THE FIRE-FIGHT

When I had buried my father, and seen a successor installed in his place ­for the station was the property of the Society ­I set to work to carry out a plan which I had long cherished, but been unable to execute because it would have involved separation from my father.  Put shortly, it was to undertake a trading journey of exploration right through the countries now known as the Free State and the Transvaal, and as much further North as I could go.  It was an adventurous scheme, for though the emigrant Boers had begun to occupy positions in these territories, they were still to all practical purposes unexplored.  But I was now alone in the world, and it mattered little what became of me; so, driven on by the overmastering love of adventure, which, old as I am, will perhaps still be the cause of my death, I determined to undertake the journey.

Accordingly I sold such stock and goods as we had upon the station, reserving only the two best waggons and two spans of oxen.  The proceeds I invested in such goods as were then in fashion, for trading purposes, and in guns and ammunition.  The guns would have moved any modern explorer to merriment; but such as they were I managed to do a good deal of execution with them.  One of them was a single-barrelled, smooth bore, fitted for percussion caps ­a roer we called it ­which threw a three-ounce ball, and was charged with a handful of coarse black powder.  Many is the elephant that I killed with that roer, although it generally knocked me backwards when I fired it, which I only did under compulsion.  The best of the lot, perhaps, was a double-barrelled N shot-gun, but it had flint locks.  Also there were some old tower muskets, which might or might not throw straight at seventy yards.  I took six Kaffirs with me, and three good horses, which were supposed to be salted ­that is, proof against the sickness.  Among the Kaffirs was an old fellow named Indaba-zimbi, which, being translated, means “tongue of iron.”  I suppose he got this name from his strident voice and exhaustless eloquence.  This man was a great character in his way.  He had been a noted witch-doctor among a neighbouring tribe, and came to the station under the following circumstances, which, as he plays a considerable part in this history, are perhaps worth recording.

Two years before my father’s death I had occasion to search the country round for some lost oxen.  After a long and useless quest it occurred to me that I had better go to the place where the oxen were bred by a Kaffir chief, whose name I forget, but whose kraal was about fifty miles from our station.  There I journeyed, and found the oxen safe at home.  The chief entertained me handsomely, and on the following morning I went to pay my respects to him before leaving, and was somewhat surprised to find a collection of some hundreds of men and women sitting round him anxiously watching the sky in which the thunder-clouds were banking up in a very ominous way.

“You had better wait, white man,” said the chief, “and see the rain-doctors fight the lightning.”

I inquired what he meant, and learned that this man, Indaba-zimbi, had for some years occupied the position of wizard-in-chief to the tribe, although he was not a member of it, having been born in the country now known as Zululand.  But a son of the chief’s, a man of about thirty, had lately set up as a rival in supernatural powers.  This irritated Indaba-zimbi beyond measure, and a quarrel ensued between the two witch-doctors that resulted in a challenge to trial by lightning being given and accepted.  These were the conditions.  The rivals must await the coming of a serious thunderstorm, no ordinary tempest would serve their turn.  Then, carrying assegais in their hands, they must take their stand within fifty paces of each other upon a certain patch of ground where the big thunderbolts were observed to strike continually, and by the exercise of their occult powers and invocations to the lightning, must strive to avert death from themselves and bring it on their rival.  The terms of this singular match had been arranged a month previously, but no storm worthy of the occasion had arisen.  Now the local weather-prophets believed it to be brewing.

I inquired what would happen if neither of the men were struck, and was told that they must then wait for another storm.  If they escaped the second time, however, they would be held to be equal in power, and be jointly consulted by the tribe upon occasions of importance.

