The Seed Of The Church

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Title:     The Seed Of The Church
Author: William Charles Scully [More Titles by Scully]

"The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church."

Tertullian.

One.

Matshaka sat on a stone on the highest south-eastern spur of the Intsiza Mountain, just overlooking the Rode Wesleyan Mission Station, one Sunday morning in the month of November 1880, and listened to the faint throbbing of the church bell. Beyond the mission, the broken hills of Pondoland, divided by the winding Umzimvubu--"the river of the sea-cows"--stretched away towards the ocean until they merged with the sky in an opaline haze. Around the Intsiza and on the surrounding mountain ranges the air was clear; and the distant features of the landscape looked unnaturally near--an almost certain sign of imminent rain.

It was the season of thunder-storms. The sun beat fiercely into the glowing valleys, but on the mountain-tops the air was cool. Already the heavy cumulus clouds were curdling over the distant Drakensberg, and raising their white and shining masses over the near Xomlenzi range. In the course of a few hours they would unite and sweep over valley and mountain, with shoutings of thunder and wind, and volleys of lightning, hail, and rain.

Along the almost invisible footpaths the people could be seen approaching the church from many directions. They suggested ants slowly creeping to a nest. Matshaka looked at them and thought deeply. The light breeze that almost invariably streams for hours against an approaching thunder-storm carried to his ear the clear notes of the bell. The beats grouped themselves in sets of three: what was the bell trying to say? It seemed as if a word were being repeated over and over again in the ringing. At length he found it--"Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza;" that was the word. "Intsiza" in the Kafir language means "refuge." The mountain was so called on account of its broken and involuted valleys which, in the oft-recurring inter-tribal wars between the Pondos, the Bacas, and the Xesibes, afforded a refuge to the vanquished. And now the church bell tolled out the word so clearly that Matshaka wondered how the thing could ever have puzzled him--"Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza."

Matshaka was a Pondo. A heathen and a polygamist, he had lived his fifty years without a single aspiration towards anything better than the surrounding savage conditions afforded him. A man of strong character, he had amassed considerable wealth, and attained to an influential position in his clan. From where he sat listening to the bell he could see a large herd of his cattle grazing in the valley below his kraal, which was situated about four miles from the Rode Mission.

Pondoland, like every state under savage rule, was the scene of cruelty, oppression, and misgovernment in most forms. Exposed to the unchecked rapacity of the chiefs, the unhappy people were always in danger of death, or confiscation of their property upon some puerile pretext. The one quality which was of advantage to its possessor was cunning. Frugality and industry resulted in the amassing of wealth, and wealth excited the envy and cupidity of the rulers, who, through the agency of the witch-doctor, were never at a loss for a pretext for "eating up" the owner. Courage availed little, for what could one do against numbers? Honesty would have been ridiculously out of place; conspicuous ability minus cunning would have excited sure and fatal jealousy. Cunning combined with force of character generally enabled a man to die a natural death--even though rich; provided, of course, that he had been judiciously liberal in the right quarters, and had consistently supported the strong against the weak.

Matshaka had used strength and cunning, had used them unscrupulously, and prospered accordingly. Throughout his long life he had stood on the side of the oppressor, and shared the spoil of the oppressed. The words "right" and "wrong" had, practically speaking, no meaning for him. But quite recently, something like the first faint glimmerings of a moral sense awoke in his soul. The glaring and palpable frauds of the witch-doctor had never deceived him, his intellect was too acute and his temperament too reasonable. Lately, a vague and undefined sense of general dissatisfaction with his surroundings had gradually grown, and after this developed the conviction that everything he knew, himself included, was utterly and hopelessly bad. Thereafter the "beer-drink" knew him no more, he held aloof from the "eating up," which had been his favourite and profitable diversion, and he begun to shun his fellow-men. Soon he became an object of suspicion.

