Chimbeyo
Professor Sherwin Foxton was a stereotypical historian. Mild in his manner, dedicated in a way only other professors could understand. He was delightful to behold, often stroking his white beard as if it were a right of passage in his art. Never prone to outbursts, yet impassioned, he could make a common man desire to dash into his world of adventure. Sherwin’s adventure was Africa. Its antiquities laced his office in Turlington, as they should for any professor of the arts. His bookshelves strained from the weight of years of dusty searches. An adventure in its own right, with scrawled notes peering out from every book, some not viewed for half a lifetime. Sherwin loved his books, but even they were a mystery to him. He taught generations of students at Florida about the vast secrets that those books only hinted at, and which he would someday find. At the end of the day, I would always find Sherwin deep in his office, the steady thrumming of primeval African beats whispering from his phonograph, his favorite pipe in hand. Pondering is a full time recreation for our type, and Sherwin was an expert. His office heard the deepest thoughts of deep men, the meanings of life, and the wildest of speculation of the afterlife; thoughts which would never escape the depth of that office in the dark of night. Sherwin, like all scholars, had a slant. The one idea that no one else had; the ultimate key to his fame and fortune. On reading Sherwin’s lofty papers on the native traditions of Rhodesia, one might think he had simply cornered the market in a remote corner of the world. But it was not so. Years and years of informants talked into his well-worn notebooks, tale after fantastic tale drew a most colorful history which could only be summarized by academia. What drove Sherwin was what he didn’t write down there. It came up here and there in passing thoughts of an aged villager. Nonchalantly spoken by dry, cracked lips, the idea nevertheless struck Sherwin like a knife. It was his slant. Somewhere, somehow, in the middle of those dark lost lands was a god on earth. Chimbeyo, he heard. Chimbeyo was an almighty and undying deity who dwelled on earth. He hid “under the rocks, eating the sands of time” it was often stated in their hushed chants and prayers.
Decades ago, the idea peaked his curiosity, and mine as well. As these things do, it became an obsession. The idea of finding the basis of a myth is enticing, and it served well enough as the ‘passionate’ question to be filled for any academic. Sherwin had his close calls with it. I recall how one day, as he rocked back in his favorite rattan chair, he told me his favorite lead. Only weeks before he had been in the heart of that country, searching and scouring for clues on many myths. On one particular steamy day Sherwin wandered into a small village at the base of the Kulam Kulai, or “Laughing Hills” as the sun set low. As is the custom there, the hospitality was paid to him as a weary visitor. Food offered and gifts shared, and of course, entertainment arrived. When Sherwin illustrated his day’s adventurous path through those hills, the village elder seemed to glow with amazement.
“And you didn’t see him?” Sherwin recalled the old man’s words.
“See who?”
“Chimbeyo! He lives there, you know!”
Sherwin struggled to reproduce a more accurate map of the land through which he had passed, and begged the old man to be specific. But alas, he could not. The old man could only smile and say that if he knew exactly where Chimbeyo lived, he would go there and ask him for eternal youth. That was, apparently, one of Chimbeyo’s deific powers. Despite that shortcoming, that was still a night Sherwin would never forget. The conversation turned to tales of many locals who had gone to see Chimbeyo, some never returning. However, those that did return often seemed changed. One local herder is said to have walked out of those hill decades later, not looking a day older. The colorful village elder spoke of how he had fire in his eyes, all who saw him did. Well, Sherwin had fire in his eyes, and this elder was convinced that he had seen Chimbeyo. Sherwin’s drive led him back out into those hills in the following days. He searched the rocky crags and wind swept hollows, lived off the land and slept on stony beds. But never did he see anything that he could attribute to this god among men, Chimbeyo.
This tale was piled into his private diary with other near misses, but they were never forgotten. Sherwin returned time and again to the Laughing Hills. Never did his aging body detain his lust for travel to the dark continent. Persistence is an important quality to solving a mystery as old as time, and it was persistence that got Sherwin where he is now in scholarship. Some years ago, Sherwin trekked far out onto those vacant dusty plains below the Laughing Hills, and tracked down the villager reported to have seen Chimbeyo. There, in the man’s austere thatched hut, over the glow and haze of burning embers, did Sherwin gain his insight into Chimbeyo. The man, simple in his ways, could only state that he had lived uncountable seasons since his encounter. His grandsons and daughters were all dead with age, yet he looked no more than thirty years old. Despite this critical, defining moment in his search, Sherwin would tell me how he feared that man. His eyes seemed empty and hollow, and despite all his hospitality on that dark night, he felt he could not trust him. There must have been a good reason people shunned him, he often speculated a man of such great age and integrity would earn a fair amount of respect in those close knit cultures; more so than here. Yet this one man lived alone, far outside his home village, on a forlorn rocky slope where grass loathed to grow. Reflecting back, Sherwin expressed guilt at those feelings that overwhelmed him that night. For, the very next morning, the old man lay dead. Sherwin could not help suspecting that his visit had killed him, perhaps in the way of a western virus. Still, he had gotten what he lusted for; a physical description of Chimbeyo. As descriptions go, the ancient villager’s was not particularly impressive: a short but robust, very dark-skinned man with a fairly broad nose. However, matching that in the endless scores of similar men in Rhodesia was not an attractive task.
