Читать книгу Great Zimbabwe, Mashonaland, Rhodesia - R. N. Hall - Страница 30

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In the soft sunlight of a glorious late afternoon, when calm broods over all and a profound solitude invests the immense panorama of valley, mountain, and sea of jagged kopje ranges as beheld from the summit of the Acropolis Hill some 300 ft. at least above the Zimbabwe Valley, one views a scene of indescribable loveliness. The sharp-cut ranges of hills, deep gorges flanked by cliffs, great crags of rock, and the long and broad Moshagashi Valley with its scattered kraals and patches of native plantations are all as silent as sleep.

The Acropolis itself is still. The long and labyrinthine passages give back no echoes. The temple courts are empty. The tall monoliths, like ghostly sentinels, point upwards to the sky, and the sunlight is fast fading on the ancient dentelle pattern at the Western Temple. These massive ruins, once teeming with a dense and busy population of Semitic colonists of prehistoric times, with their innumerable evidences of Phallic worship and extensive gold-smelting operations, are as quiet as the grave. The cry of a baboon, or scream of an eagle returning to its eyrie high up on the cliffs above the Eastern Temple, alone break the impressive silence enfolding one of the greatest archæological wonders of the Southern Hemisphere.

At this height and on a hill so isolated from its neighbours, and just at sunset when shadows are already gathering in the deep defiles in the cliffs upon its summit, an inexpressible sensation of intense loneliness and solitude asserts itself. No other human foot will tread these ancient approaches to the Acropolis till the sun has risen once again. There is no white man round about for miles, and the natives will not venture near the ruins after sunset. Two hours ago the herd was mindful to drive the goats from the high points on the face of the hill down into the valley. The natives will solemnly inform the stranger that as night approaches the spirits of their departed ancestors buried in the caves of the hill awaken, that the ruins are then bewitched. It may be easily understood that in minds made craven with centuries of slavery to a succession of invaders, and haunted, till the last decade, with constant dread of Swazi and Matabele raids, the standard of Makalanga valour is low indeed, and that at nights they shun these scenes of ancient life is not in the least surprising.

Ascending the hill through the sunless Rock Passage, the air is cool and draughty, but on emerging at the upper end one is faced by the rich blinding glow of the setting sun, and here the air is still warm. As we pass through the Western Enclosure and through the gap in the main west wall of the Western Temple, a view down the sheer drop of the hill into the valley below presents itself. The Elliptical Temple is just losing its last faint touches of the golden tint of sunset. The “Valley of Ruins” is already in shadow, and its chaos of walls looks now even more chaotic and bewildering than it did in the full light of day. Mogabe’s cattle wending their way up Makuma Kopje to the kraal for the night, the bleating of sheep and goats already penned, the far-away talk of women and girls returning from collecting firewood with their bundles on their heads, and the laughter of small parties of natives returning homewards from their plantations, all speak of departing day. The lofty lichened sides of Lumbo Rocks are still bright orange in the sunset, but the nearer side of the Bentberg has become dark and black in shadow, showing up the walls of the Elliptical Temple in the foreground with striking clearness. The long ravine of Schlichter Gorge is now blurred in grey distances, while the Motelekwe and Mowishawasha valleys have already lost the sun for some minutes. The kopjes cast the same backgammon-board-shaped shadows across the valleys just as they did three and four thousand years ago when the tired ancients watched the drawing-in of day.

But turning a glance round to the Western Temple, still at this height bathed in golden sheen, one sees only the ancient walls and passages silent and deserted. This area might have been a busy spot for the ancient occupiers at this hour of the day, for monoliths, decorative mural patterns, and conical towers are now all aglow with sunset brightness, and here at this time of day, as the shadow of the slanting granite beam fades on the dentelle pattern on the platform, they might have read as on a dial face, in light and shade, the progress of the season of the year. The call to prayers and the chanting of the evening hymn of the devout at sunset might at this same hour very many centuries ago have rung round the selfsame hallowed walls which look down sphinx-like and blankly upon the modern visitor.

It is easy to fashion a tale of ancient scenes in such a spot and ’mid such surroundings. Such a scene may have been—the parties of ancient worshippers approaching the temple up the Higher Parapet or by the sunken passage in the Platform Enclosure, or along the East Passage, filling the amphitheatre and watching the bringing of the sacred vessels possibly from the now dank and evil-smelling Platform Cave to some spot near the centre of the temple, perchance at the centre of the arc of the great curved wall, which is directed towards the setting sun; the disappearance of the priests through the Covered Passage and their reappearance on the Platform, which faces west and overlooks the interior of the temple, or listening to priestly orations, the announcement of the actual sunset to the worshippers. Possibly, too, the chief priest may have announced the commencement of the “Feast of the New Moon.”