Matshaka sat on the mountain-top and looked at the church far below him. It was built on a spur which ran out abruptly from the lower zone of the Intsiza. The bell had ceased ringing, but the beats still kept sounding in his head. Intsiza--Refuge. Yes, the mission was at least a refuge for those fortunate enough to escape from the dreadful "smelling out," a sanctuary which had always been respected. He had, on the previous Sunday, attended church for the first time in his life, and what he heard there increased his dissatisfaction and unrest ten fold. He could not have told what it was that impelled him to go. He had, of course, often heard accounts of what was taught in churches, but the idea of an omnipotent God coming into the world in the semblance of a poor and insignificant member of a despised class, had always appeared to him as ridiculous. The son of God going out mightily to war with a blood-red banner streaming over him would have seemed appropriate to his conception of deity, but meekness and submission as attributes of Godhead were too preposterous.

Yet some of the things he had heard on the previous Sunday stuck in his memory. "Come unto Me, all ye who labour and are heavily laden," impressed him particularly. He himself was one of the heavily laden; who and where was the God that gave relief to such? Matshaka sat thinking over this until long after the service was over, and he was still thinking of it when the faint beats of the bell, which was now sounding for afternoon service, fell upon his tense ear. As if in answer to his unspoken questions the wind swept up the one clear word: "Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza."

The sun suddenly darkened, and, glancing to the westward, Matshaka saw the great bulging thunder-clouds sweeping up in a serried mass. He arose and quickly descended the mountain. He reached his dwelling just as the storm broke.

Two.

The germ of unrest planted in the congenial soil of Matshaka's mind grew and branched until it filled and dominated the man's whole being. The result was a condition of hyperaesthesia. He seemed to be more alive than formerly; things previously unnoticed forced themselves on his attention and became significant with mysterious meanings. Everything in his environment hurt him. His wives were mere animals that he had purchased for his pleasure and use, his sons and daughters were mere savages without his force of intellect. He had hitherto held aloof from all who were Christians, and had strenuously opposed the missionaries. Now, however, he felt a pressing need for intellectual and spiritual communion, but there was not a living soul in the whole circle of his acquaintance with whom he felt he could speak of what was torturing him. His thoughts seemed to focus themselves upon the missionary at the Rode, but he could not make up his mind to speak. What he really needed was some one to explain to him his own mental and spiritual condition, a talker rather than a listener. His longings were quite undefined, and their object utterly unintelligible even to himself; had one asked him as to the nature of his trouble he could hardly have even guessed at its nature.

During the week of suffering following the Sunday spent upon the Intsiza, one idea continually haunted Matshaka, the idea of becoming a Christian. When first this presented itself the notion was summarily dismissed, but it kept persistently recurring. Public opinion is probably a more potent coercive among savages than among civilised men, and for an intellectual savage with Matshaka's antecedents to turn his back on the traditions of a lifetime, and cleave publicly to what his fellows held in contemptuous scorn, involved consequences that might well appal the bravest.

Next Sunday, however, found Matshaka at the Rode Church. When he arrived there were not more than a dozen persons in the building. It was a rainy day, and the congregation was consequently small. He took his seat right at the back, in one of the corners, and from there watched the dripping worshippers as they arrived one by one. An old man named Langabuya especially attracted his attention. This man had been "smelt out" for witchcraft some seven or eight years previously, and Matshaka had assisted at his "eating up." He had managed to gain the sanctuary of the mission, and thus to save his life. He had been a rich man, almost as rich as Matshaka, but all his possessions had been taken. Now he lived at the mission, his sole substance, as Matshaka knew, being a few goats. Yet he looked contented with his lot, and at peace with all men.

The service began with a hymn sung by the congregation. The natives are natural musicians, and they easily acquire the faculty of part-singing. The harmony seemed to intensify the discord and unrest of Matshaka's troubled spirit; all the events of his turbulent life seemed to crowd in on his mind as the past is said to overwhelm the consciousness of a drowning man.

The hymn over, a prayer was said by the minister, but it made no impression on Matshaka; the ideas were pitched in a key to which his mind could not yet vibrate. After the prayer another hymn was sung, and then the minister opened the Bible and said he was going to read the Word of God. This statement set Matshaka's mind on the alert; now he would hear the very words spoken by the majestic and all-powerful God to the men He had made. It was with an almost sick feeling of disappointment the forlorn man soon learnt that the words being spoken were not those of the God towards whom his spirit was passionately stretching forth its hands, but of one of His many prophets, who were, after all, only men.

