“It’s the polite chitchat you people are so fond of,” said Marius van Hoek, a mirthless grin splitting the red curtain of his beard. “That’s what really gets on my nerves, Mr Holmes. No wonder we won the Freedom War and regained our own republic. You Brits and your formalities. Not to mention your army’s stupid fussy uniforms. You had the numbers, you had the troops, and you still couldn’t defeat a ragtag militia of farmers and cattlemen. The Boer does not stand on ceremony. The Boer does not follow the rules of engagement. The Boer just gets on with the job and does what is necessary. That’s the big difference between our races.”
“And now that same necessity has driven you to work for an English corporation. How interesting.”
Van Hoek gave the merest of shrugs, a twitch of one shoulder. “Ach, I go where the money is. Fanthorpe pays well. Besides, it’s not good to hold a grudge, especially if you’re on the winning side. You have to be generous in victory.”
“Where is Umslopogaas?” said Quatermain.
“Ja, you see?” said Van Hoek. “Allan Quatermain – the sainted Macumazahn – he doesn’t tiptoe around. He gets down to business. That’s how we do things in Africa. Straight to the point.”
“Answer my question.”
“Your Zulu friend is here. He’s fine. For now.”
“Bring him out. Show him to me.”
“I can do that. He has served his purpose, after all. He has got you here, where we want you – where we can finish this whole thing off, once and for all, in isolation, away from prying eyes.”
“We?”
“Yes,” said Van Hoek. “There’s someone else whose acquaintance you might be interested in making. Or, as the case may be, re-acquaintance.”
“Your accomplice,” said Holmes. “It is he who is controlling these wolves, not you. You are too busy controlling us.”
“I am a man of many talents,” said Van Hoek, “but I am no practitioner of the hocus-pocus stuff.”
“Hocus-pocus? Quatermain has been hearing a shrill whistling which serves to give the wolves their commands. There is hardly any hocus-pocus about that.”
“Wolves are not dogs. It takes more than just training to become their master, especially over the span of just a few days. Feed them certain herbs, however, perform certain rituals… See Quatermain’s face? He knows this too. He knows there is a deeper art involved here. But that is not my province. I leave that to the experts. Speaking of whom…” Van Hoek directed his next comment over his shoulder, into the cave. “You! They’re eager to see that old impi. I have them covered. Let’s oblige them.”
In reply, a cackle sounded from within, shrill and echoing.
I saw Quatermain stiffen, as though an electric shock had passed through him.
“It is,” he breathed. “It is he after all. But – but that is not possible.”
A moment later, Umslopogaas emerged from the cave mouth. He moved stolidly like a somnambulist, his eyes lost and empty. There was none of the animation that usually made his face so lively and engaging. I had seen marionettes more expressive.
Behind him came a smaller figure, a diminutive African. At first I thought him a child, until I saw a mane of long, tangled grey hair and a wizened countenance slyer than any fox’s, and realised this was no child but an elderly dwarf. He was clad in what I can only think of as traditional Zulu garb: a calfskin apron, cow tails hanging from his upper arms below his knees, and a headband made of leopard hide. In addition, a necklace strung with lion’s teeth and claws hung below his extraordinarily large head down to his sternum.
“Macumazahn,” said this outlandish specimen in gloating tones. In his right hand he held Groan-Maker, whose length from hilt to blade tip was not much shorter than his own from toe to crown. Attached to his left wrist was some sort of dried gourd, hanging by a thong, with a series of holes bored into it. “You look surprised. Your jaw is almost at your breastbone.”
“Zikali,” said Quatermain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE THING-THAT-SHOULD-NEVER-HAVE-BEEN-BORN
“You are dead, Zikali,” said Allan Quatermain. “I saw you die.”
The dwarf smiled in dismissal, as though death were a minor inconvenience, like an ingrown toenail or a touch of dyspepsia. “You saw me plunge into a waterfall, Macumazahn. That is not dying.”
“You never surfaced.”
