Inyoni yezulu – the bird of heaven.
The bird of heaven is said to descend from the sky when it thunders and to be found in the neighbourhood of where lightning has struck. (The Religious System of the AmaZulu by Rev. Canon Henry Callaway, M.D., 1870)
Chapter 1
Lindani didn’t run from anything, even a monster in the sea.
He blinked the wind-thrown rain from his eyes and leant over the cliff, his heart thundering along with the sky. A massive beast rolled in the waves, heaving in the flickering lightning light.
He raised his spear and with a crack that made him jump, a white fork of light stabbed downward, illuminating the seascape and allowing him to see the thing clearly at last. It was not rising from the waves, it was sinking into them. He stared, transfixed, until the horror of what was happening below at last spurred him into action.
He turned on his heel and ran, shouting, down the hill to the village.
“A ship is going down.”
Despite the wind, his voice must have carried because Dumisani had climbed out of the guard tower and stood huddled at the gate to receive him, wincing as the cold rain hit his face.
“A ship. A whiteman’s ship. Sinking near the shore.” He turned, taking his first steps to the beach, even though he knew he should wait for his father’s orders. “Tell the chief!” he shouted over his shoulder.
The ship had been on its side, in its final death throes, like a buck after the second or third spear pierces its flank. Sinking down, with an acceptance of its fate.
As he hurtled down the path to the sea, excitement rose up within him. He had never seen a whiteman, never even seen one of their ships this close. They were too careful of the sharp black rocks lurking like sharks just past the breakers and did not sail too close to the shore.
He burst out of the low scrub onto the dunes and was hit by the roar of the angry ocean as it pounded the sand. Running up the nearest dune for a better look, Lindani waited for the next lightning strike. It came just in time for him to see the final spray salute of the sea as it embraced its victim and swallowed it whole.
He shivered, and wondered how many people such a big thing carried. How many souls would be joining their ancestors tonight? The storm raged on, but his sense of urgency was gone. The ship disappeared as if it had never been. And yet . . .
A huge wave crashed onto the shore, tumbling a large wooden box with it. And then another box joined it on the sand as the water sucked back, trying to hold on to its treasures. In the next flash of lightning, Lindani saw the length of the beach littered with debris and boxes.
A shout sounded to his right and he saw his father leading the men of the village onto the beach. The sangoma, old Mandla, jogged just behind the chief, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
Lindani ran towards them. “The ship broke up and sank, inkhosi.”
“You should have waited for me.” His father’s face was stern, but Lindani knew his father would have done the same in his position, and there would be no trouble for him.
“Are there any survivors?” Mandla asked, his eyes never leaving the waves bringing their pieces of ship.
Lindani shook his head just as thunder cracked above them, making them duck. Lightning sizzled, for a moment turning the dark beach bright as day, illuminating the waves.
He blinked. There was someone in the water.
Lindani had an impression of a face, eyes closed, hands gripping a piece of board, and he didn’t think, he ran straight for the sea.
He heard Mandla call out behind him, but the sangoma’s words were swept away by the noise of the sea and the storm.
The water, usually so warm, was icy cold tonight. It pushed Lindani back, trying to stop his rescue. As he fought it, wading in to his hips, the tide changed direction, pulling on him now, greedily trying to claim another soul. He stopped and planted his feet apart, resisted the pull as he searched the foam-topped swells.
He braced himself as the next icy wave rolled in, hoping the water would bring the person to him. Something bumped against him as the water rushed over his shoulders, forcing him back. He reached out a hand blindly and caught hold of clothing, heavy with water.
He had them!
Hanging on tight, Lindani let the strength of the wave carry them both closer to the beach.
He tugged at the cloth, and a hand reached for him. Grabbed his shoulder. He pulled the survivor closer, locking arms around a slight body, and as the tide turned again he braced himself, digging his feet into the sand and straining landward.
The added weight of the slender figure in his arms made him heavier, but still the force of the water almost bowled him over, dragging him into the depths as he scrabbled to gain a foothold.
Then his father was there, and Dumisani and others, grabbing him back from the sea. They hauled both of them up past the tide line, and as lightning struck again, beyond the breakers, Lindani laid his burden down on the sand.
It was a girl, her face white as the bones of cattle baked in the sun. But it was her hair that was most different. He could not look away even when he felt Mandla come up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder.
“What will the spirits say of this, Lindani? You have stolen a bird of heaven from the sea.”
He was right.
A bird of heaven had red feathers, and the hair of the girl before him, he had seen in the brief flicker of lightning, was a vivid, nature-defying, red.
***
No treaty or obligation can be binding on such a perfidious race as the Zulus, ruled by a treacherous and bloodthirsty sovereign like Cetywayo. Our future safety, as well as the voice of humanity, demand that the power of the Zulus should be broken, and that the innocent blood which is daily shed upon our borders should cease to flow. (Mr. Brownlee: Secretary for Native Affairs, Cape Colony)
Chapter 2
December, 1878, six years later . . .
Elizabeth watched the messenger from the moment he appeared on the far hill, standing to get a better view. He stumbled often, either from exhaustion or on the small rocks hidden in the long summer grass.
Usually, the messengers from the clan chief or the King walked in long, ground-eating strides. They didn’t run.
