Blessed Are the Dead Page 25

  “She’s fat.” Emmanuel took a stab at the answer. He’d spent long English winter evenings playing charades with his in-laws in their stuffy living room decorated with porcelain Siamese cats. He hated guessing games.

  “No.” Gabriel pocketed his haul. “She’s full, not fat.”

  “All right.” Emmanuel tried another approach. “Everyone has two names. The one that people call them and the special one that you make up. Right?”

  “Ja.”

  “What’s the Red Queen’s other name?”

  Gabriel frowned. “I don’t know what it is, Emmanuel. We’ve never been introduced.”

  “But you’d recognize her if you saw her again?”

  “Of course.”

  Not that it mattered a great deal. An unbalanced schoolboy was not ideal witness material. His word would have to be backed up by real evidence or, better yet, a signed confession from the woman.

  Gabriel swiveled at the sound of running steps thundering toward them. Emmanuel unclipped his holster. It could be Shabalala, or the woman returning to collect her black muti object.

  The Zulu detective broke out of the trees and stopped by the fire to catch his breath. His face was slick with sweat, and two days of rock tunnel living showed in the wrinkled suit and dirty trouser cuffs. The three of them here at the fire could join a soup kitchen line for vagrants and not attract attention.

  “She hid and I lost her.” Shabalala mopped sweat with a handkerchief. “When the daylight came I found her trail and followed her across the field to Chief Matebula’s kraal. There is a loose branch in the fence. That is how she got back inside.”

  “She probably loosened it herself,” Emmanuel said, and wondered how many young, “confident-sounding” women lived in the Zulu family compound. “Karin heard the woman in the shelter talking to Philani about Chief Matebula. Plus Gabriel and I found these . . .” He scooped the beads from his pocket and held them out for Shabalala to see. “Karin said the woman’s shoulders were covered with brown buckskin and beads.”

  “Her shoulders were covered?” The Zulu policeman fixed Emmanuel with a sharp look.

  “Yes.”

  “You should have told me this, Sergeant.” Shabalala worked the handkerchief across his brow but not fast enough to hide the expression of irritation on his face. He was pissed off. “It was important.”

  “I forgot to mention it,” Emmanuel said. Where was his mind at the time . . . on the case or reliving Karin and Ella’s grind? “My apologies.”

  Shabalala looked away, embarrassed at showing his emotions. He said, “It is all right. We learn as we go.”

  Having his words repeated back to him made Emmanuel laugh. “That’s right, Constable, we do. Now tell me why a shawl is so important.”

  “Married women cover their shoulders and heads. Single women do not.”

  “Staking out Little Flint Farm and talking to Mercy was a waste of time.” They had lost a whole afternoon sitting in the bush for nothing.

  “Maybe not.” Shabalala stared into the dying flames, thinking. “Mercy went to the Matebula kraal on Friday evening because her friend heard the chief was looking for a new bride.”

  “That’s right,” Emmanuel said.

  “How was the great chief going to pay for this new wife?”

  “You’re the Zulu expert, Shabalala. You tell me.”

  “With cattle. Many cattle, if he wished to purchase a pretty young girl.”

  “And the chief likes pretty things,” Emmanuel said. Each of the five women gathered in the wives’ area at Amahle’s funeral was attractive, with sleek skin and curves. Wife number one, Mandla’s mother, and Nomusa were outstanding beauties.

  “Five wives, many children to feed and a kraal to keep.” Shabalala thought out loud. “There was one certain way for the great chief to obtain cattle to fund his desire for a sixth wife.”

  “Amahle,” Emmanuel said, and the connections clicked into place. “He needed Amahle’s bride-price to buy another wife for himself.”

  “I think that was why the chief was angry and buried his own daughter so disgracefully. He was a child denied sugar.”

  Emmanuel moved closer to the fire. The glowing red coals released a bittersweet odor. He reviewed the investigation. Every motive for the murder, from robbery to lust and jealousy, had been examined and none of them could be supported.

  “Amahle was killed to stop the chief from marrying again.” That complex motive would not have occurred to Emmanuel in a lifetime of reworking the case. “Which of the wives would go that far?”

