by Nancy Farmer
Uncle Kufa and one of his brothers set out at first light to dig the grave. They had already selected a termite hill about half a mile away. They dug a shaft downward and then sideways in the tough clay. When they returned, they broke a hole in the side of Aunt Chipo’s hut—for the dead must not leave by the same door as the living—and carried Vatete’s body out on a litter.
The mourners followed in single file to keep witches from following them. Witches knew that many footprints meant a funeral, and they stole bodies for their own evil purposes.
Uncle Kufa laid out a mat in the grave. He placed a pot of ground millet, a packet of snuff, cooking utensils, and a calabash of beer at the top. Then Vatete was laid down on her right side with her hand under her head as though she were sleeping. Her face was uncovered. Uncle Kufa and those few blood relatives who could be present each threw a handful of sand over her. “Farewell,” they murmured. “Keep us a place in your new home, for we will surely meet again.”
Afterward, the grave was securely filled. Stones were piled on top and the sand around it was smoothed. It would be checked the following day for evidence of witchcraft.
“I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep,” said Masvita as she lay on her mat in the girls’ hut.
“Me neither,” said Nhamo.
“I keep remembering last week. Vatete took me to the trading post. Did I tell you?”
“No.”
“I saw so many people. The tractor had just come in. I had a choice of a hundred different patterns for my new dress-cloth. The owner of the trading post was Portuguese, very pale, with a big gold cross around his neck. He shouted at Vatete when she squeezed the bread on his shelves. I wonder if she’s lonely.”
“Who?” said Nhamo.
“Vatete. She’s out there somewhere.”
“Don’t!”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. She has to wander until the welcome-home ceremony.” Masvita began to cry again.
Where was Vatete’s spirit? thought Nhamo. Was it walking along the roads calling for her children? Had Mother called for her? No, that was too terrible to think about. “Let me tell you a story,” she said aloud to keep the fear away.
“Do you know how?” said Masvita.
“I’ve listened to Ambuya often enough. She says a good story makes almost anything feel better.”
Masvita sighed and turned on her side. Nhamo could hear her mat rustle. The hut was filled with girls, big and small, and all the breathing noises made Nhamo feel safer.
“Once upon a time there was a man and his wife who had fine cattle and rich farmland, but no children,” she began. “The woman went to the nganga, and he made her a little baby out of millet flour. ‘Take this home and greet it as though it were your child. Tell it your praise names and totems. Then you will become pregnant. But you must be careful not to harm it in any way.’
“The woman obeyed, but one day the millet-flour baby slipped out of her hand. ‘Oh, oh,’ she cried. ‘My child has broken in two.’ Still, there was nothing to do but fit the two halves together again.
“After nine months, the woman gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Now the parents’ joy turned to grief, for the law said that twins were evil and must be killed. The mother and father hid the children in the middle of the forest for six years. For six years, everyone in the kingdom had bad luck. The rivers dried up; the rains refused to fall; the cattle and people died of disease. Finally, the king ordered everyone to appear before him. His witch finder would smell everyone’s hands and discover who was responsible.
“The parents knew they could hide the children no longer. The father took them to a deep pit behind a waterfall and threw them inside. With a heavy heart, he returned to his wife.
“But the boy and girl were swept away by the water to an underground country. This land had a blue sky like ours. It had fields and rivers and villages. It was very beautiful, but the people and animals there were all damaged in some way. They had broken wings or legs or hearts. In spite of this, they appeared cheerful and they welcomed the twins.
“‘Where are we?’ asked the boy and girl.
“‘This is the country of all those who were thrown away by the world above,’ the people and animals replied.
“The twins lived there for a long time. One day, when they were playing by a hill, a crack opened up in the rock. They saw their father weeping on the other side.
“‘Father! Father!’ they cried. They climbed through the crack and went home with him. Their mother had become old with grief, but she cried with happiness when she saw her children again.
“The parents gave the twins anything they wanted. They never scolded them or made them work. In spite of this, the children didn’t feel happy. ‘We don’t belong in this world anymore,’ they decided. So one night, they left the house and went back to the waterfall.
“‘Farewell, Father and Mother,’ they called as they held hands. ‘We are sorry, but we belong with the creatures who have been broken and thrown away.’ They jumped into the pit and were swept off to the underground country. And their parents never saw them again.”
Masvita’s regular breathing told Nhamo she had fallen asleep. She had never attempted such a long story before, and was pleased with the results. Too bad her audience had deserted her!
