“For many rains thereafter, we Nubala lived in peace. And no other enemies came, either from the direction of the Wall Rocks to the south or the Demons’ Smoke to the north ...”
“Until the Jijiwi,” Tuatat cut in.
“The white-robes,” said Imaro.
“Those are the ones,” Tiba confirmed.
She opened her eyes and shot a sidelong glance of displeasure at Tuatat, who glared back at her for a moment; then looked away, acknowledging her disapproval of his interruption.
“The Jijiwi claimed that their chief spirit – Wolowo, the desert-cat – led them to Muyum even as Besu Jusa led us,” Tiba said, closing her eyes again. “They wanted only the barren western part of the land, for which we have no use because it has nothing for our cattle to eat, and our grain cannot grow in the dry ground there. They left us alone, and we left them alone – at first.”
“Then you learned that the white-robes wanted more from you than you could ever have wanted from them,” said Imaro.
Tiba showed no annoyance at Imaro’s interjection. Tuatat noticed, but he showed no indication of resentment over the ayake’s implicit rebuke of him over similar behavior.
“It is as you say, Imaro,” Tiba agreed. “We had – and have – no use for the Jijiwis’ camels, or the cloth in which they hide their bodies, or the foul-tasting fruit that grows on the bushes they plant. But the Jijiwi covet our grain, and our water, and the flesh – not the milk or blood – of our cattle.
“In the beginning, they raided us, then apologized, then raided us again. We fought them, for we had vowed that we would not be driven from another land. Neither side could win. The Jijiwi could not penetrate our High Rocks, and we could only pursue them for short distances in their dry country. Yet the killing went on, with our people and theirs growing fewer as the dead grew more.
“As the blood flowed, the spirits wept. And finally, Besu Jusa and Wolowo appeared to both tribes, and demanded an end to the warfare. And they told both the Nubala and the Jijiwi to do something different to settle their disagreements.
“They said that once every rain, we should hold a Shinda between Champions of each people. The tribe of the winner would have the right to take a Gift from the tribe of the loser. And there would be no fighting between the Jijiwi and Nubala, other than the Shinda.”
“What happens in this Shinda?” Imaro asked.
“Wrestling,” Tiba replied. “The Champions try to throw each other to the ground, until only one of the two remains standing.”
Tiba fell silent. She opened her eyes again, and the sorrow her gaze conveyed stirred sympathy in Imaro, even though he was certain he had not yet heard the worst part of the tale. But Tiba would not be the one to tell it. She gave a slight nod to Tuatat, and the wachik continued the story.
“Sometimes our Champion won the Shinda, outlander,” Tuatat said. “And sometimes the Jijiwis’ man prevailed. When the Jijiwi won, they demanded only a single cow as their Gift, which they would slaughter and eat. When our Champion won, we would ask for a single camel, which we slaughtered – then used to fertilize our fields, for who would eat the flesh of such an ugly beast?”
Imaro nodded, even though he had eaten camel meat in the past ... but only when no other food was available.
“Then we learned that lifting heavy rocks makes a man stronger,” Tuatat continued. “And after that, our Champions won every Shinda . . . until, ten rains ago, the Jijiwi came to the Shinda with a Champion like none we had ever seen before – Itu-Nusani Mujo, the Three-Faced One.”
His voice caught in his throat as he spoke that name. Tiba grimaced and made a quick warding gesture with one hand.
“Itu-Nusani Mujo has the appearance of a man, but he is more than a man,” the wachik continued. “He is larger even than you, outlander. And he has ... three faces. So powerful is Itu-Nusani Mujo that in that first Shinda, he defeated our Champion with a single throw. Since then, none of our Champions has lasted more than three throws. Some come away from the Shinda with broken bones. Some have died. None of our Champions has been able to throw the Three-Faced One even once.
“From the time Itu-Nusani Mujo became their Champion, the Jijiwi have demanded larger and larger Gifts from us – not only more cattle, but also people, which neither we nor they had wanted before. The Jijiwis’ hunger for what we have grows, and we become weaker rain by rain.”
“Why do you not leave?” Imaro asked.
This time, it was Tiba who spoke.
