The Sword and the Spear Read online

  Inspired by her mission, the sorceress had abandoned Sana Benene. The waters of the Inharrime were no longer enough to wash away so many sins. A much bigger river was needed. On the banks of that river, her husband and brother-in-law lay buried. Along the shores of the legendary River Save dwelt fortune-tellers and prophets whose powers were well known beyond our borders. This was Bibliana’s fate. That river would be her church.

  So you’ve discovered you want to be African? Rudolfo asked, changing the subject, but this time failing to conceal an ironic tone. I’m curious, my daughter. What is it to be African?

  I shrugged. Maybe I was just sad, maybe I just felt insecure. It felt good to have one simple certainty at hand, some indelible symbol of one’s background, a roof that was more eternal than the sky itself. And the shadow of a smile flickered on the priest’s face. He too had so often dreamed of being white and European. Now, for example, all he desired was to cut his locks, shave his beard, and wash his cassock before presenting himself at the Chicomo garrison. Who knows, maybe they would take him on as a chaplain? And he would celebrate mass in the camp, he would pray for the sick, absolve them of their sins, and administer last rites. And he would fully be what they had always denied him: a Portuguese priest.

  Anyway, that’s enough talk for now, he said. Before I forget, I’ve got something to give you.

  From deep in the pocket of his cassock, he took a sheet of folded paper.

  Your father left this for you, he announced.

  My father was here? Tell me, how was he, and where has he gone?

  * * *

  Father Rudolfo then recalled that, in the previous week, my father had been found unconscious, sprawled across the landing stage. Katini Nsambe had disappeared some time before, and everyone feared that he had been eaten by wild animals. But there he was, weakened, skinny, and reeking. He had come from Nkokolani, his home village. He had been taken and brought back by the madman Libete on his old raft. Once in the church and washed, Katini opened a sack from which fell two dozen flat little pieces of wood all cut to the same size. They were the keys for a marimba that he was now intending to make.

  I took this wood from the same tree my wife took to, he explained.

  It would be his last marimba, the most perfect one he had ever made. He himself had climbed the fig tree, had captured a few bats, torn off their wings for the membrane with which to line the resonators. Day and night, the man had taken the utmost care to make the keys, the gourds, and the mallets.

  This mbila isn’t to be played by people, he declared.

  So who is going to play it?

  The music is going to play all by itself.

  He finished making the instrument on the same day Bibliana announced she was leaving for the great northern river. It was no coincidence. The two had planned it between them. And they had left together but separated, like husband and wife. When they reached their destination, they would share their duties as old couples do. Bibliana would talk to the spirits; Katini would play for the gods. The two of them together would heal the world.

  * * *

  This was the news of Katini Nsambe. The priest had delivered his recollection while still holding out the piece of paper that my father had left with him.

  On the sheet, stolen from Germano’s notebook, there it was, my old father’s labored, imperfect handwriting. I had to decipher his mysterious message word by word: “I began it, you complete it. There are still two to crucify.”

  The priest didn’t ask any questions. He gave me a canteen of water for the journey.

  And what are you going to do, Father Rudolfo? I asked.

  He smiled and replied:

  For now, I’m going to cut my hair and shave. After that, I’ll see.

  At that moment, Impibekezane joined us. She asked Rudolfo whether we could sleep there that night. And when I asked the reason for the delay in our return, she pointed to the sky that would have begun to darken, were it not for a sea of fire that was devouring the whole horizon.

  40

  SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S THIRTEENTH LETTER

  It is not just because of tiredness that I am in this state of depression, which has neither color nor weight. What is happening to me is suicide. A suicide with neither person nor death.

  —EXCERPT FROM A LETTER FROM BERTHA RYFF TO HER HUSBAND, GEORGES LIENGME

  Chicomo, November 10, 1895

  Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,

  I spent the day clearing the infirmary of soot, which had cast a black sheet over everything. For the sick confined to bed, these obstinate clouds of ash were a sinister sign. And the suffocating heat they felt was proof that the inferno had settled over Chicomo. But I knew that good news was written in that soot: our troops had been victorious at Coolela. After their victories, they had set the neighboring villages on fire. That is what we do, and that is what the others do as well. It was you, sir, who explained it to me as a way of writing one’s signature as a victor over a much wider area than the field of battle. Those who live far from rivers only know of their existence when their waters bursts their banks.

  At the time of this writing, our troops will be returning. It will be a slow, tiring march back along higher ground, away from the fires that have spread out of control. I do not know whether you, sir, are returning directly to Lourenço Marques or whether you will be coming with the column that will stop at the garrison here. I hope it will be the latter, and that we shall finally meet in person.

  I thought of the Swiss doctor who left this outpost two days before. Knowing the stops he intended to make along the way, it was more than likely that he would now be encircled by that sea of flames. There would only be one route left for him to take: He would have to follow the riverbanks which, in that region, create an intricate web of waterways. Georges Liengme would have to repeat the prowess of Christ, walking on the waters of so many rivers and streams that he would lose count of them all.