  “The one who has the most to lose,” Shabalala said. “The one with no children to support her in old age and no friends among the other wives.”

  Emmanuel remembered the fifth wife standing up to view Amahle’s corpse while the other women screamed in anguish. Another detail came back to him: the high ocher tower of her hair woven with beads and fibers to make a stiff red crown. Gabriel’s uncanny gift for names hadn’t yielded a supernatural metaphor after all—the fifth wife was the Red Queen.

  “I can’t imagine that being married to Matebula is a life worth killing for,” Emmanuel said.

  “The starving fight over scraps. The youngest wife has nothing without the chief’s favor. No children, no money, no allies.”

  A thought hit Emmanuel. “She didn’t know Amahle was planning to ditch the marriage and run.”

  “Yebo.” Shabalala let out a deep breath. “If only she had waited one more week . . .”

  One more week and Amahle, the beautiful one, would have flown away. Seven bright spring days made the difference between a disgraced grave and a dream made real.

  If only.

  “Don’t start down that road, Cooper. Those two little words will fuck with you every time,” the sergeant major said. “If only your father was slower with the knife and your mother quicker to run, if only Hitler had become a painter instead of a politician, if only your marriage had worked out and you weren’t a single man, all alone, sorting through the murders of strangers. That shit will drive you mad, soldier. All you have is now.”

  Again, Emmanuel listened to the sergeant major. The present moment possessed enough challenges to stave off melancholy. For knowing the identity of the murderer and proving it in court were two separate tasks. He worked over what they knew so far.

  “Karin won’t admit to seeing Philani and a woman in the rock shelter on Sunday night. She’s not going to destroy her life just to bring a Zulu woman to court,” Emmanuel said. “Her testimony is out.”

  Shabalala cast a quick look at Gabriel, who was still rummaging in the dirt for silver beads.

  “Same deal,” Emmanuel said. “He’s white but that won’t help our case. He’s too odd. Besides, his brother will never let him testify, and I can’t blame him.”

  A boy with a fragile grasp on how to behave and no clue whatsoever about physical appearance could not be put on the stand in a criminal court.

  “That leaves us no witnesses.” Shabalala looked into his hat. “The fifth wife will go free.”

  “Unless she confesses to the murder, that’s probably what will happen,” Emmanuel said. This was the third and most difficult initiation rite into the brotherhood of detectives: watching an investigation shrivel up and die for lack of evidence.

  Gabriel pocketed his haul of silver beads and returned to the burnt carcass. He squatted in the sand to inspect the charred skeleton and the brittle tendons holding the mass together. “What is it, Shabalala?” he asked. “Emmanuel says it’s not a baby.”

  It was full daylight now, the sun well above the tip of the hills and shining bright. Shabalala rested on his haunches next to Gabriel and examined the remains, happy for the distraction from the unraveling murder case. “It is a baby,” he said. “But a baby bushbuck.”

  “Oh.” Gabriel found the long stick used for removing the body from the fire and pushed the end into an eye socket. “Why did the witch kill it and burn it in a fire? It was still so
small.”

  “Huh . . .” Shabalala contemplated the scene, the red coals and the bittersweet funk rising with the smoke. “You have asked a very good question. Let me see if the answer is in the fire.”

  He used the second long stick to lift and sift through the ashes and dying flames. The deeper the branch pushed, the more intense the smell. Emmanuel craned over Shabalala’s shoulder and cupped a palm over his mouth to block the odor.

  “What is it?”

  “Herbs, I think, but more than one kind. There is a mix of sweet, bitter and sour that I cannot remember smelling together.” He sat back, bemused. “It is confusing.”

  “A muti ritual,” Emmanuel said. The secluded spot and the burnt carcass disturbed him. The smoke and image of the phantom woman and child in the fire seemed taken from his own recurring dream.

  “It is muti,” Shabalala confirmed. “For what purpose, I do not know.”

  “Could be for good luck.” Emmanuel moved back to breathe fresh air. “To make sure the sangoma throws Nomusa and her daughter out of the kraal tonight.”

