Ask it then.

You know Sibeko?

Yes.

Well, Sibeko's daughter worked here for the white man uSmith in Ixopo. And when the daughter of uSmith married, she went to Johannesburg, and Sibeko's daughter went with them to work. The address is here, with the new name of this married woman. But Sibeko has heard no word of his daughter this ten, twelve months. And he asks you to inquire.

k.u.malo took the dirty, thumbed paper and looked at it. Springs, he said. I have heard of the place. But it is not Johannesburg, though they say it is near. Friend, the train is here. I shall do what I can.

He put the paper into his wallet, and together they watched the train. As all country trains in South Africa are, it was full of black travellers. On this train indeed there were not many others, for the Europeans of this district all have their cars, and hardly travel by train any more.

k.u.malo climbed into the carriage for non-Europeans, already full of the humbler people of his race, some with strange a.s.sortments of European garments, some with blankets over their strange a.s.sortment, some with blankets over the semi-nudity of their primitive dress, though these were all women. Men travelled no longer in primitive dress.

The day was warm, and the smell strong in the carriage. But k.u.malo was a humble man, and did not much care. They saw his clerical collar, and moved up to make room for the umfundisi. He looked around, hoping there might be someone with whom he could talk, but there was no one who appeared of that cla.s.s. He turned to the window to say farewell to his friend.

Why did Sibeko not come to me himself? he asked.

He was afraid, umfundisi. He is not of our church.

Is he not of our people? Can a man in trouble go only to those of his church?

I shall tell him, umfundisi.

k.u.malo's voice rose a little, as does the voice of a child, or indeed of a grown person, who wants others to hear.

Tell him that when I am in Johannesburg I shall go to this place at Springs. He tapped the pocket where the paper was safe in his wallet. Tell him I shall make inquiries about the girl. But tell him I shall be busy. I have many things to do in Johannesburg.

He turned away from the window. It is always so, he said, as if to himself, but in truth to the people.

I thank you for him, umfundisi.

The train whistled and jerked. k.u.malo was thrown nearly off his feet. It would be safer, more dignified to take his seat.

Stay well, my friend.

Go well, umfundisi.

He went to his seat, and people looked at him with interest and respect, at the man who went so often to Johannesburg. The train gathered way, to creep along the ridges of the hills, to hang over steep valleys, to pa.s.s the bracken and the flowers, to enter the darkness of the wattle plantations, past Stainton, down into Ixopo.

The journey had begun. And now the fear back again, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the great city where boys were killed crossing the street, the fear of Gertrude's sickness. Deep down the fear for his son. Deep down the fear of a man who lives in a world not made for him, whose own world is slipping away, dying, being destroyed, beyond any recall.

Already the knees are weak of the man who a moment since had shown his little vanity, told his little lie, before these respectful people.

The humble man reached in his pocket for his sacred book, and began to read. It was this world alone that was certain.

4.

FROM IXOPO THE toy train climbs up into other hills, the green rolling hills of Lufafa, Eastwolds, Donnybrook. From Donnybrook the broad-gauge runs to the great valley of the Umkomaas. Here the tribes live, and the soil is sick, almost beyond healing. Up out of the valley it climbs, past Hemu-hemu to Elandskop. Down the long valley of the Umsindusi, past Edendale and the black slums to Pietermaritzburg, the lovely city. Change here to the greatest train of all, the train for Johannesburg. Here is a white man's wonder, a train that has no engine, only an iron cage on its head, taking power from metal ropes stretched out above.

Climb up to Hilton and Lion's River, to Balgowan, Rosetta, Mooi River, through hills lovely beyond any singing of it. Thunder through the night, over battlefields of long ago. Climb over the Drakensberg, on to the level plains.

Wake in the swaying coach to the half-light before the dawn. The engine is steaming again, and there are no more ropes overhead. This is a new country, a strange country, rolling and rolling away as far as the eye can see. There are new names here, hard names for a Zulu who has been schooled in English. For they are in the language that was called Afrikaans, a language that he had never yet heard spoken.

The mines, they cry, the mines. For many of them are going to work in the mines.

Are these the mines, those white flat hills in the distance? He can ask safely, for there is no one here who heard him yesterday.

That is the rock out of the mines, umfundisi. The gold has been taken out of it.

How does the rock come out?

We go down and dig it out, umfundisi. And when it is hard to dig, we go away, and the white men blow it out with the fire-sticks. Then we come back and clear it away; we load it on to the trucks, and it goes up in a cage, up a long chimney so long that I cannot say it for you.

