CHAPTER XVI
THE REPENTANCE OF HOKOSA
Hokosa kept his promise. On the morrow of his first attendance there
he was again to be seen in the chapel, and after the service was over
he waited on Owen at his house and listened to his private teaching.
Day by day he appeared thus, till at length he became master of the
whole doctrine of Christianity, and discovered that that which at
first had struck him as childish and even monstrous, now presented
itself to him in a new and very different light. The conversion of
Hokosa came upon him through the gate of reason, not as is usual among
savages--and some who are not savage--by that of the emotions. Given
the position of a universe torn and groaning beneath the dual rule of
Good and Evil, two powers of well-nigh equal potency, he found no
great difficulty in accepting this tale of the self-sacrifice of the
God of Good that He might wring the race He loved out of the
conquering grasp of the god of Ill. There was a simple majesty about
this scheme of redemption which appealed to one side of his nature.
Indeed, Hokosa felt that under certain conditions and in a more
limited fashion he would have been capable of attempting as much
himself.
Once his reason was satisfied, the rest followed in a natural
sequence. Within three weeks from the hour of his first attendance at
the chapel Hokosa was at heart a Christian.
He was a Christian, although as yet he did not confess it; but he was
also the most miserable man among the nation of the Sons of Fire. The
iniquities of his past life had become abominable to him; but he had
committed them in ignorance, and he understood that they were not
beyond forgiveness. Yet high above them all towered one colossal crime
which, as he believed, could never be pardoned to him in this world or
the next. He was the treacherous murderer of the Messenger of God; he
was in the very act of silencing the Voice that had proclaimed truth
in the dark places of his soul and the dull ears of his countrymen.
The deed was done; no power on earth could save his victim. Within a
week from the day of eating that fatal fruit Owen began to sicken,
then the dysentery had seized him which slowly but surely was wasting
out his life. Yet he, the murderer, was helpless, for with this form
of the disease no medicine could cope. With agony in his heart, an
agony that was shared by thousands of the people, Hokosa watched the
decrease of the white man's strength, and reckoned the days that would
elapse before the end. Having such sin as thus upon his soul, though
Owen entreated him earnestly, he would not permit himself to be
baptised. Twice he went near to consenting, but on each occasion an
ominous and terrible incident drove him from the door of mercy.
Once, when the words "I will" were almost on his lips, a woman broke
in upon their conference bearing a dying boy in her arms.
"Save him," she implored, "save him, Messenger, for he is my only
son!"
Owen looked at him and shook his head.
"How came he like this?" he asked.
"I know not, Messenger, but he has been sick ever since he ate of a
certain fruit which you gave to him;" and she recalled to his mind the
incident of the throwing of a fruit to the child, which she had
witnessed.
"I remember," said Owen. "It is strange, but I also have been sick
from the day that I ate of those fruits; yes, and you, Hokosa, warned
me against them."
Then he blessed the boy and prayed over him till he died; but when
afterwards he looked round for Hokosa, it was to find that he had
gone.
Some eight days later, having to a certain extent recovered from this
shock, Hokosa went one morning to Owen's house and talked to him.
"Messenger," he said, "is it necessary to baptism that I should
confess all my sins to you? If so, I can never be baptised, for there
is wickedness upon my hands which I am unable to tell into the ear of
living man."
Owen thought and answered:--
"It is necessary that you should repent all of your sins, and that you
should confess them to heaven; it is not necessary that you should
confess them to me, who am but a man like yourself."
"Then I will be baptised," said Hokosa with a sigh of relief.
At this moment, as it chanced, their interview was again interrupted,
for runners came from the king requesting the immediate presence of
the Messenger, if he were well enough to attend, upon a matter
connected with the trial of a woman for murder. Thinking that he might
be of service, Owen, leaning on the shoulder of Hokosa, for already he
was too weak to walk far, crept to the litter which was waiting for
him, and was borne to the place of judgment that was before the house
of the king. Hokosa followed, more from curiosity than for any other
reason, for he had heard of no murder being committed, and his old
desire to be acquainted with everything that passed was still strong
on him. The people made way for him, and he seated himself in the
first line of spectators immediately opposite to the king and three
other captains who were judges in the case. So soon as Owen had joined
the judges, the prisoner was brought before them, and to his secret
horror Hokosa recognised in her that woman to whom he had given the
poison in exchange for the basket of fruit.
Now it seemed to Hokosa that his doom was on him, for she would
certainly confess that she had the drug from him. He thought of flight
only to reject the thought, for to fly would be to acknowledge himself
an accessory. No, he would brazen it out, for after all his word was
as good as hers. With the prisoner came an accuser, her husband, who
seemed sick, and he it was who opened the case against her.
"This woman," he said, "was my wife. I divorced her for barrenness, as
I have a right to do according to our ancient law, and I took another
woman to wife, her half-sister. This woman was jealous; she plagued me
continually, and insulted her sister, so that I was forced to drive
her away. After that she came to my house, and though they said
nothing of it at the time, she was seen by two servants of mine to
sprinkle something in the bowl wherein our food was cooking.
Subsequently my wife, this woman's half-sister, was taken ill with
dysentery. I also was taken ill with dysentery, but I still live to
tell this story before you, O King, and your judges, though I know not
for how long I live. My wife died yesterday, and I buried her this
morning. I accuse the woman of having murdered her, either by
witchcraft or by means of a medicine which she sprinkled on the food,
or by both. I have spoken."
