Shaka the Great (85 page)

Well and good, but what would Ndlela say to this? For that day in the thicket, after Ndlela had left, the Induna had examined the older man's prints and then followed the path leading in the other direction.

That's
where he had found Ndlela's spoor. It meant Mnkabayi's induna had approached Jembuluka's lair from the opposite direction.

Which showed an amazing prescience. Unless he already knew where the hiding place was.

If that was so, how much else did Ndlela know?

Angry voices, taut with the effort of keeping themselves low, draw the Induna up short in front of Mnkabayi's hut. He might have his suspicions, but he will not stoop to eavesdropping. Since none of Mnkabayi's servants are around, he announces himself loudly.

Seconds later, Ndlela beckons him into a hut, where the tension is as palpable as toothache. It is precisely because something is so obviously amiss, and his presence is clearly an intrusion, that the Induna finds the courage to forge ahead with his questions.

But Ndlela rouses himself from a very obvious bad temper, to offer the evasions and explanations the Induna was expecting.

The older man has just finished explaining how he circled round the ridge, as soon as he saw which path Jembuluka had taken, when Mnkabayi extends her hand. Thinking that if she believes this will distract him from the ludicrousness of Ndlela's tale, she's mistaken, the Induna helps her up. And finds himself being guided to the hut's entrance.

“You will surely remember another time,” she says, once they are outside, “when you spoke of a snake and of what you knew, and how I said no.”

There is a question in her eyes and the Induna nods.

“I said no—you did not know, could not be expected to know—because that affair was started before you were born.”

Taking his hands in hers, she fixes her eyes on his. “I say the same again”—with a half grin—“although do not think the situation is the same.”

She is squeezing his hands. “You heard our voices as you approached, don't deny it. You heard Ndlela, my loyal Ndlela, berating me. The wounds we have just inflicted on each other will heal, but for now you are the only one I can count on. These questions you raise, put them aside. Allow me to say
no
again, and just put them aside for now.”

The vehemence of her plea stuns him and he can only nod.

“Now go and enjoy yourself,” she says. “We will talk tomorrow.”

“Majesty, this difference whereof you speak, this hidden power, could it not be … ? Well, we have heard the Swimmer speak of their strange beliefs, so could that not be the source of this difference?”

“You mean the deity they consume like cannibals? Hai! That does not make them different—we have known others like that.” There's the Thembus, for one. Did they not believe that by eating the brains of their enemies they became godlike?

And the Induna must not misunderstand him. The White Men have many strange ways, just as the Ndwandwes or Mthetwas or Pondoes have their own way of doing things, which a Zulu might equally find distasteful.

“It's a different kind of difference I seek,” says Shaka.

And the two men sit mulling that over, their eyes focused on the fire.

An opposable thumb, language, fire the original true trinity—with fire the power that enabled us to sit around and think.

But fire is also metamorphosis. It is matter changing form. Oxygen and heat, the cocoon; wood becoming char and smoke, the process
of change given form; incandescence as the butterfly that springs forth into the African night—growing and shrinking in flapping flight. Nature's deadly weapon, the lightning strike that frees the flames to feed off the veld, predators now the prey. Human Being's temperamental pet, as quick to sink its fangs into hissing flesh as it is to do Abantu's bidding. Respect it, be wary of it, but know this, too. Fire will always be in the thrall of those who know how to make fire. For this was Abantu's first great discovery, not fire but the ability to make fire.

Then again, fire is also time: the shortest distance between now and then, what was and what will be. Its ever-changing, ever-shifting nature is precisely what makes it unchanging. Looking into the blue heart of the orange butterfly, we see what our ancestors saw, and what their ancestors saw, and what those who will come after those who come after us will see.

Hai! Hai! Hai! But fire is blather, too. It is the idle words spoken around the flames wherever humans gather, the shimmering ideas fed by the flames as the chatter tapers off.

Big dreams, big thoughts. Butterflies and metamorphosis. Thumbs and language. A different kind of difference.

Blather.

“Did you hear that?”

