Child of Storm

"Fool!" I answered. "Mameena has betrayed and spat upon you. Take what

the Heavens send you and give thanks. Would you wear Masapo's soiled

blanket?"

"Macumazahn," he said in a hollow voice, "I will follow your head, and

not my own heart. Yet you sow a strange seed, Macumazahn, or so you may

think when you see its fruit." And he gave me a wild look--a look that

frightened me.

There was something in this look which caused me to reflect that I might

do well to go away and leave Saduko, Mameena, Nandie, and the rest of

them to "dree their weirds," as the Scotch say, for, after all, what was

my finger doing in that very hot stew? Getting burnt, I thought, and not

collecting any stew.

Yet, looking back on these events, how could I foresee what would be the

end of the madness of Saduko, of the fearful machinations of Mameena,

and of the weakness of Umbelazi when she snared him in the net of her

beauty, thus bringing about his ruin, through the hate of Saduko and the

ambition of Cetewayo? How could I know that, at the back of all these

events, stood the old dwarf, Zikali the Wise, working night and day

to slake the enmity and fulfil the vengeance which long ago he had

conceived and planned against the royal House of Senzangakona and the

Zulu people over whom it ruled?

Yes, he stood there like a man behind a great stone upon the brow of

a mountain, slowly, remorselessly, with infinite skill, labour, and

patience, pushing that stone to the edge of the cliff, whence at length,

in the appointed hour, it would thunder down upon those who dwelt

beneath, to leave them crushed and no more a people. How could I guess

that we, the actors in this play, were all the while helping him to push

that stone, and that he cared nothing how many of us were carried with

it into the abyss, if only we brought about the triumph of his secret,

unutterable rage and hate?

Now I see and understand all these things, as it is easy to do, but then

I was blind; nor did the Voices reach my dull ears to warn me, as, how

or why I cannot tell, they did, I believe, reach those of Zikali.

Oh, what was the sum of it? Just this, I think, and nothing more--that,

as Saduko and the others were Mameena's tools, and as all of them and

their passions were Zikali's tools, so he himself was the tool of some

unseen Power that used him and us to accomplish its design. Which, I

suppose, is fatalism, or, in other words, all these things happened

because they must happen. A poor conclusion to reach after so much

thought and striving, and not complimentary to man and his boasted

powers of free will; still, one to which many of us are often driven,

especially if we have lived among savages, where such dramas work

themselves out openly and swiftly, unhidden from our eyes by the veils

and subterfuges of civilisation. At least, there is this comfort

about it--that, if we are but feathers blown by the wind, how can the

individual feather be blamed because it did not travel against, turn or

keep back the wind?