By Veldt and Kopje

by W. C. Scully

One of the farm servants was a herd named Dumani, a nephew of Nomandewu. Dumani had once been accused of stealing a fowl from his master’s hen-roost, but little Lucy established his innocence. She had happened to see one of the other servants prowling near the scene of the theft, very early in the morning. This man’s hut was searched and the feathers of the stolen fowl were found concealed under the ashes of his fireplace.

Kaffirs are supposed by the superficial to be utterly devoid of gratitude. As a matter of fact they are just as grateful for good offices as are any other race, but their gratitude is seldom expressed in words, or, if expressed at all, is unintelligible to those who do not understand the Kaffir nature. Now, Dumani was so grateful to little Lucy that he would have died for her, upon due occasion, without the slightest hesitation. Being, however, a mere savage Kaffir, he displayed not the slightest manifestation of his feelings, which were, therefore, quite unsuspected by anyone.

It was this unsuspected quality of gratitude which prompted this taciturn Kaffir lad of sixteen to follow Nomandewu night after night upon her rambles, to crawl like a snake up to the low wall behind which it was her habit to sit beneath the silent stars, and to lie there for hours with ear strained to catch the least syllable of her incoherent mutterings. During these long vigils, when all the others on the farm were fast asleep, it would seem to Dumani as though he and the weird woman were the only two beings left in the wide world. Here lay the only reality for him; all else had dissolved into wavering shadows.

Immediately after Nolala’s death, Dumani, by no process which he could have explained, divined that Lucy was in danger, and the idea grew until it absorbed his whole mind. Yet, with the secretiveness of his race he never hinted of his suspicions to a living soul. As a matter of fact, outside his own instincts he had absolutely no evidence to go upon. Nevertheless he felt no doubts; his suspicions, vague at first, had gradually crystallised into certainty. He watched, waited, and held his peace.

The intense, silent and unsleeping scrutiny of the Kaffir lad was not unobserved by Nomandewu, who, accordingly, felt uneasy in his presence and continually endeavoured to avoid him. But although she could not help noticing that he had her under observation by day, she had no idea that he followed her at night.

Dumani, in his master’s estimation had fallen from grace. Until lately he had been a model cattle-herd; now he was often found asleep under a bush whilst his cattle trespassed among the crops or strayed away over the infinite expanse of the hills. For such misdemeanours he had been beaten several times; his dismissal, even, had been threatened. Then he grew thin and haggard, and avoided his friends. The members of his family became uneasy and held anxious consultations over his unsatisfactory state. Eventually they came to the conclusion that he was undergoing the preliminary mental and moral disturbances incidental to the “twasa,” or spiritual change which comes over those who possess the vocation for witch-doctorship. This caused Dumani to be treated with considerable respect, as one to whom a great future was possible.

One morning Dumani noticed Nomandewu stealing away to the forest with an axe in her hand. After driving his cattle to their usual pasture he followed. The forest filled the upper section of the valley, which was bounded by a sheer wall of perpendicular cliff, shaped like a horse-shoe, over which a stream foamed down. The lad stole softly up the watercourse, pausing every now and then to listen. At length his keen ear caught a rhythmic beat of distant chopping, and he crept carefully in the direction of the source of the sound. Steadily and regularly, without pause or intermission, the strokes went on.

He came within sight of the chopper. It was Nomandewu. Stripped to the waist, to give her arms free play, the woman relentlessly plied her task. As she swung the heavy axe with her thin, sinewy arms, the sweat poured from her in streams. She was engaged in felling a young ironwood tree, the stem of which was about fifteen inches in diameter.

Dumani, concealed in a patch of bracken, lay and watched her at his ease. As she stood her back was towards him, but in the delivery of each stroke she made a half-turn from the axis of her hips, and he was thus enabled to catch glimpses of her face. It was dull and haggard; her sunken eyes had the cold glitter one sees in the glance of an angry snake.

The wood was intensely hard, but the woman had been some considerable time at her task, so before very long the tree fell crashing to the ground. Then for a few seconds she stood panting and regarded the result of her work. After this she secreted the axe, picked up her blanket, and went off in the direction of her home. She passed so close to Dumani that he might have touched her by stretching forth his hand. As soon as he had lost the sound of her footsteps Dumani hastened away to collect his scattered cattle.