It happened that I was returning from one of my rounds to make my report to the Great Great One. The morning was yet young; indeed, the sun had only just risen, and the forest path along which we travelled—I and Mgwali, who accompanied me—was bright with a golden network of sunshine through the leaves, and joyous with the song and whistle of birds and the chatter of monkeys. We were drawing near a pile of rocks, overhung with forest trees and trailers. Suddenly, my brother, who was walking behind me, touched my elbow.
“Do you hear nothing, son of my father?” he whispered.
I listened long and hard. I was about to reply, “Nothing,” when I heard the sound as of a voice—the voice of a man murmuring—even as the voice of one of our izanusi engaged in making múti. Now, there were caves in those rocks, Nkose, caves which were not unassociated among ourselves with tagati; wherefore, with the instinct of a warrior in the presence of evil, I gripped my broad assegai, and stole silently forward, eager to see through this mystery—if mystery there was—Mgwali pressing close behind me. The murmuring of the voice sounded plainer now; then we heard a low musical tinkling, as of the ringing of a bell.
Whau! Here was a strange thing. What could such sounds mean, here among the rocks and caves? The voice, too, was murmuring in a strange language; soft, though not so soft as ours, yet immeasurably softer than the croaking tongues of those inferior peoples which we had destroyed or enslaved. Stealthily we drew nearer, and, peering out through the trees, this is what we saw.
A great slab of rock out-hung from the cliff, forming a shallow cave. In the mouth of this a man was standing, his back towards us. He was clothed in a great cloak, red in colour, and bearing a broad crossed bar down its entire length, while showing below it was a long white garment which seemed to cover him from neck to foot. His movements called to our mind those of our own izanusi when sacrificing cattle to the ghosts of our fathers on solemn occasions; yet not. But this could be no isanusi, for he was a white man! Still he must be an isanusi of some sort, for he was undoubtedly engaged in offering sacrifice. In front of him and further in the cave was a great block of stone or a ledge in the rock formation—we could not determine which—and upon it were two little pillars tipped with flame. Moreover, upon this the man’s words and actions seemed centred, for upon it was something else, which from there we could not see. But here, if possible, was a more surprising thing. Behind him, bending low, knelt another man—a dark man, one of ourselves, and of the same race, for he wore the ring upon his head, and his other adornments were as ours. He, too, seemed in some way to be assisting the other, for his movements were much the same, and a few words would now and again drop from him as though in reply to the one who was sacrificing. Hau! it was wonderful! In rigid wonder we stared, not knowing what was to come next.
But a dead silence had fallen upon these two now, and the murmuring had ceased. Then the tinkling of the bell rang out once more, and the isanusi in the red cloak, having bent low, straightened himself up, raising both hands high overhead, and in his hands there flashed forth a Something—a Something upon which a ray of the newly-risen sun now glinted with dazzling whiteness. And the man behind—the black man—bent prone as one dead—even as a man might lie who awaits the sentence of the Great Great One himself.
Whau, Nkose! I know not how it was, but something seemed to cloud the brain of Mgwali and myself, binding us to the spot, staring at this strange and marvellous mystery, so unlike aught we had ever beheld before. We watched, confused by what followed, but of it we have but small recollection, save of one thing. The white isanusi turned full towards us, more than once, still murmuring, and, while we shrank in dread lest he should be putting upon us the spell of his múti, we took note of his face and that keenly. It was the face of a white man, very dark and burned as though by many suns; but it was a strong face, that of a man to whom, we could see at a glance, fear was unknown. The eyes were black and piercing as those of an eagle, and a long, thick beard fell low upon the breast, its dark masses plentifully streaked with grey.
We stood watching this marvellous performance, we two fearless and armed warriors, and yet there was that in it which laid upon us a kind of awe. At length it came to an end. Then we saw the white man extinguish the fire upon his stone of sacrifice and wrap up carefully in coverings such things as had been upon it. But our astonishment was greatest when we watched him take off his outer cloak of red and then the long white garment which was girded around him. We saw him then in a large loose robe of black, and this he did not take off. (Note 1.) The other dresses, however, he carefully rolled up in coverings, and while he was doing this the man who was with him—the kehla—lighted a fire, and set upon it a joint of game to roast, evidently the quarter of one of the smaller kinds of buck.
Few, indeed, Nkose, were the white men, except Amabuna, we had seen in those days, and that this was not one of those we felt certain. Mgwali was the first to recover from his astonishment.
“Whau!” he grunted. “I know not how yon isanusi—white though he be—dare come here and make múti without leave from the Great Great One. It may be tagati.”