“Hark, Kalulu! dost thou not hear the deep lake sing? No! I hear it, and understand its song. Look at the minute waves the zephyr rolls on the beach. Listen to the sound of them as they gather themselves up like long bales of white cloth, and rush to lave the sand. That is music to me, and while it sings I think of the deeper, sweeter music which the sea of Zanj makes at eve of day, which it made while my father and his kinsman sat near the foamy waves to watch the sun falling towards the sunset land. Wouldst thou believe it, dear Kalulu, the voices of those tiny waves sounding in my ear like the sighs of departing friends make me better and purer, more like a child of great Allah, the pure Sky-spirit, who made both thee and I, and all mankind. They make me better, because the gentle thought of love to all men fills my mind; they make me purer, because they draw me nearer to God. I have at this moment no hateful, unkind feeling towards any man. To even Ferodia I bear no ill-will. I forget—I have a wish to forget—what misery he caused me and mine. For what am I in the presence of Allah, whom I see in yon great mountains of grey rock, in yon boundless forests, in those far-reaching valleys, in those tall hills, in those wavelets, in the deep, deep water below us, and that immense roof of cloud and vapour—so vast, so far above us, above which the golden throne of Allah rests.”
Kalulu had all this time been listening with wonder to Selim, whom he regarded as talking magic; for the truth was, that Selim’s feelings were so wrought upon by the beauty of the scene and the gratitude he felt for his escape from the tribe whose canoe his companions had taken that his face had assumed a beatified look, which the more practical Kalulu could not comprehend, unless he supposed he was talking magic. Magic powers and gifts Kalulu could understand and appreciate. When he recovered his speech Kalulu said:
“Selim, my brother, thy voice kindles in me a wish that I were born an Arab’s son. Yet for all I have listened to thee, I fail to see the beauty thou sayest thou dost see. I fail also to hear the song or music of the Sky-spirit, or of the brook, or of the trees, or of the waves. But I am not one of the Arabs. I am of Urori, and now a Mtuta and a king. I am the son of Mostana, the Kirori king, whom Kisesa the Arab slew. I have lived in the sunshine of Urori and Ututa. I have seen the forests of both countries, and have roamed over their plains. I have chased the antelope and the buffalo, hunted the quagga and the giraffe. I have searched for honey in the woods, and followed the honey-bird wheresoever he led me. I have trapped wild birds and guinea-fowl in the jungle. I have been in valleys, and bathed in the streams that ran through them. I have climbed steep rocks and high mountains, camped on the hills many and many a night; but I never heard music in any of these things.
“Music!” continued Kalulu. “What tribe loves music better than the Warori and the Watuta. Our mothers, seated under the shade of plantain or tamarind, sing us to sleep while we suck. They sing of corn-fields, of labour, of gliding down rivers, of war, of great kings long since dead, and of festal days. But they never sing of birds, or of the music of the water. We never hear such music as thou dost hear. Before we have barely learned to walk, our little feet keep step to the sounding ‘goma’ (drum) of the village, and our hands begin a-clapping with the chorus. When we are great boys we drum and sing all day under the shade, and at night during the large moon we often continue the dance and song until the morning. Our women, while they hoe in the field, sing; and while they gather the sticks for the evening fire, or pound the grain into flower, and while they cook for their lords, they sing. The warriors sing always before they go out on the hunt, before the battle, at the marriage, at a death, and at a burial, they sing. They are ever singing, and so am I when I may. I love to sing. But none of our warriors ever said that waters sing, or that trees, or leaves, or branches sing. Thou mightst as well have told me that the cattle, when they low, sing; or that kids when they bleat, or that the hyaena when he growls, or that the jackal when he hungrily yelps, or that the lion when he roars. Dost thou call the roar of the mamba, or the bellow of the hippopotamus, or the screaming cry of the quagga, or the shrill neigh of the zebra, singing? Hast thou heard the furious bellow of the buffalo, or the rageful trumpet of the elephant when he charges, or the grunt of the wart-hog, or the warning snort of the eland, or the noise of the rhinoceros when he plunges at his foe? Would the children of the Arabs say any of these sang? If thou sayest that birds when they chirp, the wind when it moans, the leaves when they rustle, or the waters when they splash and roll over the beach, do sing, then why not say that the noises of the animals are their songs?” After a short breathing spell Kalulu continued: “Ah! Selim, my brother, thy Sky-spirit and mine are not the same. Thine teaches thee nothing but lies. Lo! he is afraid to show himself, or perhaps, like the Watuta warriors, he loves to bask in the sun on his throne of gold; perhaps he loves his ‘pombe’ (beer) like our chiefs. If, as thou sayest, he lives above the clouds, it must be very hot above there, and great heat makes people lazy. Why does he not come down and show himself? Our Sky-spirit comes often to visit us. He is one day like a bird, with white wings; the next he is like a big raven. One day he is a roaring lion, another day he is like a leopard. The Mganga calls unto him with his medicine and gourd, and he either makes us strong in war, or gives us abundance of cloth, beads, and elephant teeth. He kills us, if he is angry, with a bad disease; sends strong tribes, and stirs their hearts against us, while he makes our hearts faint and our arms weak; but he never lies. When a good magic doctor asks him he always answers, and his words come to pass.”
