Masks and Demons

By Garth Chandler

One hundred and sixty years ago, two warring Southern African tribes became unwitting surrogates in a battle between powerful spirits. Tribesmen managed to trap the evil demon, but when a group of present-day students release the imprisoned spirit, dark, comic misadventure reigns as the battle is renewed from the South African veldt to the spirit world where the demons dwell.
The Boipakeng tribe had no idea that consulting the witch would embroil them and their enemies, the Batlhaping, in the forefront of an ancient supernatural war. All seemed lost when the guardian spirit was defeated, but, through an unwelcome alliance with the white man, the Batlhaping managed to imprison the evil spirit, called a ‘tokoloshe’. For many decades of the guardians have kept the location of the prison secret, but when blundering students dig up an artefact hidden in a sealed and secret room, the demon is freed. The students must now ally with the guardians of the veldt to find and finally rid the world of the evil. Across the veldt and into the labyrinth of the underworld they encounter a supernatural cast of mysterious witches, fantastic beasts, mythical legends and powerful talismans in a blend of dark comedy, fantasy-adventure and horror that would appeal to fans of Terry Pratchett and Tom Holt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garth Chandler
• Release date: Sep 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994703002

Garth Chandler

Garth Chandler has been lurking around since 1970. He is South African, is married with a daughter, holds an Honours degree in psychology a Bachelors in IT Management. Interests include Theology, manufacturing board games and graphic novels. He is an internationally qualified martial arts instructor, but perversely enjoys wearing a white belt to give the casual observer a false sense of security.

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Masks and Demons

By Garth Chandler

Copyright 2016 Garth Chandler

Smashwords Edition

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First Published 2011 (paperback)

Based upon a screenplay concept by Attie Visser

Cover Art: African Mask v. 2.0 by Andrey Bobrov and Kirill Moskalev

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Interlude

Part Two

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Three

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Christine’s Song (Predator)

About the Author

More from the Same Author

The Salvation Murders

Frewin

Prologue

Africans believe that ancient, malevolent spirits called Tokolosh prowl the dark. Many have experienced inexplicable misfortune. The Tokolosh usually takes the form of a particularly well-endowed midget, its masculinity far advanced in proportion to the Tokolosh itself. Often, the victim of a Tokolosh will only begin to suspect the unwanted attentions of the spirit because of a sour streak of luck. It is well known, even amongst the white inhabitants of the Dark Continent, that an African should be terrified to discover tiny footprints in or around his home. Muti, which is African magic or medicine, wears a number of mantles, from mundane herbalist medicines to various degrees of the occult. The African traditional healer, or Sangoma, is often the only one who can free the victim of a Tokolosh’s attentions. Many Africans sleep with their bed on bricks so that the spirit cannot reach them.

Of course, this is a load of codswallop – it takes much more than bricks to deter a Tokolosh.

Part One

Chapter One

The year is 1853. Half a world away, to the west, the slaves in the great plantations of America are working the fields, dreaming of their chains falling away and of whips in their own hands while the masters scream and pray to the benevolent God, who assures the faithful that everything works towards the greater good. Thousands of miles to the north, it is snowing, and the poor and the oppressed of Europe, the human coal for the fires of progress and industrialism, huddle under what few blankets and shelter they can afford, while the parties in the royal palaces churn out music and polite conversation. The king still considers it better manners to have a chamber pot brought to the table than to abandon his civilised guests, much to the disgust of the courtiers next to him. In the Far East, the emperor stirs fitfully in his sleep, dreaming of the Taiping rebellion in the south, unaware of the cavalry bands plundering the north, killing his armies and setting up their strongholds.

On the South African veldt, evening brings relief after what the shivering inhabitants of Europe would call ‘another glorious sunny day’. The usual sunny day in Africa is scorching, parching hot, with the heat enough to turn a face unprotected by hats, cosmetics and the great indoors to leather. Tribesmen run from shade to shade, unwilling to let feet linger too long upon the scalding earth. In other parts of the world, there are people who are considered somehow spiritually endowed because they walk on coals to achieve the same effect. Grass pokes itself out of the ground, defies the sun with a thirsty blade for a short time, and wilts to brown. In Africa, a really nice day brings rain.