How does it go up?

It is wound up by a great wheel. Wait, and I shall show you one.

He is silent, and his heart beats a little faster, with excitement.

There is the wheel, umfundisi. There is the wheel.

A great iron structure rearing into the air, and a great wheel above it, going so fast that the spokes play tricks with the sight. Great buildings, and steam blowing out of pipes, and men hurrying about. A great white hill, and an endless procession of trucks climbing upon it, high up in the air. On the ground, motorcars, lorries, buses, one great confusion.

Is this Johannesburg? he asks.

But they laugh confidently. Old hands some of them are.

That is nothing, they say. In Johannesburg there are buildings, so high - but they cannot describe them.

My brother, says one, you know the hill that stands so, straight up, behind my father's kraal. So high as that.

The other man nods, but k.u.malo does not know that hill.

And now the buildings are endless, the buildings, and the white hills, and the great wheels, and streets without number, and cars and lorries and buses.

This surely is Johannesburg, he says.

But they laugh again. They are growing a little tired. This is nothing, they say.

Railway-lines, railway-lines, it is a wonder. To the left, to the right, so many that he cannot count. A train rushes past them, with a sudden roaring of sound that makes him jump in his seat. And on the other side of them, another races beside them, but drops slowly behind. Stations, stations, more than he has ever imagined. People are waiting there in hundreds, but the train rushes past, leaving them disappointed.

The buildings get higher, the streets more uncountable. How does one find one's way in such a confusion? It is dusk, and the lights are coming on in the streets.

One of the men points for him.

Johannesburg, umfundisi.

He sees great high buildings, there are red and green lights on them, almost as tall as the buildings. They go on and off. Water comes out of a bottle, till the gla.s.s is full. Then the lights go out. And when they come on again, lo the bottle is full and upright, and the gla.s.s empty. And there goes the bottle over again. Black and white, it says, black and white, though it is red and green. It is too much to understand.

He is silent, his head aches, he is afraid. There is this railway station to come, this great place with all its tunnels under the ground. The train stops, under a great roof, and there are thousands of people. Steps go down into the earth, and here is the tunnel under the ground. Black people, white people, some going, some coming, so many that the tunnel is full. He goes carefully that he may not b.u.mp anybody, holding tightly on to his bag. He comes out into a great hall, and the stream goes up the steps, and here he is out in the street. The noise is immense. Cars and buses one behind the other, more than he has ever imagined. The stream goes over the street, but remembering Mpanza's son, he is afraid to follow. Lights change from green to red, and back again to green. He has heard that. When it is green, you may go. But when he starts across, a great bus swings across the path. There is some law of it that he does not understand, and he retreats again. He finds himself a place against the wall, he will look as though he is waiting for some purpose. His heart beats like that of a child, there is nothing to do or think to stop it.Tixo , watch over me, he says to himself.Tixo , watch over me.

A young man came to him and spoke to him in a language that he did not understand.

I do not understand, he said.

You are a Xosa, then, umfundisi?

A Zulu, he said.

Where do you want to go, umfundisi?

To Sophiatown, young man.

Come with me then and I shall show you.

He was grateful for this kindness, but half of him was afraid. He was glad the young man did not offer to carry his bag, but he spoke courteously, though in a strange Zulu.

The lights turned green, and his guide started across the street. Another car swung across the path, but the guide did not falter, and the car came to a stop. It made one feel confidence.

He could not follow the turnings that they made under the high buildings, but at last, his arm tired beyond endurance by the bag, they came to a place of many buses.

You must stand in the line, umfundisi. Have you your money for the ticket?

Quickly, eagerly, as though he must show this young man that he appreciated his kindness, he put down his bag and took out his purse. He was nervous to ask how much it was, and took a pound from the purse.

Shall I get your ticket for you, umfundisi? Then you need not lose your place in the line, while I go to the ticket office.

Thank you, he said.

The young man took the pound and walked a short distance to the corner. As he turned it, k.u.malo was afraid. The line moved forward and he with it, clutching his bag. And again forward, and again forward, and soon he must enter a bus, but still he had no ticket. As though he had suddenly thought of something he left the line, and walked to the corner, but there was no sign of the young man. He sought courage to speak to someone, and went to an elderly man, decently and cleanly dressed.

Where is the ticket office, my friend?

What ticket office, umfundisi?

For the ticket for the bus.

You get your ticket on the bus. There is no ticket office.

The man looked a decent man, and the parson spoke to him humbly. I gave a pound to a young man, he said, and he told me he would get my ticket at the ticket office.