The prospect of being a spectator of so unusual a sight overcame my desire to be gone, and I accepted the chief’s invitation to see it out.  Before mid-day I regretted it, for though the western heavens grew darker and darker, and the still air heralded the coming of the storm, yet it did not come.  By four o’clock, however, it became obvious that it must burst soon ­at sunset, the old chief said, and in the company of the whole assembly I moved down to the place of combat.  The kraal was built on the top of a hill, and below it the land sloped gently to the banks of a river about half a mile away.  On the hither side of the bank was the piece of land that was, the natives said, “loved of the lightning.”  Here the magicians took up their stand, while the spectators grouped themselves on the hillside about two hundred yards away ­which was, I thought, rather too near to be pleasant.  When we had sat there for a while my curiosity overcame me, and I asked leave of the chief to go down and inspect the arena.  He said I might do so at my own risk.  I told him that the fire from above would not hurt white men, and went to find that the spot was a bed of iron ore, thinly covered with grass, which of course accounted for its attracting the lightning from the storms as they travelled along the line of the river.  At each end of this iron-stone area were placed the combatants, Indaba-zimbi facing the east, and his rival the west, and before each there burned a little fire made of some scented root.  Moreover they were dressed in all the paraphernalia of their craft, snakeskins, fish-bladders, and I know not what beside, while round their necks hung circlets of baboons’ teeth and bones from human hands.  First I went to the western end where the chief’s son stood.  He was pointing with his assegai towards the advancing storm, and invoking it in a voice of great excitement.

“Come, fire, and lick up Indaba-zimbi!

“Hear me, Storm Devil, and lick Indaba-zimbi with your red tongue!

“Spit on him with your rain!

“Whirl him away in your breath!

“Make him as nothing ­melt the marrow in his bones!

“Run into his heart and burn away the lies!

“Show all the people who is the true Witch Finder!

“Let me not be put to shame in the eyes of this white man!”

Thus he spoke, or rather chanted, and all the while rubbed his broad chest ­for he was a very fine man ­with some filthy compound of medicine or mouti.

After a while, getting tired of his song, I walked across the iron-stone, to where Indaba-zimbi sat by his fire.  He was not chanting at all, but his performance was much more impressive.  It consisted in staring at the eastern sky, which was perfectly clear of cloud, and every now and again beckoning at it with his finger, then turning round to point with the assegai towards his rival.  For a while I looked at him in silence.  He was a curious wizened man, apparently over fifty years of age, with thin hands that looked as tough as wire.  His nose was much sharper than is usual among these races, and he had a queer habit of holding his head sideways like a bird when he spoke, which, in addition to the humour that lurked in his eye, gave him a most comical appearance.  Another strange thing about him was that he had a single white lock of hair among his black wool.  At last I spoke to him: 

“Indaba-zimbi, my friend,” I said, “you may be a good witch-doctor, but you are certainly a fool.  It is no good beckoning at the blue sky while your enemy is getting a start with the storm.”

“You may be clever, but don’t think you know everything, white man,” the old fellow answered, in a high, cracked voice, and with something like a grin.

“They call you Iron-tongue,” I went on; “you had better use it, or the Storm Devil won’t hear you.”

“The fire from above runs down iron,” he answered, “so I keep my tongue quiet.  Oh, yes, let him curse away, I’ll put him out presently.  Look now, white man.”

I looked, and in the eastern sky there grew a cloud.  At first it was small, though very black, but it gathered with extraordinary rapidity.

This was odd enough, but as I had seen the same thing happen before it did not particularly astonish me.  It is by no means unusual in Africa for two thunderstorms to come up at the same time from different points of the compass.

“You had better get on, Indaba-zimbi,” I said, “the big storm is coming along fast, and will soon eat up that baby of yours,” and I pointed to the west.

“Babies sometimes grow to giants, white man,” said Indaba-zimbi, beckoning away vigorously.  “Look now at my cloud-child.”

I looked; the eastern storm was spreading itself from earth to sky, and in shape resembled an enormous man.  There was its head, its shoulders, and its legs; yes, it was like a huge giant travelling across the heavens.  The light of the setting sun escaping from beneath the lower edge of the western storm shot across the intervening space in a sheet of splendour, and, lighting upon the advancing figure of cloud, wrapped its middle in hues of glory too wonderful to be described; but beneath and above this glowing belt his feet and head were black as jet.  Presently, as I watched, an awful flash of light shot from the head of the cloud, circled it about as though with a crown of living fire, and vanished.