Mhlangana emerges from behind the array of Buthelezi, Ndwandwe, Thembu and Qwabe shields that Mnkabayi's regiments have presented to her. “He knows,” says the prince. “He must be silenced, but I will see to that. Or perhaps you would prefer the honor, Ndlela, considering the accusations he has made?”

The old induna turns away, so the prince cannot see his disgust, and Mnkabayi says, “No.”

“Very well, then, I will take on the pleasure myself. And I'll be
lying if I say I haven't been looking forward to silencing that one for a long, long time.”

“No,” says Mnkabayi, for the second time.

Her tone is so even, matter-of-fact, that it takes the prince a few moments to understand she is actually issuing a command.

“You say
no
. What do you mean
no
?”

“I mean
no
, you will not touch one hair on his head, not that you alone are capable of doing so, for you would need several impis. But that is neither here nor there, for I say no and I mean no.”

“Esteemed Aunt, you may be a source of invaluable wisdom, but do you now seek to interfere in the affairs of men? Worse, do you seek to order a prince around—one, moreover, who is soon to be king?”

Mnkabayi nods.

“This … this is outrageous,” splutters Mhlangana. “Do not think your support and, yes, your connivance entitle you to treat me like some lackey, like this old fool here.” He indicates Ndlela, who still not dare look at the prince. For his loyalty to the Bloodline will not permit him to reveal his anger to one of the Blood. Or to reveal his distaste.

“Connivance, Nephew? I think not.”

“What?”

“This old fool here, as you call him, and soon you will be apologizing to him—”

“I will do no such thing!” he interrupts. “Shut up!”

“How dare you!”

“Oh, I dare. Indeed I do, and more. Now put aside your petulance and heed me well, Nephew. I was saying Ndlela might be angry with me right now for letting this thing occur, but it is over. And your own foolishness has come to naught.”

“My foolishness?”

“Indeed.”

“But, but you …”

“I did what? Kholisa was
your
sangoma! Jembuluka came from
your
district! How long will it be, do you think, before your brother, our King, realizes this? After all, he has been speaking of a conspiracy. All he needs is for his gaze to be turned in a certain direction …”

Ntokozo will be dug up and the substitute “body” found. The Induna will then be sent to see if traces of Kholisa's corpse can be discovered. Perhaps no one will ever know what went wrong, but the mere existence of the substitute “body” will be enough to have Shaka's advisers whispering of an impundulu. And, given the facts surrounding the death of the Uselwa Man, who but Kholisa himself could have created such an impundulu?

“
Your
sangoma, Nephew!”

“But this was all your—”

“And if the King is a little slow to see the pattern in the beadwork, or if the Nduna, out of deference to me, is hesitant to share his suspicions with the King … well, there are other ways of getting the message through to him.”

Nothing too blatant, of course. Simply a few hints and suppositions.

“That should do it,” she concludes.

“But Kholisa was known to visit your kraal.”

“So what? Many sangomas seek my protection, despite my known enmity toward their kind. Which enmity, I might add, is also well known to the King.”

“You … you …”

“Be careful of what you say, Nephew, for you stand at a fork in the path. One track leads to the impalers, and the other …” Mnkabayi shrugs.

Mhlangana swallows. “And the other?”

“We will see. You want to be king? Then listen to what I say, and
do
as I say!”

She now has him. She has her own impundulu.

“You mean … ?”

“You have failed miserably in your efforts to disrupt the First Fruits and thus discredit the King, but that is no reason why you might not yet take his place.”

“So long as I forget it was you who courted Kholisa, and learned of his secret knowledge, and—”

“I do not know what you're talking about, Nephew. Do you suppose you might be coming down with a fever?” She makes as if to lay her palm against his forehead, but the prince steps back quickly, saying, “Don't touch me!”

“I am only concerned about the heir's health. As for the other business, why make things so complicated? If you want to be king …”

“I just have to do exactly as you say!”

“Now you have it.”

