The Sangoma's Orb

By Bryan Dong

This enthralling book leads you into an African cultured world of fiction, leaving you sitting at the edge of your seat with each turn of the page. Join Owen Validor in his journey to slay the Queen of sinful ancient spirits. With the blood of Owen’s parents on her hands, a witch is out on the loose, conquering sangomas, possessing innocent people and manipulating them into slaughtering more helpless folk. She is after four items, that in the wrong hands, could doom the world as we know it. The Purple, Red and Blue Amakhubalo and an Orb. This specific Orb — The Sangoma’s Orb — can decipher the fate of the world, death and life. If all four Amakhubalo are slotted into the Orb and this sphere-like item is inserted into the Gates of Hell, it could result in the opening of the Gates of Hell. The only person stopping her from putting South Africa into absolute carnage is 13-year-old Owen Validor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Dong
• Release date: May 11, 2022

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Copyright © 2021 Bryan Dong

First edition 2021

Published by Bryan Dong Publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Bryan Dong using Reach Publishers’ services,

Edited by Colleen Figg for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Prologue

Behind a pair of monstrous gates, found only in the depths of the underworld, billions of souls are heard screaming. They cry for mercy, for forgiveness, but it’s too late; they sinned, now they pay the price. What we see before us are the Gates of Hell. Corrupt spirits are cast down to an appalling void of despair because of their wicked, sinful deeds. 

The Gates rumble as deafening roars and screams emerge from behind them. The rebellious natures of the spirits have led to them trying to escape. Although the Guards of the Gates typically come out victorious in battles such as these, they are now urgently calling for reinforcements... they are overwhelmed. Claws lash out towards the Guards, and they are quickly vanquished. Hopelessly, they drown in the sea of spirits fighting to get through the Gates. Reinforcements arrive, but it’s too late. The Gates have been pried open, leaving just enough of an opening for a spirit to slip through before the Gates are closed. The spirit escaped, and havoc will be wrought upon this world if it stays this way.

In a thatch-roofed hut sits a lovely, elderly woman. She closes her eyes in meditation, communing with the ancestors. But suddenly, she shudders, feeling a presence... one of demonic origin. She puts down the bones and shells she was using for her ritual and stands up. She instinctively runs to what she is sworn to protect – the Sangoma’s Orb – entrusted to her by the ancestors themselves. The woman we see here is no normal person; she is a holy diviner, a communicator with the great ancestors, a holistic healer, she is a Sangoma.

She looks back at the Orb. Within it swirls power, capable of both destruction and healing. It holds strength capable of defeating evil spirits by trapping them in the swirling mass of purple—demonic monsters would be incinerated. All evil fears but seeks this formidable Orb. Although it is a weapon of destruction, in the right hands, it can heal the incurable and even drive evil spirits away from the bodies of those who fall victim to Amakhubalo Spirits. It is thus named the Sangoma’s Orb because, in the hands of the pure, it can heal and create. Bestowed by the ancestors on the purest of people, the Orb is given to the most trusted, kind spirits. And who better to give it to than a Sangoma? In turn, the Orb is passed down many generations by Sangomas to the next worthy Sangoma. It is their duty to drive away the evil spirits, keep the world pure and carry out the best for both the ancestors and all of humankind.

Sangomas are pure, kind, holistic healers. They don’t only look for physical symptoms but also mental or spiritual, treating you as a whole. They often seek help from the ancestors to treat their clients. They are involved with callings, divination and supernatural matters.

This particular Sangoma’s name is Lerato, meaning love, a name fitting for someone like her. But at this particular instant, she is not showing love but fear. She knows what this presence is after: The Sangoma’s Orb. She looks at the Orb one final time: It has three holes in it, one of which is filled by a glistening purple gem necklace—one of the three sacred, mystical weapons: The Amakhubalo. The only hope for this world now is the great wielders of these powerful charms. Sadly, one of them is about to be eliminated.

Previously hidden in the darkness, something creeps up upon her, and she soon is consumed by shadows. The Orb has fallen into the hands of great evil, and only two people stand in the way of that evil; they are, of course, the Amakhubalo wielders.

