the
glossy armoured carapace of the creature as it reached the
Umlimo, and then began to climb up her bloated silver-white body.
It paused in her lap, with the long segmented tail lifting and
pulsing, its spiderlike legs hooked into the Umlimo’s
coarse white pubic curls, before it began climbing again, up over
her bulging belly, hanging from one drooping pale breast like
some evil fruit on the bough, upwards it climbed, onto her
shoulder and then it reached the angle of her jaw below the
ear.
The Umlimo remained unperturbed, sipping little puffs of the
narcotic smoke from the mouthpiece of her pipe, her pink eyes
staring blindly at the indunas. The huge glittering insect
crawled up her temple and then sideways until it stopped in the
centre of her crusted and scabbed forehead, where it hung upside
down, and the long scorpion tail, longer than a man’s
forefinger, arched up over its horny back.
The Umlimo began to mutter and mumble and a rime of white
froth bubbled onto her raw lips. She said something in a strange
language, and the scorpion on her forehead pulsed its long
segmented tail, and from the point of the red fang at the tip a
clear drop of venom welled and sparkled like a jewel in the dim
light.
The Umlimo spoke again, in a hoarse strained voice and an
unintelligible language.
‘What does she say?’ Bazo whispered, turning his
head towards Tanase. ‘What language does she
use?’
‘She speaks in the secret tongue of the
initiates,’ Tanase murmured. ‘She is inviting the
spirits to enter and take control of her body.’
The albino reached up slowly and took the scorpion off her
forehead. She held the head and body within her closed fist, only
the long tail whipped furiously from side to side, and she
brought it down slowly and held it to her own breast. The
scorpion struck, and the rigid thorn fang buried itself deeply in
her obscene pink flesh. The Umlimo’s face did not alter,
and the scorpion struck again and again, leaving little red
punctures in the soft breast.
‘She will die!’ gasped Bazo.
‘Let her be,’ hissed Tanase. ‘She is not
like other women. The poison will not harm her – it serves
only to open her soul to the spirits.’
The albino lifted the scorpion from her bosom, and dropped it
into the flames of the fire where it writhed and withered into a
little charred speck, and suddenly the Umlimo uttered an
unearthly shriek.
‘The spirits enter,’ Tanase whispered.
The Umlimo’s mouth gaped open, and little glassy strings
of saliva drooled from her chin, while three or four wild voices
seemed to issue from her throat simultaneously, each trying to
drown out the others, voices of men and women and animals, until
at last one rose above them, and silenced the others. It was a
man’s voice, and it spoke in the mystical tongue; even its
modulation and cadence were totally alien, but Tanase quietly
translated for them.
‘When the noon sun goes dark with wings, and the trees
are bare of leaves in the springtime, then, warriors of Matabele,
put an edge to your steel.’
The four indunas nodded. They had heard this prophecy before,
for the Umlimo was often repetitious and always she was obscure.
They had puzzled over the same words before. It was this message
that Bazo and Tanase had carried to the scattered peoples of the
Matabele during their wandering from kraal to kraal.
The gross albino seer grunted and threshed her arms, as though
struggling with an invisible adversary. The pale pink eyes jerked
in her skull, out of kilter with each other, so that she squinted
and leered, and she ground her teeth together with a sound like a
hound worrying a bone.
The girl-child rose quietly from where she squatted amongst
the pots, and she leaned over the Umlimo and dashed a pinch of
pungent red powder into her face. The Umlimo’s paroxysm
eased, the clenched jaw fell open and another voice spoke, a
guttural, blurred sound, barely
glossy armoured carapace of the creature as it reached the
Umlimo, and then began to climb up her bloated silver-white body.
It paused in her lap, with the long segmented tail lifting and
pulsing, its spiderlike legs hooked into the Umlimo’s
coarse white pubic curls, before it began climbing again, up over
her bulging belly, hanging from one drooping pale breast like
some evil fruit on the bough, upwards it climbed, onto her
shoulder and then it reached the angle of her jaw below the
ear.
The Umlimo remained unperturbed, sipping little puffs of the
narcotic smoke from the mouthpiece of her pipe, her pink eyes
staring blindly at the indunas. The huge glittering insect
crawled up her temple and then sideways until it stopped in the
centre of her crusted and scabbed forehead, where it hung upside
down, and the long scorpion tail, longer than a man’s
forefinger, arched up over its horny back.
The Umlimo began to mutter and mumble and a rime of white
froth bubbled onto her raw lips. She said something in a strange
language, and the scorpion on her forehead pulsed its long
segmented tail, and from the point of the red fang at the tip a
clear drop of venom welled and sparkled like a jewel in the dim
light.
The Umlimo spoke again, in a hoarse strained voice and an
unintelligible language.
‘What does she say?’ Bazo whispered, turning his
head towards Tanase. ‘What language does she
use?’
‘She speaks in the secret tongue of the
initiates,’ Tanase murmured. ‘She is inviting the
spirits to enter and take control of her body.’
The albino reached up slowly and took the scorpion off her
forehead. She held the head and body within her closed fist, only
the long tail whipped furiously from side to side, and she
brought it down slowly and held it to her own breast. The
scorpion struck, and the rigid thorn fang buried itself deeply in
her obscene pink flesh. The Umlimo’s face did not alter,
and the scorpion struck again and again, leaving little red
punctures in the soft breast.
‘She will die!’ gasped Bazo.
‘Let her be,’ hissed Tanase. ‘She is not
like other women. The poison will not harm her – it serves
only to open her soul to the spirits.’
The albino lifted the scorpion from her bosom, and dropped it
into the flames of the fire where it writhed and withered into a
little charred speck, and suddenly the Umlimo uttered an
unearthly shriek.
‘The spirits enter,’ Tanase whispered.
The Umlimo’s mouth gaped open, and little glassy strings
of saliva drooled from her chin, while three or four wild voices
seemed to issue from her throat simultaneously, each trying to
drown out the others, voices of men and women and animals, until
at last one rose above them, and silenced the others. It was a
man’s voice, and it spoke in the mystical tongue; even its
modulation and cadence were totally alien, but Tanase quietly
translated for them.
‘When the noon sun goes dark with wings, and the trees
are bare of leaves in the springtime, then, warriors of Matabele,
put an edge to your steel.’
The four indunas nodded. They had heard this prophecy before,
for the Umlimo was often repetitious and always she was obscure.
They had puzzled over the same words before. It was this message
that Bazo and Tanase had carried to the scattered peoples of the
Matabele during their wandering from kraal to kraal.
The gross albino seer grunted and threshed her arms, as though
struggling with an invisible adversary. The pale pink eyes jerked
in her skull, out of kilter with each other, so that she squinted
and leered, and she ground her teeth together with a sound like a
hound worrying a bone.
The girl-child rose quietly from where she squatted amongst
the pots, and she leaned over the Umlimo and dashed a pinch of
pungent red powder into her face. The Umlimo’s paroxysm
eased, the clenched jaw fell open and another voice spoke, a
guttural, blurred sound, barely
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