great again.-' 'The Umlimo sent the imp is onto the guns at Shangani and Bembesi,'.
Juba whispered bitterly. 'The Umlimo preaches war and death and pestilence. There is a new god now. The god Jesus of peace.' 'Peace?'
Gandang asked bitterly. 'If that is the word of this god, then the white men do not listen very well to their own. Ask the Zulu of the peace they found at Ulundi, ask the shade of Lobengula of the peace they brought with them to Matabeleland.' Juba could not reply, for again she had not fully understood when Nomusa explained, and she bowed her head in resignation. After a while, when Gandang was certain that she had accepted what he had said, he went on. 'The oracle of the Umlimo is in three parts and already the first has come to pass. The darkness at noon, the wings of the locust, and the trees bare of leaves in the springtime. It is happening and we must look to our steel.'
'The white men have broken the assegais.' 'In the hills there has been a new birthing of steel.' Involuntarily Gandang lowered his voice to a whisper. 'The forges of the Rozwi smiths burn day and night and the molten iron runs copiously as the waters of the Zambezi.' Juba stared at him. 'Who has done this?' 'Bazo, your own son.' 'The wounds of the guns are still fresh and bright upon his body.' 'But he is an and una of Kumalo,' Gandang whispered proudly, 'and he is a man.' 'One man,' Juba replied. 'One man only, where are the imp is 'Preparing in secret, in the wild places, re-learning the skills and arts which they have not yet forgotten.' 'Gandang, my lord, I feel my heart beginning to break again, I feel my tears gathering like the rainstorms of summer. Must there always be war?' 'You are a daughter of Matabele, of pure Zanzi blood from the south. Your father's father followed Mzilikazi, your father spilled his blood for him, as your own son did for Lobengula do you have to ask that question?' She was silent, knowing how futile it was to argue with him when there was that glitter in his eyes. When the fighting madness was in him, there was no room for reason.
'Juba, my little Dove, there will be work for you when the prophecy of the Umlimo comes to full term.' 'Lord?' she asked.
'The women must carry the blades. They will be bound up in rolls of sleeping-mats and in bundles of thatching grass and carried on the heads of the women to where the imp is are waiting.' 'Lord.' Her voice was neutral, and she dropped her eyes from his hard glittering gaze.
'The white men and their kanka will not suspect the women, they will let them pass freely upon the road,' Gandang went on. 'You are the mother of the nation now that the king's wives are dead and scattered. It will be your duty to assemble the young women, to train them in their duty, and to see them place the steel in the hands of the warriors at the time that the Umlimo has foreseen, the time when the hornless cattle are eaten up by the cross.' Juba was reluctant to reply, afraid to conjure up his wrath. He had to demand her answer.
'You have heard MY word, woman, and you know your duty to your husband and your people.' Then only Juba lifted her head and looked deeply into his dark fierce eyes.
'Forgive me, Lord. This time I cannot obey you. I cannot help to bring fresh sorrow upon the land. I cannot bear to hear again the wails of the widows and orphans. You must find another to carry the bloody steel.' She had expected his anger. She could have weathered that, as she had a hundred times before, but she saw in his eyes something that had never been there before. It was contempt, and she did not know how she could bear it. When Gandang stood up without another word and stalked away towards the river, she wanted to run after him and throw herself at his feet, but then she remembered the words of Nomusa.
'He is a gentle God, but the way He sets for us is hard beyond the telling of it.' And Juba found that she could not move. She was trapped between two worlds and two duties, and she felt as though it was tearing her soul down the middle. uba sat alone under the bare wild fig tree the rest of the day.
She sat with her arms folded across her great glossy breasts, and she rocked herself silently, as though the movement might comfort her as it would a fretful child, but there was no surcease in either movement or thought, so it was with relief that at last she looked up and saw her two attendants kneeling before her. She did not know how long they had been there. She had not even heard them come up, so rapt had she been in her sorrow and confusion.
'I see you, Ruth,' she said, nodding at the Christian girl and her companion, 'and you too, Imbali, my little Flower. What is it that makes you look so sad?' 'The men have gone into the hills,' whispered Ruth.
