“This is your instrument of surgery,” Calandola declared.
Then did we march across the whole width of the encampment to the place of the sick-houses; and the hangers-on fell back, leaving only Calandola and Kinguri and me. Those two and I did enter a certain sick-house where the chieftain Ti-Bangala lay suffering. I had not come to know this man well, who was a great hunter and wielder of the bow, but I respected him greatly. Though he was of formidable stature and majesty, now he was huddled and shivering, and half drowning in his own pouring sweat. Upon our entry he looked up and said in a small tired voice that was scarce his own, “Imbe-Jaqqa? Lord Kinguri? Ah, I suffer, I suffer: when does this end?”
“It ends now, Ti-Bangala,” said the Imbe-Jaqqa.
Then the two brothers moved to the side, revealing me standing there like the angel of death, with the great bright weapon in my hand. Ti-Bangala did not show fear of my sword, only a kind of mild surprise, and he feebly smiled to me, saying, “Ah, Andubatil, will we ever hunt together again?”
“Nay, I fear not,” said I.
“Are you the death-mokisso, then?”
“That is what I am, Ti-Bangala.”
And at a signal from Calandola I thrust him through, and he made a soft outrush of air and gave up his ghost.
From there we went to the sick-house of the Jaqqa Paivaga, who looked to me near death unaided, but I despatched him with the blade all the same; and from that to the chamber of Nzinga-bandi, a master of music, who took my thrust in silence; and then onward to another, and one more, and some eleven beyond that. All of whom did I send from the world without giving a second thought to it. Most were so ill, with a glassy look to their eyes and the gleam of shining sweat to their skins, that they scarce perceived what was upon them until my sword descended. But one, Mbanda-kanini, that was a man near as massive and huge as Calandola, looked upon the weapon and drew himself up to his knees, and cried out, “Smite me not, Andubatil! What is this, that you would do me to death?” And with his eyes he did both implore me to let him live, and glare his defiance at me. But I ran him through all the same, and it was no easy task, for there was such a wall of muscle about his belly that it was like pushing the blade through a band of stone. Yet did I do it well, with a sharp fatal twist to my arm at the end, and he fell back and expired with a great rush of dark discolored blood from the wound.
I think I would have gone on serenely all day, striking down these certain Jaqqas that were fancied to be the causes of the plague: for my arm grew hot and supple from this use, and I made an art of seeking the vital places, so that I needed not to thrust a second time with any of them. I did not question the need for this work. It was simply my office, this surgery, this eradication. I did it well. I was in the service of the Imbe-Jaqqa.
At last Calandola said, “It is enough. We have slain them all.”
Then he and Kinguri and I did go down to the river and strip forth our clothes, there in the rain, and march into the muddy swollen coccodrillo-infested stream and bathe ourselves, as if to sweep away any pestilence that might have attached itself to us upon these deadly errands. After which, we repaired to the lodgings of the Imbe-Jaqqa, where his servants did restore our body-paints, that we had washed away; and I yielded up the sword, which was a holy one, to its witch-keeper.
That night the rain came to its termination. By the morning sun, when steaming banks of yellow fog did rise from the baking earth, a grand ceremony of burial was begun. And from that day the pestilence began to leave us, and life returned to its usual state among the Jaqqa nation.
7
When the dead were buried and the sick were recovered and the elephanto-tails dedicated to the fallen lords had been placed into their shrines, we marched westward, along the south side of the River Kwanza. This brought us right against the mountains of Kambambe, which the Portugals call the Serras da Prata, or Mountains of Silver. Now were we not far east of Masanganu, so I was coming back at last to the region that was frequented by Portugals. And I prayed me that I would not encounter any. For they were become odious to me, those men of jerkins and doublets and breeches and cuffs, of stone houses and noisy taverns, of garlic and saffron and sugar. They had the reek of perfidious civilization about them: I wanted no whiff of it. The forest life was cleansing me of all that grime and stench of Christendom.
I had not been to Kambambe before, though I had been within some leagues of it, years earlier. Here there was a great fall of water on the river, that falls right down a vast distance, and makes a mighty sound that is heard thirty miles, a noise that swallows all other noises like a great greedy mouth. We visited this plunge, Kinguri and I. The place is sacred to the Jaqqas, I think because the torrent of falling water dropping vehemently into that great chasm does put into their minds some image of their mother the earth. When we departed from it, its deafening roar remained in my head for some hours, and I felt as though swathed in thick wool over my face and ears.
Kinguri asked me why Portugals came to this place so often, wondering if it might be holy also to them. “Nay,” I said, “not holy in any way you would understand, for the god they would worship there is called Mammon, and you know him not. At Kambambe they do seek a white metal that is said to be found there.”
“There are no white metals,” said Kinguri.
“There is one, that we call silver, very precious to the Portugals and other Christians. And it lives in the ground here.”
He shrugged, and said again that there were no white metals, and certainly none at Kambambe. But that led us into talk with some other Jaqqas, and none of them knew aught of silver-mines here. However, the lord Kilombo, who had fought many campaigns in the province of Matamba, told us that a white metal was plentiful there, and was fashioned into bracelets.
This talk of the province of Matamba did touch me at the heart, for it put me in mind of a cherished person that had been far from my mind and soul.
“I knew a woman of Matamba when I lived among the Portugals,” I said. “She never spoke of such a metal. But if ever I see her again, I will ask her.”
“Where is this woman?” asked Kinguri.
“In São Paulo de Loanda, if she still lives.”
“Then I think you will see her soon, Andubatil.”
“What?”
He smiled, and stretched himself back, preening himself on his lordliness among these folk. “I have spoken this day with the Imbe-Jaqqa, and he has disclosed his plan to me. We are shortly to aim our war against the Portugals.”
This news did make my heart pound fiercely in my breast, and my skin to turn chill.
I said, “What, will you attack São Paulo de Loanda, when you did hesitate to invade the city of Dongo?”
“It is not the same. Dongo is sealed tight, and is not simple of approach; and King Ngola knows our ways, and how to defend himself from them. We will deal with Dongo, aye, but at some farther time. The Portugals will not be so difficult. Imbe Calandola has come to believe we must destroy them now, before they have done more grievous harm to our mother, and before they are so numerous that we will be hard put to defeat them. They are the true enemy: and so we have believed for these ten years past. And their time now draws nigh.”
These words gave me some deep pause. Yea, and I detested the Portugals for what they were and all they had done to me; and there had been moments of late when I wished their utter destruction as fervently as Calandola himself, a sweeping clean of all of them from the African land. But yet, would I let myself truly be part of this war against São Paulo de Loanda, or no? Was I become that much a Jaqqa? To partake of butchering and eating those folk, and putting their city to the torch?