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GUARDIAN OF THE RUINS

Dad and I are taking an afternoon drive down to the Chiredzi River, to ‘see what we see’. It is hot and I am hanging my head from the window in search of wind relief. The Land Rover growls its way over the rough track, occasionally encountering and negotiating steep, rocky waterways. Ever downward we go, gradually dropping into the Chiredzi River Valley.
In time we pass by an elongated, low-lying kopje, not far off the road, on my side. Kopjes mean several things including klipspringers, appealing little kopje dwelling buck and one of my favourite animals. With klipspringers in mind, I scan the muddled rock collection through the lightly wooded demarcation as we cruise slowly by. Suddenly I spy irregularity. Actually it is regularity that I spy, but that is irregular in this setting of natural non-conformity.
“Stop Dad,” I say, and he dutifully does. “I saw something back there in the kopje, something unusual, part of a wall?” I look enquiringly to Dad.
“Yes,” says Father “there are ruins in that kopje, I’ve been told about them.”
We reverse a short distance back up the road and I soon see the stonework again, more clearly this time, certainly man made and therefore alien in this area devoid of men.
“Let’s go and have a closer look,” I suggest, and Dad shakes his head.
“Sorry to disappoint you son, but the elders have briefed me about this place. It is forbidden to go there. It’s hallowed ground if you like, only accessible to a very few powerful elders. You and I are certainly not permitted to approach those ruins. Let’s carry on down to the river; we can’t make out much of the ruins from here anyway.”
Then and there, I determine that that brief visual of anciently arranged stone would not be my last experience of this place.

I am sitting with Pencil outside his hut, brewing tea and hacking chunks of bread with his bush knife.
“Mdala,” I say, and he looks up.
“Mdala, tell me of the ruins, the ruins down by the river, the ruins which are the forbidden ruins.”
Although I feign passing comment and continue preparing the tea, avoiding eye contact, I feel the Old Man’s penetrating gaze. Staring at me intently, he launches into serious speech. It could become disciplinary speech, I sense the possibility in his no nonsense tone.
“The ruins down by the river are indeed forbidden, to all men. That place is a place for the spirits and for the spirits alone. No mortal man may approach those ruins without first receiving the blessing of the Great Spirit. Nobody has ventured close to that place for many years and great harm would befall anyone who did. The ruins are the home of the ancestors. Why do you ask about the ruins?”
“I had thought of exploring the area, as you know I am most interested in
local history.”
“You may never, ever explore that area. Anywhere else is possible but not that place. Do you understand?”
The Old Man is getting a little worked up because he feels I am going to argue the issue. I don’t, already aware of what the outcome will be.
“Yes Sekuru, I understand,” I say, pouring boiling water into two tin mugs.
“Do you understand fully?” says the Old Man. “You may never approach those ruins. The consequences of such a foolish action would be dire indeed. There is a monster snake that guards those ruins at all times, a monster flying snake far greater than any snake on earth. The snake is larger and more powerful than a python, faster and more venomous than a mamba. The snake is the spirit of a great Shangaan warrior and it is the guardian of the ruins, as are the bees. You must promise me that you will never approach those ruins. The spirits would be greatly offended and your life would be in grave danger. Promise me.”
Meekly, I promise. The Old Man and I sit together outside his hut, sipping strong tea and tearing bread from primitively hacked wedges.

It is impossible for me to forget the ruins, although I don’t bring the subject up again for I am busy scheming – scheming and inquisitively daydreaming. Dreaming about what one could possibly find down at the ruins, if one were brave enough to go there. My teenage mind is struggling seriously with the willpower factor, with the willpower factor and the still undefined difference between bravery and stupidity. Anyway, I go to the ruins in secret one day and this is what happens.

It is a long walk from Chehondo to the ruins down on the river and, although I leave at dawn, the sun is burning high when I arrive. Sitting down on the road verge close to where Dad and I stopped before, I pull hard on my water bottle and look the controversial kopje over. All is quiet, even the insects stilled by the mid-morning sun. I spend some time there on the road, plucking up courage and trying to convince myself that I cannot allow superstition to dictate to my new age teenage mind. And then I approach the ruins, the home of the spirits where no man may venture.
The ruins are interesting indeed; although a couple hundred years of element exposure has taken its toll, much of the structure is still intact, the original architecture easy to envisage and appreciate. As far as ruins go, this is one of the most pristine examples I have so far come across. Added to which there is much broken pottery lying about, and God only knows what else. I quickly become absorbed in exploratory activity, all thoughts of spirits and the forbidden zone having long since evaporated. With enthusiasm, I clamber about, searching for I know not what.
Later, I figure I must have spent about half an hour at the ruins, although I cannot be sure. Everything that took place before the snake’s advent became instantly and everlastingly irrelevant. All I shall ever remember clearly of that day was the snake. The largest and most fearsome snake I have ever come across, raising its length from the long grass and towering high above my crouched form, gently rocking, back and forth.
I am crouched down, attempting to work a piece of what appears to be metal from firmly encrusted soil entrapment, when I sense something. Glancing up, I look into the most terrifying pair of eyes created by God. The beady, focused eyes of a huge black mamba, towering high above and staring me down. Terror freezes me to the spot and it seems a long time that the mamba and I look each other over. Of course, it can only be seconds. Although I have seldom come across mambas, I am able, like any bush born boy, to easily identify these snakes. And I am fully aware of their deadly reputation. For the first time in my short life I confront certain death, from no more than two metres away.
Although there is no definite thought process engaged, instinct fortunately takes over and I begin to move. Naturally my first movement is retreat. Slowly I crab backwards, inch by painstaking inch over the rocky ground, never removing my eyes from the snake, anticipating the strike. And I pray that this serpent notes my humble submission. The mamba continues to gently rock – boring black eyes and slightly gaped black mouth, flickering tongue deciding my fate. Fortunately the terror instiller does not advance and I am able to cling tenaciously to control, barely prevailing over outright panic. Ever so slowly I continue my backward crawl of supplication. Time passes and the neutral ground is gradually increased. When I have reached a point that is obviously a suitable distance from the mamba, it finally accepts my surrender and descends into the grass, making off away from me. And I curl up on the floor, drained by raw terror. A short time later, I run away from the ruins and, although it is a fair distance to Chehondo, run all the way home.

Of course, I never tell anyone about my ordeal at the ruins down by the Chiredzi River. It would be an admission not taken lightly by either Dad or Pencil. It is weeks later, just when I am beginning to believe that I have gotten away with the transgression, that the Old Man drops the bomb. We are fishing down at the dam when the brief conversation takes place. From out of nowhere the Old Man stares deep into my soul and makes the statement.
“You went to the ruins, the ruins by the river.” A statement not a question.
I struggle to engage voice but eventually croak out a ‘yes’. The Old Man’s ancient almond eyes are focused completely on my guiltily darting blue pair.
“Look at me and listen to me Dungbeetle,” he says softly, gently reassuring. “I am not angry for you have received your warning. You, and all of us, are most fortunate that the spirits felt mercy and delivered that warning. You must never disobey me again, promise me that.”
I have found my voice and I promise the Old Man, this time with inner conviction. I do not ask the Old Man how he came to hear of the incident at the ruins, for I know he has a strong rapport with the spirits. And I do not tell him that the guardian is a mamba, not a giant flying snake larger than a python as he had previously told me. I wonder how it is, that with such a strong spiritual connection, the Old Man could have been so fundamentally wrong when describing to me the guardian of the ruins.

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John aka NitroX

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Govt get out of our lives NOW!
"I love the smell of cordite in the morning."
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