The chapter happened to be the second in the Epistle of Paul to the Colossians. Matshaka listened to the sentences read by the minister in a sonorous voice and with excellent execution, and presently felt an unfamiliar stir within him. When the minister reached the thirteenth verse: "And you, being dead in your sins, and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath He quickened together with Him, having forgiven you all trespasses," something seemed to transfix the heart and then the brain of the desolate man sitting in the corner of the church, with bent head, and face hidden in his hands.

Then happened to Matshaka what happened to Saul of Tarsus when on the road to Damascus: a great light from Heaven shone round about him. This was succeeded by a darkness as of death. Then the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw with a blinding clearness of vision. That strange new birth, that awakening of the soul which transfigures those who genuinely experience it, was his; let those doubt it who may, this experience is the great fact in some lives. Its existence is ignored by many, denied by a few, and explained satisfactorily by none. The Christian explanation is partly vitiated by attributing it solely to Christian influences; the fact being that it was well known in ancient times amongst Pagan nations. Moreover it is in these days realised by many to whom Christianity, in some of its most important aspects, is a book sealed with adamant. The materialistic attempt at an explanation is quite untenable. Conversion, the conviction of sin, the awakening to a higher life, that thunder-trump which separates the many goats from the few sheep of our past, and summons the soul to that seat of agony from which it can and must discern good from evil, without speciousness or self-deception, is as real and fundamentally natural as the earthquake, and as tremendous in its effects.

Matshaka broke into a passion of sobs which he vainly strove to stifle. At the conclusion of the reading the minister came down the aisle, and kneeling next to the penitent, besought the Lord to save this sinner, whose spirit was broken and whose pride lay in the dust. The congregation prayed silently in unison, not one turned his head to look. They well knew what was happening; most of the elder members had undergone a similar experience.

A short time elapsed and then Matshaka's sobs ceased. When the ordinary service proceeded he became quite calm. After its close, the minister met the penitent, took him by the hand, and led him apart. It was eventually settled that he was to attend regularly for instruction each day at the mission, before being formally received as a church member.

When Matshaka left the mission for his home the rain had cleared off; the steep, green slopes of the Intsiza shone in the sunlight, and foaming cataracts shot down the gleaming crags. In his eyes was a new-born light, and his heart was the home of a virginal peace from whose gentle face the spirits of wrath had fled away--never to return.

Three.

Probably no more villainous and unmitigated fraud than the Kafir "isanuse" or witch-doctor cumbers the earth. Pretending to the faculty of divination, he trains his powers of observation and memory to an extraordinary extent. Every trivial circumstance coming within the sphere of his cognisance is hoarded with a view to future use, and by means of spies he is kept informed of all going on among the people of his clan. Rich and influential men are, of course, the objects of his keenest regard. Nothing is too unimportant to claim his attention. The pattern of a snuff-box, a dent in an assegai handle or blade, the number of cowrie shells in a necklet or armlet--all facts of this description are noted with the view to possible use against the owner, should it be advisable to convict him of practising black magic. Such facts can be used in this way, for instance: if a man be accused of causing any one's illness or death, it is very useful to be able to say--"You took the assegai with the crack in the handle that you mended with the sinew of a she-goat last spring, dug a hole with it in front of the sick man's hut, and buried therein" (whatever the particular supposed magical substance may be). This knowledge of detail fills the spectators with awe at the witch-doctor's powers of divination. All the friends of the accused know that he possesses an assegai mended in the manner described, and they at once feel that he is guilty.

Superimposed upon all this fraud is a growth of self-deception; no doubt many of these wretches believe themselves to be possessed of magical powers.

When a witch-doctor is consulted, a present, such as an ox, a sheep, or a goat--according to the rank and wealth of the person seeking his advice--is always brought.

