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I sensed his sincere belief and the ring of truth in his narrative, and I would glance up into the depths of the blue sky with wondering eyes as he told of many strange and mysterious things. They were white and shining, with hair of gold. Their village is said to be lighted by a mightier light than any on this world. The people wear shining clothes and the huts are thatched with shining grass. They were caught up to heaven again by a flash of lightning. They are goodly to look on, beautiful and radiant—their clans are taller and lighter-complexioned and markedly different in feature. These heaven dwellers will return with the lightning bird whose scales glitter in many colors. And when you are a grown woman, you will go to the mountaintop and there you will wait for the heaven dwellers and there will be a meeting together, a mating. You belong to the heaven dwellers. The heaven dwellers used to live here in a big land far to the south, but afterward ascended to the sky by means of the spider's thread from the lightning bird. Some of our people have gotten into the heaven country by climbing a mountain or a tree, ascending by means of a rope uncoiling from a cloud, or by the thread the spider obligingly spins for them. The Zulu say, 'Who can plait a rope for ascending, that he may go to heaven. And when the big drought came, we turned to eating the flesh of the white cattle for sustenance, and by so doing became a warlike people. These trees are cared for and venerated. The ghost country can only be reached through caves or holes in the ground, and it is not usual for the heaven dwellers to be found in the company of the underground dwellers by the slope where the sky joins the earth at the horizon. He can live in the water, and it is said that this being has been seen on the banks of the Umzinduzi River near Umkam- bati, beyond Pietermaritzburg. A black cloud gathered to the east with sudden jagged flashes of forked lightning playing about its flat base. As the menacing cloud moved closer, I cried out with delight as we both saw the great silvery spaceship glowing with a white radiance against the awesome cumulonimbus. The terrible, broad funnel of a tornado began to form from the base of the cloud, swaying and twisting as it reached downward toward the ground, moving swiftly and haphazardly along its destructive path and heading up the valley toward the homestead. Attracted by the deafening roar of the mature tornado, my mother's anxious face appeared at the drawing room windows. I saw the sudden wonder in her eyes as she caught a glimpse of the spaceship moving across the terrifying tornado, and the broad funnel swayed as it lifted over us. Looking up, my awestruck eyes beheld the interior of the great funnel. Swaying gently and bending slowly toward the east, filled with the pale blue light of electricity, it stood motionless over us save for a slow up-and-down pulsation. Higher up, the funnel was partly filled with a bright cloud that shimmered like a fluorescent light. This brilliant cloud was in the middle, not touching the smooth, rotating walls, which looked as if it were composed of rings moving one behind the other, rippling down toward the rim in a wave motion. It pulsed like a live thing, and as the higher ring moved onward, the ring immediately below slipped over to get back under it. I found myself involuntarily responding to the rhythm of the great rings as the pulsebeats in my head kept time with their wave motion. And then the thick opaque rim passed over, without touching the house or the surrounding trees. A few feet further on, the rippling motion within the funnel jerked downward and flicked a tall pine tree away like a flash of light! When the funnel touched it, the tree dissolved, the parts shooting off to the right like sparks. Again the funnel touched down, demolishing an empty shed, and with a frightening roar, spent its fury in the hills beyond. Ladam's face had aged in those few moments of sudden danger. Therefore, the mfiti was telling the truth. Humankind Is Not Unique The angry cloud had not finished with us. It squeezed past me through the doorway and out into the garden as if it had a mind of its own. The fiery sphere swiftly moved along the ground like a creeping corona discharge in the electric field and then shot up the bole of an oak tree, returning to the serrated cloud base above in a flash of lightning. My Siamese cat sprang to my aid, spitting defiance at the elements beyond the door, her feline sensitivity outraged by the sudden proximity of magnetic lines of force. Emotionally disturbed, she padded about the hall and refused to be comforted until I gathered her up in my arms and ran through the house to a more neutral spot. I would watch them gallop with the wind that blows down ahead of an approaching storm, drinking the wind like Mohammed's sacred white mare, or like Pegasus, whose real home is in the upper sky, where one must go upon wings to see it. It was here that Selene was born and given to me, a true daughter of the wind. Her ancient lineage is lost in the mists of time—there is no trace in the history of the past to indicate the origin of her white ancestors. Could it be the stony uplands of an arid land where first they set hoof on earth to gladden the hearts of men? Or perhaps from the empty coolness of a cloud drawing the golden chariot of Helios, as the white horses pranced across the aura of the Sun coming to Earth as a culmination of the Sun's rays, where white is the great principle of light from the farthest spiral galaxy to the minutest micro-atoms within the atoms? Bred in the cradle wind of heaven, the snowy-white horses brought to Earth the graceful rhythm of dancing snowflakes. Mozart, who brought the majesty and peace of heaven to Earth in a life of sublime creation, whose life was cut short, destroyed by an envier whose dark and sinister intent is inherent in mortal man. What legacy of immortal music could there have been for humankind had he been allowed to live, had he not been poisoned by the black alchemy of the age? The unearthly white horses are a legacy for humankind. Ladam had said the white horses came from the heaven country, and these are their descendants. Will they ever grasp and understand her plan of evolution set for them? Will they realize one day that the whole universe in which they have their being is life, composed of energy and matter, and that they are merely a part of its condensed energy? Humankind is not unique. Perhaps a race memory, nourished