Her heart beat a little faster and she looked down at the village below, the beehive huts in their cosy horseshoe protected by the high thornwood fence.
As the messenger came closer, he began to shout, and she heard Bheka, standing high in the guard tower, shout back.
She started down the path back to the village, running where she could, then slowed to a walk within sight of the fence, her breathing only just even as she entered the gates. By her estimation, the messenger was only five minutes behind her.
Bheka had come down from the tower to be ready to greet the messenger, and they exchanged silent, tense looks as she passed.
She skirted the inner cattle enclosure and headed to the top of the village to where the chief’s hut lay. The messenger would be taken here to deliver his news. First to Lindani, and then Lindani would tell the elders, and the news would filter down to the rest of them.
“My sister.” The soft voice of Nosipho called to her from the cooking fire. “Bheka says a messenger comes.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and moved towards Lindani’s wife, serene and beautiful, her belly taut and round with the child she was carrying.
She nodded. “I’ve seen him. He is nearly here.”
Nosipho beckoned her closer. “Could he be from Bangizwe’s general, calling Bangizwe back to his regiment?” Her voice was hopeful as she smoothed her belly with her hand.
“Perhaps.” But Elizabeth didn’t think so. From the messenger’s frantic race across the veld, she guessed the message was important. Bangizwe was not so indispensable to the Zulu army that he would warrant such a fuss.
In fact, she’d come to suspect over the week he’d been visiting at the village that Lindani’s uncle was smarting from the whip of a reprimand. That rather than boast of his accomplishments, he’d come here to lay low and lick his wounds.
Elizabeth shot a look in the direction of the guest hut, where Bangizwe lurked like a baboon spider in his hole. He’d taken every opportunity since he’d arrived to point out how young Lindani was to be chief, and how much older and more experienced he was.
Anything that would send him on his way would be welcome.
“The longer he stays here, sees what a fine place this is, the more he wants to be chief.” Nosipho spoke quietly. “He watches Lindani with hatred in his eyes. And he talks disrespectfully of Lindani to the village elders. He tries to sow seeds of discord.”
Lindani wasn’t the only one Bangizwe hated. Elizabeth had felt the cold, hard edge of his looks, too. Heard the sneering insults about her white skin.
“If he is being called back to his ibutho, that would be very good.” As she spoke, Bangizwe ducked out through the guest hut’s low door. He glanced their way, and the look he sent them both was full of loathing. He crouched with the other men before the fire, looking in the direction of the gate.
“You are expecting a message?” One of the men asked him.
Bangizwe shook his head, hunching closer to the ground as he waited.
For the first time, Elizabeth wondered if this could be about Bangizwe. Perhaps whatever it was he was avoiding had come to find him. Drag him back.
A praise song rang out from the gates; Bheka singing to the messenger, telling of Lindani’s accomplishments.
Bangizwe’s lips twisted in disgust.
And Elizabeth suddenly understood.
If Bangizwe was ever made chief, if he found a way to replace Lindani, she couldn’t live here anymore.
____________
“The news is that the British have given the King an ultimatum.” Lindani crouched before the fire in the beer hut as Elizabeth worked, sniffing in the sweet smell of fermentation.
“What kind of ultimatum?” She stirred the boiling pot of sorghum and maize, fighting with the wooden spoon in the thick mixture, but her eyes were on him.
“There are many things, mostly nonsense things, I don’t know why they are even mentioned in a serious matter like this, but the important points are that the King must disband the army, must disband the military system, and must let a British official oversee Zululand.”
Elizabeth tipped forward onto her knees in surprise, nearly burning herself on her pot. “By when must he do this?”
“The silly things must be done twenty days after the ultimatum was given. Which was five days ago. The big things they give the King thirty days to accomplish.” His voice vibrated with anger.
“The King would never disband the military system. It’s how the kingdom works.” Understanding hit her. “They know that. They know the King cannot comply. And when he doesn’t . . .”
“The British will invade.”
Still kneeling by the fire, Elizabeth saw something in his eyes that sent a chill down her arms despite the flames in front of her. “You think this puts me in danger,” she said slowly. “Because I am British?”
“I think any white person will soon need to have sanction to stay in Zululand if their people are at war with the King,” Lindani said, and there was a raw note to his words. “The messenger has already noted your presence and says he will need to report it.”
“What do you think will happen?” It felt as if there was an assegai at her throat, it was so hard to speak.
Lindani grimaced. “I don’t know. I will speak to the clan chief. He will decide if you can stay, or if we must take you across the border to Natal.”
She went cold. It felt as if her chest was too tight to take a breath and to shake the feeling off she stood and heaved the heavy pot off the fire, placing it to steep in a cool corner of the hut.
She ignored the pots of grain which had already sat for a day and needed to be boiled in water, and crouched before the fire again. “What will the King do? He cannot give in to them.”
Lindani laughed, but not in his usual, carefree way. “The King will never give in. He is a Zulu.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her heart thumping hard in her chest. “He is a Zulu, and so are you. What are you going to do, Lindani?”
“I am going to do what the King asks of me, of course.”
Elizabeth said nothing, looking him straight in the eye, an impropriety that still scandalized the villagers, but which had always been the way between them.
Lindani sighed.
“I am going to war, my little sister. Every man who can lift a spear in this village is going to war.”