A MAGICIAN

Dick Sands the Boy Captain by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. A MAGICIAN

A MAGICIAN.

On finding that Cousin Benedict did not return to his quarters at the proper hour, Mrs. Weldon began to feel uneasy. She could not imagine what had become of him; his tin box with its contents were safe in his hut, and even if a chance of escape had been offered him, she knew that nothing would have induced him voluntarily to abandon his treasures. She enlisted the services of Halima, and spent the remainder of the day in searching for him, until at last she felt herself driven to the conviction that he must have been confined by the orders of Alvez himself; for what reason she could not divine, as Benedict had undoubtedly been included in the number of prisoners to be delivered to Mr. Weldon for the stipulated ransom.

But the rage of the trader when he heard of the escape of the captive was an ample proof that he had had no hand in his disappearance. A rigorous search was instituted in every direction, which resulted in the discovery of the mole-track. Here beyond a question was the passage through which the fly-catcher had found his way.

"Idiot! fool! rascal!" muttered Alvez, full of rage at the prospect of losing a portion of the redemption-money; "if ever I get hold of him, he shall pay dearly for this freak."

The opening was at once blocked up, the woods were scoured all round for a considerable distance, but no trace of Benedict was to be found. Mrs. Weldon was bitterly grieved and much overcome, but she had no alternative except to resign herself as best she could to the loss of her unfortunate relation; there was a tinge of bitterness in her anxiety, for she could not help being irritated at the recklessness with which he had withdrawn himself from the reach of her protection.

Meanwhile the weather for the time of year underwent a very unusual change. Although the rainy season is ordinarily reckoned to terminate about the end of April, the sky had suddenly become overcast in the middle of June, rain had recommenced falling, and the downpour had been so heavy and continuous that all the ground was thoroughly sodden. To Mrs. Weldon personally this incessant rainfall brought no other inconvenience beyond depriving her of her daily exercise, but to the natives in general it was a very serious calamity.

The ripening crops in the low-lying districts were completely flooded, and the inhabitants feared that they would be reduced to the greatest extremities; all agricultural pursuits had come to a standstill, and neither the queen nor her ministers could devise any expedient to avert or mitigate the misfortune. They resolved at last to have recourse to the magicians, not those who are called in request to heal diseases or to procure good luck, but to the mganga, sorcerers of a superior order, who are credited with the faculty of invoking or dispelling rain.

But it was all to no purpose. It was in vain that the mganga monotoned their incantations, flourished their rattles, jingled their bells, and exhibited their amulets; it was equally without avail that they rolled up their balls of dirt and spat in the faces of all the courtiers: the pitiless rain continued to descend, and the malign influences that were ruling the clouds refused to be propitiated.

The prospect seemed to become more and more hopeless, when the report was brought to Moena that there was a most wonderful mganga resident in the north of Angola. He had never been seen in this part of the country, but fame declared him to be a magician of the very highest order. Application, without delay, should be made to him; he surely would be able to stay the rain.

Early in the morning of the 25th a great tinkling of bells announced the magician's arrival at Kazonndé. The natives poured out to meet him on his way to the chitoka, their minds being already predisposed in his favour by a moderation of the downpour, and by sundry indications of a coming change of wind.

The ordinary practice of the professors of the magical art is to perambulate the villages in parties of three or four, accompanied by a considerable number of acolytes and assistants. In this case the mganga came entirely alone. He was a pure negro of most imposing stature, more than six feet high, and broad in proportion. All over his chest was a fantastic pattern traced in pipe-clay, the lower portion of his body being covered with a flowing skirt of woven grass, so long that it made a train. Round his neck hung a string of birds' skulls, upon his head he wore a leathern helmet ornamented with pearls and plumes, and about his waist was a copper girdle, to which was attached bells that tinkled like the harness of a Spanish mule. The only instrument indicating his art was a basket he carried made of a calabash containing shells, amulets, little wooden idols and other fetishes, together with what was more important than all, a large number of those balls of dung, without which no African ceremony of divination could ever be complete.

One peculiarity was soon discovered by the crowd; the mganga was dumb, and could utter only one low, guttural sound, which was quite unintelligible; this was a circumstance, however, that seemed only to augment their faith in his powers.

With a stately strut that brought all his tinkling paraphernalia into full play, the magician proceeded to make the circuit of the market-place. The natives followed in a troop behind, endeavouring, like monkeys, to imitate his every movement. He turned into the main thoroughfare, and began to make his way direct to the royal residence, whence, as soon as the queen heard of his approach, she advanced to meet him. On seeing her, the mganga bowed to the very dust; then, rearing himself to his full height, he

[Illustration: The entire crowd joined in. Page 441.]

pointed aloft, and by the significance of his animated gestures indicated that, although the fleeting clouds were now going to the west, they would soon return eastwards with a rotatory motion irresistibly strong.

