Cry, The Beloved Country Part 30

Au! inkosana.

But I'm coming back for the holidays. Then we'll learn some more Zulu.

That will be a pleasure, said k.u.malo simply.

Goodbye then, umfundisi.

Goodbye, inkosana.

Then he said in Zulu, Go well, inkosana. The small boy thought for a moment, and frowned in concentration. Then he said in Zulu, Stay well, umfundisi. So k.u.malo said, Au! Au! in astonishment, and the small boy laughed and raised his cap, and was gone in a great cloud of dust. He galloped up the road, but stopped and turned round and saluted, before he set out on his way. And k.u.malo stood there, and the young demonstrator came and stood by him, both watching the small boy.

And that, said k.u.malo earnestly to the demonstrator, is a small angel from G.o.d.

They turned to walk back to the house, and k.u.malo said, So you think many things can be done?

There are many things that can be done, umfundisi.

Truly?

Umfundisi, said the young man, and his face was eager, there is no reason why this valley should not be what it was before. But it will not happen quickly. Not in a day.

If G.o.d wills, said k.u.malo humbly, before I die. For I have lived my life in destruction.

34.

EVERYTHING WAS READY for the confirmation. The women of the church were there, in their white dresses, each with the green cloth about her neck. Those men that were not away, and who belonged to this church, were there in their Sunday clothes, which means their working clothes, patched and cleaned and brushed. The children for the confirmation were there, the girls in their white dresses and caps, the boys in their school-going clothes, patched and cleaned and brushed. Women were busy in the house, helping the wife of the umfundisi, for after the confirmation there would be a simple meal, of tea boiled till the leaves had no more tea left in them, and of heavy homely cakes made of the meal of the maize. It was simple food, but it was to be eaten together.

And over the great valley the storm clouds were gathering again in the heavy oppressive heat, so that one did not know whether to be glad or sorry. The great dark shadows sailed over the red earth, and up the bare red hills to the tops. The people looked at the sky, and at the road by which the Bishop would come, and did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For it was certain that before this sun had set, the lightning would strike amongst the hills, and the thunder would echo amongst them.

k.u.malo looked at the sky anxiously, and at the road by which the Bishop would come; and while he was looking he was surprised to see his friend driving along the road, with the cart that brought the milk. For the milk never came so early.

You are early, my friend.

I am early, umfundisi, said his friend gravely. We work no more today. The inkosikazi is dead.

Au! Au! said k.u.malo, it cannot be.

It is so, umfundisi. When the sun stood so - and he pointed above his head - it was then that she died.

Au! Au! It is a sorrow.

It is a sorrow, umfundisi.

And the umnumzana?

He goes about silent. You know how he is. But this time the silence is heavier. Umfundisi, I shall go and wash myself, then I can come to the confirmation.

Go then, my friend.

k.u.malo went into the house, and he told his wife, The inkosikazi is dead. And she said, Au! Au! and the women also. Some of them wept, and they spoke of the goodness of the woman that was dead. k.u.malo went to his table, and sat down there, thinking what he should do. When this confirmation was over he would go up to the house at High Place, and tell Jarvis of their grief here in the valley. But there came a picture to him of the house of bereavement, of all the cars of the white people that would be there, of the black-clothed farmers that would stand about in little groups, talking gravely and quietly, for he had seen such a thing before. And he knew that he could not go, for this was not according to the custom. He would stand there by himself, and unless Jarvis himself came out, no one would ask why he was there, no one would know that he had brought a message. He sighed, and took out some paper from the drawer. He decided it must be written in English, for although most white men of these parts spoke Zulu, there were few who could read or write it. So he wrote then. And he wrote many things, and tore them up and put them aside, but at last it was finished.

Umnumzana: We are grieved here at this church to hear that the mother has pa.s.sed away, and we understand it and suffer with tears. We are certain also that she knew of the things you have done for us, and did something in it. We shall pray in this church for the rest of her soul, and for you also in your suffering.

Your faithful servant, REV. S. k.u.mALO.

When it was finished, he sat wondering if he should send it. For suppose this woman had died of a heart that was broken, because her son had been killed. Then was he, the father of the man who had killed him, to send such a letter? Had he not heard that she was sick and thin? He groaned as he wrestled with this difficult matter, but as he sat there uncertain, he thought of the gift of the milk, and of the young demonstrator that had come to teach farming, and above all, he remembered the voice of Jarvis saying, even as if he were speaking now in this room, Is there mercy? And he knew then that this was a man who put his feet upon a road, and that no man would turn him from it. So he sealed the letter, and went out and called a boy to him and said, My child, will you take a letter for me? And the boy said, I shall do it, umfundisi. Go to Kuluse, said k.u.malo, and ask him for his horse, and take this letter to the house of uJarvis. Do not trouble the umnumzana, but give this letter to any person that you see about the place. And my child, go quietly and respectfully, and do not call to any person there, and do not laugh or talk idly, for the inkosikazi is dead. Do you understand?

