The Wizard

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THE WIZARD

by H. Rider Haggard




DEDICATION

To the Memory of the Child

Nada Burnham,

who "bound all to her" and, while her father cut his way through the
hordes of the Ingobo Regiment, perished of the hardships of war
at Buluwayo on 19th May, 1896, I dedicate these tales--and more
particularly the last, that of a Faith which triumphed over savagery and
death.

H. Rider Haggard.

Ditchingham.



AUTHOR'S NOTE

Of the three stories that comprise this volume[*], one, "The Wizard," a
tale of victorious faith, first appeared some years ago as a Christmas
Annual. Another, "Elissa," is an attempt, difficult enough owing to the
scantiness of the material left to us by time, to recreate the life of
the ancient Poenician Zimbabwe, whose ruins still stand in Rhodesia,
and, with the addition of the necessary love story, to suggest
circumstances such as might have brought about or accompanied its fall
at the hands of the surrounding savage tribes. The third, "Black Heart
and White Heart," is a story of the courtship, trials and final union of
a pair of Zulu lovers in the time of King Cetywayo.

[*] This text was prepared from a volume published in 1900
titled "Black Heart and White Heart, and Other Stories."--
JB.





THE WIZARD



CHAPTER I

THE DEPUTATION

Has the age of miracle quite gone by, or is it still possible to the
Voice of Faith calling aloud upon the earth to wring from the dumb
heavens an audible answer to its prayer? Does the promise uttered by the
Master of mankind upon the eve of the end--"Whoso that believeth in Me,
the works that I do he shall do also . . . and whatsoever ye shall ask
in My name, that will I do;"--still hold good to such as do ask and do
believe?

Let those who care to study the history of the Rev. Thomas Owen, and
of that strange man who carried on and completed his work, answer this
question according to their judgment.

*****

The time was a Sunday afternoon in summer, and the place a church in
the Midland counties. It was a beautiful church, ancient and spacious;
moreover, it had recently been restored at great cost. Seven or eight
hundred people could have found sittings in it, and doubtless they
had done so when Busscombe was a large manufacturing town, before the
failure of the coal supply and other causes drove away its trade. Now
it was much what it had been in the time of the Normans, a little
agricultural village with a population of 300 souls. Out of this
population, including the choir boys, exactly thirty-nine had elected to
attend church on this particular Sunday; and of these, three were fast
asleep and four were dozing.

The Rev. Thomas Owen counted them from his seat in the chancel, for
another clergyman was preaching; and, as he counted, bitterness and
disappointment took hold of him. The preacher was a "Deputation," sent
by one of the large missionary societies to arouse the indifferent to
a sense of duty towards their unconverted black brethren in Africa, and
incidentally to collect cash to be spent in the conversion of the
said brethren. The Rev. Thomas Owen himself suggested the visit of the
Deputation, and had laboured hard to secure him a good audience. But
the beauty of the weather, or terror of the inevitable subscription,
prevailed against him. Hence his disappointment.

"Well," he thought, with a sigh, "I have done my best, and I must make
it up out of my own pocket."

Then he settled himself to listen to the sermon.

The preacher, a battered-looking individual of between fifty and sixty
years of age, was gaunt with recent sickness, patient and unimaginative
in aspect. He preached extemporarily, with the aid of notes; and it
cannot be said that his discourse was remarkable for interest, at any
rate in its beginning. Doubtless the sparse congregation, so prone to
slumber, discouraged him; for offering exhortations to empty benches is
but weary work. Indeed he was meditating the advisability of bringing
his argument to an abrupt conclusion when, chancing to glance round, he
became aware that he had at least one sympathetic listener, his host,
the Rev. Thomas Owen.

From that moment the sermon improved by degrees, till at length it
reached a really high level of excellence. Ceasing from rhetoric, the
speaker began to tell of his own experience and sufferings in the Cause
amongst savage tribes; for he himself was a missionary of many years
standing. He told how once he and a companion had been sent to a
nation, who named themselves the Sons of Fire because their god was the
lightning, if indeed they could be said to boast any gods other than
the Spear and the King. In simple language he narrated his terrible
adventures among these savages, the murder of his companion by command
of the Council of Wizards, and his own flight for his life; a tale
so interesting and vivid that even the bucolic sleepers awakened and
listened open-mouthed.

