Part 2

He went to the door and called. There was no reply. The village was full of people, but they had a very real fear of what the witch doctor might do. All had crept back to their huts. He called again, and in the name of the Government, but still none came.

He shouted, that the whole village might hear: "I take Chiromo to our Chief. Bring a rope, that I may tie him and lead him through the night."

Presently a woman appeared, bringing in her hand a stout rope such as all natives use for trapping antelope. She handed it to Mokorongo, volunteering the information that it was her son whom Chiromo had killed. She did not actually say that he had been killed, neither did she mention Chiromo's name--she dared not do this--but she did say that before sunrise her son had been buried.

Mokorongo tied a slip-knot in the rope and passed it over Chiromo's head. A sharp tug, accompanied by a peremptory "Stand, you!" brought Chiromo quickly to his feet.

Indicating successively the horrors hanging from the roof and walls, he said: "Put that, and this, and those into the basket."

Chiromo hesitated, but only for a moment; a tightening rope round one's neck has an unpleasant feeling. With his manacled hands he picked up each repulsive thing and thrust it into the basket.

"Bring the basket," Mokorongo commanded, moving towards the door. Outside in the black night, and conscious of the paperweight under his arm, the messenger's full courage and sense of authority returned to him.

"Let all witnesses to this big case follow quickly to the Court; it is the order of the Chief and the law of the Government."

Then, helping Chiromo to encircle the basket with his arms, he strode off down the path leading from the village, his captive, securely handcuffed and led by the rope round his neck, following tamely enough.

IV.

The witnesses were many--of all ages and of both sexes. The case promised to be a famous one, so relations and friends had come from the villages round about to attend. The people had travelled slowly, consequently it was late in the afternoon when they arrived.

The Native Commissioner had decided to take evidence on the morrow; the people were therefore directed to camp by the river for the night. Chiromo was to remain in the cell to which he had been conducted earlier in the day by the messenger.

Mokorongo was very happy. He had presented himself to his master on arrival, returned the paperweight, reported the arrest of Chiromo, and had handed over the basket of medicines. He would have told his story then and there, but the Commissioner, who was busy, dismissed him with "Good, now go and eat and sleep. You can return at sundown and tell me everything. I will listen to the witnesses to-morrow."

But, of course, Mokorongo did not sleep. He felt a hero, and was so regarded by his fellow messengers and others. He told the story of his adventures to all who cared to hear, and they were many. Little work was done that day by any native on the Station.

With much telling the story improved almost beyond recognition. For instance, his seventh audience was thrilled by the recitation of the threatening words which the skull had addressed to him; knots of woolly hair rose when the efforts of the fleshless hand to grasp the master's talisman were described; the brave words which Mokorongo had addressed to the basket of medicines when it had shown an inclination to escape by the door drew grunts of admiration; a shudder ran through his hearers when he repeated what the dead chameleons had related to him--how they had once been men, until transformed and killed by the very bad man now under arrest.

The narrative was interrupted by one of the house-boys: "You are called," was the curt command, meaning that his master wished to see Mokorongo.

Under the stimulus of the great admiration of his fellows, generously expressed, Mokorongo had given free play to his imagination. His narrative had become thrilling; but now, under the cold eye of the master, fancy fled, and the messenger's account of himself conformed to the court formula--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

How Chiromo passed the night cannot, of course, be told. He might have spent the time preparing his defence; it is much more likely that he simply slept.

V.

Everything was ready for the hearing of the case. On the veranda of the Court House the Commissioner's table had been placed. Conspicuous upon it was the paperweight. On the ground in front of it lay the witch doctor's basket with its leopard skin covering. On the right sat Chiromo; he was still handcuffed, but without the rope round his neck. By his side stood Mokorongo. Immediately behind them were ranged the rest of the messengers attached to the Station. They, with the Court House, formed two sides of a square: the figure was completed by the crowd of witnesses seated on the ground.

Presently the Commissioner was seen approaching along the path which led from his house. The people began to clap their hands, which, in certain parts of Africa, is the native way of showing respect. As the Commissioner appeared on the verandah, the messengers saluted him by raising their right hands above their heads and ejaculating "Morena."

The Commissioner nodded by way of acknowledgment, the people ceased to clap; there was dead silence.

The white man looked across his table at the witch doctor. For a time he said nothing. Chiromo blinked and looked away. Glancing up and finding that unpleasantly steady gaze upon him still, he again looked quickly away.

"Unlock those handcuffs," said the Commissioner. Mokorongo produced the key from the pouch on his belt and freed the witch doctor's hands.

Addressing Chiromo, the official asked: "Is it true that you are the killer of people?"

"It is not true," replied Chiromo.

"Can you kill people by means of charms and medicines?"

Chiromo said he could not.

"Is that your basket?"

"Yes, it is my basket."

"What is in the basket?"