Such person, with his friends, sits down in front of the witch-doctor's hut. Having already been advised by a spy of the probability of such a visit being made, the witch-doctor--after asserting his dignity by keeping his visitors waiting for a suitable period--comes forward, and without any greeting, states to the startled strangers the object of their visit.

Those consulting a witch-doctor are bound by custom to "vuma," or acknowledge the truth of every statement he makes, whether it be true or false. Thus, supposing a child to be ill, and the parents to have come to consult the witch-doctor as to who has bewitched it--for all illness is assumed to be caused by "umtagati," or witchcraft--the witch-doctor might say: "You, Sogolima," (or whoever it may be), "have come to find out who it is that has bewitched your child that is ill." At once all would clap their hands loudly, and call out "Siyavuma," which means, "we acknowledge." A false statement is sometimes purposely made. For instance, in the case we are supposing, the witch-doctor might say next: "It is a girl that is sick," whereas as a matter of fact it is a boy. The audience would, nevertheless, cry out "Siyavuma," but involuntarily; the exclamation would not be so loud, nor would the hand-clap be so energetic as if a true statement had been made. Then the witch-doctor would say: "No, you are lying; it is not a girl that is sick, but a boy." Then "Siyavuma" would break forth with a loud shout, and all would be struck with terror at the wonderful powers of the "isanuse."

Usually the witch-doctor takes his cue from the chief as to the selection of victims. Women practise this horrible trade rather more often than men.

Whilst it was yet early morning of the Sunday following that upon which Matshaka had attended church, and floated away from his past life on a flood of penitent tears, small bodies of men could be seen trooping over the hills from every direction towards the kraal of Nomaduma, priestess and witch-doctor, renowned over the whole country-side for skill in occult arts. Her dwelling was situated at the foot of a conical hill which rose abruptly for about six hundred feet, and ended in a bare, rocky point, fringed close to its summit with large, loose boulders. This hill is known as the "Bonxa," a word which means the breast of a woman, in some of the northern Bantu dialects. It is a striking object in the landscape, and has been the scene of many a horrible tragedy. All wizards detected anywhere in the neighbourhood were dragged thither for execution.

An hour after sunrise several hundred men had assembled, and fresh arrivals happened every few moments. The men were ranged in the form of a crescent along the hill-side, and facing the witch-doctor's hut. A larger party than usual approached. This consisted of the chief Makanda with his councillors and other attendants. They took up a position midway between the central portion of the crescent-shaped crowd and the "isanuse's" dwelling. Here they sat down and waited in silence.

All the men bore arms when they came. Some had guns, many had spears and assegais, and a few carried clubs, "amabunguza." All the weapons, however, had been placed together in an empty hut about forty yards to the right of that occupied by Nomaduma. The sun shone fiercely from a cloudless sky, and not a breath of wind could be felt. The men sat absolutely mute and motionless.

About half-an-hour after the arrival of the chief, the wicker door of the hut was drawn suddenly aside, and Nomaduma, the "isanuse," appeared. She was a tall, slender woman of about forty-five years of age. Her features were emaciated, and her hair drawn out into innumerable long locks, which were stiffened with grease and red clay. Her eyes were bright, and her cruel lips, partially withdrawn, showed her dazzlingly white teeth, which were beautifully small and even. Her only garment was a robe of tanned calfskin, which was draped around her waist and hips. Encircling her body, under her thin and pendent breasts, was a girdle made of the dried skins of snakes, twisted together. From her neck depended a number of pieces of bone, fragments of dried and polished wood of different sorts, and various little skin bags. But the most striking element of her attire was the innumerable dry, inflated gall-bladders which were fastened all over her in bunches and festoons. These were the gall-bladders of sheep and goats, some hundreds of which are an essential part of the witch-doctor's paraphernalia.

When Nomaduma appeared, a low murmur, which lasted for a few seconds, arose, and then dead silence reigned. She stood erect and gazed fixedly at the sun; then she turned slowly towards the gibbous moon which was sinking in the west. She appeared to affect being unaware of the presence of the chief and his crowd of followers. Moving very slowly, she took a few paces towards where Makanda was sitting, and then she paused, closing her eyes and throwing her head back, as her body and limbs stiffened. After a silence of a few minutes, and without changing her posture, she spoke:

"The chief has come to seek my help against the false friends who seek to do him evil."

