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Authors: Lauren St. John
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to go out and kill the leopard,” Martine said.
“I agree,” was Ngwenya’s response. “But not all witch doctors do things for the right reasons.”
Riding beside Ben now, Martine scanned the hills for any sign of the treasure seekers, the leopard, or even a leopard spirit. She hadn’t been able to think about the Matobo Hills in quite the same way since discovering that they were riddled with shrines created by the early Mashona tribesmen, who had worshipped Mwali, the High God. Each shrine had its own guardian and they were looked after to this day.
Ngwenya had many stories about ghostly goings-on amid the rocks and hills, which he said were full of spirits. He claimed that Lobengula had regularly visited the Umlimo Cave on Mount Injelele, the Hill of Slippery Sides, to consult a spirit that could “bark like a dog, crow like a cock, or roar like a lion.”
“The pilgrims who visit the shrines often say they hear the voice of Mwali coming from the rocks,” Ngwenya said. “You might even hear it yourself. But don’t worry; the ‘Voices of the Rocks’ also has a scientific explanation. The boulders expand in the sun and shrink at night when it is cool. When they get smaller, they moan or growl like thunder.”
Martine listened hard but could hear nothing except the faint whistle of the wind through the rocks and crags.
Ngwenya explained that each shrine had its own guardian or messenger who was in communication with Mwali or the cave spirit, and that one famous shrine messenger, a seven-year-old girl, had lived underwater at Dzilo shrine for four years “just like crocodiles do.” The spirit had taught her good manners, how to be humble and kind-hearted, and how to teach others to live in harmony with nature.
Martine could think of quite a few pupils at Caracal School who would benefit from the teachings of such a spirit, but she found it hard to credit that an intelligent man like the horse wrangler could actually imagine that a young girl could spend four years underwater like a crocodile.
“But surely you don’t believe that?” she pressed Ngwenya. “Surely you don’t believe in the supernatural?”
He looked at her in surprise. “These things are not supernatural,” he said. “These are our truths and the truths of our ancestors.”
On their sixth day in the Matopos, Ngwenya and Sadie decided that Martine and Ben were familiar enough with the landscape around the retreat to be trusted to go out alone. Gwyn Thomas was concerned but Sadie assured her that as long as they stayed on Black Eagle land and didn’t venture into the national park, they were unlikely to run into anything more deadly than an antelope.
“Provided,” she cautioned them, “that you don’t go near the northern boundary fence. Rex Ratcliffe runs a hunting and safari operation on his ranch, the Lazy J, just the other side of it. They’re a trigger-happy lot and I wouldn’t want you getting shot by mistake.”
Martine could tell that her grandmother didn’t appreciate her friend’s humor. It wasn’t until later that it struck her that perhaps Sadie hadn’t been joking.
It was Tempest’s turn to be exercised that day, so Martine rode the gray Arab colt while Ben tried to coax some life into Mambo. It wasn’t an easy task. The pony had a fat stomach and a plump rump, and was both greedy and lazy. His nature was sweet enough, but he did everything in his own time and would not be hurried. Martine was sure that a charging elephant couldn’t persuade Mambo to do anything more energetic than swish his tail.
“He’s the perfect horse for a beginner,” Sadie told poor Ben, as it took the combined efforts of him and Ngwenya to drag the pony away from the feed trough.
Once they were on their way, Mambo’s behavior improved, but the fastest he ever went was a trot. On this particular afternoon, that suited Martine and Ben fine, because Ben wanted to demonstrate some of the tracking skills he’d learned from
“I agree,” was Ngwenya’s response. “But not all witch doctors do things for the right reasons.”
Riding beside Ben now, Martine scanned the hills for any sign of the treasure seekers, the leopard, or even a leopard spirit. She hadn’t been able to think about the Matobo Hills in quite the same way since discovering that they were riddled with shrines created by the early Mashona tribesmen, who had worshipped Mwali, the High God. Each shrine had its own guardian and they were looked after to this day.
Ngwenya had many stories about ghostly goings-on amid the rocks and hills, which he said were full of spirits. He claimed that Lobengula had regularly visited the Umlimo Cave on Mount Injelele, the Hill of Slippery Sides, to consult a spirit that could “bark like a dog, crow like a cock, or roar like a lion.”
“The pilgrims who visit the shrines often say they hear the voice of Mwali coming from the rocks,” Ngwenya said. “You might even hear it yourself. But don’t worry; the ‘Voices of the Rocks’ also has a scientific explanation. The boulders expand in the sun and shrink at night when it is cool. When they get smaller, they moan or growl like thunder.”
Martine listened hard but could hear nothing except the faint whistle of the wind through the rocks and crags.
Ngwenya explained that each shrine had its own guardian or messenger who was in communication with Mwali or the cave spirit, and that one famous shrine messenger, a seven-year-old girl, had lived underwater at Dzilo shrine for four years “just like crocodiles do.” The spirit had taught her good manners, how to be humble and kind-hearted, and how to teach others to live in harmony with nature.
Martine could think of quite a few pupils at Caracal School who would benefit from the teachings of such a spirit, but she found it hard to credit that an intelligent man like the horse wrangler could actually imagine that a young girl could spend four years underwater like a crocodile.
“But surely you don’t believe that?” she pressed Ngwenya. “Surely you don’t believe in the supernatural?”
He looked at her in surprise. “These things are not supernatural,” he said. “These are our truths and the truths of our ancestors.”
On their sixth day in the Matopos, Ngwenya and Sadie decided that Martine and Ben were familiar enough with the landscape around the retreat to be trusted to go out alone. Gwyn Thomas was concerned but Sadie assured her that as long as they stayed on Black Eagle land and didn’t venture into the national park, they were unlikely to run into anything more deadly than an antelope.
“Provided,” she cautioned them, “that you don’t go near the northern boundary fence. Rex Ratcliffe runs a hunting and safari operation on his ranch, the Lazy J, just the other side of it. They’re a trigger-happy lot and I wouldn’t want you getting shot by mistake.”
Martine could tell that her grandmother didn’t appreciate her friend’s humor. It wasn’t until later that it struck her that perhaps Sadie hadn’t been joking.
It was Tempest’s turn to be exercised that day, so Martine rode the gray Arab colt while Ben tried to coax some life into Mambo. It wasn’t an easy task. The pony had a fat stomach and a plump rump, and was both greedy and lazy. His nature was sweet enough, but he did everything in his own time and would not be hurried. Martine was sure that a charging elephant couldn’t persuade Mambo to do anything more energetic than swish his tail.
“He’s the perfect horse for a beginner,” Sadie told poor Ben, as it took the combined efforts of him and Ngwenya to drag the pony away from the feed trough.
Once they were on their way, Mambo’s behavior improved, but the fastest he ever went was a trot. On this particular afternoon, that suited Martine and Ben fine, because Ben wanted to demonstrate some of the tracking skills he’d learned from
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