Red Strangers

by Elspeth Huxley

  Soon after Muthengi had obtained his weapons he was called by an njama to take his turn of duty with the cattle herds. Pride and excitement filled his heart; now at last he would take his place as the defender of his clan among his fellows. He went down to Iruri in the early morning, swinging lightly over dew-soaked turf. The rains had started. The sweet scent of new shoots was everywhere and the earth was dark with growth and moisture. Birds were darting self-importantly across the soft sky with twigs and moss trailing from their beaks. The earth, like the young warriors, had put on its bright bead ornaments : flecks of blue and orange, red and purple, the delicate petals of wild flowers shining out of the wet, sweet-stemmed grasses and the swiftly-growing shrubs.

  Muthengi’s own skin glowed in the morning sunshine no less brightly. He wore, for the first time, the warrior’s coat of ochre and fat. Rattles clanked merrily on his ankles and feathers waved in his hair. Suspended from his neck was a pair of tweezers for pulling out all the hairs on his body, and a small horn containing a charm. A bead belt around his waist supported a club and his new sword in its ox-hide scabbard that he had dyed vermilion with the powdered root of the mugaka shrub, mixed with cane juice and a little soda. Muthengi filled his lungs and laughed aloud, for the day was new-born and the world was young. He knew that it was good to be alive, and a warrior on his way to the plain.

  4

  EACH day the young herders arose before the sun, when the sky was white as polished metal behind the black crest of Kerinyagga, and pulled aside the thorny branches blocking the entrance to the cattle enclosures. Cows and calves slept in separate bomas. The calves lolloped quickly towards their hump-backed mothers, but they were held back by one herdsman while another crouched on his three-legged stool and milked the mother with one hand into an open calabash. Only when this was over were the bleating calves allowed to suck their breakfasts. Milk from the calabashes was poured into long, thin-necked gourds, already prepared by rinsing with cows’ urine and filling with smoke, and put aside until evening, when the milk would have turned into a delicious sour junket.

  The no less delicious breakfast food was easily obtained. A heifer’s legs were roped with leather thongs and she was thrown on her side. One herdsman seized her horns and half twisted her head over his knee, so that the neck was laid bare, while another fitted to his bow an arrow that had been blocked by winding a thick roll of twine just below the point. He aimed carefully and fired into the cow’s jugular vein. The arrow was jerked out and a jet of blood sprang from the wound, to be caught in an open calabash. When the measure was full, the skin around the wound was pinched together and the heifer released; the blood was poured, frothing, into two gourds, already half filled with milk. The gourds were passed from hand to hand and each young herdsman took a long draught of the warm, satisfying fluid.

  After the cattle had visited the salt-lick they were driven far afield in search of pasture. At this time of year herding was easy. Before the rains the long, dry grass, as high as a man’s shoulder, had been burnt off, and already the stiff, blackened stumps were bright with new growth. Below Iruri the great plain Laikipia stretched into space, as green and pleasing as an endless field of young millet, and thickly dotted with big herds of hartebeeste and zebra, gnu, oryx and gazelle. Later in the year, when the game migrated and sap lay dormant and a cloud of pink blossom covered the Cape chestnuts, it was a different story. Then weary cattle, stark as dead trees, plodded long miles in search of pasture through grass whose dry stems slashed like knives at the herders’ legs and feet. Then the shrill, unchanging song of grasshoppers was like a flame that never flickered in the ears of the young men, and a mist of fine dust from the cattle’s hooves rose into their thirsty throats.

  But such hardships lay in the future. Now the new grass was sweet and luscious and the ground springy beneath the herdsmen’s feet. Muthengi soon learnt the Masai trick of standing for long stretches of time on one foot, resting the other against the inside of his rigid thigh and leaning on his spear. All day long he guarded cattle on the level plain, dozing sometimes in the sun, moving sometimes with a long, loping stride to head off a straying beast. Overhead, fat multi-coloured clouds grew gradually out of a blue sky, deeper than the wisdom of God, as sheets of purple muthakwa blossom unfold from buds small as dust-motes to shroud the hillsides after rain. Before the sun sank to rest the herdsmen drove the cattle back towards the bomas and watered them at a spring. As night fell beasts and men found shelter in their separate enclosures, and the herdsmen told each other valorous stories over their evening meal around the fire.

