“Who may tell? But—you will not.”
I tried to laugh good-humouredly, but it was not genuine. Yet was not the thing absurd? Here was I, letting myself be humbugged—almost scared—by an old charlatan of a witch doctor, a fellow who made a comfortable living out of his credulous countrymen by fooling them with charms and spells and omens, and all sorts of similar quackery—I, a white man, with—I haven’t mentioned it before—an English public school education.
“Here, my father,” I said, producing a goodly twist of roll tobacco. “This is good—always good—whether by a comfortable fire, or searching for múti materials under the moon.”
He received it, in the hollow of both hands, as the native way is. I saw before me in the moonlight what was not at all the popular conception of the witch doctor—a little shrivelled being with furtive, cunning looks, and snaky eyes. No. This was a middle-aged man of fine stature, and broadly and strongly built: destitute too of charms or amulets in the way of adornments. His head-ring glistened in the moonlight, and for all clothing he wore the usual mútya. In fact the only peculiarity about him was that he had but one eye.
“What has become of Nyamaki?” I said, filling and lighting my pipe.
“U’ Nyamaki? Has he gone then?” was the answer which, of course, was a bit of assumed ignorance.
“Now how can the father of wisdom ask such a question?” I said. “He—to whom nothing is dark!”
Ukozi’s face was as a mask. He uttered a single grunt—that was all.
“The whites will offer large reward to the man who finds him,” I went on.
“Will he who sits yonder”—meaning my recent entertainer—“offer large reward?” was the answer, a sudden whimsical flash illuminating the dark, impassive face.