Free Casca 12: The African Mercenary by Barry Sadler

present. Even the most hardened of Dzhombe's ufaSimba felt sympathy for the victim. As they watched, they seemed to feel the bones of their own skulls begin to give way, the unrelenting pressure of those huge fingers increasing until the victim's mouth opened involuntarily to howl like a wounded beast. His men's mouths would open spontaneously when the victim's did, as the pressure to the skull was transmitted to the jawbone. Blood would begin to flow from nostrils, ears, and scalp as the thick nails of Dzhombe's fingers tore through the flesh of the head to ultimately crush the doomed man's skull like an eggshell. And through it all, Dzhombe's face showed no sign of the tremendous power it took for his fingers to complete the grisly task:
    There were other times when those chosen to be his personal guards were bound even closer to him by participating in ancient rituals after the executions, by sharing the flesh of Dzhombe's victims, by eating the heart, liver, and brains. Dzhombe had them swear great oaths to him that could never be broken. Like him, his men came from the kraals of the forests. None had been contaminated by Western education. They were still the children of primal forces and faith. They would serve him as they were sworn to.
    All that night they drove, leaving the warrens and hovels of Kimshaka City behind, returning to the clean, pure life of kraal and clan. There the air was touched only by the honest smoke of cooking fires and not the vile urban pollution of gasoline and diesel fumes.
    At the entrance to the valley where his home kraal lay, the weapons carrier stopped. Waiting to greet him were the umThakathi , the wise men and good wizards of his tribe, and those who were to be the privileged participants in the rites of renewal. He would stand before them, and they would remove the trappings of the West from his body until he stood naked. Sacred oils and ash would be spread upon him to remove any contamination brought with him from the outside world. He had to be as in the beginning.
    Bowing low before their master, the participants prostrated themselves, each falling to his face to crawl before him as he placed his foot on their heads. Then, rising to their knees, they would throw their heads back and offer him their knives, symbolizing total submission. Sometimes, just to make his point, Dzhombe would accept the proffered blade and slice the exposed throat. The others would make no comment. What he did was his right, for they were his to do with as he chose. They belonged to him body and soul. He could take what he wished. It was good.
    The entrance to the valley would be guarded by his men. No one would be permitted to enter the valley or interrupt the ceremony. Until he left, anyone who came to the valley would be turned back or killed. Over the years the neighboring tribes had learned to keep their distance during these times.
    In the deep bush near the escarpment, where the mountains dropped from the cloud covered heights to the lush heaviness of the jungle, Matthew Dzhombe walked upon a trail used for uncounted centuries by those of his clan. Behind him came the others who were to celebrate this sacred ritual, fifteen warriors and three umThakathi . They followed in the wake of the huge, sweating body clad only in his umuTsha. Bearing packs that contained the things they would later require, they moved silently through the mist shrouded trees. Like their leader, they too wore paint smeared in mystical whorls and circles upon their ash coated bare bodies. Each had his hair plastered down under a thick cap of red river mud in which were implanted ostrich feathers and the brilliant plumage of the red and green bird who screamed like a woman in labor.
    In the center of the line of men were three young girls of thirteen and fourteen, shoulders and budding breasts covered by drab, homespun cotton mantles. The lobola , the bride price, had been paid for each of them in full. Their parents were pleased