and retained within his subconscious through centuries of Earth time, may burst forth in the splendor of truth when he treads the road to the stars and returns into the fold of the universe in which he has his being. Unconsciously I would look up into the depths of blue, hoping, hoping, my eyes clouding with tears I could not restrain, as a snatch of music or a sunset in the sky would cause me suddenly to catch my breath in memory. My husband chided me on being so restless and flew me into the sky in a Tiger Moth biplane, teaching me how to fly. Encouraged by his understanding, I would fly off into the depths of blue, seeking the ship of space in her own environment. I headed toward the Drakensberg with the rolling green hills spread out beneath. Only an isolated thundercloud prowled to the west. Suddenly, I was struck by a volley of hailstones out of the sunlit sky. The beautiful white anvil cloud that was soaring innocently in the sky spewed a barrage of ice across the blue from its scarflike fringe. It released a bolt from the blue. Lightning rapped the top of my head and ran through my hands into the control column. Pale green sparks jumped in front of my eyes and soft bluish tongues of light played about the wingtips and propeller, forming an eerie corona about the little craft diving through the air while the muttering thundercloud prowled on, looking for something new on which to vent its spleen. Lightning is only dangerous when one is in contact with Earth, and if one depends on thunderstorm manners and behavior in the great presence, there is no need to be afraid at all. I soon learned to love and become one with the whirling thunderheads, though I always kept my distance. I, with my tiny plane, would find a safe cloud canyon through which to fly, or I would pass to the left to avoid headwinds while the thunderhead boiled upward until the frigid heights flattened its top and the wind tapered it to a leeward point. I found happiness in the sky. I loved to feel the wind high in the sky as the plane soared through the ocean of air to sense the rhythm of the wind as the airy depths became a fluid mass that I could see, understand and trust—to go with the wind or against it, and to know which is the lee side of a range or hill, for there is danger on the lee side when flying with the wind. For us who see from the distances in the sky with the clean fresh wind blowing in our faces, truth is the messenger of joy, an understanding of the soul toward the firmament beyond. To tune into the vibrations and waves on certain combinations of harmonics, to listen for the cosmic celesta, is to release the elusive magic of truth. It was glorious to move through the uncharted sky, threading a way through the depths of air, the substance of which the sky is made, where the clouds float in all their glory and the wind is the spirit of the sky's third dimension. The magic of the lodestone is the basis of all life. High in the sky, one can see the whole—the mountains and the sea beyond with the faint envelope of air that wraps the Earth. At sunset, the Earth's shadow rises in the east, steadily mounting the sky as a blue darkness, a prelude to the many-hued stars of the cosmic spectrum. High in the sky I sensed the nearness of something alien. As I droned homeward through the flute note of the wind, my thoughts became a conviction and my mind responded to this mysterious power like a barometer. Then one evening the mysterious stranger in our sky returned, and I knew my mind was being influenced as we flew over the Drakensberg. The weather was clear and the Drakensberg lay ahead, stretching across the skyline, a rugged wall of darkness against the golden yellow of the sun's longer wavelengths. We were soon over the escarpment, our engine roaring in the strain of sudden turbulence. It rose as a huge arch to fill the whole sky with the fathomless velvet of darkest space, studded with stars and planets blazing out as beacons to their own part of creation. Looking toward the east for Spica, which was rising over the horizon in virginal splendor, I was spellbound by another sphere flashing out of the dark azure of Earth's shadow. It was blue-white and pulsating, and it moved with incredible velocity straight for our tiny, helpless plane. I tapped my husband on the back of his neck. He looked around and saw the enormous craft slow its speed, changing color to a brassy yellow as it leveled out and paced our plane. Fascinated, I observed every detail as I pressed my nose against the starboard window, seeing the bright hazy outline of the great circular ship as it paced alongside. Three portholes, shedding a softer glow, looked out from the side of a dome that sloped up from a vast hull. Beneath the hull, an intense blue-white light alternated with deepest violet, and no sound reached my ears above the frightened roar of the DH Moth. I was sure that we had been thoroughly examined. The craft was the same type of spaceship I had seen as a child, and again, something known flashed into my mind. I found myself longing for its return, and a deep sense of loneliness mysteriously flooded my soul when the great ship vanished into the velvet darkness of the sky. Quathlamba is the Zulu name for this beautiful mountain range lying like a sleeping giant so close to the sea—rugged and mysterious, still hiding the secrets of the universe. Precipitous cliffs, knife-edged against the glow in the west, merged into soft and steep slopes mantled in long green grass, sweeping on as rolling hills to the sea, the mountain peaks guarding the lush softness of a shadowed land—the rolling grass country of Mpofana where I was born. Dangerous crosswinds threw our light plane about, and I thought that Saint Christopher must have pulled strings for us so that we did not end up in a spin over the mountains when my husband had banked and dived to avoid the spaceship. Spica winked at me out of the eastern sky, her lucid glory undimmed, pulsing, flashing blue-white and green, warning of a change in the weather and beckoning us to our rightful course. My mind was far away and filled with a great wonder. Again, the fantastic spaceship had appeared over the same area and I could sense an affinity beyond normal human conception. With our flight plan completed at Baragwanath, we landed in the teeth of a southeast gale. Visibility was nil as mine dust blew from the dumps. He immediately made a detailed report to Air Force Headquarters in Pretoria. What Do the Experts Know about the Sky?
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