"But this is by the way," he went on; "for my Society does not ask you
to subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Until that
people is conquered--which very likely will not be for generations,
seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying a territory that
white men do not desire--no missionary will dare again to visit them."

At this moment something caused him to look a second time at Thomas
Owen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and a
strange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor of
his delicate, nervous face.

"There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it," thought the
Deputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.

That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a very
fine rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste which
he had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, the dinner
was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sipping his
unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration and
involuntary envy.

"What is the matter?" asked Owen.

"Nothing, Mr. Owen;" then, of a sudden thawing into candour, he
added: "that is, everything. Heaven forgive me; but I, who enjoy your
hospitality, am envious of you. Don't think too hardly of me; I have a
large family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my life
is, and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure.
But you have never experienced it, and could not understand. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred a
year, and eight of us must live--or starve--on it. And I have worked,
ay, until my health is broken. A labourer indeed! I am a very hodman, a
spiritual Sisyphus. And now I must go back to carry my load and roll
my stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of
it--till I die of it!"

"At least it is a noble life and death!" exclaimed Owen, a sudden fire
of enthusiasm burning in his dark eyes.

"Yes, viewed from a distance. Were you asked to leave this living of two
thousand a year--I see that is what they put it at in Crockford--with
its English comforts and easy work, that _you_ might lead that life and
attain that death, then you would think differently. But why should
I bore you with such talk? Thank Heaven that your lines are cast in
pleasant places. Yes, please, I will take one more glass; it does me
good."

"Tell me some more about that tribe you were speaking of in your sermon,
the 'Sons of Fire' I think you called them," said Owen, as he passed him
the decanter.

So, with an eloquence induced by the generous wine and a quickened
imagination, the Deputation told him--told him many strange things and
terrible. For this people was an awful people: vigorous in mind
and body, and warriors from generation to generation, but
superstition-ridden and cruel. They lived in the far interior, some
months' journey by boat and ox-waggon from the coast, and of white men
and their ways they knew but little.

"How many of them are there?" asked Owen.

"Who can say?" he answered. "Nearly half-a-million, perhaps; at least
they pretend that they can put sixty thousand men under arms."

"And did they treat you badly when you first visited them?"

"Not at first. They received us civilly enough; and on a given day we
were requested to explain to the king and the Council of Wizards the
religion which we came to teach. All that day we explained and all
the next--or rather my friend did, for I knew very little of the
language--and they listened with great interest. At last the chief of
the wizards and the first prophet to the king rose to question us. He
was named Hokosa, a tall, thin man, with a spiritual face and terrible
calm eyes.

"'You speak well, son of a White Man,' he said, 'but let us pass from
words to deeds. You tell us that this God of yours, whom you desire that
we should take as our God, so that you may become His chief prophets in
the land, was a wizard such as we are, though grater than we are; for
not only did He know the past and the future as we do, but also He could
cure those who were smitten with hopeless sickness, and raise those
who were dead, which we cannot do. You tell us, moreover, that by faith
those who believe on Him can do works as great as He did, and that you
do believe on Him. Therefore we will put you to the proof. Ho! there,
lead forth that evil one.'

"As he spoke a man was placed before us, one who had been convicted of
witchcraft or some other crime.

"'Kill him!' said Hokosa.

"There was a faint cry, a scuffle, a flashing of spears, and the man lay
still before us.

"'Now, followers of the new God,' said Hokosa, 'raise him from the dead
as your Master did!'

"In vain did we offer explanations.

"'Peace!' said Hokosa at length, 'your words weary us. Look now, either
you have preached to us a false god and are liars, or you are traitors
to the King you preach, since, lacking faith in Him, you cannot do such
works as He gives power to do to those who have faith in Him. Out of
your own mouths are you judged, White Men. Choose which horn of the bull
you will, you hang to one of them, and it shall pierce you. This is
the sentence of the king, I speak it who am the king's mouth: That you,
White Man, who have spoken to us and cheated us these two weary days,
be put to death, and that you, his companion who have been silent, be
driven from the land.'

