman has painted her body, hair, breasts and limbs ochre, and is shaking a rattle made out of a calabash and the teeth of a leopard. A man smeared with ash from burned assegai hafts is moving backward, guided by two apprentices; his body bends and twists while his legs jerk and twitch. Another sangoma, wearing the horns of wildebeest and a necklace fashioned from the vertebrae of a python, screams at the sky. Nearby, her body rigid and her neck at an angle, a woman is held upright by two helpers; she'll begin to twitch once she comes anywhere near to an umthakathi.

And the drums are beating, like a pounding headache, and the terror is as palpable as the dust. Babies wail and are forcibly silenced, but better that—better a mother's hand pressed over a tiny mouth—than attracting the attention of a sniffing, snuffling, snorting sangoma.
Old-timers faint in the heat, and are left where they fall. Men clench their fists in helpless frustration, knowing there's nothing they can do to protect their loved ones. The unumzane's eyes burn with shame because he is powerless against the onslaught of these who have the Calling. And haunting all is the fact of the Vanishing Man; the feeling this might indeed be warranted, even deserved.

And a man …

No, wait, there are two men: a short, slightly bow-legged man about fifty seasons old and, behind him, his younger companion who is tall, broad-shouldered.

These two have broken through the front ranks, and both are wearing amashoba, and each carries a shield and an iklwa … which can't be right.

Five paces forward and they stop.

And wait.

And the izangoma cavort and squawk, and the drums keep up their monotonous, sweaty beat, and the two men stand firm where they are, and wait. And whispers sneak through the villagers, and their eyes are drawn to the two men.

Then Kholisa spots them. This is his moment! This is a chance to show all he is even more powerful than that bitch Nobela, who laughed at him and had him chased away when he came seeking to be taken on as one of her apprentices. He is well aware of the importance of showing authority, defiance, yet for all this he cannot stop his heart from beating faster when he sees the two men, realizing they are armed. Before he knows it, his mouth is dry and he no longer feels aloof, just … exposed. He tightens his grip on his staff, tries a soft growl, anything to rekindle that sense of entitlement, of a prerogative that extends beyond the caprices of a king.

And gradually the others become aware of these interlopers, who have dared to leave the crowd. And they grow quiet, some falling before they fall silent.

And finally the message, the sense that something's not right, that something has gone wrong or is about to go wrong, reaches the drummers, and they leave off beating the cowhide to gape at the
two men, the short old one and the tall young one. The men who shouldn't be here—and who certainly shouldn't be carrying spears.

Once silence has settled over the kraal, the two men amble toward Kholisa, the sweating, panting sangomas and their apprentices parting before them.

“I hope we are not too late,” says Mgobozi. “We came as fast as we could.”

“And now this!” Shaka had said. “I have the Thembus and the Qwabes to tend to, and now this. These root-gnashers have a knack for choosing the most inopportune times.”

“Mayhap it's their only knack, Majesty. And perhaps for them the inopportune is opportune,” said Mgobozi.

“You state the obvious, old friend.”

“I merely wish to remind you …”

“… without seeming to remind me, for that would be …”

“… dangerous, Majesty?”

“I was going to say impolitic, but never mind. You were saying? No, wait, you were
reminding
me … ?”

“That perhaps they do indeed choose well their moment of striking, Majesty.”

“Instead of having it chosen by the ancestors?”

“That is what they would say. A most disingenuous response!”

“So what would you have me do? Impale the lot of them? Cha, but look who I'm asking!”

“Indeed, I believe your Majesty is well acquainted with my views on the subject.”

“This is so. But will impaling do the job? There are always more of them springing up.”

“But are they not weaker each time, Majesty? For, if our informants are to be believed, this one … this Kholisa is no Nobela.”

“True, although that only brings us to another question. Who is behind him? Nobela needed no prompting, and would be guided or ruled by no one. This one is timid by comparison. Yet suddenly
he comes out of hiding, hobbles forth, his own praise singer.”

“Cha, Majesty, maybe it is what it is! This preposterous tale of a man vanishing in front of a friend, it's just the thing to goad a pompous fool into overreaching himself. So let us investigate, Majesty!”

“By us you mean you, with some Fasimbas and the Nduna, I take it?”

“Yes, Majesty. I know you granted him furlough, Majesty, but he has not gone back to his homestead. He's at Nkululeko KaDingwa's kraal, which, as you know, lies in the direction we must take if we are to make the acquaintance of this sangoma who has grown tired of life.”

“Very well, let this not become an ember that flares up. We have Ngoza of the Thembus already growling in the distance, and we cannot have a fire in our own kraal.”

“I understand, Majesty.”

“That's also why, Mgobozi, I order you to find the truth behind the lies that encircle this preposterous tale, as you call it, like a thorn fence. Thwart the sangomas that way. No impalings, hear? There will be more lies and rumors before Ngoza is mine, and the people will be unsettled enough. We cannot have them thinking the ancestors are angry, and punishing me for allowing one of my generals to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes.”

“And one that gives me so much pleasure, too, Majesty, but I hear you. I understand! I will …”

“Restrain is the word you're looking for. You will restrain yourself.”

“If you say so, Majesty.”

“I do, old friend. Now go! Proffer my apologies to the Nduna, although he will understand the need for prompt and decisive action, and let us see this matter dealt with!”

A vanishing man? That certainly smacked of sorcery! Within days of the first search parties being sent out, the lies and the rumors were racing across the kingdom. Witness the way the Induna, Mgobozi and their Fasimbas have made good time, but have still been beaten
to the village by Kholisa and a conspiracy of his cohorts …

And it's not lost on the Induna or the general how hard Kholisa is trying to emulate Nobela. In a low voice that will never be as ominous as Nobela's, he addresses Mgobozi, who is wearing the blue feather that identifies him as the Shadow of Shaka. “There is sorcery here,” he says. “Sorcery!”