Insects twitter and frogs croak, heralding the night. A leopard slinks up a tree with her bloody prize, a gazelle, formerly the slowest sprinter in the herd. The cat’s eyes, reflecting the waning remains of the orange sun, open wider, and her panting pauses; she pricks her ears across the grassy expanses as distant drums begin to beat. A creek meanders insolently through the primal African veldt, its path taking it to a rural village, or kraal, where the vibration of the drums disturbs some of its quieter pools. The kraal’s defences consist of thick, high walls of thorny branches, protecting the grass huts within, like a mother snake around her yet-to-hatch eggs. Spaced along the walls are rickety, wooden lookout towers, platforms with torches lighting up the deep South African night. Within the kraal, the rhythm of the drums builds to deafening and somehow frightening volumes. Atop the lookout platforms, watchmen, clad in various animal skins and armed with wooden spears, are torn between sentry on the veldt, and the happenings inside the village. This is the home of the Batlhaping, a small, peaceful bunch who are largely insignificant on the world stage. For now.

In the common area within the kraal, a huge crackling fire blazes. A woman ululates as sweating drummers bang out a hypnotic primal African rhythm on their hide-covered drums. The rest of the villagers, from very young children to old greyheads, shuffle and dance. Central dancers brandish hide shields and wooden spears. When one of the dancers treads heavily on a thorn and starts hopping about on one leg, many of the younger revellers start to emulate him. As he sits heavily and tries to pick the thorn from his foot, some of the youngsters copy him again. The woman ululates again, and the deafened man next to her sticks his finger in his offended ear, wishing she would simply shut up.

Chief Malole is in his hut, waiting for the appropriate time to make his grand entrance. The chief’s hut is bigger than the others, with pride of place near the centre of the kraal, as befits his station. He takes a swig of fermented marula juice from a clay gourd, wipes his face with a meaty hand, and strides out, dressed in his magnificent tribal chief’s outfit of feathers and lion skins. The noise hits him like a pack of wild dogs. He waves a hide shield and spear, and holds up his hand.

The drummers quiet down, and gradually the revellers slow and shuffle to a halt. All eyes turn to the chief as he moves towards the central bonfire. Malole halts before an ornate silver mask with closed eyes and bovine horns atop a wooden pole. The face is vaguely human, but for certain anthropomorphic exaggerations typical of Southern African art; surreal, bloated appendages protrude at noticeable angles. The metal shines rich and deep, and reflects every possible bit of light, as though polished.

The revellers take their cue from their chief and reverently bow before the silver idol. Kwazi, nearly of the age to undergo the warrior’s initiation ceremony, risks an upward glance and grins at what he sees. There is a pretty young woman in front of him in a short and revealing grass skirt. An effeminate man next to him notices his wandering attention and smacks him on the back of his head. The sound cracks into the silence left in the wake of the drums. In the distance, the leopard looks up at the sudden quiet, and licks her bloodied jowls.

Nothing within the kraal moves. Malole slowly, softly, begins to sway before the idol and chant in an unknown tongue. As his chanting becomes louder, a lone drummer drums a new beat.

***

Dim, smoky torchlight reveals the walls of an arcane, stone passage where large, rocky chambers and more passages branch off irregularly. The place reeks of age and brimstone. Anybody looking for the torches casting their flickering lights would search in vain, because the smoke does not owe its grey existence to any fire. Arcane, bushman-like symbols and writings are etched upon the walls. These are not bushman legacies, though. The subjects of bushmen paintings are easily identifiable – a hunt, a ceremony, or a few lewd scenes quickly removed by older and more conservative bushmen. The images on these walls are difficult to describe, with frames of reference outside the borders set by the mundane experiences of the African people. Prominent amongst the painted figures is a horned beast, with the body of a man and the shaggy head of a bull. Shadows move along the walls of the cave disconcertingly, making it difficult to tell whether the shadows or the paintings themselves are moving.

***

The drumming gains momentum again. Kwazi, behind the young woman, smiles surreptitiously once more, his thoughts obviously on more mundane matters. The effeminate man scowls at him and he assumes a more respectful attitude. Over by the pole, Malole’s chanting reaches a crescendo.

***

Within the passages of stone, a flickering shadow, seemingly of a man with a bull’s head, becomes more distinct, less like an epileptic belly dancer under a strobe, and passes quickly.

***

Malole finishes his ministrations and lies prone before the mask at a final drum beat, his backside high in the air. Kwazi quickly averts his gaze from this sight, which is far less appealing to him than the one that had previously held his interest.

The silence descends upon the veldt again; even the impudent frogs and insects display an uncharacteristic hush. Not a whisper of a breeze stirs the air.