"I can hardly bear to tell the rest of it, Mr. Owen. They gave my poor
friend ten minutes to 'talk to his Spirit,' then they speared him before
my face. After it was over, Hokosa spoke to me, saying:--

"'Go back, White Man, to those who sent you, and tell them the words of
the Sons of Fire: That they have listened to the message of peace,
and though they are a people of warriors, yet they thank them for that
message, for in itself it sounds good and beautiful in their ears, if it
be true. Tell them that having proved you liars, they dealt with you as
all honest men seek that liars should be dealt with. Tell them that they
desire to hear more of this matter, and if one can be sent to them who
has no false tongue; who in all things fulfills the promises of his
lips, that they will hearken to him and treat him well, but that for
such as you they keep a spear.'"

"And who went after you got back?" asked Owen, who was listening with
the deepest interest.

"Who went? Do you suppose that there are many mad clergymen in Africa,
Mr. Owen? Nobody went."

"And yet," said Owen, speaking more to himself than to his guest, "the
man Hokosa was right, and the Christian who of a truth believes the
promises of our religion should trust to them and go."

"Then perhaps you would like to undertake the mission, Mr. Owen," said
the Deputation briskly; for the reflection stung him, unintentional as
it was.

Owen started.

"That is a new idea," he said. "And now perhaps you wish to go to bed;
it is past eleven o'clock."



CHAPTER II

THOMAS OWEN

Thomas Owen went to his room, but not to bed. Taking a Bible from the
table, he consulted reference after reference.

"The promise is clear," he said aloud presently, as he shut the
book; "clear and often repeated. There is no escape from it, and no
possibility of a double meaning. If it is not true, then it would seem
that nothing is true, and that every Christian in the world is tricked
and deluded. But if it _is_ true, why do we never hear of miracles?
The answer is easy: Because we have not faith enough to work them. The
Apostles worked miracles; for they had seen, therefore their faith was
perfect. Since their day nobody's faith has been quite perfect; at least
I think not. The physical part of our nature prevents it. Or perhaps the
miracles still happen, but they are spiritual miracles."

Then he sat down by the open window, and gazing at the dreamy beauty of
the summer night, he thought, for his soul was troubled. Once before
it had been troubled thus; that was nine years ago, for now he was but
little over thirty. Then a call had come to him, a voice had seemed to
speak to his ears bidding him to lay down great possessions to follow
whither Heaven should lead him. Thomas Owen had obeyed the voice;
though, owing to circumstances which need not be detailed, to do so he
was obliged to renounce his succession to a very large estate, and to
content himself with a younger son's portion of thirty thousand pounds
and the reversion to the living which he had now held for some five
years.

Then and there, with singular unanimity and despatch, his relations came
to the conclusion that he was mad. To this hour, indeed, those who stand
in his place and enjoy the wealth and position that were his by right,
speak of him as "poor Thomas," and mark their disapprobation of his
peculiar conduct by refusing with an unvarying steadiness to subscribe
even a single shilling to a missionary society. How "poor Thomas" speaks
of them in the place where he is we may wonder, but as yet we cannot
know--probably with the gentle love and charity that marked his every
action upon earth. But this is by the way.

He had entered the Church, but what had he done in its shadow? This was
the question which Owen asked himself as he sat that night by the open
window, arraigning his past before the judgment-seat of conscience. For
three years he had worked hard somewhere in the slums; then this living
had fallen to him. He had taken it, and from that day forward his record
was very much of a blank. The parish was small and well ordered; there
was little to do in it, and the Salvation Army had seized upon and
reclaimed two of the three confirmed drunkards it could boast.

His guest's saying echoed in his brain like the catch of a tune--"that
_you_ might lead that life and attain that death." Supposing that
he were bidden so to do now, this very night, would he indeed "think
differently"? He had become a priest to serve his Maker. How would it be
were that Maker to command that he should serve Him in this extreme and
heroic fashion? Would he flinch from the steel, or would he meet it as
the martyrs met it of old?