“We did not want to be driven away again, Imaro. But after a time, there seemed nothing else we could do. But even as we were thinking of escape, Itu-Nusani Mujo sent me a vision in a dream. The vision showed me what would happen if we tried to leave Muyum. The Jijiwi would follow us wherever we went, and they would take whatever they wanted from us. And Itu-Nusani Mujo would lead the pursuit – and the taking.”
Silence followed that statement. Both Tiba and Tuatat gave Imaro long, searching stares, as though the hope they dared to harbor could be drawn directly from the warrior’s gaze.
“These three faces,” Imaro said. “Are they masks?”
“It is difficult to say,” Tuatat replied, repressing a shudder. “It is hard to look directly at Itu-Nusani Mujo. Our eyes slide away from him.”
“What we can say,” added Tiba, “is that even though his body is like a man’s, his faces are not human.”
“How is your Champion chosen?” Imaro asked.
“We hold our own Shinda to decide that,” said Tuatat. “So did the Jijiwi, until Itu-Nusani Mujo came. Guguk is the strongest Champion we have had yet. But even he does not stand a chance against the Three-Faced One. Still, he will try his best to prevail. We are not cowards, outlander.”
“I know you are not,” Imaro agreed as the wachik held his gaze. “Has your god, Besu Jusa, been able to help you?”
“No,” Tiba said sadly. “Besu Jusa is gone from us. It is as though even he fears the Three-Faced One.”
Then I will help you,” said Imaro.
They continued to talk until after sunset, and the Nubala could only speculate on what the unmarked stranger was saying to the wachik and the ayake.
* * *
From a crag amid the rocky spires that protected the Nubala dwellings, Imaro stared into the night. The stars and a moon that was not quite full lit a landscape of shadows. The few fires that still burned in front of the dwellings of those who had not yet retired for the night provided the only other illumination.
Imaro would sleep soon. But not yet. As he gazed in the direction of the Jijiwis’ part of Muyum, Imaro’s thoughts centered on Itu-Nusani Mujo: the latest of the many minions of evil that his path had crossed during his lifetime.
That the Three-Faced One was, indeed, an arcane adversary that must be eliminated, Imaro had no doubt – even though he had never before heard of such a demonic manifestation as this. Briefly, he wondered whether mchawi – the foul sorcery practiced by the long-defeated Erriten of Naama – had returned to Nyumbani despite his efforts to destroy it.
Then he discarded that notion aside like a scab from an old wound. Despite the numerous rains that had passed since he slew the last of the Erriten, the warrior retained an inner responsiveness to the presence of mchawi. And that awareness did not rise during Tuatat and Tibas’ description of the Jijiwi Champion.
If mchawi had not spawned Itu-Nusani Mujo, Imaro reasoned, then a Jijiwi sorcerer must have summoned the entity from some other nest of evil. Or, perhaps, the Three-Faced One was an intruder, or a portent ...
In only a few days, the time for the Shinda would come. Guguk was the Nubalas’ Champion, having defeated several others in competition for that peril-fraught role. Tensions rose high, for the claiming of the Gift from the previous rain’s Shinda always occurred shortly before the current one: a deliberate ploy intended to demoralize the defeated Champion’s people.
Imaro was willing to substitute for Guguk as Champion of the Nubala. But Tiba and Tuatat had m
ade him well aware that Guguk would not easily surrender his status, even though Guguk knew his chances of defeating the Three-Faced One were minimal at best.
Imaro had no desire confront Guguk for the purpose of taking the Nubala’s place in the Shinda. He saw no reason to do unnecessary harm to Guguk. Yet Tuatat and Tiba knew that Guguk would not allow himself to be replaced without a fight. Imaro was the one who suggested a way to circumvent Guguk’s resolve – a way the warrior would not have considered or countenanced in other circumstances. Tuatat and Tiba had, with compunctions, agreed.
A scrape against the rock behind him reached Imaro’s ears. His muscles did not tense in anticipation of an attack, for he had been expecting that sound. He turned and saw Tiba standing beside him on the crag.
“Is it done?” the warrior asked.
“Yes,” the ayake replied in a harsh tone.
