Child of Storm

"Izwa!" said the chorus in a loud voice.

Zikali nodded his great head and seemed to talk with the dust, waiting

now and again for an answer.

"Good," he said; "they are many, and the dust has told them all to me.

Oh, they are very many"--and he glared around him--"so many that if I

spoke them all the hyenas of the hills would be full to-night--"

Here the audience began to show signs of great apprehension.

"But," looking down at the dust and turning his head sideways, "what

do you say, what do you say? Speak more plainly, Little Voices, for you

know I grow deaf. Oh! now I understand. The matter is even smaller than

I thought. Just of one wizard--"

"Izwa!" (loudly).

"--just of a few deaths and some sicknesses."

"Izwa!"

"Just of one death, one principal death."

"Izwa!" (very loudly).

"Ah! So we have it--one death. Now, was it a man?"

"Izwa!" (very coldly).

"A woman?"

"Izwa!" (still more coldly).

"Then a child? It must be a child, unless indeed it is the death of a

spirit. But what do you people know of spirits? A child! A child! Ah!

you hear me--a child. A male child, I think. Do you not say so, O Dust?"

"Izwa!" (emphatically).

"A common child? A bastard? The son of nobody?"

"Izwa!" (very low).

"A well-born child? One who would have been great? O Dust, I hear, I

hear; a royal child, a child in whom ran the blood of the Father of the

Zulus, he who was my friend? The blood of Senzangakona, the blood of the

'Black One,' the blood of Panda."

He stopped, while both from the chorus and from the thousands of the

circle gathered around went up one roar of "Izwa!" emphasised by a

mighty movement of outstretched arms and down-pointing thumbs.

Then silence, during which Zikali stamped upon all the remaining

markings, saying: "I thank you, O Dust, though I am sorry to have troubled you for so

small a matter. So, so," he went on presently, "a royal boy-child

is dead, and you think by witchcraft. Let us find out if he died by

witchcraft or as others die, by command of the Heavens that need them.

What! Here is one mark which I have left. Look! It grows red, it is full

of spots! The child died with a twisted face."

"Izwa! Izwa! Izwa!" (crescendo).

"This death was not natural. Now, was it witchcraft or was it poison?

Both, I think, both. And whose was the child? Not that of a son of the

King, I think. Oh, yes, you hear me, People, you hear me; but be silent;

I do not need your help. No, not of a son; of a daughter, then." He

turned and, looked about him till his eye fell upon a group of women,

amongst whom sat Nandie, dressed like a common person. "Of a daughter,

a daughter--" He walked to the group of women. "Why, none of these are

royal; they are the children of low people. And yet--and yet I seem to

smell the blood of Senzangakona."