Physically he was little suited to such an enterprise, for in appearance
he was slight and pale, and in constitution delicate. Also, there was
another reason against the thing. High Church and somewhat ascetic in
his principles, in the beginning he had admired celibacy, and in secret
dedicated himself to that state. But at heart Thomas was very much a
man, and of late he had come to see that which is against nature is
presumably not right, though fanatics may not hesitate to pronounce
it wrong. Possibly this conversion to more genial views of life was
quickened by the presence in the neighbourhood of a young lady whom
he chanced to admire; at least it is certain that the mere thought of
seeing her no more for ever smote him like a sword of sudden pain.

*****

That very night--or so it seemed to him, and so he believed--the Angel
of the Lord stood before him as he was wont to stand before the men of
old, and spoke a summons in his ear. How or in what seeming that summons
came Thomas Owen never told, and we need not inquire. At the least he
heard it, and, like the Apostles, he arose and girded his loins to obey.
For now, in the hour of trial, it proved that this man's faith partook
of the nature of their faith. It was utter and virgin; it was not
clogged with nineteenth-century qualifications; it had never dallied
with strange doctrines, or kissed the feet of pinchbeck substitutes for
God. In his heart he believed that the Almighty, without intermediary,
but face to face, had bidden him to go forth into the wilderness there
to perish. So he bowed his head and went.

On the following morning at breakfast Owen had some talk with his friend
the Deputation.

"You asked me last night," he said quietly, "whether I would undertake
a mission to that people of whom you were telling me--the Sons of Fire.
Well, I have been thinking it over, and come to the conclusion that I
will do so----"

At this point the Deputation, concluding that his host must be mad,
moved quietly but decidedly towards the door.

"Wait a moment," went on Owen, in a matter-of-fact voice, "the dog-cart
will not be round for another three-quarters of an hour. Tell me, if it
were offered to you, and on investigation you proved suitable, would you
care to take over this living?"

"Would I care to take over this living?" gasped the astonished
Deputation. "Would I care to walk down that garden and find myself in
Heaven? But why are you making fun of me?"

"I am not making fun of you. If I go to Africa I must give up the
living, of which I own the advowson, and it occurred to me that it might
suit you--that is all. You have done your share; your health is broken,
and you have many dependent upon you. It seems right, therefore, that
you should rest, and that I should work. If I do no good yonder, at the
least you and yours will be a little benefited."

*****

That same day Owen chanced to meet the lady who has been spoken of as
having caught his heart. He had meant to go away without seeing her, but
fortune brought them together. Hitherto, whilst in reality leading him
on, she had seemed to keep him at a distance, with the result that he
did not know that it was her fixed intention to marry him. To her,
with some hesitation, he told his plans. Surprised and frightened into
candour, the lady reasoned with him warmly, and when reason failed to
move him she did more. By some subtle movement, with some sudden word,
she lifted the veil of her reserve and suffered him to see her heart.
"If you will not stay for aught else," said her troubled eyes, "then,
love, stay for me."

For a moment he was shaken. Then he answered the look straight out, as
was his nature.

"I never guessed," he said. "I did not presume to hope--now it is too
late! Listen! I will tell you what I have told no living soul, though
thereafter you may think me mad. Weak and humble as I am, I believe
myself to have received a Divine mission. I believe that I shall execute
it, or bring about its execution, but at the ultimate cost of my own
life. Still, in such a service two are better than one. If you--can care
enough--if you----"

But the lady had already turned away, and was murmuring her farewell in
accents that sounded like a sob. Love and faith after this sort were not
given to her.

Of all Owen's trials this was the sharpest. Of all his sacrifices this
was the most complete.



CHAPTER III

THE TEMPTATION

Two years have gone by all but a few months, and from the rectory in a
quiet English village we pass to a scene in Central, or South Central,
Africa.

On the brow of a grassy slope dotted over with mimosa thorns, and close
to a gushing stream of water, stands a house, or rather a hut, built
of green brick and thatched with grass. Behind this hut is a fence of
thorns, rough but strong, designed to protect all within it from the
attacks of lions and other beasts of prey. At present, save for a
solitary mule eating its provender by the wheel of a tented ox-waggon,
it is untenanted, for the cattle have not yet been kraaled for the
night. Presently Thomas Owen enters this enclosure by the back door of
the hut, and having attended to the mule, which whinnies at the sight
of him, goes to the gate and watches there till he sees his native boys
driving the cattle up the slope of the hill. At length they arrive, and
when he has counted them to make sure that none are missing, and in a
few kind words commended the herds for their watchfulness, he walks
to the front of the house and, seating himself upon a wooden stool set
under a mimosa tree that grows near the door, he looks earnestly towards
the west.