  5

  THE peace of the district was shattered abruptly one morning, a little before noon.

  All along the ridges women were weeding in the shambas and men, for the most part, lounging in the shade or intent on the game giuthi, which was played with counters of beans in two rows of shallow holes dug in the ground. Suddenly the sleepy silence was pierced by a distant high-pitched shout. It had an instantaneous effect. Women dropped their knives and straightened their backs with consternation on their faces. Men jumped to their feet and stood listening, their heads cocked to one side. The shouting came again quite plainly, a sort of wail, long and high, from a distant ridge.

  In a moment people were scurrying in all directions like winged termites rising out of the earth after a shower of rain. Warriors dived into their huts to extract their head-dresses, their rattles and their weapons of war. In the compounds their womenfolk helped them to strap on swords and quivers and handed them spear, club and shield. Boys herding in the bush drove the goats with all speed towards the forest. The air was full of shouting. Nduini brought out the war-horn, the horn of a kudu, and ran to the top of a hill to send its warning on to the western ridges, towards Wangombe’s and the distant cattle. Two ridges over the signal was taken up by the next horn, and soon its clear note was floating down from the hills to salt-lick and plain.

  There the herders heard it, and sprang into action. First, runners spread out on the flanks of the herds to bring them together and drive them towards the Amboni, away from danger. All the rest of the warriors, Muthengi among them, assembled by the salt-lick ready to charge into the battle wherever they might be needed, and if possible to cut off the enemy’s retreat. Black balls of ostrich feather were lifted off the tips of spears and swords loosened in the sheaths. Presently a low, throbbing chant began, deep in the chests of the warriors, and soon the war song was rising up to the ridges above, while feet stamped in unison and flashing spears quivered under the sun.

  Matu was herding goats near his grandfather’s homestead when the shouting started. With terror itching in his legs he drove them helter-skelter to Mahenia’s, where his grandmothers were dressing Ngarariga for the fight. Mahenia was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Fly quickly to the forest,” Ngarariga ordered. “ Go first to Waseru’s, and he will tell you what to do. You should be safe enough there; the enemy will never get as far as that.”

  Two njamas ran by, calling to Ngarariga to join them.

  “Masai have seized our cattle at the salt-lick of Gethwini,” one shouted. “They are driving them now towards the plain behind the hill Mawé; our warriors were taken unawares. I carry Nduini’s orders! Run to the ford below Mawé, where the path crosses the river. Here the Masai must pass on their retreat, here Nduini will fall upon them to recapture the cattle. Run on, like the whirlwind that races over the plain !”

  The njamas hurried on, pausing at each compound to summon all able-bodied men of the warrior classes. Columns of smoke standing up above the ridge behind them showed that the victorious Masai, not content with carrying off cattle, were firing the huts. The hillside glittered like quartz as the spearheads of converging warriors hurrying to the ford caught the sun. An njama blew steadily on the war-horn and the air was full of shouts.

  In Mahenia’s homestead his two wives quickly collected a few calabashes of cooked food and some water-gourds, gathered up the terrified small children and
set off up the path that led into the forest and to Waseru’s shamba. Soon they joined a stream of women, children and old men hurrying in the same direction. The elders were shaking their heads dolefully and many of the women were in tears. The refugees moved for the most part in dispirited silence, save for the bleating of agitated goats and the whimpering of babies. The silence of the forest was broken only by the harsh screech of monkeys and the fluting of woodpigeons; distant shouts of triumph or defeat were muffled by a wall of trees. They halted at the swampy glade below Waseru’s shamba and sat in an uneasy silence, listening with the intensity of hunted animals. Waseru searched among the crowd for his father, but without success. Several distracted mothers failed to account for all their children, and most of the elders missed some of their goats.