The villagers raise their eyes expectantly towards the silver mask. A wind arises in the distance, breaking the stillness, rustling across the African veldt like a visitor approaching with a large entourage in wide, dragging skirts. As the rustling reaches the kraal, the hitherto inanimate mask’s eyes snap open, and the metal takes on a liquid character, no longer rigid and lifeless, but alive. The villagers have seen this before, but rare familiarity has not bred boldness, so the tribe is still awed, and there are a few audible sharp intakes of breath. Malole rises to his knees and outstretches his arms in a supplicating attitude. The pole starts to shake as the wind’s rustling becomes a vicious howl, penetrating the kraal walls as easily as ectoplasm. The villagers squint against the unnatural force; some hold their ears against the noise. The howling consumes itself with a last, powerful blast, like a match thrown into a pit of methane. The villagers avert their faces, blinking from the gust. Sudden silence blankets the kraal again. As the villagers turn their attention back to the mask, they see that it is no longer attached to the pole, but floating freely, in defiance of all the laws of nature.

***

Within the passages of stone, the bull-headed shadow stretches its arms in an attitude of triumph.

***

The mask erupts in a flaming glare. Villagers shield their assaulted eyes, the after-image of the mask etched inescapably behind their eyelids. The bonfire flames higher, as though fuelled, though nobody has added so much as a single dry twig. As the light recedes, the villagers regain normal vision. The mask rests on the face of a black shape, stretching its arms in mimicry of the shadow in the passages. The shape towers above the assembly, three times the height of a man, powerfully built. It is two-dimensional, but somehow simultaneously more than a shadow, the dimensions of shadow shouldering aside the dimensions of space. It hurts the brain to try to see the flat edges of the shadow, because there are none.

The moment of quiet stretches.

The watchmen high in their wooden towers pay absolutely no attention to the veldt, due to the fact that they are instead dutifully staring open-mouthed at the excitement within the kraal below.

The effeminate man faints with a slight gurgle. Malole stands and turns his back to the unnatural darkness towering above him. He is unafraid, as a son would be unafraid of a powerful but loving father. He lets the moment stretch just a little longer, for dramatic effect, before he addresses the villagers, The Boipakeng warriors are getting ready now as we speak. We know that they will attack us again soon, just as they have so many times before. He gathers his skins about him, careful not to spoil the effect of a wise and regal chieftain by tripping and falling on his face in the sand. Malole walks amongst the tribe, meeting as many gazes as he can without going cross-eyed, a showman down from his stage, mingling with an enraptured audience. The masked shape observes his passage with the attention of a single-minded predator, but makes no move to follow.

Malole halts near the middle of the throng of villagers, and pauses again before he continues speaking, Their fat, stupid chief, Makore - that bloated sack - and his warlords, plot again, just as they always have. He peers around as though their enemies could emerge from the walls at any minute. They want to take our silver mask, steal it like the common thieves they are. But we know the Boipakeng. His finger stabs the air for emphasis. "We are familiar with their envy and their schemes. We do not need to fear, we Batlhaping. They can’t take the mask from our kraal so easily. How could the Boipakeng hope to take such a power unwillingly from its home? As Malole reaches the effeminate man, sprawled dramatically on the ground, he holds his expression wooden and steps over him, thinking how satisfying it would be to stomp on the annoying face. The Boipakeng will be sent running, with their tails between their legs again, running like the curs they are. How foolish that they even think about attacking us – they are no match for the spirit of the silver mask." He indicates the silver-faced shadow lurking near the pole.

The mask surveys the assembled villagers as they look at it, half fearful, fully awed. The shape lowers its arms slowly, but lifts them again, like a darting snake. A sound like a knife being sharpened hits the villagers, almost as a physical force. The shadowy fingers are elongated - sharp, pointed hands made of knives. Let it never be said that the spirits have no sense of drama.

The assembly gasps as one and draws back as the shape strides through them - a deity demanding worship. Malole’s bearing is assuring, and his words calm and encourage the people. He does not have to speak loudly - they could not be more attentive if he was holding them tightly by the collective crotch. Victory, Batlhaping.