“Aha,” chuckled old Indaba-zimbi, “my little boy is putting on his man’s ring,” and he tapped the gum ring on his own head, which natives assume when they reach a certain age and dignity.  “Now, white man, unless you are a bigger wizard than either of us you had better clear off, for the fire-fight is about to begin.”

I thought this sound advice.

“Good luck go with you, my black uncle,” I said.  “I hope you don’t feel the iniquities of a mis-spent life weighing on you at the last.”

“You look after yourself, and think of your own sins, young man,” he answered, with a grim smile, and taking a pinch of snuff, while at that very moment a flash of lightning, I don’t know from which storm, struck the ground within thirty paces of me.  That was enough for me, I took to my heels, and as I went I heard old Indaba-zimbi’s dry chuckle of amusement.

I climbed the hill till I came to where the chief was sitting with his indunas, or headmen, and sat down near to him.  I looked at the man’s face and saw that he was intensely anxious for his son’s safety, and by no means confident of the young man’s powers to resist the magic of Indaba-zimbi.  He was talking in a low voice to the induna next to him.  I affected to take no notice and to be concentrating my attention on the novel scene before me; but in those days I had very quick ears, and caught the drift of the conversation.

“Hearken!” the chief was saying, “if the magic of Indaba-zimbi prevails against my son I will endure him no more.  Of this I am sure, that when he has slain my son he will slay me, me also, and make himself chief in my place.  I fear Indaba-zimbi. Ou!”

“Black One,” answered the induna, “wizards die as dogs die, and, once dead, dogs bark no more.”

“And once dead,” said the chiefs, “wizards work no more spells,” and he bent and whispered in the induna’s ear, looking at the assegai in his hand as he whispered.

“Good, my father, good!” said the induna, presently.  “It shall be done to-night, if the lightning does not do it first.”

“A bad look-out for old Indaba-zimbi,” I said to myself.  “They mean to kill him.”  Then I thought no more of the matter for a while, the scene before me was too tremendous.

The two storms were rapidly rushing together.  Between them was a gulf of blue sky, and from time to time flashes of blinding light passed across this gulf, leaping from cloud to cloud.  I remember that they reminded me of the story of the heathen god Jove and his thunderbolts.  The storm that was shaped like a giant and ringed with the glory of the sinking sun made an excellent Jove, and I am sure that the bolts which leapt from it could not have been surpassed even in mythological times.  Oddly enough, as yet the flashes were not followed by thunder.  A deadly stillness lay upon the place, the cattle stood silently on the hillside, even the natives were awed to silence.  Dark shadows crept along the bosom of the hills, the river to the right and left was hidden in wreaths of cloud, but before us and beyond the combatants it shone like a line of silver beneath the narrowing space of open sky.  Now the western tempest was scrawled all over with lines of intolerable light, while the inky head of the cloud-giant to the east was continually suffused with a white and deadly glow that came and went in pulses, as though a blood of flame was being pumped into it from the heart of the storm.

The silence deepened and deepened, the shadows grew blacker and blacker, then suddenly all nature began to moan beneath the breath of an icy wind.  On sped the wind; the smooth surface of the river was ruffled by it into little waves, the tall grass bowed low before it, and in its wake came the hissing sound of furious rain.

Ah! the storms had met.  From each there burst an awful blaze of dazzling flame, and now the hill on which we sat rocked at the noise of the following thunder.  The light went out of the sky, darkness fell suddenly on the land, but not for long.  Presently the whole landscape grew vivid in the flashes, it appeared and disappeared, now everything was visible for miles, now even the men at my side vanished in the blackness.  The thunder rolled and cracked and pealed like the trump of doom, whirlwinds tore round, lifting dust and even stones high into the air, and in a low, continuous undertone rose the hiss of the rushing rain.

I put my hand before my eyes to shield them from the terrible glare, and looked beneath it towards the lists of iron-stone.  As flash followed flash, from time to time I caught sight of the two wizards.  They were slowly advancing towards one another, each pointing at his foe with the assegai in his hand.  I could see their every movement, and it seemed to me that the chain lightning was striking the iron-stone all round them.