“You never saw me surface. But rivers flow, and currents carry objects, bodies included. Who is to say that downstream, out of your view, I did not rise again from the depths? I am sure that Mr Sherlock Holmes here, with those detective skills he so cherishes, would have ascertained the full facts of the situation before making a pronouncement of fatality.”
“It did cross my mind that it might be you marshalling the wolves,” said Quatermain. “The feat is well within the scope of your abilities. Then I rejected the idea. ‘Zikali is no more,’ I said to myself. ‘This is the handiwork of some other nyanga.’”
From the context, I took it that nyanga meant witch-doctor.
“Hee hee! No, Macumazahn. It is I, the wizard of Black Kloof, the one they call the Opener-of-Roads. It is I and no other.”
“They call you something else.” Quatermain’s lip curled. “The Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born. There could not be a more appropriate name for an abomination.”
“Come, come,” said Zikali. “That is no way to talk. Have we not been amicable at times in the past? Did you not to seek out my counsel some ten years ago during a time in your life when your spirits were at low ebb and you desired proof that the soul survives death?”
“And you sent me to the lost city of Kôr, and to Ayesha, beauteous queen of that place, known as She Who Must Be Obeyed. It was an encounter which nearly proved my undoing, and likewise that of Umslopogaas and my other companion Hans, which I am sure was your intent.”
“Had you died, the veil of ignorance would have been lifted and all your questions answered.”
“Still, you are no friend of mine, Zikali,” said Quatermain, “and you never have been. You are a forger of convenient alliances and a weaver of webs of intrigue, with one eye ever on your own advantage. Had I my gun in my hands right now, I should not hesitate for a second. I would blast that ugly, misbegotten life of yours from the world and not feel an ounce of regret.”
Zikali cackled again. There was no humour in his laughter, just maniacal glee, as though his only delights were obscene ones. I had never heard a hyena laugh, but this, I thought, was the sort of sound it would make.
“I have made sure you shall not have that chance, old hunter,” Zikali said jubilantly, his grizzled locks shaking. “Look how I have orchestrated it all. How I have led you by the nose to this spot, this moment, this ending. How I have woven one of those webs you just spoke of and ensnared you in its sticky toils.”
“If I may interject here, Zikali,” said Holmes. “I appreciate that you and Quatermain have much to say to each other, given the troubled, bloody history you clearly share. However, there are a few matters I would care to clear up. It was you, of course, who summoned Umslopogaas out of his and Quatermain’s camp and led him to this place.”
“True! True! How easy it was to slip a powerful hypnotic drug – a mixture of thorn apple stems and the root of the golden flower – into Umslopogaas’s morning meal, so that his mind became lost amongst the white ways of dreams. After that, a simple chant became the beacon by which I led him hither, step by step, as a piper leads a dance.”
“Then it was the task of Van Hoek to shoot at us and flee so that we would fear for Umslopogaas’s safety and be drawn to seek him.”
“At my advising, yes.”
“And you kindly furnished us with a clue to aid us – the symbol in the ground.”
“I knew that either you, Mr Holmes, or you, Macumazahn, would decipher it, and you did. All of this was my doing! All mine! The fruit of my cunning! Hee hee!” Zikali danced a little caper on the spot.
“Now, no doubt, so
me dismal fate lies in store for us. Neither Watson, Quatermain nor I will survive the night.”
“It is not personal where you and Dr Watson are concerned,” said the dwarf. “Please do not think that. I bear no animosity towards either of you. You are inconveniences that must be disposed of; that is all. As is the man who brought you here in his carriage. He cannot be left alive, and will be dealt with later. There must be no witnesses, no one left alive to tell the tale.”
“Whereas with Quatermain it is personal.”
“It could not be more so. Macumazahn has stood against me all his long life and mine.”
“Only because you yourself have stood against the Zulu nation,” said Quatermain. “You were instrumental in the demise of that proud warrior race, Zikali – your own people – and for what? To satisfy your malevolent lusts. To indulge in your love for manipulating others. To show that somehow, for all your small stature, you are bigger than everyone. How pathetic!”