The man has changed somewhat since last we saw him. To begin with, he
has grown a beard, and although the hot African sun has bronzed it
into an appearance of health, his face is even thinner than it was, and
therein the great spiritual eyes shine still more strangely.

At the foot of the slope runs a wide river, just here broken into rapids
where the waters make an angry music. Beyond this river stretches a
vast plain bounded on the horizon by mountain ranges, each line of them
rising higher than the other till their topmost and more distant peaks
melt imperceptibly into the tender blue of the heavens. This is the land
of the Sons of Fire, and yonder amid the slopes of the nearest hills is
the great kraal of their king, Umsuka, whose name, being interpreted,
means The Thunderbolt.

In the very midst of the foaming rapids, and about a thousand yards
from the house lies a space of rippling shallow water, where, unless it
chances to be in flood, the river can be forded. It is this ford that
Owen watches so intently.

"John should have been back twelve hours ago," he mutters to himself. "I
pray that no harm has befallen him at the Great Place yonder."

Just then a tiny speck appears far away on the plain. It is a man
travelling towards the water at a swinging trot. Going into the hut,
Owen returns with a pair of field-glasses, and through them scrutinises
the figure of the man.

"Heaven be praised! It is John," he mutters, with a sigh of relief.
"Now, I wonder what answer he brings?"

Half an hour later John stands before him, a stalwart native of the
tribe of the Amasuka, the People of Fire, and with uplifted hand salutes
him, giving him titles of honour.

"Praise me not, John," said Owen; "praise God only, as I have taught you
to do. Tell me, have you seen the king, and what is his word?"

"Father," he answered, "I journeyed to the great town, as you bade me,
and I was admitted before the majesty of the king; yes, he received me
in the courtyard of the House of Women. With his guards, who stood at
a distance out of hearing, there were present three only; but oh! those
three were great, the greatest in all the land after the king. They were
Hafela, the king that is to come, the prince Nodwengo, his brother, and
Hokosa the terrible, the chief of the wizards; and I tell you, father,
that my blood dried up and my heart shrivelled when they turned their
eyes upon me, reading the thoughts of my heart."

"Have I not told you, John, to trust in God, and fear nothing at the
hands of man?"

"You told me, father, but still I feared," answered the messenger
humbly. "Yet, being bidden to it, I lifted my forehead from the dust
and stood upon my feet before the king, and delivered to him the message
which you set between my lips."

"Repeat the message, John."

"'O King,' I said, 'beneath those footfall the whole earth shakes, whose
arms stretch round the world and whose breath is the storm, I, whose
name is John, am sent by the white man whose name is Messenger'--for by
that title you bade me make you known--'who for a year has dwelt in the
land that your spears have wasted beyond the banks of the river. These
are the words which he spoke to me, O King, that I pass on to you with
my tongue: "To the King Umsuka, lord of the Amasuka, the Sons of Fire,
I, Messenger, who am the servant and the ambassador of the King of
Heaven, give greeting. A year ago, King, I sent to you saying that the
message which was brought by that white man whom you drove from your
land had reached the ears of Him whom I serve, the High and Holy One,
and that, speaking in my heart, He had commanded me to take up the
challenge of your message. Here am I, therefore, ready to abide by the
law which you have laid down; for if guile or lies be found in me, then
let me travel from your land across the bridge of spears. Still, I would
dwell a little while here where I am before I pass into the shadow of
your rule and speak in the ears of your people as I have been bidden.
Know, King, that first I would learn your tongue, and therefore I demand
that one of your people may be sent to dwell with me and to teach me
that tongue. King, you heard my words and you sent me a man to dwell
with me, and that man has taught me your tongue, and I also have taught
him, converting him to my faith and giving him a new name, the name of
John. King, now I seek your leave to visit you, and to deliver into your
ears the words with which I, Messenger, am charged. I have spoken."'