Читать книгу The Bird of Heaven - Peter Dunseith - Страница 10

On the night of the empty moon, Grandmother and all the apprentices gathered in the Spirit House. The fire was built up and a trance pot was prepared from a mixture of dried insangu herbs and the seeds of the wild morning glory. Mandla sat to one side on a small mat wearing only his loinskins and two strings of protective beads, which were crossed over his chest. Earlier, just after sunset, he had washed his body in the icy water of the spring, as directed by Grandmother, and the chill was still in his bones. He shivered slightly and moved a little closer to the fire.

Whilst Jabu, the oldest apprentice, beat the spirit drum, the apprentices chanted a rhythmic prayer to the Ancestors, calling on the spirits to bless the ceremony and honour the Indumba with their goodwill. The drumbeat and chanting grew louder as Grandmother approached Mandla with the trance pot, from which thick smoke was spilling.

Mandla felt a strange calmness come over him. Time seemed to slow down so that each moment, each movement, was a cloud drifting across the sky of his consciousness. He lowered his head deliberately, and inhaled deeply from the pot. He felt the hot rush of smoke into his chest, expanding and seeping into his veins, licking like tongues of fire along his legs and arms and then a great wind blew through his body, a great rushing whirlwind that ripped his spirit from his flesh.

***

Mandla found himself standing in a cavern so huge that he couldn’t see the walls. Only the vast dome above him was visible, a black tent flickering with lights. Then he realised … the dome was the sky, studded with stars! He wasn’t in a cave, he was standing on the pinnacle of the world. This was the palace of the Great Spirit, filled with sublime silence.

Mandla held up his hand before his face. He saw that his body was made of particles of light, shimmering like the stars in the vast dome of the heavens. He felt free, free to fly up, up into the sky above and merge with the body of the Great Spirit. A great happiness filled his heart and he raised his hands to the sky in joy.

It was at that moment that a voice spoke, cutting through the silence like a crystal knife: “I have been waiting for you, Mandla, and at last you have come.”

Mandla stared in wonder at the old man standing before him. He had appeared out of the air, like a light materialising in the darkness. He was tall but bent, with a long curved back and a large head. His eyes were shining and bulbous, and his thin lips were creased into a wide smile. He was leaning on a thin cane, motionlessly watching Mandla, and Mandla immediately thought of a chameleon, poised in stillness before its tongue shoots out to capture a fly. “You are Lunwabu, my spirit guardian,” he whispered.

The old man continued his slow inspection of Mandla without replying. Then he sank down into a squatting position and motioned to the boy to do the same.

Mandla settled himself down, only glancing up at Lunwabu when he had made himself comfortable. He started back in alarm. Where, moments earlier, an old man had sat, there was now a toad, a glistening green toad regarding him with the same bulbous eyes and large smile. A croaking chuckle came from the toad and once again the old man was sitting before Mandla. “I am Lunwabu the changer,” he said, “and after all this time I find I still enjoy surprising people with my art. Would you like to see another transformation?”

“I have come to find my muti bag, great father,” said Mandla. “Will you give it to me?”

“You are in a hurry to grasp your destiny, little one. Great dangers lie ahead … and great glory if you are true to your calling. You have the mark of power,” Lunwabu said and paused to look again at the boy sitting before him. “I will give you all that I was,” he eventually continued. “Will it be enough? That will depend on you, child, and your strength of character. The poison of the wizard is strong and he seeks to destroy the King. Can a boy save the Nation? Do the signs speak the truth?”

The old man leaned forward and grasped Mandla by the ears, pulling his head forward until their foreheads were touching. Suddenly, a great wave of power surged into Mandla as his soul was linked to the spirit of Lunwabu. All the knowledge and experience of the old sorcerer flowed directly into his mind. He saw faces, the faces of tangoma, men and women, appearing before him one after the other. The faces beamed at him, smiling and nodding with affection and encouragement. Then a stream of places and events flashed past on the screen of his inner vision like distant memories from other lives. Spells and magic chants filled his mind. Great secrets were revealed to him and he gasped in astonishment at each one, but as one secret replaced another he forgot the one before, and when the great wave of Lunwabu’s power had swept through him he could remember nothing. Nothing remained except the profound aftertaste of old wisdom.