“I have changed the course of history. How many men can say the same? It is not just you whites who can map out the future of countries and peoples. Someone as stunted and misshapen as I – and I have no illusions about my appearance – has done what whole armies could not. I have exercised power greater than kings and queens. I am the equal of any emperor. Who is small of stature now, Macumazahn?” Zikali puffed up his chest. “Dwarf I may be in body, but my deeds have made me a giant!”
“Zikali,” said Holmes, “no one is questioning your superiority. There has been ample demonstration of it, if only through your besting of the three of us. The four of us, counting Umslopogaas. Yet it seems anomalous that one as mighty as you, a witch-doctor of repute, is reduced to working for a mining company. You have, after all, been helping out with labour relations at the Silasville mine, have you not?”
Zikali acknowledged it with a nod and another of those cackles, this one a touch more muted than previous.
“Is that not something of a comedown for a man who has changed the course of history?” said Holmes.
“I am not any the lesser for my new role in life,” said Zikali. “I have certain obligations that I must meet. What of it?”
“Obligations to Fanthorpe Overseas Ventures? No. Not that. You are not the type to pledge yourself to any institution. This is a deeper level of debt. Is it by any chance to Mr Van Hoek?”
The dwarf smiled, even as his grip on Groan-Maker tightened.
“That is it, isn’t it?” said Holmes. “You are plighted to Van Hoek somehow. You owe him, and in return he owns you.”
“Ha!” said Van Hoek. “The fellow has a sharp eye, I’ll say that for him. Tell him how I saved you, Zikali. Tell him how for the past five years you have been my right-hand man. It’s a good tale.”
“What is there to tell?” Zikali said somewhat testily. “Mr Van Hoek pulled me from the river when I was half drowned. With those big fists of his he pounded the water out of my chest and the air back in. I was supposed to be dead. That was the fate I had allotted myself. I had finished my work upon this earth. I had granted the great god of the heavens Umkulu-kulu the sacrifice of multitudinous souls that he craved. It was with joy that I sent myself to my reward. But Umkulu-kulu seemed to have other ideas.”
“I thought it was a log at first,” said Van Hoek, “a lump of driftwood passing by the spot where I had camped by the river bank. Then I saw that it was a body floating face down, a youngster, or so I assumed. I waded in and retrieved him. You can imagine my surprise when I turned him over and saw that face. I almost dropped him in disgust. I would rather have been carrying a baboon. But then something came over me. Perhaps it was compassion.”
“It was the will of Umkulu-kulu,” said Zikali. “The god breathed upon you, inspiring you to a noble act. You nursed me back to health, and in so doing you put me in the position in which I now find myself, that of your servant.” There was a clear distaste on the witch-doctor’s face as he said this, but resignation too. He was indentured not just to Van Hoek but to the belief system by which he lived. His god had made a Boer his saviour. Zikali had no choice but to go along with that, however much he resented it.
“We make a good team, Zikali and I,” Van Hoek said. “He does whatever I ask, no complaining. That’s a fair deal.”
“He is your slave, in other words,” said Holmes.
Zikali scowled, and I saw his gaze dart briefly to the gourd hanging from his left wrist. The gourd, I could only infer, was the whistle he used to direct the wolves’ actions. All he need do was put it to his lips and pipe an instruction – an order to attack – and the animals would respond. It seemed ill-advised of Holmes, therefore, to antagonise him. With Zikali’s wolves and Van Hoek’s rifle ranged against us, we were in a very vulnerable position.
Holmes persisted nonetheless. “When Van Hoek came to Silasville, he dragged you along with him. Then, after the miners had become particularly troublesome, he put you to work.”
“Why not? They knew I was a nyanga. It was a chance to wield my powers once more.”
“Your powers, or simply your reputation? The Devil’s Dust, after all, is nothing more mysterious than arsenic trioxide. You could claim it was magic, but it is merely poison. There is no sorcery involved in killing a man with poison, and to pretend otherwise is rank charlatanism.”
“I am no charlatan!” Zikali hissed. “I dominated the rats and the pigeons I sent to harass you. They are meagre creatures, your British beasts, compared with those of my homeland. None has the majesty of the lion or the might of the elephant. Yet still they are mine to command.”