From hundreds of eager throats the one word "Siyavuma" burst out in a great shout, to the accompaniment of a simultaneous clap from the same number of pairs of hands. Dead silence immediately followed, and after a short pause Nomaduma continued:

"The chief was about to go forth to attack his enemies." (Here she made a sweep with her hand to southward, the direction in which the Cwera country lay.) "Siyavuma."

"The chief bade his 'war-doctor' (inyanga) prepare the pot of magic medicines and place it on the roof of his hut, so that the spirits of his fathers (imishologu), that dwell in the unseen, might make his men brave and his enemies faint-hearted."

"Siyavuma."

"In the darkness of the night the stealthy steps of the traitor approached. Then his perfidious hands bore away the pot, which he afterwards gave with the potent medicines of the war-doctor to a messenger sent to receive it by the enemy."

"Siyavuma."

"When the spirits of his fathers came to the chief's hut, and found that the medicines were gone, they departed in anger, thinking that the chief and his tribe held them in contempt."

"Siyavuma."

"Those who wish evil to the chief are few, but they are crafty. Two men only are guilty in this matter, one bore the pot of medicines away, and the other afterwards delivered it to the messenger of the enemy." "Siyavuma."

"These traitors were incited to this deed by greed, they having been promised large rewards by the enemy for their treachery."

"Siyavuma."

"The wicked ones have called themselves the friends of the chief, and they were trusted by him; one of them is present, but the other has feared to come before my face."

There was no shout of "Siyavuma" at this, but a deep and confused murmur arose among the men. It seemed to swell and break and shrink, and then to wander backwards and forwards and up and down the curving lines of the crescent, as if endowed with volition. It was like an evil spirit seeking a victim to destroy. Each man looked at his neighbour with shrinking distrust, and tried to draw away from contact with a possible wizard. At length the shuddering sound died, and a tense and terrible silence reigned.

Nomaduma stamped with her foot on the ground, and a girl who looked to be about twelve or thirteen years of age ran out of the hut carrying a heavy stabbing spear with a broad and gleaming blade. This she handed to the witch-doctor, and then she ran back to the hut. Nomaduma took the spear and advanced slowly to where Makanda and his councillors were sitting. She paused when close before the chief, and said:

"At your right hand sits your councillor Rolobani; he and Matshaka, who has joined the Christians, are the guilty men."

Rolobani started to his feet, his eye-balls starting from his head, and his face ashen-grey. He tried to speak, but could only gasp for breath. His companions fell away in every direction to avoid the contamination of his touch.

The crescent broke up in disorder, the men surrounding the doomed wretch in a furious, surging crowd. Nomaduma held up the spear, its head glinting brightly in the sunshine, and again dead silence fell on the throng. She then walked up to Rolobani and seized the necklet of charms which he wore, after the manner of most natives. This she dragged from his neck, and held out at arm's length.

"In the pot of medicines prepared by the war-doctor for the chief, was the dried head of a water-snake; the war-doctor is present; let him declare if I speak the truth or not."

The war-doctor called out from amongst the crowd that this statement was true.

"Look. I open this bag which I have taken from Rolobanis neck, and in it find the thing I have named. He stole it out of the pot which he sold to the Cwera chief."

Here she held up the shrivelled snake's head, so that it could be seen by all.

This was accepted as proof positive, in the face of which, had any man dared to lift his voice in favour of the doomed but guiltless victim, he would probably have been killed as an accomplice. The unhappy Rolobani again tried to speak, but his voice was drowned in shouts of rage. In a few moments his hands were bound behind his back, and he was led away by two men, each holding a thong which was noosed around his neck.