  I waited anxiously all morning for the arrival of a messenger bringing news from Coolela. This is the usual procedure: an advance guard reaches the garrison so that preparations can be made in good time for the arrival of our glorious combatants. I prayed that this time the carts would not be loaded down with the injured. With my help, Dr. Rodrigues Braga prepared the beds with clean linen. Then our doctor spread mosquito nets around to prevent ashes from getting into areas where he might have to carry out surgical interventions.

  At midday, messengers did indeed arrive. But they were enemy emissaries. It was half a dozen Vátua soldiers bringing with them, his hands bound, a tall, proud-looking man. One of the emissaries from Gungunhane stepped forward and declared:

  Our king ordered us to bring you this man. We know him as Uamatibjana, but you call him Zixaxa. Here he is.

  Here was the trophy we had been after for months. More than Gungunhane himself, this Negro was the Portuguese crown’s most sought-after target. The headman, Zixaxa had had the audacity to lead a rebellion in the south and to organize an attack on our most important city. Portuguese had died, Africans had died. And Portuguese national pride and prestige had been damaged in the comity of civilized nations. And there was the famous rebel, hands bound behind his back, exhausted and disheveled. In spite of it all, I have to admit that the man held himself with the dignity of a prince. His haughtiness left me feeling uncomfortable, but was much more of an irritant to his escorts. For, the moment they had introduced him, they pushed him toward me as if he were a sack. Stumbling forward, the prisoner ended up crashing against my body, and I had to embrace him to prevent us both from falling over. It was only then that I noticed that the Vátuas had two women with them. They were Zixaxa’s wives.

  So why have you brought them?

  So that they should see their man die. Then they will go back to their homelands to tell people what they have seen.

  The women were pushed forward so violently that nothing could stop them from sprawling on the ground. The Vátua who had led the committe
e spoke once more:

  We have fulfilled our part of the agreement, the emissary said, now you fulfill yours. Stop the war immediately.

  It is too late now, I thought. The war had already consumed itself, leaving specks of soot floating across the savanna. The messengers had been late in coming, and Gungunhane’s obstinacy had lasted too long. But I kept quiet in front of those emissaries, thinking that it would be extremely useful to hold the captive we had been seeking for so long. The surrender of Zixaxa was a sign of the despair of our old enemies. And Gungunhane had ordered his handover at the place he judged the most secure: our garrison. The choice of the location and timing of the handover erased the humiliation of surrender. It was he who issued the order, even when all he was doing was obeying.

  Gungunhane’s envoys asked us to untie Zixaxa. They wanted their ropes back. Forgetting my handicap, I tried to undo those tight knots. It was the guard who completed the task. Before he left, the king’s emissary watched the captured headman being led away, escorted by our soldiers. After a while, the prisoner turned and addressed the Vátuas who had brought him there:

  Tell your king that the skies over Gaza are full of swallows after all.

  The prisoner and his two wives were tied to the pole in the middle of the garrison where we usually tethered the mules. For some time I sat there just staring at the prisoner, without exchanging a word with him. Nor could it have been otherwise; the man’s Portuguese was less than rudimentary. And I was a mere amateur when it came to the language of the Landins. But there was something in Zixaxa’s face that spoke of nostalgia for some distant realm, of a time long gone of lightness and joy. And I had already seen this yearning in our own people’s eyes.

  Late in the afternoon, the guards alerted me to the arrival of another messenger. He was on his own, worn out, and looked as if he could no longer see. He was so covered in ash that one could not tell what race he belonged to. He wanted to deliver a letter to the doctor. I’ve brought this for the white dokotela, he managed to articulate. When we gave him water, he merely wet his lips. The rest of the mug he used to wash his face and neck. Then he turned and disappeared into the bush.

  Not long afterward, Rodrigues Braga came into my room and tossed an envelope into my lap.

  This letter isn’t for me, it’s for Georges Liengme.

  He turned and left as quickly as he had come.

  It was now obvious that the white doctor to whom the messenger had referred was the Swiss missionary. But this was a minor slipup compared to what was subsequently revealed: This letter had been written by Bertha Ryff, Liengme’s wife. The envelope lay untouched in my lap while I could not rid myself of a doubt that assailed me. Why had that woman used a letter in order to communicate with someone with whom she lived? And why had she chosen to have it delivered so far away? I acknowledge my lack of scruples, sir, but I was overcome by curiosity. Maybe my intention to involve you in this little peccadillo is to allay the guilt that weighs so heavily on me. But you, sir, may be no more master of your decision than I was of mine. If you do not wish to be party to the secrets of Bertha Ryff, then stop reading these lines of mine. Whatever the case, I am transcribing her letter, translated by myself into Portuguese with the help of Rodrigues Braga.

  My Dearest Georges,

  Once again you have invited me to accompany you on one of your frequent, lengthy digressions. I would go if I were a bird. If I could fly over marshlands, lakes, and exhaustion. But I no longer have the strength or the health to even be a person. I am not happy enough to be a wife. Nor do I have sufficient hope to be a mother.

  I shall proceed now as I have throughout my many periods of waiting: I shall pray that you do not return as distant from me as when you left. You always tell me that it is I who have become remote. The continual sporadic bouts of fever have left me withdrawn. But I am not losing my sense of feeling because of illness. It is out of sadness.

