War on the Drakensberg - 1
The lookout was dozing. He had some excuse, because it had been a long watch, and the celebration the evening before on the plain, outside the great kraal, had been noisy and long, as was the custom with the Wafizi, not to mention the other tribe. And what a celebration! Kanoko was not the Wafizi chief’s son, but his betrothal to Alisa was a famous occasion, for Alisa’s father really was a chief. Mind you, mused the lookout, Alisa’s tribe was from the plain while Kanoko’s was from high on the Maloti Drakensberg, where there was even snow sometimes. Like all the Wafizi, the lookout despised the tribes of the plain, ‘cow-followers’ the mountain men called them, and ‘squawking cats’. The lookout had seen them many times, but only from the cliff-top. They had to live off their herds of cattle, and to keep the cattle alive on the dry plain they had to search and search, all the time, for new grazing. Some existence! And when they had found a fresh patch, very likely another tribe would claim that they were there first, and a fine shouting-match there would be. Secretly the lookout envied the shouting-match, though: wonderful to let off steam, like the miracle of water poured into the iron pot on the fire. The words that came out of those plains tribe mouths! Huh. But the tribe of the plain never fought, only squawked abuse, and the Wafizi were proud of their battles, their unconquered mountain stronghold, their songs. Songs. That was what had kept the celebration going, made it such a success. Or was it the talkativeness of the tribe of the plain? Whichever it was, as sure as Ozol the sun would rise over the ridge soon, surely very soon, it had been the finest celebration the lookout could recall. He wondered about Alisa, whether she too would turn into a squawking cat, she was so quiet, but no, she was going to live with the Wafizi now, and there would be peace between the two tribes, peace which the Wafizi needed. For there was another tribe, the Wagoro, aggressive, bustling hill-people, and the Wagoro had picked a quarrel with the Wafizi, and there was going to be a battle, and many were going to die. A glint of light. Not Ozol, thought the lookout. It was his last thought, as the swift thrust of a Wagoro spear between the shoulder-blades put an end to his life.
War on the Drakensberg - 2
Below Tsiguni three fires sputtered in the valley. Lions had long since ceased their night prowls. It was Ozol’s hour, when no one needed to tend the flames. Whether it was a log gasping its last or a pebble rattle Tsiguni was awake on the instant, nostrils a-quiver, straight from his sleep in which he was embroiled in the thrilling but ineluctable initiation rite three days’ ahead. Just his eyes surfaced over the large boulder behind which he had been lying - and he froze. The lookout - his friend and fellow-conspirator - was prone and motionless. Except for the blood flowing from the deep and fatal wound in his back. He’s dead - and he’s saved my life, shuddered Tsiguni in a double realisation. If he hadn’t told me to hide behind the boulder I would be dead too, though all the lookout had in mind was making sure that if the captain came round to inspect then Tsiguni, playing a dangerous truant game from home, would be in deep - and the lookout in far deeper - trouble.
Tsiguni twisted his neck towards the fires in the valley. Half-way between him and the smouldering he counted six, exactly six, sliding shapes, typical Wagoro warriors, their legendary hill-gait eating up the ground. Five carried spears, the sixth carried some kind of leafy plant. Tsiguni lost them in a dip.
He had to think. The Wagoro had killed the lookout and he was about to witness the carrying out of the Wagoro mission, whatever it was. His long-in-the-tooth friend and mentor was no help now. Also, Tsiguni shouldn’t have been there at all. If he shouted a warning it might dissuade the Wagoro but he would probably be killed. The lookout’s heavy spear would be little use in his young hands - these Wagoro had just killed an experienced warrior in near silence and with ease.
Tsiguni knew he had no choice. He stayed where he was, fated to watch. The juniper-tree bird was beginning to chirp. Tsiguni had learned how to use the regular intervals between its chirps to measure the passage of time. It was only five chirps and the Wagoro warriors were already at the first fire. The second fire was outside the biggest hut, the one where last night Tsiguni had seen, the last thing he did see before exhaustion had overtaken him, Alisa the beautiful betrothed princess of the tribe of the plain, enter. She had also entered his dreams.
Three of the warriors, including the one carrying the plant, entered the hut, and within two chirps of the juniper-tree bird came out again, shepherding a small blanketed figure. Tsiguni’s heart, already bounding and pounding, put on a spurt. He knew who the blanketed figure was. And the whole compact Wagoro bunch, a cluster of bush-berries on the move, was now heading straight back up towards Tsiguni. He knew how long it would be before they were at the boulder’s elbow.
Tsiguni was all at once cool. He attentively studied the group loping towards him in the early light. Alisa, a semi-shrouded figure, seemed not to be coerced. The blanket was no longer over her head, and although she was uncomfortable with the pace she was making no effort to resist or escape. But there was something odd about her face, thought Tsiguni. He glanced at the dead body of the lookout, saw with relief that nothing had moved, his unused spear still at an angle alongside - and hid himself again.
Moments later the group trotted by. Tsiguni found himself staring at Alisa, her mouth open, eyes staring wider than Tsiguni’s, and panting - with the effort of the climb. Tsiguni gave a start - the plant carried by the older Wagoro next to her had fewer leaves now. Yes, the chumgiri plant, and yes, there were leaves in Alisa’s mouth, it was full of them. The chumgiri plant leaves made you sleepy and docile, it was medicine, it worked on zebras, and at the same time Alisa could not cry out if she wanted to. And then they were gone.
Tsiguni watched them take the left fork to Wagoro country, not the right fork to the Wafizi fortress, Tsiguni’s home. Then he switched to the body. With both hands he lifted the lookout’s unused spear. It was implacable Wafizi lore never to leave a Wafizi spear on the battlefield.
And then, in a beam of new sunlight, he was skimming downhill towards the lazily stirring kraal that would soon be in uproar. His hero the handsome and courageous Kanoko was there - he would know what to do next. As Tsiguni ran, the memory of Alisa’s face, turned in his direction, perspiring, leaves clamped in mouth, nearly made him stumble. Had their eyes met?
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