Part 12 (1/2)

Then he stood up, and looked round the room, and they watched him. He took his coat from a nail, and put it on, and he put his hat on his head, and took his stick in his hand. And so dressed he turned to them, and nodded to them again. But this time they did not know what he said.

You are going out my friend?

Do you wish to come to the prison, umfundisi? I have arranged it for you.

And k.u.malo nodded. He turned and looked round the room again, and found that his coat was already on him, and his hat; he touched both coat and hat, and looked down at the stick that was in his hand.

My brother first, he said, if you will show me the way only.

I shall show you the way, my friend.

And I shall wait at the Mission, said the young man.

As Msimangu put his hand to the door, k.u.malo halted him. I shall walk slowly up the street, he said. You must tell them - he pointed with his hand.

I shall tell them, my friend.

So he told them, and having told them, closed the front door on the wailing of the women, for such is their custom. Slowly he followed the bent figure up the street, saw him nodding as he walked, saw the people turning. Would age now swiftly overtake him? Would this terrible nodding last now for all his days, so that men said aloud in his presence, it is nothing, he is old and does nothing but forget? And would he nod as though he too were saying, Yes, it is nothing, I am old and do nothing but forget? But who would know that he said, I do nothing but remember?

Msimangu caught him up at the top of the hill, and took his arm, and it was like walking with a child or with one that was sick. So they came to the shop. And at the shop k.u.malo turned, and closed his eyes, and his lips were moving. Then he opened his eyes and turned to Msimangu.

Do not come further, he said. It is I who must do this.

And then he went into the shop.

Yes, the bull voice was there, loud and confident. His brother John was sitting there on a chair talking to two other men, sitting there like a chief. His brother he did not recognize, for the light from the street was on the back of the visitor.

Good afternoon, my brother.

Good afternoon, sir.

Good afternoon, my own brother, son of our mother.

Ah my brother, it is you. Well, well, I am glad to see you. Will you not come and join us?

k.u.malo looked at the visitors. I am sorry, he said, but I come again on business, urgent business.

I am sure my friends will excuse us. Excuse us, my friends.

So they all said stay well, and go well, and the two men left them.

Well, well, I am glad to see you, my brother. And your business, how does it progress? Have you found the prodigal? You will see I have not forgotten my early teaching altogether.

And he laughed at that, a great bull laugh. But we must have tea, he said, and he went to the door and called into the place behind.

It is still the same woman, he said. You see, I also have my ideas of - how do you say it in English? And he laughed his great laugh again, for he was only playing with his brother. Fidelity, that was the word. A good word, I shall not easily forget it. He is a clever man, our Mr. Msimangu. And now the prodigal, have you found him?

He is found, my brother. But not as he was found in the early teaching. He is in prison, arrested for the murder of a white man.

Murder? The man does not jest now. One does not jest about murder. Still less about the murder of a white man.

Yes, murder. He broke into a house in a place that they call Parkwold, and killed the white man who would have prevented him.

What? I remember! Only a day or two since? On Tuesday?

Yes.

Yes, I remember.

Yes, he remembers. He remembers too that his own son and his brother's son are companions. The veins stand out on the bull neck, and the sweat forms on the brow. Have no doubt it is fear in the eyes. He wipes his brow with a cloth. There are many questions he could ask before he need come at it. All he says is, yes, indeed, I do remember. His brother is filled with compa.s.sion for him. He will try gently to bring it to him.

I am sorry, my brother.

What does one say? Does one say, of course you are sorry? Does one say, of course, it is your son? How can one say it, when one knows what it means? Keep silent then, but the eyes are upon one. One knows what they mean.

You mean...? he asked.

Yes. He was there also.

John k.u.malo whispersTixo, Tixo . And again,Tixo, Tixo . k.u.malo comes to him and puts his hand on his shoulders.

There are many things I could say, he said.

There are many things you could say.

But I do not say them. I say only that I know what you suffer.

Indeed, who could know better?

Yes, that is one of the things I could say. There is a young white man at the Mission House, and he is waiting to take me now to the prison. Perhaps he would take you also.

Let me get my coat and hat, my brother.

They do not wait for the tea, but set out along the street to the Mission House. Msimangu, watching anxiously for their return, sees them coming. The old man walks now more firmly, it is the other who seems bowed and broken.

Father Vincent, the rosy-cheeked priest from England, takes k.u.malo's hand in both his own. Anything, he says, anything. You have only to ask. I shall do anything.

They pa.s.s through the great gate in the grim high wall. The young man talks for them, and it is arranged. John k.u.malo is taken to one room, and the young man goes with Stephen k.u.malo to another. There the son is brought to them.

They shake hands, indeed the old man takes his son's hand in both his own, and the hot tears fall fast upon them. The boy stands unhappy, there is no gladness in his eyes. He twists his head from side to side, as though the loose clothing is too tight for him.

My child, my child.

Yes, my father.

At last I have found you.

Yes, my father.

And it is too late.