Rolobani was dragged towards the Bonxa hill, followed by the furious crowd. On the least appearance of faltering he was freely prodded behind with spears, and by the time he reached the commencement of the steep ascent, he was streaming with blood. Then a frenzy seized him and he bounded forward, climbing over the rocks on his abrupt course so fast that he tugged at the thongs by which he was held prisoner. He knew he had to die at the top of the hill, and his only anxiety now was to get it over as quickly as possible. Consequently, he and the two men holding him got some considerable distance ahead, and reached the bare summit of the hill some seconds before the nearest of the crowd which straggled after them. Among the boulders forming the fringe gleamed white bones, and a shapeless horror, emitting a dreadful stench lay huddled in a cleft at the prisoners feet. As the men arrived one by one, they gradually formed a ring around the doomed wretch whose last hour had so nearly sped; their black, sinister, relentless countenances shining with the sweat that poured plentifully from them.

Rolobani was a man whose bravery had been proved in many a tribal fight. The terrible accusation of witchcraft combined with foul treachery had broken down his courage for a little space, but now he was his own man again, and, in the strength of his conscious innocence, could look steadily into the eyes of death. He glanced round the ring of angry faces contemptuously, and then stood stolidly awaiting his certain doom. After a short pause a man stole out from the circle armed with a heavily knobbed club, and struck him from behind a violent, smashing blow on the head. He fell forward on his face, and in a few moments was beaten into a shapeless mass.

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Matshaka had not been bidden to the gathering at Nomaduma's kraal. He was, however, aware of such through overhearing a conversation between two of his sons. His conversion to Christianity had been a fruitful topic among the Pondos during the previous week; at every "beer-drink" it had been discussed. His name became a by-word among the heathen, a shaking of the head among the people.

As the men passed his kraal on their way to the witch-doctor's they shouted derisive and insulting words at him. His former friends had cut him dead in the public ways. All this was no more than he expected; he had helped to make others suffer what he now endured, and he felt that he deserved it.

When he thought of the future it seemed to be one mass of difficulties, not the least of which was presented by his four wives. His chief wife, old Nolenti, had been neglected by him for years past. He now determined to marry her according to Christian rites, and to send the other three back to their respective homes. He tried to explain this to Nolenti, but utterly failed to make her understand him. She was quite satisfied with her position of chief wife, and her consequent immunity from labour in the fields. It was, he felt, his appointed task to endeavour to make her see and appreciate the truth which illuminated his enfranchised spirit. His three eldest sons had married and were established in kraals of their own. They spent most of their days in going from beer-drink to beer-drink, leaving their wives to hoe in the fields. Several of his elder daughters were also married. His younger sons lounged about the huts all day, their only occupation being the herding of cattle, and keeping the calves away from the cows until milking-time. His younger daughters played, naked and unashamed, about the kraal, except when fetching fuel from the forest on the Intsiza, or scaring the long-tailed finches from the crops. He felt he must try and save the souls of his children; how to begin, that was the question. He was as much an object of suspicion among them as among strangers. He read distrust in every eye. Even at his own kraal, if a few were gathered together and he approached, silence fell upon all, and they would nervously disperse if he joined them.

And now, on this Sunday morning, Matshaka experienced his first revulsion of feeling against his new belief. Was it true, after all? He could hardly have told what it was that he believed in. How large the difficulties loomed! how bitter were the sufferings he was enduring! how the future lowered and threatened! Matshaka was naturally a sociable man, and the ostracism to which he was subjected caused him acute pain.

Musing miserably on all these things, he walked slowly towards the comb of the ridge about two miles from his kraal and in the direction of the Rode. From this ridge the church could be seen by looking diagonally across a long, shallow, grassy valley. This was the day on which he was to have been formally received into the church as a member. Now his courage failed him, and he determined to postpone the matter, at all events for another week.

As he reached the top of the ridge, the sound of the bell came floating and quivering up through the limpid air. Being much nearer the church, the ringing sounded more clear and distinct in his ear than on the morning he had spent upon the mountain.

Away to the left, and distant about five miles, the upper half of the Bonxa hill could be clearly seen projecting over an intervening ridge. Matshaka could see the swarm of men around the summit; he knew by experience what that indicated, and a shudder went through him. He sat watching until he saw the crowd break up, descend slowly, and disappear behind the ridge.