  6

  A TALL warrior, his head-dress waving like a storm-tossed tree, came panting to the salt-licks at Iruri with Nduini’s urgent orders.

  “Go to the ford below the hill Mawé,” he shouted. “Run like the eland, there is no time to lose ! The Masai have split their ranks; some have turned back towards the forest and seek a way behind the hill Kiamucheru with most of the cattle; Nduini has gone to cut them off, if he can. The others are making for the Mawé ford. Run, warriors, with feet like arrows and the hearts of lions; the lives and wealth of your fathers are yours to save !”

  With a great shout the column set off at a fast loping run up the slope ahead, dodging through thick grass to avoid pits dug to trap hostile invaders. They were shaking with excitement, their eyes were burning and their throats dry. When they reached the ford it seemed as if the grass on the hillside opposite had turned to black feathers, so thick were the moving plumes. Muthengi had barely recovered his breath when a deep groan came from the warriors and over the edge of the hill ahead, a shoulder of Mawé, the tawny crest of a Masai lion head-dress appeared. The tall, long-legged enemies, each with a narrow white shield on his forearm painted in red and blue, poured over the horizon. When they saw the Kikuyu ahead a low rumble came out of their throats, like the growl of a lioness getting ready to charge. They halted on the opposite slope, closing their ranks for a charge.

  Muthengi gazed at them in exhilaration, lust of battle mingling with fear and admiration in his heart. They were taller than any men he had seen before. Their thighs were straight as saplings, their features sharp as axes, their skins lighter than honey. His limbs began to quiver like the wings of a sunbird when its beak sucks honey from a red-hot-poker bloom, and his blood raced wildly in his veins.

  The Kikuyu army was marshalled by njamas in three ranks. In front was a line of warriors crouching on their heels, hidden behind broad shields, with clubs ready in their hands. Behind were the bowmen, whose arrows had been newly dipped in the poison which the Athi had taught them to brew; and behind them, a line of spearmen. Although they were outnumbered by perhaps four to one the Masai, to whom fear was unknown, lined up in a double rank and couched their spears for the attack. At a word from the commander a great shout filled the air, and simultaneously the Masai rolled down the hill in a compact red wave and with the speed of rushing water. They crossed the shallow stream without breaking ranks and surged up the hill to throw themselves against the shields of the Kikuyu.

  As they started up the slope the first line of the defenders hurled their clubs at the advancing phalanx. There was a sound of thunder as the clubs rattled against the flashing shields of the Masai. But the shields were narrow, and some of the clubs, glancing off, struck the heads of the warriors and felled a few of them to the ground. The club-throwers then leapt to their feet, scattered, and ran around, drawing their swords, to form a line behind the spearmen.

  A volley of arrows sped like a swarm of bees straight into the faces of the Masai. Many hung quivering in shields, but others bit into legs, arms and feet. The Masai kept on and did not waver; but barely had they engaged the first line of the Kikuyu when many of them jerked their limbs, spun around with queer motions, sank squirming to their knees and finally toppled over and lay still.

  The Kikuyu spearmen crouched to the ground as the Masai fell upon them, thrusting upwards and sideways at their opponents’ legs and faces. The ranks of attackers and attacked dissolved into a seething whirlpool of warriors fighting hand to hand. The Masai, although so heavily out-numbered, fought as if possessed by devils. Warriors with arrows deep in their thighs lunged about them with their spears until poison congealed their blood and weapons dropped from their helpless hands.