1

Believe it or not, I once had a normal life. I think it’s fair to say that I have had a pretty disastrous start to the year. It all started when I was twelve; I was in 6th grade, and I was sauntering back from school when I saw a muscular black stallion standing in front of the barn. With its long mane and fiery striped body, it was clearly the property of a wealthy man. I strolled through the creaky wooden gate expecting a typical lunch consisting of soppy bread and week-old bacon. I was surprised when I didn’t recognise the aroma of either; instead, I felt an eerie presence; one you know will not bring any good. It must be upstairs, I thought to myself. The splintery old stairs moaned at my weight. As I approached the door, I heard fierce, loud shouting from inside.

I heard my mother say: No, we have nothing to do with him. Her voice was sorrowful as she added, At least spare Owen and Jennifer.

My mother was a warm-hearted woman with lots of care and a wooden spoon; thus, I didn’t dare make her angry since I didn’t have to: she always was. With only a few strands of grey hair showing, she was in her mid-forties, while my dad was in his early fifties. My mom was a typical mom; strict, ferocious and violent. She was always in cool clothes, and no, I’m not talking about 80s skinny jeans —I’m talking about breezy clothes that she wore even in winter.

My dad, well, he’s in his fifties, as I said. He is more of a shooter than a talker. He is this big bulky fatherly figure that you would expect to be a professional hunter with his skills. He was not only a good shot, but he also could catch the biggest fish in the pond. The man was fishing crazy; it was his favourite pastime, and we always found him in a happy and relaxed mood when he was fishing. Despite him being an impatient man, he never found fishing challenging. One minute you’d have a worm on the hook, then the next thing you know, there’s a huge trout stuck to it, flapping vigorously. I was quite similar to my dad and had the same interests to a certain extent—a chip off the old block.

My sister, Jennifer, or, as I like to call her: ‘the annoying, disappointing, hopeless… Jenny’ was a lot more like my mom. You’d find her in the kitchen all day long in the summer holidays. She loved baking, just as my mom did. She was a long-haired girl, two years older than me and was considered tall for her age. Typically, she would be the annoyance of my life.

My family and I are a household of hardworking farmers. We harvest a hearty abundance of crops, enough for us to spare to give to those even less fortunate than us. I live quite an average life; maybe I’m even a bit more fortunate than the other kids living in these rural plains. Don’t get me wrong, though, I don’t live or eat like a king, never mind like the city folk.

All this just added to how peculiar the situation was. What would someone want to do with a farmer? Wheat tax collection wasn’t till the end of the year. Something is terribly wrong.

Well, there was no use in me standing outside the door just musing. I stepped inside to see what all this commotion was about. We have never had visitors, so this could possibly be an intruder who had already stolen a horse.

As I was coming to these conclusions, the birch door swung open, and I found myself face to face with a man. My heart dropped instantly; this was no normal man. His eyes… they appeared demonic; they bore into your soul and looked daggers at you. His face wrinkles into a terrifying smile, ferocious but gleeful, like a predator once he corners his prey. He glances back at my family, giving me a chance to inspect this beastly man more.

He was in long black denim pants and a grey, muddy blazer with even more mud spattered on his leather shoes. Slung behind his back was a rifle. Large, loaded and intimidating. His eyes and grey hair made him fit into the ‘old man’ category or, in his case, the ‘terrifying, about-to-kill-me… old man’ category. He had broad shoulders, a large, six-pack chest and legs as robust as his horse’s.

Step aside, boy, said the man, his voice booming in the room. He enunciated the words clearly to put the point straight. This is between your parents and me. His rifle was aimed at my head now.

Just then, like the Lord had sent a saviour, I heard my sister walking up the stairs. With one glance, she understood what was happening. She took off a flip flop, and without hesitation, she threw it with great precision at the man’s face. It happened so fast. I finally appreciated her years of training in flip-flop-judo with my mom.

As the man was rubbing his nose in agony, he lay on the floor groaning. We all scrambled through the door as Dad grabbed the man’s rifle.

Bolting out of the barn was exhilarating. I felt like I had just seen an action movie with the antagonist being a smelly old man and the protagonist being a flip-flop-using heroine. Dad closed the barn door and obstructed it with a fairly large fallen tree trunk.

Who is he? I asked.

Executioner, blurted Dad, panting like