He nods sagely, quite the inspirational leader in his own opinion, speaking his words like a prophet, certain that he has spoken the future. We will have victory over the evil Boipakeng. The spirit of the silver mask will keep us safe and defeat the enemy, as it always has. Tonight, we will celebrate with the spirit of our silver mask. He will bless us with his presence, and he will help us prepare for the battle. The people start to relax. The shape melts away like the shadow it possibly is, and without bothering to move through the intervening space, the mask is back on the pole as though it had never left. The drummers start to drum again as Malole walks amongst the villagers, a warm glow in his heart. This is his tribe; the spirit of the mask is good; the Batlhaping have nothing to fear – not from the envious plotting of their enemies and certainly not from the supernatural masked spirit present at their celebrations. The enemy is foolish. The silver mask will never abandon its chosen worshippers. He sees the effeminate man again, and wonders what the man’s father would have thought.

***

Upriver from the Batlhaping kraal is another kraal, its defences not dissimilar to those of the Batlhaping. Inside this village, painted warriors sharpen their spears. However, the atmosphere in this village is gloomy, more resigned than eager. The warriors ready themselves for battle in small groups, but they seem immensely lacking in confidence. Women and sullen children watch from the sidelines. The unity and homeliness to be seen in the Batlhaping kraal, the sense of family, is not present here. There is a darkness here that the fires cannot dispel, a coldness of the heart that they cannot warm. A wintry canker hangs over the Boipakeng. From a grass hut emerges the chief, Makore, ducking through the doorway. Makore is grossly overweight, and his ample gut wobbles with every step. Next to him walks the resplendently clad Boipakeng Sangoma, holding a staff of office hung with oddments and bones. He has distended earlobes and a warthog’s tusk through his nose. Skins from gazelles, ornamented with dead-animal trinkets, make him jingle slightly. He is emaciated, and his thinness is made more noticeable next to the jelly-like bulk of the chief.

A warrior turns from sharpening his spear and nudges his companion. Aardvark-arse has decided to join us. The companion looks up and groans, Oh shit. Here we go again.

Makore holds up his hands, demanding audience. He is ignored by all present. After a moment, he clears his throat, but the warriors still ignore him.

The Boipakeng Sangoma shakes his head and steps forward. When he speaks, his voice is like the rasping of nails. As much as any listener would want to ignore it, it is impossible to do so; his voice is small as his frame, but still intrudes upon the consciousness of the people. Warriors of the Boipakeng.

The warriors reluctantly stop what they are doing and give him their attention.

Makore, your chief, will speak now.

The men, with as much diffidence as a pride of lions in the presence of a young and isolated gazelle, look at Makore, who awkwardly lowers his arms. The sputtering flames of the village bonfire cast Makore’s shadow behind him, somehow enhancing the perception that there is little to him but stomach.

The villagers and warriors shuffle impatiently whilst Makore assembles his disrupted thoughts before eventually continuing, Tonight we face our greatest test.

An anonymous voice interrupts discreetly, Our greatest test is putting up with a donkey like him.

Makore doesn’t hear the comment, but his eyes narrow in irritation as he observes a ripple of laughter moving outwards from one of the warriors. The warrior smiles insolently at the chief, who continues in annoyance, Tomorrow we march on Chief Malole and the accursed Batlhaping. We have fasted and readied ourselves for two days.

At this point, someone burps long and loudly, causing Makore to falter in impotent anger.

The Boipakeng Sangoma moves forward amidst muttering and giggling from the warriors, stepping in front of the speechless chief. Listen to the wisdom of Chief Makore. The men mutter louder, their demeanour threatens open revolt at any moment, and clearly they think that the wisdom of their chief is akin to the wisdom of the ostrich burying its head to avoid danger. But the Sangoma is wily; he knows how to make men think what he wants them to think, to believe in fake medicines, and imagined threats. He is a political force, the wisdom behind the throne. It is practically a job requirement. Somehow, he commands respect just as the fat chief commands none, if fear can also be called respect. Nobody has the courage to show open contempt towards him; at least, not yet.

The seething insolence of the assembly relents to grudging attention at Boipakeng Sangoma’s words. Health, and the wealth of great herds. These are what the Batlhaping have because of the silver mask. Why should our enemy have this wealth and not the Boipakeng?

The men are more interested, despite themselves. In the kraal cow-pen, a bull snorts and tosses his head up and down as though in agreement.

The tusked, reedy Sangoma knows he is jerking the only string that will keep the men in line, for they are in no mood to suffer fools lightly. The bones have told me that the silver mask is the source of the Batlhaping wealth. Their prosperity, their cattle and their fertile women are all gifts from the mask.

The men are more receptive, but a few of the women scowl. Some roll their eyes; they have heard this before. It seems that this is the single-minded passion of the tribe, and most of the women wonder whether things would perhaps be better if the men just got on with their own lives instead of wasting