They were silent for a time. Then Tiba spoke again.
“Tomorrow,” she said. Without another word, she departed, leaving Imaro, once again,
alone.
* * *
The warrior woke to cries of distress coming from outside the dwelling in which he had spent the previous night. He had not displaced anyone from their home; the dwelling had been empty since its owners had taken their own lives after their children became part of the Gift to the Jijiwi.
Imaro knew the outcries did not involve him. He also knew the reason for the Nubalas’ dismay. Brushing memories from the night’s dreams, the warrior rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion and crawled out of the circular doorway.
Blinking only once before his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Imaro spotted several dozen Nubala gathered in one of the shallow, cup-like stretches of rock that connected the spires. Tiba stood solemnly in front of a dwelling. The people in the crowd muttered and shouted. Panic distorted their features and twisted their normally graceful gestures into abrupt shudders.
As he drew closer to the knot of agitated Nubala, Imaro caught some of the anxious words that spilled from their lips.
“Guguk is stricken,” said one man.
“He sleeps, and cannot awaken,” cried another.
“His skin burns like fire,” said a woman.
“Tiba cannot awaken him,” a younger man moaned.
“First Besu Jusa abandons us; does he now curse us?” an older woman lamented.
Imaro made his way through the crowd. He moved carefully, making certain not to shoulder anyone aside as he approached the dwelling of Guguk. When he reached the forefront, he spoke to Tiba, whose expression was downcast.
“What has happened?” the warrior asked.
Tiba looked up.
“The nyia-sickness has fallen upon Guguk,” she replied in an emotionless tone. “He will not be able to recover in time for the Shinda.”
“You have told me of this Shinda,” Imaro said. “Can the contest not wait until Guguk has regained his strength?”
“No!” cried Tiba and several others, including Tuatat, who was standing nearby. It was Tuatat who provided an explanation – for the second time, though that was known only to himself, Tiba, and the outlander. The other Nubala believed Imaro had only been told the essentials of the Shinda, but not its complexities.
“The time for the Shinda was decided by Besu Jusa and Wolowo,” the wachik said. “Both the Nubala and Jijiwi Champions must appear. If one side’s Champion does not, the other side can take everything the losing side has ... everything.”
“Someone will have to take Guguk’s place,” said Tiba.
“I will,” declared a voice from the crowd behind Imaro.
The warrior turned and looked at the Nubala who came forward. He was almost as muscular as the disease-felled Guguk ... but he looked less than imposing next to Imaro.
“But Guguk defeated you, Yahyi,” Tuatat said.
“Only in the wrestling,” Yahyi said with a touch of petulance. “I matched him in the lifting.”
“You would be wrestling against the Three-Faced One, not lifting,” Tuatat retorted.
“What are you talking about?” Imaro asked, giving no indication that he already knew.
“It is not your concern, outlander,” snapped Yahyi.
“Maybe it is,” Imaro said mildly. He held the Nubala’s gaze until Tuatat broke in to explain.
“When the time comes for the choosing of a Champion, the strongest among us lift rocks,” Tuatat said. “If no one prevails in the lifting, then the two strongest wrestle. The one who first throws the other is the Champion.”
“I see,” Imaro said. Then he turned to Yahyi.
“I will lift against you,” the warrior said. “If I win, I will be your Champion, and I will wrestle Itu-Nusani Mujo.”
Yahyi’s mouth opened and closed in astonishment. Then his mbama-marked face contracted into a deep scowl.
“You are not one of us –” Yahyi began.
How often have I heard words like those, Imaro thought before he looked at Tuatat.
“Did you not say I am to be treated as though I am one of you?” the warrior demanded.
Imaro looked again at Yahyi.
“You may not like it, but I am one of you, according to Tuatat’s word,” the warrior said. “Your people have no Champion now. Lift against me; whoever wins will be the Champion.”
“Why are you doing this?” Yahyi asked.
“I do not like cattle thieves,” Imaro responded.