At this moment the “boys” in Havilah Camp are yelling and dancing most frantically. Something unusual must have happened to cause the sudden outbreak of unearthly din. Right in the dazzling glow of the sun, and low down in the sky, and barely discernible by the eye of white men, is the slender silver scimitar of the young moon. A noisy night of beer-drinking, dancing and singing, and tom-tom beating will follow.

But the dank smell of decay has now usurped the place of the sweet-smelling incense of the ancient ritual. The monoliths still point upwards, but who to-day can explain their plan and purpose, or read the silent intimations their shadows were wont to convey?

The associations of the ruins of the Hill Fortress lie even more with the ancient military occupiers than with those of priests and worship. Traverses, buttresses, screen walls, intricate entrances, narrow and sunken passages, rampart walls, banquettes, parapets, and all other devices of a people conversant with military engineering and defence, are in great evidence all over the hill. These in their ingenuity, massive character, and persistent repetition at every point of vantage, baffle and astonish the best experts of modern military engineering science. The ancients were military strategists, and the Acropolis a stronghold, and its most prominent feature was defence.

At this sunset hour no companies of ancient soldiery descend from the fort (East Ruins), at the foot of the Ancient Ascent, to relieve guard and take up their night watches on the wall barriers. In the now dim and scanty twilight one can wander at will through the two hill temples, the residential quarters, and into the caves which once might have held the gold stores of this part of the country. There is no officer on duty to challenge one’s approach. The sentry recesses in the narrow passages and at the entrances appear singularly empty. Fate finally came to relieve guard many centuries past, eventually permitting some semi-civilised Abantu people, such as the Makalanga, or “People of the Sun,” to desecrate the ancient temple floors with their copper and iron furnaces and bone and ash débris heaps. But the lively bustling crowds of ancients and of mediæval Makalanga, who both in turn, and for very long periods, densely populated Zimbabwe Hill, are no more.

One passes along shoulder-wide and tortuous passages, where at every corner one might expect to come face to face with Rider Haggard’s She, and enters some enclosure whose sides are formed by the perpendicular flanks of cliffs and boulders, where the ancients fashioned their gold into beads, wire, plates, and ingots. The intricate entrance still guards the spot where gold crucibles, beaten gold, and gold burnishing tools of the ancient artificers have been found in profusion. There is now no sound of hammering the precious metal on the rounded dolorite anvils, nor reddish glow of light on the cliff sides, as when the furnace was uncovered for the removal of the heated crucibles. The prehistoric workshop is now desolate and damp, and a fitting spot for the loathsome, crawling creatures which inhabit its dark recesses.

But daylight is dying fast. Glancing down through the gaps in the outer walls are seen specks of firelight at near and remote kraals where the evening meal is being prepared, and round which the advent of the new moon will soon be celebrated. An adjoining cave with yawning depth and dense blackness does not now appear particularly inviting to the visitor, and yet here relic-seekers unanimously declare was where the ancients kept large stores of gold dust. The Eastern Temple is in semi-darkness, but as one crosses its floor one sees the hole from which some fifty phalli were taken, and the exact spots from which soapstone birds were removed. Here was the site, as Bent conjectured, of the ancient altar. In this temple, it is believed, the ancients celebrated their daybreak ritual, for the arc of the main wall decorated with dentelle pattern, and on which once stood some of the soapstone birds, faces the rising of the sun. Passing along Central Passage, which is perpetually in shadow owing to huge tall boulders on either side, but is now in deepest blackness, crossing Cleft Rock Enclosure, and descending the sunken passage to the outer face of the great west wall of the Western Temple, one arrives where a slight afterglow of the sunset still lingers over the brow of Rusivanga.

Again one enters into the deep shadow of a sunken and earth-smelling passage with high side walls, and so rapidly descends the north-west face of the hill, glad to emerge once more into the cool fresh air at a lower level of some 100 ft. High in the west is Venus, the evening star, shining brightly—Venus, or Almaq, “illuminating,” the goddess of the earlier star-worshipping Sabæans of Yemen, whose worship the best-qualified scientists believe was practised by the original builders of Zimbabwe. She complacently shines down upon her ruined shrines, and wonders doubtless why these natives should convert the sacred emblems of her worship into pipe-bowls for smoking hemp. The Pleiades have set, for the harvest time is almost over. Orion is sinking towards the western horizon as if with disgust at the land where mere Kafirs[21] call him “The little pig and two dogs.”