"I do not know."

"Are not the things in the basket yours?"

"No, they are your messenger's; he put them in my basket."

Mokorongo was indignant at the lie. The witnesses, too, were amazed at Chiromo's effrontery. But none spoke.

"Take the things out of the basket one by one and place them on the ground in front of you."

The witch doctor without hesitation began to do as he was bid. The skull, the arm, the weevils as large as mice, the chameleons, the stale offal: these Mokorongo had seen in the hut, but there were other things he had not seen. A necklet of human teeth, another of small antelope horns, yet another of rats' skulls. These were followed by the shell of a very small tortoise, a bush buck's horn containing a reddish-coloured paste, four discs of ivory strangely carved, commonly known as "witch doctor's bones," a small piece of looking-glass, a dozen or more little bundles of something tied up in scraps of rag, a piece of red clay, a length of snake's skin, several cartridge cases plugged with pieces of wood, the sun-dried paw of a monkey, the beaks of several birds, a feather ball or two, another set of "bones," a small knife with a wooden sheath, a little gourd covered with beads, some charms of various sizes and shapes to wear round the neck or wrist. There were many other bits of rubbish which, at a sign from his master, Mokorongo emptied out on the ground.

Under the direction of the Commissioner, Chiromo's possessions were separated into two heaps. The skull, the arm, the offal, and anything else of which there was only a single specimen, made one heap. The chameleons, and anything of which there were more than one, were carefully divided, half placed on one heap and the remainder on the other.

"None of these things are yours?" asked the Commissioner.

"None, save the leopard skin," said Chiromo.

"Those I shall want later on," said the Commissioner, pointing to the larger heap, "the rest you shall burn."

The witch doctor collected some dry grass, and some twigs and some larger sticks. The Commissioner produced a box of matches. Mokorongo lit the grass. The twigs crackled, the sticks caught fire and burned brightly.

"Put those things on the fire," said the Commissioner, pointing to the smaller of the two heaps.

Chiromo paused and looked round at the witnesses in a strange manner. As his eyes sought out those of each witness ranged against him, his personality made itself felt. Men quailed, women covered their faces, and children cried lustily. The witch doctor pointed suddenly to the sky, then at the ground, and then at the witnesses. Picking up a chameleon he dangled it over the flame; he did not drop it in the fire, but looked round again with a malignant grin. This was more than the witnesses could stand; they bolted as fast as their legs could carry them. Something dreadful was about to happen. When doctors engaged in a trial of strength, ordinary men were better out of the way. The messengers alone stood fast. They kept their eyes on Mokorongo who, in turn, watched the Commissioner.

"Bring back the headman," thundered the Commissioner; "two of you will do," as all the messengers started off.

The headman of the village in which Chiromo lived was quickly brought back, and stood, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Now go on with the burning," ordered the Commissioner.

The tone of authority was unmistakable, so Chiromo complied without further ado.

One by one the medicines, necklets, charms and other rubbish were dropped into the fire. After a while, the headman removed his hands from his face. It was evident that the white man was the stronger doctor of the two. Chiromo had looked very bad, it was true, but he had been able to do nothing. One by one the witnesses crept back and took their seats.

The Commissioner then sent for one of his house-boys and gave him an order in an undertone. The boy presently returned, carrying a carpet slipper.

"Hold Chiromo face downwards on the ground," said the Commissioner. The messengers obeyed. "Now, Mokorongo, beat him."

And Mokorongo did so, in the manner of a mother chastising her child--but rather harder.

Chiromo squealed, promising loudly never to offend again. Then someone laughed, then another and another; presently all were laughing--with the exception of Chiromo--even the Commissioner smiled: Mokorongo stopped beating and laughed too.

The messengers released their hold on Chiromo, who got up rubbing a certain portion of his anatomy. Everybody laughed again.

Laughter at a man kills faith in him. The spell was broken. From that day forward this witch doctor, once powerful in hypnotic suggestion, was as other men.

"And now," said the Commissioner, "we will hear the evidence."

The preliminary examination in the case of Rex v. Chiromo then began.

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE AND DEATH.

Of the many curios which I acquired during my twenty-five years' residence in Africa, there is one which I value above all others. I bought it a few weeks before I left the country. It is a round wooden pot with a lid to it. On the lid is the seated figure of a little old man with his shoulders hunched up, his chin resting in his two hands, his elbows on his knees. There is a mildly amused expression on the rudely carved face; whether this is there by accident or design I cannot say. On one side of the pot is a snake in relief; on the other, a tortoise.

I bought this pot from a very old native. So old was he that his scanty knots of hair were quite white and his eyes were very dim. He must have been a fine enough man once, but now his dull, greyish-black skin clung in folds about his gaunt frame. I paid the old man the modest price he named, and asked him the meaning of the figures on the lid and sides of the pot.