  Shabalala stood up and turned to Emmanuel. His face wore the cunning expression of a hunter who’d just figured out how to trap an elusive prey. “I know how to get her, Sergeant,” he said.

  22

  THE LOOSE BRANCH in the perimeter fence gave way and Emmanuel, Shabalala and Gabriel slipped into the Matebula kraal. All attempts to shake the boy had failed and the detectives now accepted that he was stuck to them for the duration of the operation. They inched along the grass wall of a hut lit by late afternoon sun and made their way to the rear of the compound and the great chief’s hut. The common areas of the kraal were deserted and shadows lengthened across the cattle byre.

  “They are gathered behind the chief’s hut, in the meeting area,” Shabalala said. “That is where the sangoma will throw the bones to find the witches who brought bad luck to the family.”

  They crept past the row of wives’ huts and Emmanuel paused and turned to Gabriel.

  “Stay quiet and stay with us. Don’t call out to the Red Queen or try to hurt her. Understand?”

  “Ja. Okay.” The boy was sullen but compliant. Running the hills and staying up through the previous night to stalk the witch had drained his energy. When Gabriel eventually crashed, he’d crash hard.

  A rumble came from up ahead and Emmanuel moved more quickly. The ceremony was starting. They followed the path to the back of the great hut and hid at the end of the fence, finding gaps through which to view the ceremony. The inhabitants of the kraal, fifteen or so men, women and children, knelt in a semicircle at the foot of the umdoni tree planted in the middle of the dirt area.

  The great chief, draped in animal skins, bright printed cloth and beads, sat on a carved stool. His wives knelt to his right with their heads bowed. Mandla stood in the back of the men’s section with a member of his impi on either side of him.

  “Great chief.” A gaunt man crouched on a dried impala skin, his shoulder-length hair smeared with red ocher and grease and fashioned into long tendrils. A cluster of bead containers and goat horns hung from strips of hide around his neck and shoulders. “What ails you?”

  “There are evil spirits in this kraal,” Matebula said, and the crowd hushed. “My daughter Amahle is dead and her bride-price will never be paid. My limbs are heavy and there is a weight on my chest. I cannot sleep at night. A witch and her accomplice have cast a spell over this family and they must be removed.”

  “I will call on the ancestors for guidance,” the sangoma said, and a drumbeat sounded across the yard.

  Emmanuel moved sideways to get a better look. A sturdy female sangoma with ocher-dyed hair adorned with white beads beat a rhythm from a large cowhide drum.

  “Begin . . .” Matebula said. “Find these witches.”

  The male sangoma stood up and stamped his feet to the pounding of the drum. Dried seedpods attached to his ankles rattled and he sucked noisy breath in and out of his mouth. The drumbeat increased and the sangoma danced till sweat drenched his skin and dust rose from his bare feet. He jerked and swayed as if possessed.

  “The ancestral spirits are entering his body,” Shabalala whispered as explanation. “Soon they will speak through him.”

  Emmanuel rejected the notion of the living dead but could not forget Baba Kaleni’s charged hands resurrecting the memory of his mother and the promise he’d made her. And what were the ghosts of the soldiers and civilians who inhabited his dreams but the dead come back to life as well?

  The sangoma slowed and a glazed expression entered his eyes.

  “The ancestors are here,” Shabalala said.

  The fifth wife peeked up, anticipating the identification of the evil witches. The rest of the Matebula family held their breath and waited for the spirits to speak.

  “The Red Queen,” Gabriel whispered, glimpsing the fifth wife. “That’s her, Emmanuel. Get her.”

  “We will get her, but not now,” Emmanuel said. “We have to wait for the right moment. Be patient.”

  The answer did not please Gabriel but he stopped whispering and put his eye back to a break in the fence. The sangoma knelt on the impala skin and shook a small medicine bag back and forth before spilling its contents. Bones, stones, coins and shells spilled across the hide. He examined them, reading the signs. Minutes passed without a word from the ancestors. He stood up and circled the bones, frowning.

  “Speak,” the great chief demanded, impatient even in the face of a holy ceremony.

  The sangoma said, “There is only one evil spirit in this kraal, great chief. She alone brought calamity to your door.”