After another pause, Kalulu continued once more. “Thou sayest that thy Sky-spirit made thee and me, and all men. Perhaps he did make thee and the Arabs, for thou and they are white; but he did not make the Warori or the Watuta. We are black, born of black mothers, and sired by black fathers. Hast thou seen the kidling by the side of its dam? or the young fawn frisking by the side of its mother? Even as the kidling and the young fawn came to this world, came the children of the Watuta and Warori. Thou didst tell me once that the good Arabs go when they die to a beautiful place called Paradise. Perhaps they do, for they are white, and have been favoured by thy Sky-spirit. But good or bad, Warori and Watuta, when they die, go to the ground, into the deep grave, and there are no more words from them, because they have no breath; they are ended. That is what the magic doctors, and those who know, have told me, and there is no untruth in what I say.”
“Oh! Kalulu, my brother, thou art now like those who cannot see, because there is no light in their eyes, or like those who do not hear, because their ears are stopped. There is no doubt that God, the Sky-spirit, made the sky like a curtain round about us, and that He made the earth like a bed spread out for us to live in, and, though thou art black, He made thee as well as He made me—He made the birds, the trees, the rocks, the valleys, and the hills; He hath caused the rain to fall in its proper season, and all the fruits and corn of the earth to grow for us, each in its own good time. There is no lie in all this, it is truth as clear as yon mountains. Thou art now like a child in the knowledge of these things, but when thou wilt reach Zanzibar, and shall have learnt our language, thou wilt know the truth of what I speak. Thy mind is now like the troubled clouds of the morning, which are yet dark and gloomy, but through them all comes the sun, and the black clouds vanish before his bright glory; so will the darkness which now covers thy mind, and hides the light, for when thou canst talk, and understand what I say, the truth will shine through it all, and the darkness will be no more. Enough for the present; let us rest and sleep, that we may be ready for our journey to-night,” and Selim lay down, and Kalulu, after trying in vain to penetrate the meaning of all his brother’s words, and to see the promised light before the fulfilment of time, finally lay down, and forgot all about the wonderful Sky-spirit in a deep slumber.
They were wakened by Simba’s voice, who stood like a colossal shadow-being of the spirit-land above them, for so his figure appeared to their half-dreamy senses. But a vigorous shake of both by his heavy hand soon dispelled the half-formed dreams, and informed them that it was night, and that their friend Simba was urging them to be up and away.
Lightly they descended the hill and stepped into their dear little canoe, and presently the isle of Mimosas, on which they had rested, was but a dim configuration of a low hill, and, receding still further, it became lost in the general gloom of night.
The canoe was far enough from shore not to be delayed by any fishing-boats; the deep water was all about them, and the lofty, far-upheaving, beaming heaven above them, with its countless myriads of ever-blinking lights, lighting them, poor wanderers, on their way.
Kalulu, to wile away the time and to cheer his companions, struck up, in a low voice, the boat song of the Liemba, with the chorus “We are gliding, Swiftly gliding.”