The following is his explanation, given in short, jerky sentences, done into English as literally as our language will permit:

"Yes, it was a long time ago. So long ago was it that no white man had then come to this country. It was before my father's day. Before that even of his father. Both died old men. Yes, so long ago was it, that only the old people now speak of those past times. It was when men did not grow old and die. There was no death then; all men lived on, and happily.

"One day all this was changed. God became angry--that is God on the lid of the pot. What foolish things men did to make God angry, I do not know. He must have been very angry. In his anger God sent His messenger of death to men. He sent His messenger, the snake. Then people began to die--that is the snake on the side of the pot.

"So many people died that all became frightened. They thought all would soon be dead. In their fear they cried to God. They said they were sorry for their foolish act, whatever that might have been. They promised they would anger Him no more. They begged Him to recall His messenger, the snake.

"After a while God agreed. He said He would recall His messenger, the snake. He would send another messenger--that is the second messenger on the other side of the pot. God sent the tortoise to recall the snake."

The old man paused and mused for a little while, and then resumed:

"When I was a young man I thought to myself, perhaps the tortoise will overtake the snake; that some day he will deliver God's message. I am an old man now. I do not think the tortoise will ever overtake the snake--at least, not in my time."

He said all this without a trace of emotion. He was too much of a philosopher, it seemed, to indulge in anything so profitless as self-pity.

"Do you kill snakes when you see them?" I asked.

"No," said he. "Why should I? But I do kill tortoises. The tortoise is very lazy. He runs with his message so slowly. Moreover, a tortoise is good meat."

Having told his story and pouched the price of his pot, the old man rose painfully and hobbled away. Just outside my compound gate he paused and made a vicious stab at something in a patch of grass.

* * * * *

Shouldering his assegai, he passed on his way, a writhing tortoise impaled upon the blade.

FLATTERY.

I.

Robert Gregory was proud of his house. A Colonial Bishop, passing through on his way to England, stayed with Gregory; in his bread-and-butter letter he wrote:

"... I think your house the most beautiful and unique in Central Africa...."

Unique perhaps it was, but scarcely beautiful.

When all is said and done, it was merely the ordinary bungalow of which one finds examples all over Africa. In size it was very modest, having only a hall, with a dining-room on one side and a bedroom on the other. There were in addition various excrescences, termed locally "lean-to's." One of these was a pantry, another a storeroom, a third a bathroom, and so on. No, it must have been to the interior decorations that the Bishop referred.

Gregory hoped to marry when next he went to England. During his last visit to the old country, on leave, he became engaged.

The woman of his choice had once remarked to him: "I do hope you have heaps and heaps of curios."

On his return to Africa Gregory began to collect curios, and now he had indeed "heaps and heaps" of them. You see, he had his excuses.

On the walls of the hall were trophies of assegais and shields. These trophies were arranged in the approved armoury manner; that is to say, a shield in the centre with assegai blades radiating from it in all directions.

Flanking each of the principal trophies were lesser ones, composed of battle-axes in groups of two or three. These battle-axes were murderous-looking things. The heads of some were crescent-shaped, others were merely wedges of metal.

In the intervening spaces were a variety of knives remarkable chiefly for their sheaths, which were curiously shaped and carved. There was a dado, too, round the wall, made of arrows arranged head downwards towards the floor. These were surmounted by bows fixed horizontally to the wall; they completed the dado, as it were.

On the other two sides ancient guns of various makes and ages took the place of the arrows. There were flint locks, Tower muskets, Portuguese, French and German smooth-bore rifles, gaily decorated by native owners with bands of highly polished copper round the barrel and brass-headed nails driven into the stock.

On a shelf, which ran round the hall a few feet from the ceiling, were specimens of native pottery. Some were highly coloured, others dull red. All had curious patterns scratched on them, done before baking, and most of them bore fire marks and other evidence that their makers were somewhat lacking in the potter's skill. The shapes, however, were pleasing.

The dining-room held a miscellaneous collection. The principal objects were musical instruments, chiefly of the harmonica variety, strips of hard wood suspended over gourds of different sizes. In the bad old days human skulls were used in place of gourds. But there were many others, both string and wind instruments, and some rattles.

In this room was also a collection of snuff boxes; nearly all of them were minute gourds, differing one from another in decoration. Some were completely covered with gaily coloured beads affixed cunningly and in pleasing patterns. Some were banded with beads, which gave them the appearance of small school globes. Others, again, were simply carved in relief, whilst a few were decorated with plaited brass, copper, or iron wire. All were very neatly made.

Occupying a space between a window and a door was a unique collection of snuff spoons. These were nearly all made of bright metal. Not only do the natives use them for taking snuff, but also for preparing to take snuff and for recovering after snuffing. To be quite plain, they use them as our snuff-taking ancestors used their bandannas. They have yet a third use, namely, scraping the skin on a hot day.

