Chapter 17
In his favourite seat by the door of his hut sat Zalu Zako waiting as patiently as only a native can to see the white man, symbol of a subconscious hope. The fact that Bakuma had not been found by the emissaries of the bloodthirsty Bakahenzie evoked a sensation of pleasure which was expressed merely in a feeling of well-being. Of her in person he thought consciously little; his attitude was much as a white lover who might discover his loved one to be a sister, and hence, by consanguinity, barred from him for ever, a terrible fact of fate; but, lacking the sentimental inhibition, Zalu Zako did not disguise the death wish because she was denied him. Desires are simpler in the savage, yet the driving motives are the same as in the “cultured” ex-animal overlaid with generations of inhibitions—tabus—which form complex strata making the truth more and more difficult to recognise. From that very obfuscation of motives arises civilisation.
Then from the blue depths of the humid green came a great outcry, answered by the ululation of the women in warning.
“Eyes-in-the-hands!” grunted Zalu Zako, voicing the perpetual fear of the camp, as he leaped for his gun which Moonspirit had sent him.
Above the medley of sounds arose an articulate shout:
“He has bewitched our souls! He has bewitched our souls!”
Zalu Zako paused and listened; replaced the gun and squatted, resuming his pose of dignity before the first man made entrance. For a few moments the shrilling of the women and the wild jabber continued. Then entered a slave followed by a warrior who, excitedly falling upon his knees, gasped out:
“He hath bewitched our souls! He hath bewitched our souls! Our spears were blunted by his magic! Our swords were turned by the wall of his soul! He is a mighty magician!”
“Of whom speakest thou, fool?”
As Zalu Zako put the question the tall figure of Bakahenzie stalked slowly into the courtyard. The warrior rose and fled at a command from Zalu Zako. Bakahenzie greeted him gravely and very elaborately took snuff in order to show how casual the matter was. When he had meticulously restored the cork of twisted leaves, he announced slowly: