Bohlale’s (Bo’s) ordeal began a few days before, when she pricked her finger with a rusty sewing needle while mending a blanket.
Now, she feels dizzy and nauseous; sweat streams off her in rivulets. Aching muscles and joints, a throbbing pain that pulses through her skull, and extreme lethargy compound her suffering. The stench of infection permeates the hut. Lacking the strength to even sit up, she relies on her mother, Mosa, to lift her head and guide the water-calabash to her lips. Her thirst is unrelenting and unquenchable. She is confused and non-responsive.
There is a rudimentary medical clinic in the area – a bare-basics facility serving the village and nearby settlements. From Ha Khotso the clinic is a demanding hike which – Mosa knows – Bo is in no condition to undertake. Instead, Mosa decides to call in the sangoma, the village shaman, to assess her daughter’s condition.
In her leopard-skin cloak, paws draped over her shoulders, the sangoma is imposing and formidable. A powerfully built woman, necklaces of beads and bones and shells hang in heavy loops around her neck. Her wrists and ankles are similarly adorned. Streaks of clay and ochre adorn her stern countenance.
“Thank you, thank you,” says Mosa frantically, “My daughter needs your help. Please come inside.”
The sangoma enters the hut. She circles Bo’s sleeping-mat, chanting the words of power. Rhythmically she stamps the earthen floor with her bare feet, shaking a gourd rattle in a syncopated polyrhythm to induce the state required to engage with the spirits of the ancestors.
Then squatting on her haunches, she sketches a series of symbols onto the ground with a stick of charcoal. Next, to cleanse the chamber of negative energies, she tosses a bundle of dried Lengana (wormwood) leaves on the still-smouldering hearth; the resinous fragrance permeates the darkness of the hut.
Mosa sits on a stool outside the hut, foreboding mingled with concern.
An hour later, the sangoma emerges from the hut wearing a grave expression.
“She has been called,” asserts the sangoma authoritatively. “The ancestors have work for her, important tasks she must fulfill. Should she neglect these tasks, a grave curse will fall upon her. Her affliction will continue until she answers the call.”
“What are these tasks?” inquires Mosa, “How can she be expected to do anything in this state?”
“The tasks will be revealed when she attains the required proficiency. Her training must begin without delay,” responds the sangoma. “Her potential is vast, her strength considerable.”
“But she is extremely ill. Can you not help her?”
“We must take her to the Cave of the Ancestors,” responds the sangoma.
The next day, accompanied by the sangoma Mosa enlists two young men from the village to carry Bo upon a makeshift stretcher to the Cave of the Ancestors, over a kilometre away up a steep mountain track.
Forty minutes later, after a tiring trek, they enter the cave. The air inside is musty and stale. They walk down the short passage to the main chamber. Dim, soft light filters in from the cave entrance.
Painted on the chamber walls in subtle shades of ochre, sienna, orange, red and black – pigments extracted from the Earth herself – graceful antelope and powerful wildebeest flee from spear-wielding hunters, while unearthly therianthropic figures perform enigmatic rituals.
The men place the stretcher upon a flat rock platform within the cave. They look to the sangoma for further instructions.
“We come back tomorrow,” she says firmly.
Bo is left alone inside the Chamber. Feverish and dizzy, through slitted eyes she stares at the paintings, mesmerised.
Shivering and groaning, she writhes and twists as her body is dismembered and then reconstructed. The pain is all-consuming as the demons strip the flesh from her bones, tear her eyes from their sockets, wrench her tongue from her head. They cover her bones with new flesh and give her new blood. They help her walk in her new body.
Her soul takes flight. She travels swiftly through the air, high above a kaleidoscopic landscape. She sees a shimmering city of glass and steel, twin towers piercing the sky, a majestic mountain wearing a verdant cloak of rainforest, a tiny village huddled in the emerald expanse.
Then a large golden sigil completely fills her visual field: writhing serpents below an inverted pyramid supporting a golden crescent, horns upturned. The sigil is on fire but is not consumed by it.
She feels a potent mix of intense curiosity, mighty exultation and crushing fear. Then finds herself tumbling head over heels until she is once more in the presence of the demons.
She awakes early the following morning in agony, pain coursing throughout her body, and mind. Even the dim light of the cave is painful upon her eyes. Her hands and feet are very cold. A nest of small, sinister red and purple spots has appeared upon her left hand and forearm. The flesh beneath her fingernails has turned black.
Shortly after sunrise, Mosa and the sangoma return to the Cave of the Ancestors. As they enter the main chamber, Mosa feels a surge of relief and delight to see her daughter awake and alert. With a loving smile, she goes to sit beside her.
“Beloved daughter,” she says, stroking Bo’s damp, feverish brow, “it gladdens my heart to see you returned to us.”
Bo reaches out for her mother’s hand and squeezes it gently. “I’m okay, Mme. Just a terrible nightmare.”
The sangoma’s eyes narrow; deep concern furrows her brow. She stares at Bo then shakes her head sadly.
“She has rejected the call. But her apprenticeship may help her develop the maturity to walk her predestined path.”
Mosa frowns and bites her lips. "Apprenticeship?" she asks, though in her heart she knows the answer to her question.
“We will begin immediately, there is no time to waste” the sangoma replies with firm resolve, “she will live with me while she undergoes training.”
Bo is shocked and distressed by the sangoma’s words.
“Mme, but what about my studies?” she implores. “School is very important to me.”
Mosa is silent.
The sangoma is resolute. “To sow millet and maize in the same field will bring hunger upon the tribe. No person can tread two paths to the mountain’s summit.”
Bo is defiant. “Well, I choose the path to school!”
“You are full of disorder,” responds the sangoma, “I will show you how to control your heart and mind.”
Mosa addresses the sangoma with a mix of reverence and trepidation. "Pardon my audacity, She-Who-Walks-With-Spirits, but I am compelled to support my child’s wishes in this matter.”
The sangoma sighs and shakes her head. “I understand. But be warned – rejecting the call will bring great suffering upon your daughter.”
“She is strong, like a lioness” replies Mosa, “and I will stand by her side. May the ancestors soften their hearts for a mother’s love.”
Within a week the necrotising fasciitis has invaded Bo’s left hand up to the wrist.
(SAMPLE CHAPTER IN NOVEL "IDOLATRY")
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NIGHTMERRIES: THE LIGHTER SIDE OF DARKNESS. This so-called "book" will chew you up, spit you out, and leave you twitching and frothing on the carpet. More than 60 dark and feculent fictions (read ‘em and weep) copiously and grotesquely illustrated.
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