The only reason why Gregory had so many of these nasty little implements was that they were so neatly made and in such diversity of pattern.

In the spaces usually occupied by pictures were specimens of the native weavers' art, very highly coloured cloths of coarse texture. On shelves over the doors and windows of his dining-room were pots, mugs, bowls, and platters of carved wood. The patterns were curiously like those one finds on early pottery dug up in such quantities and in so many spots along the shores of the Mediterranean. A kaross or skin blanket was thrown over the back of almost every chair and covered the one settee.

There was hardly anything of European manufacture in the hall and dining-room. Even the tables and chairs were native made and of country timber. In place of carpets, the floors were covered with rush and reed mats ornamented with strange patterns done in brightly dyed bark and fibre.

The bedroom alone held nothing but European furniture.

The collection was certainly a remarkable one--I have not attempted a complete inventory--and Gregory had taken great pains to arrange it, as some would say, artistically.

One day five natives arrived carrying a letter addressed to Gregory. It was from a woman, Chief in her own right. It ran as follows:

APRIL.

MY FRIEND,

I send to you my servant Siadiadiadi with four others. As I cannot come to you myself I send my five people. I have heard much of your fine house and wish to see it. As I am old I send my people that they may see it and bring me word of it. I ask you to let them see it for three days, and on the fourth they shall return to me.

I am well and all my people are well, but the cattle have a disease. I hope you are well.

I must close my letter now with greetings.

Your faithful friend,

MOVANA.

Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni.

I believe Gregory was pleased: at any rate he permitted the messengers to see his house. For the full three days they stayed. He often found them agape in the hall or in the dining room, taking mental notes. It was clear that the five natives were much impressed. Whenever Gregory entered the house, they saluted him and crept silently out. There was no reason to guard against theft; uncivilised natives do not steal.

On the fourth day Siadiadiadi and his companions thanked Gregory in the name of their mistress and went away.

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oorsel's as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion.

II.

Some six months later Gregory, travelling to the extreme limit of his district, found himself within easy distance of the village occupied by the Chieftainess who had been so curious about his house. He felt inclined to go out of his way to see her. When he was resting at midday a native brought him a letter which helped him to make up his mind to do so.

MY FRIEND,

I hear that you have arrived near to my village. Please come and see my house. I think you will like it. Hoping you are well, with greetings.

Your faithful friend,

MOVANA.

Written by interpreter Jacob Mazuni. I, too, send greetings.

So Gregory went to see the house.

Outside the village he was met by the usual gathering of elderly headmen, polite and dignified, who led him to the door of their Chief's house.

The house was barnlike, with a high, well-thatched roof.

At the entrance stood the owner. She was very stout and wore a print dress. A red shawl was thrown over her shoulders, and she had a very small straw hat perched on her large, woolly head. Gregory noticed that the hat was very much on one side. Her feet were bare.

After unusually hearty greetings she led the white man into her house.

When Gregory stepped over the threshold he stopped and stood looking from wall to wall aghast. The old black woman interpreted his open mouth to indicate admiration, wonder. This is what he saw.

On a deal table a complete toilet set. Complete to the extent that it included two of those very intimate pieces of domestic furniture seldom seen outside the shops where toilet ware is sold, and surely never before exhibited with pride by the owner. Hanging awkwardly from a nail in the wall, a slop pail of enamelled iron. This was supported on the one side by a dustpan and brush, on the other by a pair of elastic-sided boots. On each side of this remarkable trophy were pinned two very ordinary coloured pocket handkerchiefs.

On a small corner shelf was a large brown earthenware teapot with the words "Advance Australia" done in raised letters. Four enamelled ware egg cups were its companions.

One wall was devoted exclusively to kitchen utensils; new tin kettles predominated, but almost everything was represented.

Opposite this bright array the wall was literally covered with bedding. The centre piece was a mattress; sheets on one side, blankets on the other, pillows above, bolsters below.

But what shocked Gregory more than anything else was a regular trousseau of feminine underclothing, ranged round the door through which he had entered. He blushed hotly and with difficulty suppressed an impulse to bolt without ceremony.

"What do you think of my house, my friend?"

"I think it--er--beautiful, the most wonderful in all the world."

"Yes, I thought you would like it. Do you not like the things my people use? For myself, I like the things the white people use. You put the black man's things in your house. I put the white man's things in my house. We are two friends who have the same thoughts. You buy from the people. I buy from the traders. The traders have promised to bring me many more things. My house is not finished yet. After the rains it will be finished, then you must come and see it again."

* * * * *

When Gregory reached his bungalow after his journey he stripped his walls and packed all his curios in boxes. These he despatched to his father in England, who was very pleased with them.

He replaced his curios by the Hundred Best Pictures, framed suitably in fumed oak.

"LIZIZI."

I.