  Muthengi had not imagined that men could fight with such ferocity. He crouched low behind his shield, and when the line of Kikuyu bowmen scattered, the onrushing giants loomed ahead. One came directly at him, spear poised high to strike. Muthengi leapt like a frog to one side and the spear plunged into the ground beside his heel. He swivelled around and lunged, but the Masai’s slim body bent like a reed and the blow glanced off his long shield. Before Muthengi could recover his opponent plucked out the spear, jumped back and struck again. Muthengi caught the blow on his shield. The spear-point pierced the hide and quivered a finger’s breadth above his heart. The blow knocked him backwards, but with a twist he pulled his arm from the loop of the shield, rolled over and jumped to his feet, his sword already out of its sheath.

  For a few moments they eyed each other, swords in hand, their feet dancing on the turf. The shouts and blows all around them rolled unheard over their ears. Muthengi saw the bared teeth of the Masai widen in a grin of triumph; the shieldless man was at his mercy. He stepped back and half turned as if to fly. The Masai lunged, and, at the same moment, Muthengi leapt forward and heard iron cut air behind his head. His arm swung and his sword crashed like a falling tree on the Masai’s shoulder. A bone cracked, the Masai’s knees crumpled and the proud, steel-sinewed body folded up at his feet.

  The odds against the invaders were too great. When the Kikuyu line stood firm the Masai knew that they were doomed, but they fought on until the end. None surrendered and none fled. When the fight was over fifty Masai and as many Kikuyu corpses lay on the blood-soaked ground.

  The victors, many of them bleeding, some in great pain with deep gaping wounds, stripped the dying men of their weapons and gathered up the spears. Muthengi wrenched the spear of his dead adversary from his own shield and carried it proudly home. There was no trophy more prized than the spear of a Masai warrior killed in single-handed combat.

  7

  FOR several days hyenas howled in satisfaction over the ridges and the sky was full of vultures, for corpses defiled the land. When only whitening bones remained, those whose huts had been burnt set to work to make good their losses. The forest rang with axes, and columns of women wound their way to a swamp near Karatina to return like moving reed-beds, weighed down with thatch. Warriors laid aside their spears and helped their fathers to weave wicker doors and the round walls of granaries. Within six days, smoke was rising from new roofs wherever an old one had stood, fences were being built around the compounds, and goat-bells sounded again from the bush.

  But the damage had been heavy, for Nduini and his section of the warriors had failed to cut off the retreat of the main body of the raiders, and the Masai had succeeded in driving away most of their captured booty. So nearly half the cattle of the district had gone and several families, once rich, were ruined; while those whose homesteads had been fired had lost their whole season’s store of beans and maize.

  Waseru, the fortunate, had lost nothing, for Matu had saved all the goats. But his luck would not make much difference to his welfare, except that Wanjeri would be certain of next season’s seed. He was bound to share all the food in his granaries with his father’s family, with his more distant kinsfolk and even with men of his age-grade, if they were in need.

  And, in the general confusion, a sickness had found its way into old Mahenia’s body. He had been over on Irumu’s ridge with a small group of elders when the disaster happened and had only just reached the forest in time. They had spent all night in the open
, on the cold damp earth, not daring to emerge until news reached them of the outcome of the fight. And because there had been no women amongst them, there had also been nothing to eat.

  It soon became apparent that Mahenia was very ill. His breath rattled in his throat, his mind rambled and his flesh was hot. Waseru sent for Irumu, who came with his bag of medicines and entered the old man’s hut. When he emerged his face was grave.

  “Mahenia is very sick,” he announced. “A goat should be sacrificed immediately, but even so I do not know if it will save him. Mahenia has enemies, and this has been the hour of their opportunity.”

  Waseru heard this news with the utmost distress. A he-goat was quickly brought and suffocated, and Irumu sprinkled the stomach contents mixed with medicines around the old man’s bed and over his person, uttering magic spells; but Mahenia failed to rally. For a long time Waseru and his two stepmothers sat by the old man’s side listening to his quick, uneven breathing. Later, the muramati arrived and took his place by the bedside with the dying man’s two sons.