Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19 "Ending a sentence with a preposition," said the official at the Shaka Museum in Durban, "is something up with which I shall not put!" "Say what?" Dan was not in the mood for this. The ride the previous night had taken hours. And now, after a few hours sleep in Durban, the center of the KwaZulu-Natal province, and a trip to the museum, all he had asked for was the bathroom. Not a grammar lesson. The guide smiled. "You are Churchill people, no? You don't recognize your hero's quote? He was famous for saying it to someone like you. You said, 'Where's the bathroom at?' This is ending a sentence with a preposition! Very bad!" "Um, I gotta go, Mister…" Dan said. "Cole," the man said. "First door on your right."

On the way in, Dan nearly collided with an ancient guy whose face was nearly skeletal. "Sorry, dude." When he was finally relieved, Dan skipped back outside. The old man, moving very slowly, hadn't even made it across the room. "Over the years, from time to time," Mr. Cole was saying to Nellie and Amy, "some people have inquired about the relationship between Churchill and Shaka Zulu. Father doesn't like those visitors very much." He gestured toward the old man. "Well, Churchill couldn't have had a relationship with Shaka," Amy pointed out. "He was born almost fifty years after Shaka died." "Indeed," Mr. Cole said. "We told this to our visitors time and again. Then, one day, after a visit, one of our prized possessions disappeared— a very large shield that belonged to Shaka. My father was on duty at the time, and he has never forgiven himself." "The shield these guys took?" Dan said, pulling his Shaka card out of his pocket and turning it toward the man. "Did it look like this?"

Mr. Cole nodded. "Very much so." "And this group— did they happen to be, like, big?" Dan asked. "And, like, loud and bossy?" He couldn't help noticing that the old man had almost reached them. The man was scowling, and when he spoke, his voice was a whispery rasp. "Why do you want to know about Churchill?" he demanded. "Father, please, these are children, not thieves." Mr. Cole smiled apologetically. "My great- grandfather— my father's grandfather—knew Churchill." "Churchill was sneaky," the old man said. "Obsessed with Shaka. That is why he traveled to South Africa. Not to report. Not to fight. To find out about the isipho." Dan glanced warily at his sister, then back at the old man, whose eyes were reddening. "Isipho?" "It is something Shaka gave to the Europeans," the old man said. "They saved his life with their medicine, and he thought they had magic powers. But they were looking for something, too. Something the Zulu had. Something the

Europeans took and transformed into a potion. It was said to have magnified his powers." Amy's eyes were saying exactly what Dan was thinking. Sounds like Cahills. "A p-potion?" Amy asked. "Nonsense, of course!" the old man shot back. "But they said Shaka could be one of them— their family. Shaka trusted them! He should have trusted no one! Shaka should have given Fynn the aniklwa!" "Father, please, let us not start again," Mr. Cole said. As he led his father back to the exhibit, he gave Dan an apologetic shrug. "Feel free to explore." "The Tomas!" Amy said as Nellie turned onto the highway. "That's who Mr. Cole was talking about." "Big meatheads asking about Shaka and Churchill," Nellie said. "That'd make sense." "And stealing a shield that just happened to have the Tomas crest on it," Dan remarked, his

nose buried in his Shaka biography. "Remember what Mr. Holt was whining about," Amy said. "The other Tomas finding the clue, blah blah blah? I thought he was being paranoid, but maybe he was right. Maybe the thieves who visited this museum were the ones who eventually found the clue." "Fynn— okay, here he is!" Dan said, pointing to a page in the Shaka biography. "This is the guy the old man was talking about— Henry Francis Fynn. After a battle, he gave Shaka medical help and weapons. Shaka was so grateful he allowed the Brits to hang out in the Zulu kingdom. Then things started going bad. Way bad. Years later, Fynn was dissing Shaka in some book. Saying he was a monster." Amy nodded. "England was trying to colonize South Africa, mostly because of the diamonds." "Right!" Dan said. "And anyway, even without the European rifles Shaka was a superstar. Before him, tribes would throw long spears at each other and wait. Like, ho hum, arrow arrow in the air, hey, want some coffee? Shaka said no way, José—

well, maybe not José but the Zulu equivalent— short spears are better! Then you can go right up to your enemy's ugly face and wham! Stab! Arrrrgghh!" "Have you considered a writing career?" Nellie said. "Does your book say what an isipho is?" Amy asked. "Negatory," Dan said, shaking his head. "Dan…" Amy said. "Fynn and the other Europeans… they told Shaka he was one of the family. That's what the old man said. Maybe Shaka was a Cahill after all. Not by birth, but because of something they exchanged. The isipho." Following Carlos's guidance, Nellie drove out of Durban going northwest toward -29.086341/31.32817. Small villages dotted the countryside, each a cluster of circular mud-brick huts with tightly thatched roofs. In one village, a group of men herded cattle into a rickety wooden pen. In another, Dan exchanged waves with a team