Two Moons by J. Raymond Ractliffe - Chapter 15

Two Moons is a new novel by J. Raymond Ractliffe that explores the inner spirit life of Africa, her people and their powerful faith in the world of the Unseen.

The Mark of the Two Moons
Chapter 15

       Sampanga had been called urgently to the chief's royal hut by the mid morning. The old chief had complained of a great pain in his belly that had been increasing as the sun rose. He had given him a strong broth to sooth the pains. Strong enough, the elders present had smelt it for themselves. Potent it must be if their own noses from the other side of the large royal hut could make out their bold strength.

The sun had rolled its way to the afternoon sky and no relief of the pains had come. The panting chief now lay up against the side wall, droplets of perspiration running from his furrowed brow and back, clenched hands pressed over his swollen belly and knees brought up to ease his cramping stomach.

Twice he had gone to his toilet bowl and relieved his bowls. The interior darkness hid the new blood from his stool. The bowl had gone, traditionally covered, to be emptied beyond the compound walls, where the rubbish and the waste of the village was collected. Scavenging vultures and other birds of flight, pecked through the foul remains. Dung beetles scurrying away with smiles.

Sampanga had brought another hot brew. Steam rising, prayers offered and crushed herbs still floating to be seen, the elders nodding their silent approval at this new medicinal offering.

Zizi held the dark bowl to the chief's tired and burning lips. She was the model of concern and duty to her lord. She never left his royal side, stealing away only briefly to see to her own toilet.

When the sun had removed itself from the sky and the second night of the full moon had come to bring light for man and beast, the chief lay in terrible pain in the dark recesses of his royal hut, away from the bewildered and worried eyes of the elders.

The warmth of his fire and ministrations from his dutiful wife had done nothing to stop the terrible cramps and blood rumbling from within him His stools had become watery, the chief unable to direct the timing of their release. He had twice soiled himself as he lay to the shame-faced elders who now openly showed their deep concerns.

Outside his hut, the singing could be heard of warriors chanting for their chief as they lifted their voices and bodies by jumping high into the night sky . Of war songs, sung to boost his strength and fire his blood. Their songs made only of their voices and a single kudu horn that rose deep from within their souls.

"…I am the warrior of the long thin spear
Am not all that arrogant
But a humble being whose neck is weighed down by poverty
Poverty of a herd that falls below fifty
A herd that is despised by the girl who milks
As well s the boy who herds
A herd that does not finish a mere foot of a tree
When it is lush with vegetation
I the warrior of the black cloak
Now require those of the weak owner
From foreign lands to boost my herd"

The morani warriors stood together as the song moved their own spirits and those of the other warriors, each singer took their turn to jump into the night air as high as they could while others swayed back and fro.

They sang and danced into the night, women adding their voices in the background while the men leapt into the sky, imploring their ancestors and Ngai to hear their prayers, to heal their wise chief who lay wounded by this evil spirits

All the while Zizi, the second wife of the chief, brought the strong brews and healing draughts from their laibon - Sampanga, their Medicine Man.

The elders met outside the royal compound at the outer edge of the cattle enclosure, hoping the nighttime lowing of the cows in for the night would cover the fear in their voices.

"The chief is wasting away, his bowls run like a red river now and he squirms in pain like a birthing mother." they whispered. "His blood beating in his heart runs low and he is dying. There is an evil in this royal house that cannot be covered with words or new magic potions."

Whahnu, the eldest and most revered with the snow colour on his head as befitting such a man of years, spoke softly now to the others assembled. Speaking of things they had dared not share with one another, but now it was clear, the Evil Ones roaming the land had picked their Chief as a playground for their endless mischief. The Chief it seemed might return to the sky and the ancestors who blinked in the night.

Now, that which should never have been uttered was to be spoken out aloud.

"The Chief is dying, his royal hut is marked with blood by the Gods.