The bell rang on, and again Matshaka saw the little knots of people moving in towards the church, like ants towards a nest. Then, suddenly, the doubter recovered his faith. His soul again became flooded with light. He bent his head and wept, partly with shame at his recent doubts, but mostly with relief and joy at the recovering of his faith.

He arose after a while and moved towards the church. After walking a few yards he recollected that he was wearing nothing but his blanket. He did not wish to enter the church unless properly clothed, so he sat down again, his brain reeling with the crowd of thoughts that hurtled through it, and his ears filled with the music of the mission bell.

Glancing to the left, Matshaka noticed a party of about thirty men coming along the footpath which led towards his kraal over the saddle where he was sitting. These men came from the direction of the Bonxa. Wishing to avoid them, Matshaka arose and walked slowly forward in the direction of the Rode. Looking around again after a few moments, he saw to his surprise that the men had left the path, and were apparently endeavouring to intercept him. He quickened his pace, and they began to run. In an instant he saw what had happened: he had been "smelt out," and this was the killing party sent to put him to a cruel death.

The instinctive love of life surged up in Matshaka, and he bounded forward in the direction of the church where, like Adonijah, he might catch hold on the horns of the altar. Matshaka well knew that the church was held to be an inviolable sanctuary even by the chiefs most rabid in their hatred of supposed wizards. He had himself helped to hunt a fugitive along the same course under similar circumstances, and had angrily grumbled when the man eluded his clutches.

But Matshaka was an elderly man, whilst several of his pursuers were young and in the prime of their strength. They did not succeed in intercepting him, but as the chase proceeded it could easily be seen that the hunted man was losing ground. He now crossed a shallow valley, the bulging side of which hid the church from view. Running up the hill sorely tried his strength. Glancing back over his shoulder he could see that the three foremost of his pursuers were rapidly gaining on him.

Just then the bell rang out once more to call the people together to a special class meeting held after the conclusion of the ordinary service. The sound nerved Matshaka to fresh effort. He knew that his time had conic--that he would never gain the sanctuary; so he now strove only to reach the top of the ridge from where the church could be seen. This he just succeeded in doing, and then he turned and faced his pursuers, who were only a few yards behind him. Instinctively he had thus far carried his knobbed stick; this he now flung away over the heads of his three enemies, lest he should be tempted to use it.

In a few seconds Matshaka was surrounded by a ring of implacable foes.

He stood as still as his panting would permit, with folded arms, and gazed fixedly at the church. He was quite naked, having long since flung away his blanket in the course of the pursuit. The bell had now ceased ringing, and the minister with his congregation stood bare-headed at the side of the building, sadly expectant of the impending tragedy. They knew they dared not interfere.

The leader of the pursuers, a tall, ill-looking man named 'Ndatyana, took a pace forward and said:

"Ha, Matshaka, son and father of wizards, so we have caught you."

"Yes, and I am a dead man. Whatever I am, my children are guiltless. Give me but a little time to pray; then do with me what you will, but spare them."

Matshaka knelt down, clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and turned his face upwards to the sky. His lips moved slightly. The men stood around him without sound or movement. After a short pause he stood up, folded his arms, looked straight into the eyes of 'Ndatyana, and said:

"I am ready."

For some seconds no one moved. Then, at a nod from the leader, one stepped forward and struck Matshaka a violent blow on the head with a club. He fell heavily to the ground, and in a few seconds all was over.

The little congregation went back into the church, and soon the strains of a hymn arose. When this had ceased, the minister offered up a fervent prayer to the Lord that He might show mercy and forgiveness to those who thus ignorantly slew His servants.

By this time 'Ndatyana and his men were out of sight, so the male members of the congregation, headed by the minister, who carried a large white sheet, wended slowly to where the body lay. Then with reverent hands they lifted it from the ground and bore it into the church. They laid it, bleeding, in front of the little communion table at which they had so recently celebrated the Lord's Supper.

And every one there knew it to be an acceptable offering.

[The end]
William Charles Scully's short story: Seed Of The Church

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