It was only then that Mandla realised that the cavern they were sitting in was his own inner Indumba, the place of the spirit within him. It was here that his guardian waited to serve him. Whenever he needed guidance or advice he only had to turn within, to that inner cavern where Lunwabu squatted in silent meditation. He need never feel alone. With the guiding hand of the Great Spirit at his back and his guardian at his side he should always have confidence in the future.

Lunwabu released Mandla and sat back on his haunches. The old sorcerer’s face was shining with happiness. “I have seen that you are a true sangoma,” he said to Mandla. “You have a pure heart. You were chosen by the Ancestors and they have given you powers undreamed of by men. When you find your muti bag you will discover within it the ointment of courage, the ring of imagination and the stone of truth. These powers are given to you for spiritual combat. You are to be a warrior. But remember this above all, my child, the first spiritual combat you must undertake is to overcome your own self. This is the holy war of the sangoma: to abandon your own wishes and selfish desires and surrender to the will of the Great Spirit.” Lunwabu paused. “All power comes from the spirit. From the life force of the smallest ant to the destructive energy of the biggest thunderbolt, from the earthquake to the cycle of the seasons, they all manifest the energy of the spirit. Magic, muti, ritual and prophecy, every revelation in the throw of the bones, every spell cast to lessen the suffering of others, these are gifts of the spirit. Never claim credit for yourself or the light will desert you and evil will creep in from the shadows.”

And with that Lunwabu bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Mandla spoke timidly into the great silence. “And my muti bag, great father,” he said. “You haven’t yet told me where to find it …”

Lunwabu waved his hand and a picture appeared in the air. It was a vision of a small house made from red mud and thatch. In front of the door sat an old woman.

The old sorcerer spoke slowly and deliberately. “If you wish to claim your inheritance,” he said, “you must go to my Indumba. Ask for the muti bag there, from the one who guards it. But remember: the Indumba is the dream house, the sangoma the dreamer. I, Lunwabu, have woken from the dream into the world of spirits. My muti bag is part of the dream, but it contains my power. It will connect you to me. But you shall not find it unless you hear your thwasa song call from beyond the dream. It shall not be what it seems. Listen for it to call you. Listen within the Indumba.”

Lunwabu waved his hand again and the vision of the Indumba faded. “I have one last gift for you, my son,” the old man said, leaning forward. “I shall teach you my Changing Spell. Who knows, it may come in handy to a young sangoma with battles to fight. Close your eyes and think of a creature you would like to change into.”

Mandla closed his eyes and thought of the great eagle that he often saw circling above the cliffs in the valley where he took the homestead cattle for grazing. He had often wondered what it would be like to rise into the sky on outstretched wings …

The voice of the old sorcerer broke into his reverie. “Now chant these words with me, the words of my most precious spell.”

Mandla repeated the words of power as the old sorcerer spoke them, trying to capture the correct intonation and cadence. Slowly, the chant speeded up until the words were whirling in his head like a circle of sound. Then, suddenly, he felt the air rushing past his face and when he opened his eyes he was a bird, a bird made of particles of light. Beside him flew another bird that he instinctively knew to be Lunwabu. Together they plunged through infinite skies and soared over oceans of shimmering gold. Then, far below, he saw a dark opening in the brightness of the sky. Together the birds of light plummeted towards this opening, but at the last minute Lunwabu swerved away on flashing wings. Mandla knew it was time for him to return to the world. He plunged into the opening and was swept down, carried along on the rushing wind until his wings vanished and he felt himself falling into the solidity of his body.

***

For a brief moment it was as though Mandla had been buried underground. He forced his way up, choking and coughing, and found himself sitting in the Spirit House, his body aching in every limb. Grandmother and the apprentices were sprawled beside him, asleep, and the fire had burnt itself out, but through the open door Mandla could make out the rosy light of the coming dawn.