books which were recommended to me. These were full of fine words, undiscoverable in a pocket dictionary, but really took me no forwarder, since in them I found nothing that I could not have invented myself, although while I was actually studying them, they seemed to convince me. I even tackled Swedenborg, or rather samples of him, for he is very copious, but without satisfactory results.
Then I gave up the business.
Some months later I was in Zululand and being near the Black Kloof where he dwelt, I paid a visit to my acquaintance of whom I have written elsewhere, the wonderful and ancient dwarf, Zikali, known as The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,
also more universal among the Zulus as Opener-of-Roads.
When we had talked of many things connected with the state of Zululand and its politics, I rose to leave for my waggon, since I never cared for sleeping in the Black Kloof if it could be avoided.
Is there nothing else that you want to ask me, Macumazahn?
asked the old dwarf, tossing back his long hair and looking at—I had almost written through—me.
I shook my head.
That is strange, Macumazahn, for I seem to see something written on your mind—something to do with spirits.
Then I remembered all the problems that had been troubling me, although in truth I had never thought of propounding them to Zikali.
Ah! it comes back, does it?
he exclaimed, reading my thought. Out with it, then, Macumazahn, while I am in a mood to answer, and before I grow tired, for you are an old friend of mine and will so remain till the end, many years hence, and if I can serve you, I will.
I filled my pipe and sat down again upon the stool of carved red-wood which had been brought for me.
You are named
I said.
Opener-of-Roads
are you not, Zikali?
Yes, the Zulus have always called me that, since before the days of Chaka. But what of names, which often enough mean nothing at all?
Only that I want to open a road, Zikali, that which runs across the River of Death.
Oho!
he laughed, it is very easy,
and snatching up a