'And your hearts have gone with them,' Juba smiled at the two young women. It was a fond yet sad smile, as though she remembered her own youthful bodily passions and regretted that the flames had burned so low.
'I have dreamed of nothing but my beautiful man, every lonely night we have been away,' murmured Ruth.
'And of the fine son he will make with you,' Juba chuckled. She knew the girl's desperate need, and teased her lovingly. 'Lelesa, the lightning stroke, your man is well named.' Ruth hung her head. 'Do not mock me, Manwwedtu,' she murmured pitifully, and Ruth turned to Imbali.
'And you, little Flower, is there no bee to tickle your petals either?' The girl giggled and covered her mouth and squirmed with embarrassment.
'If you need us, Marnewethu,' Ruth said earnestly, 'then we will stay with you.' Juba kept them in an agony of suspense for a few seconds longer.
How firm and nubile was their young flesh, how sweetly shaped their young bodies, how eager were their great dark eyes, how vast their hunger for all that life had to offer. Juba smiled again and clapped her hands.
'Be gone,' she said, 'both of you. There are those that need you more than I do. Away with you both, follow your men into the hills.'
The girls squealed with delight, and throwing aside all ceremony, they embraced Juba joyously.
'You are the sunshine and the moon,' they told her, and then they fled to their huts to prepare for the journey, and for a little while Juba's own sorrow was lightened. But at the fall of night when no young wife came to summon her to Gandang's hut, it returned in full strength, and she wept alone on her sleeping-mat until at last sleep came over her, but then there were dreams dreams full of the glow of flames and the smell of rotting flesh, and she cried out in her sleep, but there was no one to hear and awaken her.
General Mungo St. John reined in and looked around him at the devastated forests. There was no cover, the locusts had seen to that, and it would make his task more difficult.
He lifted the slouch hat from his head and mopped his forehead.
This was the suicide month. The great cumulus cloud banks heaved up heaven high along the horizon and the heat shivered and wavered in mirage above the bare baked earth. Mungo carefully readjusted the black patch over his empty eye-socket, and turned in the saddle to look back at the file of men that followed him.
There were fifty of them, all Matabele, but wearing a bizarre motley of traditional and European dress. Some wore patched moleskin breeches, and others tasselled fur aprons. Some were barefoot, others wore rawhide sandals and a few even sported hobnailed boots without socks or puttees. Most of them were bare-chested, though a few wore cast-off tunics or tattered shirts. There was, however, one single item of uniform that was common to them all. It was worn on a chain around the left arm above the elbow, a polished brass disc engraved with the words. 'BSA Co. Police.' They were each of them armed with a new repeating Winchester rifle, and a bandolier of brass cartridges.
Their legs were dusty to the knees, for they had made a hard fast march southwards, keeping up easily with Mungo St. John's trotting mount.
Mungo looked them over with grim satisfaction. Despite the lack of cover, he believed that the speed of their advance must take the kraals by surprise.
It was like one of his slaving expeditions on the west coast, so long ago, before that damned Lincoln and the Royal bloody Navy had cut off the multi-million-dollar trade. By God, those had been the days.
The swift approach march, the encirclement of the village and the dawn rush with the slavers' clubs cracking against woolly black skulls.
Mungo roused himself. Was it a sign of age to hark back so often to the long-ago? he wondered.
'Ezra, he called his sergeant to come up to him. He was the only other mounted man in the column. He rode a swaybacked grey with a rough coat.
Ezra was a hulking Matabele with a scarred cheek, memento of a mining accident in the great diamond pit at Kimberley, six hundred miles to the south. It was there that he had adopted his new name and learned his English.
'How far ahead is Gandang's kraal?' Mungo asked him in that language.
'That far,' Ezra swept his arm through an arc of the sky, indicating two hours or so of the sun's passage.
'All right,' Mungo nodded. 'Send the scouts out. But I want no mistakes. Explain to them again that they must cross the Inyati river upstream of the kraal and circle out to wait in the foothills.' 'Nkosi!' Ezra nodded.
'Tell them they must seize anybody who runs from the kraal, and bring them in.' The business of translating every command irked Mungo, and for the hundredth time since he had crossed the Limpopo, he resolved to study the Sindebele language.
Ezra saluted Mungo with an exaggerated flourish,