Suddenly the thunder and lightning ceased for a minute, everything grew black, and, except for the rain, silent.

“It is over one way or the other, chief,” I called out into the darkness.

“Wait, white man, wait!” answered the chief, in a voice thick with anxiety and fear.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the heavens were lit up again till they literally seemed to flame.  There were the men, not ten paces apart.  A great flash fell between them, I saw them stagger beneath the shock.  Indaba-zimbi recovered himself first ­at any rate when the next flash came he was standing bolt upright, pointing with his assegai towards his enemy.  The chief’s son was still on his legs, but he was staggering like a drunken man, and the assegai had fallen from his hand.

Darkness! then again a flash, more fearful, if possible, than any that had gone before.  To me it seemed to come from the east, right over the head of Indaba-zimbi.  At that instant I saw the chief’s son wrapped, as it were, in the heart of it.  Then the thunder pealed, the rain burst over us like a torrent, and I saw no more.

The worst of the storm was done, but for a while the darkness was so dense that we could not move, nor, indeed, was I inclined to leave the safety of the hillside where the lightning was never known to strike, and venture down to the iron-stone.  Occasionally there still came flashes, but, search as we would, we could see no trace of either of the wizards.  For my part, I believed that they were both dead.  Now the clouds slowly rolled away down the course of the river, and with them went the rain; and now the stars shone in their wake.

“Let us go and see,” said the old chief, rising and shaking the water from his hair.  “The fire-fight is ended, let us go and see who has conquered.”

I rose and followed him, dripping as though I had swum a hundred yards with my clothes on, and after me came all the people of the kraal.

We reached the spot; even in that light I could see where the iron-stone had been split and fused by the thunderbolts.  While I was staring about me, I suddenly heard the chief, who was on my right, give a low moan, and saw the people cluster round him.  I went up and looked.  There, on the ground, lay the body of his son.  It was a dreadful sight.  The hair was burnt off his head, the copper rings upon his arms were fused, the assegai handle which lay near was literally shivered into threads, and, when I took hold of his arm, it seemed to me that every bone of it was broken.

The men with the chief stood gazing silently, while the women wailed.

“Great is the magic of Indaba-zimbi!” said a man, at length.  The chief turned and struck him a heavy blow with the kerrie in his hand.

“Great or not, thou dog, he shall die,” he cried, “and so shalt thou if thou singest his praises so loudly.”

I said nothing, but thinking it probable that Indaba-zimbi had shared the fate of his enemy, I went to look.  But I could see nothing of him, and at length, being thoroughly chilled with the wet, started back to my waggon to change my clothes.  On reaching it, I was rather surprised to see a strange Kaffir seated on the driving-box wrapped up in a blanket.

“Hullo! come out of that,” I said.

The figure on the box slowly unrolled the blanket, and with great deliberation took a pinch of snuff.

“It was a good fire-fight, white man, was it not?” said Indaba-zimbi, in his high, cracked voice.  “But he never had a chance against me, poor boy.  He knew nothing about it.  See, white man, what becomes of presumption in the young.  It is sad, very sad, but I made the flashes fly, didn’t I?”

“You old humbug,” I said, “unless you are careful you will soon learn what comes of presumption in the old, for your chief is after you with an assegai, and it will take all your magic to dodge that.”

“Now you don’t say so,” said Indaba-zimbi, clambering off the waggon with rapidity; “and all because of this wretched upstart.  There’s gratitude for you, white man.  I expose him, and they want to kill me.  Well, thank you for the hint.  We shall meet again before long,” and he was gone like a shot, and not too soon, for just then some of the chief’s men came up to the waggon.

On the following morning I started homewards.  The first face I saw on arriving at the station was that of Indaba-zimbi.

“How do you do, Macumazahn?” he said, holding his head on one side and nodding his white lock.  “I hear you are Christians here, and I want to try a new religion.  Mine must be a bad one seeing that my people wanted to kill me for exposing an impostor.”