  The fifth wife’s head jerked up but she remained kneeling in the shade of the umdoni tree with stiff shoulders.

  “You are sure?” Chief Matebula pursed his lips, dissatisfied with the information.

  “The ancestors have said it is so, great one. And the ancestors do not lie.”

  “Then show me,” Matebula said. “Sniff out this witch.”

  The sangoma picked up a cow-tail whisk and walked to the female section of the crowd. An unmarried girl in the front row cowered in his shadow and began to cry. Amahle’s little sister sat with her back straight and her eyes focused on the beams of light hitting the perimeter fence. The sangoma’s whisk trailed across the crown of her head and brushed against her cheeks. The other females shifted away, afraid of being singled out for blame.

  “That’s not the witch.” Gabriel was distressed by the girl’s fear and the sound of crying.

  The sangoma turned from Amahle’s sister and approached the chief’s wives. He flicked the black whisk above the head of wife number one. Mandla leaned forward, ready to act if the whisk stopped above his mother. The sangoma moved on to wife number two and then to Nomusa, who hunched her shoulders and shut her eyes. The whisk brushed her face, trailed across the next wife and came to rest on the head of wife number five.

  “Here is the witch who has brought evil to this kraal, great chief. This is she.”

  “He’s good.” Gabriel was impressed. “He found the Red Queen.”

  The fifth wife hit the sangoma’s hand away and spun to face Matebula. “It is not true, my husband. The ancestors are mistaken.”

  The comment brought cries of disbelief from the crowd and appeared to shock even the great chief. He stood up, flustered. “Tell me how she did these things right under my nose.”

  “With black magic spells and a poisoned quill, which she stabbed into your daughter’s spine,” the sangoma said. “Philani Dlamini was also killed this way. It is in the bones.”

  “The bones lie.” The fifth wife rose from her knees and pushed the sangoma in the chest. He staggered back but she kept advancing. “You lie. We will call another diviner to tell the truth. My hands are clean.”

  Emmanuel exchanged a glance with Shabalala. Now was the time for the sangoma to apply extra pressure.

  “Your hands are soiled,” the sangoma said, but his voice lacked the conv
iction needed to push the fifth wife into retreat.

  “I did not put one finger on Amahle or Philani, my husband.” This was said directly to the great chief. “The true witch has cast a spell over the sangoma. She has that power.”

  Emmanuel felt the foundations of their plan erode. Neither he nor Shabalala had given the youngest wife enough credit for her sheer determination in executing her strategy.

  “I am clean,” she announced to the gathered clan. “I have done no harm.”

  “She’s a liar . . . a liar . . . a liar . . .” Gabriel muttered the chant under his breath and sprinted from behind the cover of the fence. He flew across the meeting area, his dirty jacket flapping open like a torn parachute.

  “Don’t, Sergeant.” Shabalala grabbed Emmanuel’s arm before he could sprint after Gabriel. “Let the ancestors complete their work.”

  “And what connection do they have to the boy?” Emmanuel said. The situation was out of control and it looked like they’d limp back to Durban with nothing.

  “Look.” Shabalala pointed to the meeting area.

  Gabriel ran through the crowd, women and children scattering in his path. He stopped inches from the fifth wife and pinned her with a glare from his different-colored eyes. “You are the Red Queen.” Gabriel leaned closer. “You put Amahle to sleep. You burned a baby in the fire. I saw you with my eyes.”

  The fifth wife flinched and stepped back. The rest of the family leaned forward, mesmerized by the white boy. He was already known among the Zulus in the valley to be touched by the ancestors. They watched him roam the hills by day and night, talking to the trees and the animals.

  “Husband . . . I beg you not to listen to this child.” The youngest wife’s tone was pleading. She kept her face turned from Gabriel.

  “Great chief.” The sangoma rallied. “The ancestors brought their message through the bones and now through this white boy who is suffering from ukuthwasa.”

  Emmanuel looked to Shabalala for help.

  “When a sangoma is called by the ancestors to become a healer he or she suffers from an illness. Back pain, headaches and sometimes”—Shabalala tapped a finger to the center of his forehead—“a disturbance of the mind. This is ukuthwasa.”