"Have you anything to say?" asked the king of the prisoner. "Are you
guilty of the crime whereof this man who was your husband charges you,
or does he lie?"
Then the woman answered in a low and broken voice:--
"I am guilty, King. Listen to my story:" and she told it all as she
told it to Hokosa. "I am guilty," she added, "and may the Great Man in
the sky, of Whom the Messenger has taught us, forgive me. My sister's
blood is upon my hands, and for aught I know the blood of my husband
yonder will also be on my hands. I seek no mercy; indeed, it is better
that I should die; but I would say this in self-defence, that I did
not think to kill my sister. I believed that I was giving to her a
potion which would cause her husband to hate her and no more."
Here she looked round and her eyes met those of Hokosa.
"Who told you that this was so?" asked one of the judges.
"A witch-doctor," she answered, "from whom I bought the medicine in
the old days, long ago, when Umsuka was king."
Hokosa gasped. Why should this woman have spared him?
No further question was asked of her, and the judges consulted
together. At length the king spoke.
"Woman," he said, "you are condemned to die. You will be taken to the
Doom Tree, and there be hanged. Out of those who are assembled to try
you, two, the Messenger and myself, have given their vote in favour of
mercy, but the majority think otherwise. They say that a law has been
passed against murder by means of witchcraft and secret medicine, and
that should we let you go free, the people will make a mock of that
law. So be it. Go in peace. To-morrow you must die, and may
forgiveness await you elsewhere."
"I ask nothing else," said the woman. "It is best that I should die."
Then they led her away. As she passed Hokosa she turned and looked him
full in the eyes, till he dropped his head abashed. Next morning she
was executed, and he learned that her last words were: "Let it come to
the ears of him who sold me the poison, telling me that it was but a
harmless drug, that as I hope to be forgiven, so I forgive him,
believing that my silence may win for him time for repentance, before
he follows on the road I tread."
Now, when Hokosa heard these words he shut himself up in his house for
three days, giving out that he was sick. Nor would he go near to Owen,
being altogether without hope, and not believing that baptism or any
other rite could avail to purge such crimes as his. Truly his sin had
found him out, and the burden of it was intolerable. So intolerable
did it become, that at length he determined to be done with it. He
could live no more. He would die, and by his own hand, before he was
called upon to witness the death of the man whom he had murdered. To
this end he made his preparations. For Noma he left no message; for
though his heart still hungered after her, he knew well that she hated
him and would rejoice at his death.
When all was ready he sat down to think a while, and as he thought, a
man entered his hut saying that the Messenger desired to see him. At
first he was minded not to go, then it occurred to him that it would
be well if he could die with a clean heart. Why should he not tell all
to the white man, and before he could be delivered up to justice take
that poison which he had prepared? It was impossible that he should be
forgiven, yet he desired that his victim should learn how deep was his
sorrow and repentance, before he proved it by preceding him to death.
So he rose and went.
He found Owen in his house, lying in a rude chair and propped up by
pillows of bark. Now he was wasted almost to a shadow, and in the pale
pinched face his dark eyes, always large and spiritual, shone with
unnatural lustre, while his delicate hands were so thin that when he
held them up in blessing the light showed through them.
"Welcome, friend," he said. "Tell me, why have you deserted me of
late? Have you been ill?"
"No, Messenger," answered Hokosa, "that is, not in my body. I have
been sick at heart, and therefore I have not come."
"What, Hokosa, do your doubts still torment you? I thought that my
prayers had been heard, and that power had been given me to set them
at rest for ever. Man, let me hear the trouble, and swiftly, for
cannot you who are a doctor see that I shall not be here for long to
talk with you? My days are numbered, Hokosa, and my work is almost
done."
"I know it," answered Hokosa. "And, Messenger, /my/ days are also
numbered."
"How is this?" asked Owen, "seeing that you are well and strong. Does
an enemy put you in danger of your life?"
"Yes, Messenger, and I myself am that enemy; for to-day I, who am no
longer fit to live, must die by my own hand. Nay, listen and you will
say that I do well, for before I go I would tell you all. Messenger,
you are doomed, are you not? Well, it was I who doomed you. That fruit
which you ate a while ago was poisoned, and by my hand, for I am a
master of such arts. From the beginning I hated you, as well I might,
for had you not worsted me and torn power from my grasp, and placed
the people and the king under the rule of another God? Therefore, when
all else failed, I determined to murder you, and I did the deed by
means of that woman who not long ago was hung for the killing of her
sister, though in truth she was innocent." And he told him what had
passed between himself and the woman, and told him also of the plot
which he had hatched to kill Nodwengo and the Christians, and to set
Hafela on the throne
"She was innocent," he went on, "but I am guilty. How guilty you and I
know alone. Do you remember that day when you ate the fruit, how after
it I accompanied you to the church yonder and listened to your
preaching? 'Your sin shall find you out,' you said, and of a surety
mine has found me out. For, Messenger, it came about that in listening
to you then and afterwards, I grew to love you and to believe the
words you taught, and therefore am I of all men the most miserable,
and therefore must I, who have been great and the councillor of kings,
perish miserably by the death of a dog.
"Now curse me, and let me go."