“Precisely. Rats and pigeons. You can control pests and vermin.”
“And these wolves.” Zikali swept a hand around. “Don’t forget them. I turned to my advantage their fortuitous escape from captivity. I sought them and found them, and easily became their master. They are hardly vermin.”
“Still, that is all the once-supreme Zikali is capable of now, tricks with animals. You are a pale shadow of the wizard you were – if, that is, you were ever that wizardly to begin with.”
Zikali cackled, but his eyes were ablaze and the laughter sounded more like cursing. “Hee hee! You seek to hurt my feelings, Mr Holmes, but all you are doing is ensuring that your death will not be swift but, rather, prolonged.”
“And then,” Holmes continued, as though Zikali had not even spoken, “to compound your pettiness, you killed Harry Quatermain. He turned up at Silasville, the son of your great enemy, and you could not restrain yourself, could you? Small-minded, petulant little devil that you are, you lashed out at an innocent young man, directing at him the hatred you feel for his father.”
Quatermain’s face went ashen.
“Is this true, Zikali?” he said in a cold voice. “It was you? Not Van Hoek?”
It seemed for a moment as though Zikali might deny it, but the stage was his, the spotlight was upon him, this was his time of triumph, and what had he to gain by lying?
“Of course,” he said. “Of course it was I. An opportunity fell into my lap. A gift from the gods, one might call it. A young man named Quatermain, the spitting image of his father. He sauntered into town, and as soon as I learned of his presence I knew what I must do. I waylaid him in one of Silasville’s less frequented corners. I blew Uthuli lukaDeveli in his face from the palm of my hand. He could not help but inhale it into his lungs, in great quantity, and thus was his life ended. I stood over him as he writhed on the ground. I pictured him as his father, dying at my feet. I hugged myself as I thought of the anguish this loss would cause Macumazahn. It was all too blissful for words.”
“You—!”
Quatermain lunged for Zikali.
Two things happened at once. First, Van Hoek fired at Quatermain’s feet. Second, Zikali raised Groan-Maker and positioned the axe’s blade at Umslopogaas’s throat.
Together, these two responses served to halt Quatermain in his tracks.
At the same time one of the wolves let out a snarl, its ears twitch
ing. The gunshot had startled all of the creatures, and they shifted about in their disquiet. Zikali, seeing this, raised the gourd and blew into it. No discernible sound emerged, but the wolves calmed, resuming their attentive postures.
“We shall have none of that, Macumazahn,” the dwarf said sneeringly. “You may not value your own life, but Umslopogaas’s is another matter.”
“I will kill you, Zikali,” Quatermain intoned.
“How can you, when you will die before you even get close to me? Bluster away, great white hunter. I hold the power here, and I will prove it once and for all.”
He lowered Groan-Maker until its blade was level with Umslopogaas’s ribs. The taller Zulu was still insensible. He stood as unmoving as any statue.
“King Chaka was a cruel man,” Zikali said. “He held sway over the Zulus through fear and intimidation. His punishment for treachery or desertion was execution by the very worst of tortures, all designed to shore up his tyranny. There is a kind of poetic justice in me inflicting just such a punishment now upon his illegitimate son.”
“Zikali, no,” said Quatermain imploringly.
“Umslopogaas will feel everything and not be able to react. I shall cut him repeatedly, as King Chaka would his victims, until the blood flows freely from a hundred gashes or more. I shall carve off pieces of him, sliver by sliver. He will wish to scream but he will find he cannot. By the time I am done, your beloved friend will be a tattered scarecrow, with lumps of his own flesh heaped around his feet. Try and stop me, Macumazahn, and you and your allies will die.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
IMPASSE NO. 1
“He called you his ‘pet’, you know,” said Holmes.
Zikali paused, the axe hovering at Umslopogaas’s chest. He had ripped open the other Zulu’s shirt to expose his bare torso. I saw again all those many scars and blenched at the thought of the further mutilations Zikali was about to inflict.
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