* * *
The boulders Guguk and Yahyi had raised a few days ago sat stolidly on bare ground. Nearly all the Nubala had clambered down from their dwellings to watch the current competition between Yahyi and Imaro. As well, the guests from other clans poured out from the shelters they had erected in the shadows of the High Rocks. Only cattle-herders and sentinels remained behind as Imaro and Yahyi faced each other.
Save for the lowing of the cattle in their pasture and the sigh of a breeze blowing through the grass, silence hung heavily over the gathering. It was as though the Nubala had not yet come to terms with an occurrence none of them could have anticipated – at least not before the appearance of Itu-Nusani Mujo at the Shinda ten rains ago ...
Yahyi nodded toward the largest of the boulders, which was close to the size of a kneeling cow.
“That is the one Guguk and I lifted, outlander,” the Nubala said. “This is how we did it.”
With those words, Yahyi squatted in front of the boulder and seized both ends of it in his large hands. As the muscles in his back tensed, the rows of mbama-marks stood out in bold relief. Judging that his grips was sufficiently firm, Yahyi slowly unbent his legs, raising the immense weight of his burden from the ground. As he leaned backward, his legs straightened and his grasp on the boulder’s ends did not falter.
A grating groan escaped Yahyi’s throat as he held the boulder close to his chest. Eyes closed and teeth bared, he levered it upward until its top was above the level of his shoulders. For a few moments, he held it there. Then, with a shout of triumph, he released his hold and jumped back as the huge rock dropped and crashed resoundingly against the ground.
Yahyi said nothing to Imaro as he stood beside the boulder. The heavy pants of the Nubala’s breathing and the flecks of blood on his chest that marked where the rough stone had scraped his skin were the only signs of his exertion. The crowd pounded the ground in approbation of Yahyi’s feat, for no one – not even Guguk – had ever raised such a large boulder so high. Yahyi himself didn’t think he could lift it more than chest-level. But the outlander’s challenge had spurred him to greater effort.
The pounding of the Nubalas’ feet ceased when Imaro squatted in front of the boulder. He reached out and grasped both the stone’s ends, as Yahyi had done. The watchers remarked on the differences between the outlander’s physique and that of Yahyi. Imaro’s thews were smooth, while Yahyi’s were bulkier – the type of muscles that seemed best-suited for lifting large objects.
Imaro’s legs straightened. The boulder rose. It reached chest-hei
ght, then stopped. For a heartbeat, it appeared that the warrior would not be able to raise his burden any higher.
Then, muscles writhing like serpents beneath his umber skin, Imaro shifted his grasp, moving his hands to the bottom of the boulder. The crowd gasped, for it seemed certain that the heavy rock would slip from the warrior’s grasp. It didn’t.
Slowly, Imaro forced the stone to the height of his shoulders – and then higher than that. Only when the top of the boulder was parallel to his eyes did its upward motion end, as Imaro held the great rock as though it were an offering to the gods of the sky.
Imaro did not allow the boulder to drop. Instead, he lowered it, bending his knees again until the stone rested on the ground. Then he straightened: face emotionless, chest heaving, sweat bathing his skin.
The Nubala stared speechlessly. Yahyi’s mouth hung agape. The Nubala looked at each other in disbelief. It occurred to them that this stranger might, indeed, prove to be a match for the Three-Faced One. It also occurred to them that the warrior might also be more than human ...
“Look!” a voice suddenly shouted, shifting the crowd’s attention away from Imaro.
The voice was Tiba’s. Her finger was pointing toward the face of one of the rock-spires. A shadow was emblazoned on the red-gold surface of the stone – a shadow in the shape of a rock-lizard grown to gigantic proportions. But there was nothing anyone could see that could have cast such a shadow. Even as gasps of surprise and awe rose from the Nubala, the umbra vanished.
Tuatat approached Imaro. Speaking loudly enough to be heard above the uproar of the crowd, he said:
“Here is our Champion!”
The feet of the Nubala struck the ground in a drumbeat of acclaim as Imaro stood beside the boulder. Even Yahyi joined the approbation. Only he and Guguk could fully comprehend the enormity of what the stranger had done.
And Imaro noticed that one woman – young, but with fully marked skin that indicated that she was well beyond her puberty rites – was looking at him with an intensity beyond simple appreciation of his feat of strength.
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