I understand completely, umfundisi.

Go then, my child. I am sorry you cannot be here to see the confirmation.

It does not matter, umfundisi.

Then k.u.malo went to tell the people that the inkosikazi was dead. And they fell silent, and if there had been any calling or laughter or talking idly, there was no more. They stood there talking quietly and soberly till the Bishop came.

It was dark in the church for the confirmation, so that they had to light the lamps. The great heavy clouds swept over the valley, and the lightning flashed over the red desolate hills, where the earth had torn away like flesh. The thunder roared over the valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the young men and the girls are away, the soil cannot keep them any more. And some of the children are there in the church being confirmed, and after a while they too will go away, for the soil cannot keep them any more.

It was dark there in the church, and the rain came down through the roof. The pools formed on the floor, and the people moved here and there, to get away from the rain. Some of the white dresses were wet, and a girl s.h.i.+vered there with the cold, because this occasion was solemn for her, and she did not dare to move out of the rain. And the voice of the Bishop said, Defend, oh Lord, this Thy child with Thy heavenly grace, that he may continue Thine for ever, and daily increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more, till he come unto Thy everlasting Kingdom. And this he said to each child that came, and confirmed them all.

After the confirmation they crowded into the house, for the simple food that was to be taken. k.u.malo had to ask those who were not that day confirmed, or who were not parents of those confirmed, to stay in the church, for it was still raining heavily, though the lightning and the thunder had pa.s.sed. Yet the house was full to overflowing; the people were in the kitchen, and in the room where k.u.malo did his accounts, and in the room where they ate, and in the room where they slept, even in the room of the young demonstrator.

At last the rain was over, and the Bishop and k.u.malo were left alone in the room where k.u.malo did his accounts. The Bishop lit his pipe and said to k.u.malo, Mr. k.u.malo, I should like to talk to you. And k.u.malo sat down fearfully, afraid of what would be said.

I was sorry to hear of all your troubles, my friend.

They have been heavy, my lord.

I did not like to worry you, Mr. k.u.malo, after all you had suffered. And I thought I had better wait till this confirmation.

Yes, my lord.

I speak to you out of my regard for you, my friend. You must be sure of that.

Yes, my lord.

Then I think, Mr. k.u.malo, that you should go away from Ndotsheni.

Yes, that is what would be said, it is said now. Yes, that is what I have feared. Yet take me away, and I die. I am too old to begin any more. I am old, I am frail. Yet I have tried to be a father to this people. Could you not have been here, O Bishop, the day when I came back to Ndotsheni? Would you not have seen that these people love me, although I am old? Would you not have heard a child say, We are glad the umfundisi is back; this other man, we did not understand him? Would you take me away just when new things are beginning, when there is milk for the children, and the young demonstrator has come, and the sticks for the dam are planted in the ground? The tears fill the eyes, and the eyes shut, and the tears are forced out, and they fall on the new black suit, made for this confirmation with the money of the beloved Msimangu. The old head is bowed, and the old man sits there like a child, with not a word to be spoken.

Mr. k.u.malo, says the Bishop gently, and then again, more loudly, Mr. k.u.malo.

Sir. My lord.

I am sorry to distress you. I am sorry to distress you. But would it not be better if you went away?

It is what you say, my lord.

The Bishop sits forward in his chair, and rests his elbows upon his knees. Mr. k.u.malo, is it not true that the father of the murdered man is your neighbour here in Ndotsheni? Mr. Jarvis?

It is true, my lord.

Then for that reason alone I think you should go.

Is that a reason why I should go? Why, does he not ride here to see me, and did not the small boy come into my house? Did he not send the milk for the children, and did he not get this young demonstrator to teach the people farming? And does not my heart grieve for him, now that the inkosikazi is dead? But how does one say these things to a Bishop, to a great man in the country? They are things that cannot be said.

Do you understand me, Mr. k.u.malo?

I understand you, my lord.

I would send you to Pietermaritzburg, to your old friend Ntombela. You could help him there, and it would take a load off your shoulders. He can worry about buildings and schools and money, and you can give your mind to the work of a priest. That is the plan I have in my mind.

I understand you, my lord.

If you stay here, Mr. k.u.malo, there will be many loads on your shoulders. There is not only the fact that Mr. Jarvis is your neighbour, but sooner or later you must rebuild your church, and that will cost a great deal of money and anxiety. You saw for yourself today in what condition it is.