Grandmother thought that killing twins was wrong, but Aunt Chipo and Aunt Shuvai were of the opinion that one, at least, should be allowed to die. It was necessary, to protect the village from evil. Nhamo hoped she would never be faced with the problem. Wrapped in the comforting presence of the other girls, she drifted to sleep beside Masvita.
In the morning Uncle Kufa returned from Vatete’s grave and said the sand had been marked by the prints of a leopard.
6
Witchcraft,” whispered Masvita in the girls’ hut. The others watched her with frightened eyes. The only light came from a burning wick in a tiny bowl of cooking oil. The smell made Nhamo’s nose twitch.
“Are they sure?” said Tazviona, a large girl who had been born with a twisted foot. Nhamo knew that witches caused deformity, but no one had ever discovered who was to blame for Tazviona’s misfortune. Perhaps it was Anna, who was married to Crocodile Guts, the boatman. Anna had a nasty disposition, and everyone knew that her great-grandmother had been a witch.
“They were talking about it at the dare,” Masvita said in a low voice. “I listened outside after I brought the food. Father says witches send animals to dig up bodies.”
“They didn’t get Vatete?” cried Ruva.
“No, no. Of course not. Father surrounded the grave with branches of mutarara, wild gardenia, to confuse them.”
Nhamo thought about her young cousin. Ruva was known to sleepwalk, which could be the first sign of witchcraft. Aunt Chipo was certainly worried by the habit, and slapped her daughter whenever it happened. But it was hard to think of the little girl as a horrible witch. Anyhow, Ambuya said she would grow out of it and that they should worry more about Ruva falling over a cliff. “—especially because it was a leopard,” finished Masvita.
“What? I didn’t catch that,” Nhamo said.
“We’ve had a lot of visits from leopards recently: first the spirit animal by the stream, and then the one in the banana grove.”
“I didn’t really see a spirit leopard! It was a trick of the light.”
“It growled at you,” Masvita gently reminded her. Nhamo felt trapped. If she protested now, everyone would think she was trying to hide something.
“Will Father send for the nganga?” Ruva asked.
“The nganga isn’t good enough,” Masvita explained. “The elders are going to wait until Vatete’s relatives can visit us. Then they’ll call in a specialist.”
“The muvuki!” gasped Tazviona.
It made sense, Nhamo thought. The muvuki lived near the trading post, where he could be consulted by people from many villages. He could smell witches by their evil thoughts, and it was useless to lie to him.
“Ah,” sighed the girls.
“Which relative did he kill?” Nhamo asked.
“His oldest son!”
Everyone was speechless with horror. That made the muvuki very close to being a witch himself.
“I think the nganga is perfectly able to solve our problems, ” Nhamo declared. “Ambuya says witch-hunting is a way to get rid of people nobody likes. She says it’s illegal in Zimbabwe.”
Everyone looked at her in surprise. It was all right for Grandmother to say outrageous things, but not for a girl like Nhamo to repeat them.
“You’re only saying that because the leopard appeared to you,” said Tazviona.
“I am not! Ask Ambuya, if you don’t believe me.”
“Don’t shout. The elders will hear,” said Masvita.
“Of course you don’t want to admit it,” Tazviona said.
“I suppose you think I twisted your foot! I wasn’t even born when it happened.”
“Your mother was there!”
Nhamo threw herself at Tazviona, and the bigger girl punched her right in the stomach. It only made Nhamo angrier. She grabbed Tazviona’s ears and wrenched for all she was worth. “Take back what you said about Mother!” she screamed.
“She was a bad woman! Everyone knows!” Tazviona shrieked back. The other girls fell on the pair, trying to pull them apart. Ruva tipped the light over onto a sleeping mat. It flared up instantly.
Masvita kicked open the door at once and dragged the mat out before it could set the whole hut on fire. Everyone struggled outside. The mat crackled as it burned. Red gleams shone on everyone’s faces.
“You girls are a disgrace!” shouted Aunt Chipo as she ran toward them. She was followed by people from the nearby huts. “We’re all worried sick, and you have to throw temper tantrums! Bad, bad children!” She dealt out blows in all directions.
“Who was fighting?” said Uncle Kufa in a terrible voice. The girls were silent, but it was clear who had been involved. Nhamo and Tazviona were breathing heavily. Tazviona was clutching her ears; Nhamo had deep scratches on her arms. Tazviona’s mother led her off to be punished privately, and Aunt Chipo took Nhamo off to an empty storage hut.