You have been cheated, umfundisi. Can you see the young man? No, you will not see him again. Look, come with me. Where are you going, Sophiatown?

Yes, Sophiatown. To the Mission House.

Oh yes. I too am an Anglican. I was waiting for someone, but I shall wait no longer. I shall come with you myself. Do you know the Reverend Msimangu?

Indeed, I have a letter from him.

They again took the last place in the line, and in due time they took their places in the bus. And it in its turn swung out into the confusion of the streets. The driver smoked carelessly, and it was impossible not to admire such courage. Street after street, light after light, as though they would never end, at times at such speed that the bus swayed from side to side, and the engine roared in the ears.

They alighted at a small street, and there were still thousands of people about. They walked a great distance, through streets crowded with people. His new friend helped to carry his bag, but he felt confidence in him. At last they stopped before a lighted house, and knocked.

The door opened and a young tall man in clerical dress opened to them.

Mr. Msimangu, I bring a friend to you, the Reverend k.u.malo from Ndotsheni.

Come in, come in, my friends. Mr. k.u.malo, I am glad to greet you. Is this your first visit to Johannesburg?

k.u.malo could not boast any more. He had been safely guided and warmly welcomed. He spoke humbly. I am much confused, he said. I owe much to our friend.

You fell into good hands. This is Mr. Mafolo, one of our big business men, and a good son of the Church.

But not before he had been robbed, said the business man.

So the story had to be told, and there was much sympathy and much advice.

And you are no doubt hungry, Mr. k.u.malo. Mr. Mafolo, will you stay for some food?

But Mr. Mafolo would not wait. The door shut after him, and k.u.malo settled himself in a big chair, and accepted a cigarette though it was not his custom to smoke. The room was light, and the great bewildering town shut out. He puffed like a child at his smoke, and was thankful. The long journey to Johannesburg was over, and he had taken a liking to this young confident man. In good time no doubt they would come to discuss the reason for this pilgrimage safely at an end. For the moment it was enough to feel welcome and secure.

5.

I HAVE A place for you to sleep, my friend, in the house of an old woman, a Mrs. Lithebe, who is a good member of our church. She is an Msutu, but she speaks Zulu well. She will think it an honour to have a priest in the house. It is cheap, only three shillings a week, and you can have your meals there with the people of the Misson. Now there is the bell. Would you like to wash your hands?

They washed their hands in a modern place, with a white basin, and water cold and hot, and towels worn but very white, and a modern lavatory too. When you were finished, you pressed a little rod, and the water rushed in as though something was broken. It would have frightened you if you had not heard of such things before.

They went into a room where a table was laid, and there he met many priests, both white and black, and they sat down after grace and ate together. He was a bit nervous of the many plates and knives and forks, but watched what others did, and used the things likewise.

He sat next to a young rosy-cheeked priest from England, who asked him where he came from, and what it was like there. And another black priest cried out - I am also from Ixopo. My father and mother are still alive there, in the valley of the Lufafa. How is it there?

And he told them all about these places, of the great hills and valleys of that far country. And the love of them must have been in his voice, for they were all silent and listened to him. He told them too of the sickness of the land, and how the gra.s.s had disappeared, and of the dongas that ran from hill to valley, and valley to hill; how it was a land of old men and women, and mothers and children; how the maize grew barely to the height of a man; how the tribe was broken, and the house broken, and the man broken; how when they went away, many never came back, many never wrote any more. How this was true not only in Ndotsheni, but also in the Lufafa, and the Imhlavini, and the Umkomaas, and the Umzimkulu. But of Gertrude and Absalom he said nothing.

So they all talked of the sickness of the land, of the broken tribe and the broken house, of young men and young girls that went away and forgot their customs, and lived loose and idle lives. They talked of young criminal children, and older and more dangerous criminals, of how white Johannesburg was afraid of black crime. One of them went and got him a newspaper, theJohannesburg Mail , and showed him in bold black letters, OLD COUPLE ROBBED AND BEATEN IN LONELY HOUSE. FOUR NATIVES ARRESTED.

That happens nearly every day, he said. And it is not only the Europeans who are afraid. We are also afraid, right here in Sophiatown. It was not long ago that a gang of these youths attacked one of our own African girls; they took her bag, and her money, and would have raped her too but that people came running out of the houses.

You will learn much here in Johannesburg, said the rosy-cheeked priest. It is not only in your place that there is destruction. But we must talk again. I want to hear again about your country, but I must go now.

So they broke up, and Msimangu said he would take his visitor to his own private room.