The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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IV. The Swift Walker

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      They have a legend in the Akasava country of a green devil. He is taller than the trees, swifter than the leopard, more terrible than all other ghosts, for he is green — the fresh, young green of the trees in spring — and has a voice that is a strangled bark, like the hateful, rasping gr-r-r of a wounded crocodile.

      This is M’shimba-m’shamba, the Swift Walker.

      You sometimes find his erratic track showing clearly through the forest. For the space of twelve yards’ width the trees are twisted, broken and uprooted, the thick undergrowth swept together in tangled heaps, as though by two huge clumsy hands.

      This way and that goes the path of M’shimba-m’shamba, zig-zag through the forest — and woe to the hut or the village that stands in his way!

      For he will leave this hut intact, from this hut he will cut the propped verandah of leaves; this he will catch up in his ruthless fingers and tear it away swiftly from piece to piece, strewing the wreckage along the village street.

      He has lifted whole families and flung them broken and dying into the forest; he has wiped whole communities from the face of the earth.

      Once, by the Big River, was a village called N’kema-n-’kema, and means literally, “monkey-monkey.” It was a poor village, and the people lived by catching fish and smoking the same. This they sold to inland villages, profiting on occasions to the equivalent of twelve shillings a week. Generally it was less; but, more or less, some fifty souls lived in comfort on the proceeds.

      Some there were in that village that believed in M’shimba-m’shamba, and some who scoffed at him.

      And when the votaries of the green devil went out to make sacrifices to him the others laughed. So acute did the division between the worshippers and the non-worshippers become, that the village divided itself into two, some building their dwellings on the farther side of the creek which ran near by, and the disbelievers remaining on the other bank.

      For many months the sceptics gathered to revile the famous devil. Then one night M’shimba-m’shamba came. He came furiously, walking along the water of the creek — for he could do such miraculous things — stretching out his hairy arms to grab tree and bush and hut.

      In the morning the worshippers were alone alive, and of the village of the faithless there was no sign save one tumbled roof, which heaved now and then very slightly, for under it was the chief of the village, who was still alive.

      The worshippers held a palaver, and decided that it would be a sin to rescue him since their lord, M’shimba-m’shamba, had so evidently decreed his death. More than this, they decided that it would be a very holy thing and intensely gratifying to their green devil, if they put fire to the hut — the fallen roof of wood and plaited grass heaved pathetically at the suggestion — and completed the destruction.

      At this moment there arrived a great chief of an alien tribe, Bosambo of the Ochori, who came up against the tide in his State canoe, with its fifty paddlers and his State drummer.

      He was returning from a visit of ceremony and had been travelling before daylight, when he came upon the village and stopped to rest his paddlers and eat.

      “Most wonderful chief,” said the leader of the believers, “you have come at a moment of great holiness.” And he explained the passing of M’shimba-m’shamba, and pointed to the fallen roof, which showed at long intervals a slight movement. “Him we will burn,” said the headman simply; “for he has been a sinful reviler of our lord the devil, calling him by horrible names, such as ‘snake eater’ and ‘sand drinker.’”

      “Little man,” said Bosambo magnificently, “I will sit down with my men and watch you lift that roof and bring the chief before me; and if he dies, then, by Damnyou — which is our Lord Sandi’s own fetish — I will hang you up by your legs over a fire.”

      Bosambo did not sit down, but superintended the rescue of the unfortunate chief, accelerating the work — for the people of the village had no heart in it — by timely blows with the butt of his spear.

      They lifted the roof and brought an old man to safety. There had been three others in the hut, but they were beyond help.

      The old chief was uninjured, and had he been younger he would have required no assistance to free himself. They gave him water and a little corn to eat and he recovered sufficiently to express his contrition. For he had seen M’shimba-m’shamba, the green one.

      “Higher than trees, he stood, lord,” he said to the interested Bosambo; “and round about his head were little tearing clouds, that flew backwards and forwards to him and from him like birds.”

      He gave further anatomical particulars. He thought that one leg of the devil was longer than the other, and that he had five arms, one of which proceeded from his chest.

      Bosambo left the village, having established the chief in his chieftainship and admonished his would-be murderers.

      Now it need not be explained that Bosambo had no more right to establish chiefs or to admonish people of the Akasava than you and I have to vote in the Paris municipal elections. For Bosambo was a chief of the Ochori, which is a small, unimportant tribe, and himself was of no great consequence.

      It was not to offer an apology that he directed his paddlers to make for the Akasava city. It lay nearly ten miles out of his way, and Bosambo would not carry politeness to such lengths.

      When he beached his canoe before the wondering people of the city and marched his fifty paddlers (who became fifty spearmen by the simple expedient of leaving their paddles behind and taking their spears with them) through the main streets of the city, he walked importantly.

      “Chief,” he said to that worthy, hastily coming forth to meet him, “I come in peace, desiring a palaver on the high matter of M’shimba-m’shamba.”

      When the chief, whose name was Sekedimi, recognised him he was sorry that he had troubled to go out to greet him, for the Ochori were by all native reckoning very small fish indeed.

      “I will summon the children,” said Sekedimi sourly; “for they know best of ghosts and such stories.”

      “This is a palaver for men,” said Bosambo, his wrath rising; “and though the Akasava, by my way of thinking, are no men, yet I am willing to descend from my highness, where Sandi’s favour has put me, to talk with your people.”

      “Go to your canoe, little chief,” snarled Sekedimi, “before I beat you with rods. For we Akasava folk are very jealous, and three chiefs of this city have been hanged for their pride. And if you meet M’shimba-m’shamba, behold you may take him with you.”

      Thus it came about that Bosambo, paramount chief of the Ochori, went stalking back to his canoe with as much dignity as he could summon, followed by the evil jests of the Akasava and the rude words of little boys.

      Exactly what capital Bosambo could have made from his chance acquaintance with M’shimba-m’shamba need not be considered.

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