  I am ill, Georges. But it is the malady of emptiness from which I suffer. That is why it is not a doctor I need. It is a lover. For this reason, I beseech you: Look at me with the same distraction that you possess when you photograph naked black women. Look at me, Georges. And you’ll see that it is not a missionary I am waiting for. I yearn for a husband who is not afraid of the volcano burning within me.

  You are recognized back in Switzerland for your valuable work as a missionary among the people of Africa, combating witchcraft and witch doctors. Well, my dearest Georges, now I want you to bewitch me. They are proud of the doctor who has saved so many lives. But I have died in your hands. I died every time that you failed to love me. I died even more when you thought you were saving me. And I returned to my everyday existence devoid of light or hope. It is not greater belief that I need. It is life. It is not your cruelty that has harmed me. It is because you have done nothing. It is because you left me feeling small, unfocused, nonexistent. This is what I am: a mere image seen against the light. A photograph that was never developed.

  41

  FOUR WOMEN FACING THE END OF THE WORLD

  The last one to join the line of sick patients was a man with thick, tangled hair carrying gold sovereigns wedged into his orbits. My eyes have turned into money, he explained. My brother-in-law had dead eyes, the native added. And the dokotela treated him. But I don’t want him to cure me. Far from it: I want to be left like this forever. Do you know something, Doctor? I’ve never been looked at with such respect. Do you think it doesn’t pain me to be blind? It pains me far more not to be anyone.

  —EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO

  Impibekezane and I returned from Sana Benene, encountering on our way whole expanses of forest hemmed in by the belt of fire. When we arrived, we circled the village of Mandhlakazi from a distance. All that remained of the capital of the kingdom were ashes. We hurried toward the hospital of the Swiss Mission.

  Here in the hospital we are safe, the queen of the VaNguni said. Whites don’t attack other whites.

  The white woman, Bertha, the mixed-race Elizabete, and the queen and I sat on the top of the dune where the hospital was situated. We were four women watching the grasslands burning. Four such different women sitting there overlooking the abyss of the end of the world. At that point, I thought that there is no such thing as an external landscape. It was we who were burning. The whites told us that the inferno was a fire lit by demons in the depths of the earth. These infernos were now rising to the surface.

  Where is your son, Your Majesty? asked Bertha. Where is Ngungunyane hiding?

  He has gone to Txaimiti, answered Impibekezane. But he is not hiding there. He has gone to ask for the protection of his late grandfather, Sochangane.

  Ngungunyane’s mother then corrected my way of sitting. As my dead mother had done so many times, she encouraged me to fold my legs under me on the sitting mat. Then, once I had assumed the correct pose, she smiled at me and said:

  And you, Imani, are going with me to Txaimiti, for I no longer want any dealings with counselors. I shall make you queen forthwith.

  A queen crowned on the day the kingdom died? This was the question it occurred to me to ask. But I contained myself as I contemplated the aged monarch with her long bead necklaces, her endless metal rings around her ankles and arms. And I thought: The fewer the dreams, the more the adornments. Father Rudolfo was right: Bibliana was far more of a queen, with her band of loyal followers. And I had a vision of myself, already elderly, rotting on a sleeping mat in Nkosi’s kraal. And then I thought Impibekezane merited my complete and utter candor.

  Your Majesty, I have something to confess: I am not here of my own free will. It was a demon within me that propelled me here.

  I know what that demon is. Do you want to kill my son?

  Who told you that?

  They all do. They all want to kill him.

  But then she revealed that she had a plan. And she had already attempted to tell it to Sergeant Germano de Melo at Sana Benene. But the boy had fainted, bleeding profu
sely. Something to do with bewitchment, no doubt. So she had withdrawn without revealing her secrets. This is what she had envisaged happening: The Portuguese would withdraw without disturbing the VaNguni crown:

  After this battle at Coolela, they had already agreed they would withdraw without mistreating Ngungunyane. They wouldn’t kill him or take him prisoner. For this son of mine, according to the promise I made the whites, would cross the border to the Transvaal. And over there, beyond the mountains, they have my assurance that he will no longer bother the Portuguese.

  The plan seemed muddled to me. But as far as the queen was concerned, it made sense: she would save her son from the hands of the whites, and especially from those of the blacks. Her son had survived thus far. But he would not escape from the next confrontation. And it would not be necessary for the Portuguese to defeat him. For his own troops, dying of hunger and frustration, would enact justice with their own hands. What Impibekezane needed was to convince the king of Gaza that, following the Battle of Coolela, the Portuguese would fall back voluntarily to Inhambane and Lourenço Marques. Free of the Portuguese threat, Ngungunyane could quietly dispense with his troops. Having been ordered to disperse by the king, the VaNguni army would be relieved of the burden of humiliation. And the Portuguese would have no reason to prolong the conflict. The queen had already begun the task of convincing her son. The problem was the generals who surrounded him. War might be risky, but it was the source of their wealth. Above all else, Impibekezane was confident. What she could not achieve by force of argument, she could obtain with poison.

  I don’t know, Your Majesty. How can you be sure the whites will accept your plan?