The yellow glare in the open doorway was darkened, but MYalu did not stir. The figure of Yabolo, a short throwing sword in hand, moved towards him and squatted down, muttering greetings. MYalu made no response. Yabolo repeated the message from the spirit of Tarum.
“Let thy spear be made sharp, O son of MBusa, that we may make the jackal who would command the lion to eat offal!” MYalu grunted. “The son of Bayakala saith that it will be soon, so that thou mayest yet eat of thy defiler ere thou art gone to ghostland.” MYalu turned his head. “The son of MTungo and the son of Maliko,” explained the old man, “have made magic upon the parts which thou didst foolishly leave within thy hut.”
Again MYalu merely grunted and turned away his head. But that dread news had quenched the white flame of anger. The spirits were wroth; even had they caused him to eat the dust before all men. [pg 272] Conviction in the efficacy of the magic for which he would have bought Marufa to make against Zalu Zako was as absolute as his faith in the death magic made against him by the two powerful witch-doctors, and intensified by the miraculous return of the Unmentionable One against whom he had committed sacrilege. He recollected the cry of the Baroto bird on the night on which he had kidnapped the Bride of the Banana. The spirit of Tarum was wroth. The mighty new King-God of the Unmentionable One was about to eat up all the enemies of the land. MYalu was convinced that he was doomed; certain that Yabolo knew that he was doomed; that every man knew that he was doomed.
For ten minutes the figures, squatting and lying, remained as motionless as bronzes. Then MYalu rose to his knees and said calmly: “Give me thy sword, O son of Zingala.”
Silently Yabolo handed him the sword which MYalu placed beneath him and laid down again. So quietly he died.
From the sacred hill blared the harsh cry of the yellow bird, as the natives called the trumpet, announcing that the august presence was in audience. But instead of the usual crowd of immobile figures squatted almost under the shadow of the pom-pom within the gate of the fort, sat only the messenger. Sakamata, knowing that something portended and yet not exactly what, was so scared that his skinny limbs quivered as if with an ague. Although he desired to warn Eyes-in-the-hands in order to save himself, he dared not attempt to do so lest the august one visit his anger upon his person; vague ideas of redeeming [pg 273] his treachery by delivering Eyes-in-the-hands over to his countrymen were stoppered by terror of the wrath of the Unmentionable One.
So it was that the pomp of the Son-of-the-Earthquake and the glory of the soul of the World-Trembler with many charms upon his breast was reserved for the humble messenger who entered escorted by Sakamata. After bowing in the prescribed manner the messenger squatted at zu Pfeiffer’s feet and addressed himself to the corporal interpreter.
“The son of the Lord-of-many-lands, that is the King-God of the One-not-to-be-mentioned, sends greeting to the son of the World-Trembler, called Eyes-in-the-hands, and this message: ‘Say unto the man of many tongues as well as many eyes that the jackal follows the lion that he may feed on the leavings; the voice of the hyena is loudest when he eateth offal!’”
“What does the animal say?” demanded zu Pfeiffer, impatient of the native preamble.
“He says, Bwana,” said the interpreter, “that the white man is sick and cannot move, but that he will come as soon as he is well.”