Sherwin was a clever man, but it took him ten years to solve this dilemma. The February night he told me hovers in my memory like a vision of death itself. Late one night Sherwin called on my home and bade me come out to Tennil’s Slough. His ragged state was obvious, so I did not question this request. Stumbling through the foliage I remember fighting the biting air and crawling out onto those Cypress knees which jutted like decayed fingers from the dark fluids below. Sherwin looked more pale and perturbed that I had ever seen him. His frame, usually held high in a haughty way, now sulked over the tannic currents, and sweat dripped from his nose and forehead despite the dry, icy air.
“John”, he began,” I found Chimbeyo. It seems strange for ten years now I have searched, but the truth is, I had already found him!”
“You mean that lonely villager was Chimbeyo?” I asked, nearly stunned with the revelation.
“Well, yes and no. I’ve had to piece it together. My realization crept up on me slowly, each day that passed, each restless night, each walk in the cypress domes near my beloved Micanopy. I had lost myself in a labyrinth of scholarly pursuits since that day I met the ancient villager who died peacefully near my feet. I had virtually forgotten the unsaid clues to Chimbeyo’s lair. The man’s description of Chimbeyo was a red herring. The revelation I disclose to you now hit me only weeks ago, and I still ponder its consequences. You see, John, I awoke one morning and took a long look at myself in the mirror and realized in the passed ten years I have not aged a day. I now am Chimbeyo...”
With that I arose from my seat with an impulse of shock. Sherwin quickly raised his hand in a calming motion.
“John, do not be alarmed! He passes from body to body in death. I believe he feeds on the soul, then passes to another when his thirst for their soul is quenched. Even on this day, I contain an emptiness that I cannot really describe in words. It has crept up on me slowly, as did the realization of my youthful appeal. I have figured that it takes Chimbeyo more than a lifetime to finish the deed, so I still have time.
“This is madness!” I shouted. “Even if it were true , what could you do about it?”
“Well, that is why I have revealed this to you”, he replied.
I sat back and pondered. I knew Sherwin too well. A master of objective thinking, he was much keener that I. Despite my natural reaction of disbelief to such a surreal statement I had to believe him. And I could see by Sherwin’s eyes, his fiery eyes, that there was no point in more objections. As to the other matter, how to resolve such a tragic tale, I had no clue.
“So...the reason there is no good description of Chimbeyo is that he is within a person, not of solid form”, I managed.
“Exactly”, he snapped, “You have no suggestions do you?”
I shrugged meekly and thought a moment. My final answer was not one I am particularly proud of.
“Sherwin, I know if there was a solution, a way to remove the beast from you...you, of all people, could solve it. You are more clever than I could ever hope to be.”
Sherwin’s face was of disapproval. He rose then to signal the end of my visit.
“Yes, I will solve it”, he said grimly.
“I will think about it, perhaps Reverend Greene may be of help...I’ll make some anonymous solicitations.”
Sherwin did not seem too impressed. While I was sincere in my intentions, it went for naught. Sherwin solved the dilemma before I could. A week passed before the awful realization hit me. I checked in at the Anthropology Department to find that Sherwin had taken an emergency leave starting on the day after our meeting. With a little detective work, I discovered that Sherwin had purchased a ticket on a passenger ship, The Belouco, headed for South Africa. The news mystified me. Had Sherwin discovered a cure? Perhaps some mystic in Rhodesia would know some charm or chant in their sacred art. Sherwin had not left a single note or reference to what he was doing over there, or why, his secretary noted. Before my mind could drift down too many tangents and possibilities, the Dean emerged from his office, with a deathly stare fixed on me. With a rigid flick of his index finger, he beckoned me into his dusty vault of an office.
“We have just received a radio report from the Belouco, John. Sherwin has gone missing.”
“Overboard?” I gasped.
“No”, the Dean quickly corrected me. “He apparently lowered a life raft...and baled...in the middle of the Atlantic.” There then came a long pause.
“I’m sure he has a plan, he always does. This act confounds me. Hopefully, he’ll turn up with some brilliant logic for his escapade, and we’ll be back sipping brandy in his den in no time.”
“I’m not so sure this time”, I said grimly, and promptly walked out.
Sherwin was never found. Many hoped for the best, but I know he is dead. Sherwin’s plan was simple. If there was no one around when he died, Chimbeyo would die with him. This I may never know, but I wonder...do dolphins have souls?