All at once, to the surprise of the beholders, he stooped and took the hand of the mighty sovereign of Kazonndé.

The courtiers hurried forward to check the unprecedented breach of etiquette, but the foremost was driven back with so staggering a blow that the others deemed it prudent to retire.

The queen herself appeared not to take the least offence at the familiarity; she bestowed a hideous grimace, which was meant for a smile, upon her illustrious visitor, who, still keeping his hold upon her hand, started off walking at a rapid pace, the crowd following in the rear. He directed his steps towards the residence of Alvez, and finding the door closed, applied his strong shoulder to it with such effect, that it fell bodily to the ground, and the passive sovereign stood within the limits of the enclosure. The trader was about to summon his slaves and soldiers to repel the unceremonious invasion of his premises, but on beholding the queen all stepped back with respectful reverence.

Before Alvez had time to ask the sovereign to what cause he was indebted for the honour of her visit, the magician had cleared a wide space around him, and had once again commenced his performances. Brandishing his arms wildly he pointed to the clouds as though he were arresting them in their course; he inflated his huge cheeks and blew with all his strength, as if resolved to disperse the heavy masses, and then stretching himself to his full height, he appeared to clutch them in his giant grasp.

Deeply impressed, the superstitious Moena was half beside herself with excitement; she uttered loud cries and involuntarily began herself to imitate every one of the mganga's gestures. The entire crowd joined in, and very soon the low guttural note of the sorcerer was lost, totally drowned in the turmoil of howls, shrieks, and discordant songs.

To the chagrin, however, both of the queen and her subjects, there was not the slightest intimation that the clouds above were going to permit a rift by which the rays of the tropical sun could find a passage. On the contrary, the tokens of improvement in the weather, which had been observed in the early morning, had all disappeared, the atmosphere was darker than ever, and heavy storm-drops began to patter down.

A reaction was beginning to take place in the enthusiasm of the crowd. After all, then, it would seem that this famous mganga from whom so much had been expected, had no power above the rest. Disappointment every moment grew more keen, and soon there was a positive display of irritation. The natives pressed around him with closed fists and threatening gestures. A frown gathered on Moena's face, and her lips opened with muttered words clear enough to make the magician understand that his ears were in jeopardy. His position was evidently becoming critical.

An unexpected incident suddenly altered the aspect of affairs.

The mganga was quite tall enough to see over the heads of the crowd, and all at once pausing in the midst of his incantations, he pointed to a distant corner of the enclosure. All eyes were instantly turned in that direction. Mrs. Weldon and Jack had just come out of their hut, and catching sight of them, the mganga stood with his left hand pointing towards them and his right upstretched towards the heavens.

Intuitively the multitude comprehended his meaning. Here was the explanation of the mystery. It was this white woman with her child that had been the cause of all their misery, it was owing to them that the clouds had poured down this desolating rain. With yells of execration the whole mob made a dash towards the unfortunate lady who, pale with fright and rigid as a statue, stood clasping her boy to her side. The mganga, however, anticipated them. Having pushed his way through the infuriated throng, he seized the child and held him high in the air, as though about to hurl him to the ground, a peace-offering to the offended gods.

[Illustration: "Here they are, captain! both of them!!"]

Mrs. Weldon gave a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the earth.

Lifting her up, and making a sign to the queen that all would now be right, the mganga retreated carrying both mother and child through the crowd, who retreated before him and made an open passage.

Alvez now felt that it was time to interfere. Already one of his prisoners had eluded his vigilance, and was he now to see two more carried off before his eyes? was he to lose the whole of the expected ransom? no, rather would he see Kazonndé destroyed by a deluge, than resign his chance of securing so good a prize. Darting forwards he attempted to obstruct the magician's progress; but public opinion was against him; at a sign from the queen, he was seized by the guards, and he was aware well enough of what would be the immediate consequence of resistance. He deemed it prudent to desist from his obstruction, but in his heart he bitterly cursed the stupid credulity of the natives for supposing that the blood of the white woman or the child could avail to put an end to the disasters they were suffering.

Making the natives understand that they were not to follow him, the magician carried off his burden as easily as a lion would carry a couple of kids. The lady was still unconscious, and Jack was all but paralyzed with fright. Once free of the enclosure the mganga crossed the town, entered the forest, and after a march of three miles, during which he did not slacken his pace for a moment, reached the bank of a river which was flowing towards the north.

Here in the cavity of a rock, concealed by drooping foliage, a canoe was moored, covered with a kind of thatched roof; on this the magician deposited his burden, and sending the light craft into mid-stream with a vigorous kick, exclaimed in a cheery voice,-

"Here they are, captain! both of them! Mrs. Weldon and Master Jack, both! We will be off now! I hope those idiots of Kazonndé will have plenty more rain yet! Off we go!"

About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books.

This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2005). Dick sands, the boy Captain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3250.html.images

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.