Chapter 22
In the humid heat of the forenoon the small hills of Fort Eitel, as zu Pfeiffer had renamed the Place of Kings, in the centre of the rased banana plantations, resembled scabby pimples upon a shaven patch of a green head seething with a verminous activity.
Across the ford of the river came a puckered-faced Bakuma in the train of carriers and slaves of MYalu, who with Yabolo was coming to make obeisance to Eyes-in-the-hands, under the protection of Sakamata. To Bakuma there was no joy in the prospect of the sight of her old home; the bitter taste of the oleander was in her mouth as she trudged despondently with downcast head.
But the breast of MYalu was filled with the song of the cricket. The terrors that had haunted him throughout the journey, of being overtaken by the magic of Bakahenzie or his emissaries, for the sacrilege of stealing the Bride of the Banana, began to evaporate at the approach to his village where now dwelt a new god more powerful than any, from whom he was about to gain protection, honours, and incidentally the ivory, which his anxious eyes pictured still within his hut. But when they broke from the outer banana plantation a mighty grunt was punched from the chests of Yabolo and MYalu at the vision of the half-completed street of large huts in the midst of desolation.
“Eh!” quoth Sakamata, “is not the way of the [pg 231] mighty one more wonderful than he who is gone? Behold, he maketh a city like unto that of his people, a city of gods!”
But MYalu had no admiration to spare, for to him the alleged beauty thereof was fogged by the fact that his own huts were but blackened ruins. The next moment MYalu, in spite of his native dignity, started as one of those uniformed keepers of the coughing monsters barked at them magic words.
Sakamata replied. Yabolo and MYalu stiffened as they observed the cringe of the shoulders as he fumbled hastily within his loin-cloth and presented a piece of hard substance, the colour of blue clay with magic marks upon it. The demon grunted at them to proceed as if talking to a slave. Followed in file the rest of the caravan. As Bakuma passed the uniformed demon standing with the sword and gun with seven voices upon his shoulder, leered, and grunting in a strange tongue, stepped forward and spun her round by the shoulders. Bakuma cried out in terror and the carriers gasped fearfully. MYalu and Yabolo wheeled. MYalu’s facial scar twitched with rage as he raised his spear. But Sakamata clung to his arm as the soldier, grinning, raised his rifle in their direction. Bakuma ran on. The man laughed and turned his back to them, calling out something that the Wongolo could not understand.
“Eh!” commented Sakamata indignantly, “the dog hath eaten poison grass! We will tell his words to Eyes-in-the-hands and he will be beaten until he stales.”