And Ndlela can scarcely contain the bile that now fills his throat. It's a clever game, a strategy worthy of Shaka—but she still doesn't understand. Still doesn't understand the horror she has unleashed by allowing Kholisa and the others to dabble in such unspeakable practices. She still doesn't understand how the horror will reverberate down the ages, through who knows how many generations. And the ways in which things will never be the same as they might have been.

“Ma! Ma!” The Induna's voice sounds uncharacteristically frantic.

The three inside the hut exchange glances. Then Mnkabayi shoos Mhlangana back into his hiding place and, followed by Ndlela, ducks out of the hut.

The Induna, panting and trembling. “Ma, come quick!” he says. “The King has been stabbed!”

The boy sees it happen. He is standing with Njikiza at the hut's western entrance. Mbopa has guided Shaka back to his throne, and remained by his side for the past thirty minutes or so. The King's expression is hard to read, and the two haven't exchanged many words. The dance is the umbhekuzo, which has the new recruits
drawn up in rows and surging forward to raise their shields, thrust their spears forward and stamp their feet before retreating. Ebb and flow. And Mbopa has moved some paces away from Shaka, to call for more beer, when he and the King become lost behind the surging ranks, the heads and shields.

When they withdraw, after stamping the ground, Shaka has risen … then he sags. It takes the udibi a few seconds to understand what he's seeing, and it is Mbopa who is first to react. Turning back to Shaka, as the King slips to the floor, Mbopa darts forward. Then the udibi moves, pulling Njikiza along with him. The dancers are heading back again, so he and the big man thrust themselves into their midst, disrupting the first ranks and breaking their rhythm. Leaving Njikiza to position himself a few paces in front of Shaka, his arms spread out to keep the dancers at bay, the udibi swiftly joins Mbopa.

The prime minister is holding an ingicawe, its narrow blade gleaming with blood. “Check his wounds!” he shouts to the boy. The boy glances at the King's pain-racked face, his apologetic gaze wasted—no time for such niceties anyway—and gently but firmly peels the King's hands away from his side. Blood oozes from two stab wounds. Carefully, the boy guides the King's hands back to cover the narrow gashes.

And then he becomes aware of the shrieks. Njikiza has called for help and now a wall of Fasimbas keep the dancers away from the King. And sometime while this was happening, as the boy checked the King's wounds and Mbopa stood looking on, still clutching the weapon used in the attack, and which must on no account be allowed to vanish, the drunken recruits have realized what has happened. And now they are screaming like women:
The King! The King! Someone has stabbed the King!
Njikiza is already hoarse from bellowing at them to keep quiet. The boy stands up, calls the big man toward him, notes how officers are moving among the dancers to slap and prod them into order.

“We must get him outside!” says the boy.

Njikiza nods, and drops to his knees. “Majesty?”

“No,” whispers Shaka.

“What is it? What is he saying? We must get him help!”

Ignoring Mbopa, Njikiza asks: “What is it, Majesty? What would you have us do?”

“I will not be carried. Just …” Shaka winces, “help me to stand. And do it quickly.”

“I understand, Majesty.” Trying to make sure that his own bulk hides the King's pain-racked face, Njikiza helps Shaka to his feet.

“Mbuyazi,” hisses Shaka, as Njikiza guides him to the hut's eastern entrance.

“Majesty?” asks Njikiza.

“Fetch Mbuyazi.” Shaka coughs. “Tell him. Muthi.”

He wants Fynn and his medicine chest.

“What's that?” says Mbopa, looking over their shoulders.

“Our Father wants …” They're out of the hut, and Njikiza spots the Induna. “Master,” he calls, realizing shock has rendered Mbopa useless, “the King has been stabbed and asks for Mbuyazi.”

The Induna stands for a moment, taking in the scene: the King clinging to Njikiza, now that they are out of the hut; more Fasimbas arriving to form a protective cordon, as the shouts within the hut that brought him running settle into an anxious babble; the spear still clutched in Mbopa's hand. Then he turns and sets off for Fynn's hut, even as the prime minister begins to remonstrate with Njikiza.