Yes, my lord.

And I understand you have brought back to live with you the wife of your son, and that she is expecting a child. Is it fair to them to stay here, Mr. k.u.malo? Would it not be better to go to some place where these things are not known?

I understand you, my lord.

There was a knock at the door, and it was the boy standing there, the boy who took the message. k.u.malo took the letter, and it was addressed to the Rev. S. k.u.malo, Ndotsheni. He thanked the boy and closed the door, then went and sat down in his chair, ready to listen to the Bishop.

Read your letter, Mr. k.u.malo.

So k.u.malo opened the letter, and read it.

Umfundisi: I thank you for your message of sympathy, and for the promise of the prayers of your church. You are right, my wife knew of the things that are being done, and had the greatest part in it. These things we did in memory of our beloved son. It was one of her last wishes that a new church should be built at Ndotsheni, and I shall come to discuss it with you.

Yours truly, JAMESJARVIS.

You should know that my wife was suffering before we went to Johannesburg.

k.u.malo stood up, and he said in a voice that astonished the Bishop, this is from G.o.d, he said. It was a voice in which there was relief from anxiety, and laughter, and weeping, and he said again, looking round the walls of the room, This is from G.o.d.

May I see your letter from G.o.d, said the Bishop dryly.

So k.u.malo gave it to him eagerly, and stood impatiently while the Bishop read it. And when the Bishop had finished, he said gravely, That was a foolish jest.

He read it again, and blew his nose, and sat with the letter in his hand.

What are the things that are being done? he asked.

So k.u.malo told him about the milk, and the new dam that was to be built, and the young demonstrator. And the Bishop blew his nose several times, and said to k.u.malo, This is an extraordinary thing. It is one of the most extraordinary things that I have ever heard.

And k.u.malo explained the words, You should know that my wife was suffering before we went to Johannesburg. He explained how these words were written out of understanding and compa.s.sion. And he told the Bishop of the words, Is there mercy? and of the small boy who visited him, the small boy with the laughter inside him.

The Bishop said, Let us go into the church and pray, if there is a dry place to pray in your church. Then I must go, for I have still a long journey. But let me first say goodbye to your wife, and your daughter-in-law. Tell me, what of the other matter, of your daughter-in-law, and the child she is expecting?

We have prayed openly before the people, my lord. What more could be done than that?

It was the way it was done in olden days, said the Bishop. In the olden days when men had faith. But I should not say that, after what I have heard today.

The Bishop said farewell to the people of the house, and he and k.u.malo went to the church. At the church door he spoke to k.u.malo and said gravely, I see it is not G.o.d's will that you should leave Ndotsheni.

After the Bishop had gone, k.u.malo stood outside the church in the gathering dark. The rain had stopped, but the sky was black with promise. It was cool, and the breeze blew gently from the great river, and the soul of the man was uplifted. And while he stood there looking out over the great valley, there was a voice that cried out of heaven, Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, these things will I do unto you, and not forsake you.

Only it did not happen as men deem such things to happen, it happened otherwise. It happened in that fas.h.i.+on that men call illusion, or the imaginings of people overwrought, or an intimation of the divine.

When he went into the house, he found his wife and the girl, and some other women of the church, and his friend who carried the bags, busy making a wreath. They had a cypress branch, for there was a solitary cypress near the hut of his friend, the only cypress that grew in the whole valley of Ndotsheni, and how it grew there no man could remember. This branch they had made into a ring, and tied it so that it could not spring apart. Into it they had put the flowers of the veld, such as grew in the bareness of the valley.

I do not like it, umfundisi. What is wrong with it? It does not look like a white person's wreath.

They use white flowers, said the new teacher. I have often seen that they use white flowers there in Pietermaritzburg.

Umfundisi, said the friend excitedly, I know where there are white flowers, arum lilies.

They use arum lilies, said the new teacher, also excited.

But they are far away. They grow near the railway line, on the far side of Carisbrooke, by a little stream that I know.

That is far away, said k.u.malo.

I shall go there, said the man. It is not too far to go for such a thing as this. Can you lend me a lantern, umfundisi?

Surely, my friend.

And there must be a white ribbon, said the teacher.

I have one at my house, said one of the women. I shall go and fetch it.

And you, Stephen, will you write a card for us? Have you such a card?

The edges of it should be black, said the teacher.

Yes, I can find a card, said k.u.malo, and I shall put black edges on it with the ink.

He went to his room where he did the accounts, and he found such a card, and printed on it: With sympathy from the people of St. Mark's Church, Ndotsheni He was busy with the edges, careful not to spoil the card with the ink, when his wife called him to come to his food.