Aunt Chipo pinned Nhamo’s head between her knees and lashed her with a leather strap until her arm was tired. “You can sleep here. You won’t find anyone but the mice to fight with!” She slammed the door shut and secured the bolt outside.
At first Nhamo barely noticed the welts Aunt Chipo had inflicted. Her spirit was too angry. But gradually, as the excitement of the fight wore off, she began to hurt. She huddled next to the wall with her knees drawn up almost to her chest. “I’m glad Tazviona’s foot is twisted,” she said to the dark hut, but almost at once Mother’s voice whispered inside her head, You don’t really think that. You’re angry because she insulted me.
“I should be angry,” Nhamo said. “You weren’t bad.”
Of course not. I’m proud of you for sticking up for me.
It was so dark Nhamo couldn’t see anything, even with her eyes wide open. If she concentrated, she could imagine Mother sitting across the room from her. Mother wore a bright blue dress and pink plastic sandals. A flowered scarf covered her hair.
Nhamo stretched out, wincing as the marks of the lash met the floor. Most girls would have been terrified to be left alone, but Nhamo rather liked it. She had never let Aunt Chipo realize this, however.
I wonder if they really will call the muvuki, she thought sleepily. Uncle Kufa might think twice after he considered how much a specialist cost. He would have to bring him from the trading post and entertain him until the judgment was given. Uncle Kufa was so stingy, he would rather eat boiled weevils than admit porridge had gone bad.
Could the muvuki really have killed his own son to get power? A man like that wouldn’t think twice about killing anyone else. What happened to the people he smelled out?
Nhamo understood that most witches were tolerated, as you might tolerate a bad dog in the neighborhood. But if someone had done something really evil—like spread cholera, for instance—wouldn’t that person be punished? Nhamo had heard a story of a witch who had her eyes poked out with a sharpened stick.
“They don’t do that anymore, do they?” she asked Mother, but Mother’s spirit had stolen away, and the hut was silent.
Takawira was the next to fall ill. He was dead in less than a day. “He was very old,” everyone whispered. “He had reached the end of his natural life.”
But when Crocodile Guts got sick, everyone was shocked. Crocodile Guts owned the only boat in the village. No one else cared to go out on the river, where hippos could chop your boat in half or crocodiles could pull you overboard. No one else knew how to swim. The boatman plied his homemade nets not far from shore and brought in fat bream and tiger fish.
Everyone liked bream; the tiger fish weren’t as popular. They spoiled rapidly in the heat. Crocodile Guts sometimes tried to sell them after their eyes had gone milky, but people weren’t often fooled. If he couldn’t unload his catch, Crocodile Guts would merely laugh—he was a large man with a booming, hearty voice—and eat the fish himself. That was how he got his name. Crocodiles could eat meat that had rotted in the water for several days without getting sick. The boatman seemed to have the same ability, and people made detours around his cook-fire.
If he could get sick, everyone whispered, no one was safe.
The villagers watched in horror as, day by day, the big man shrank with illness. His eyes turned milky as a sun-ripened tiger fish, and then he died. His wife, Anna, howled with grief. No one had suspected how attached she had been to her husband. She was such a sour, complaining woman that everyone expected her to dance with glee. But Anna wept bitterly for Crocodile Guts and then she, too, fell ill and died.
In spite of Grandmother’s precautions, cholera had already found its way to the heart of the village. Suddenly, it was everywhere. Some people were only lightly affected; some were stricken with all the savage force of the illness. A few didn’t get sick at all. Aunt Shuvai lingered for a week before she died. Then Masvita wasted away until she was barely recognizable. Aunt Chipo, far from well herself, implored her daughter to live with heartbreaking cries until Grandmother ordered her to sleep in another hut.
Ambuya was one of the lucky ones. So were Nhamo and Uncle Kufa. They boiled water and mixed it with the precious sugar and salt to feed the weakest people. Grandmother explained that this would keep everyone’s strength up until he was ready to eat again. It seemed to work. Nhamo patiently dribbled the liquid into Masvita’s mouth. Slowly, the gray pallor faded and the killing fever cooled from her cousin’s skin. Her body was skeletal and her hair, which had begun to regrow after the coming-of-age ceremony, fell out.
Nhamo was so exhausted she could hardly move, what with running from one patient to the next. In some huts, bodies lay unburied because no one had the strength to bury them. Ruva wasn’t ill, but she was half-mad with fear and grief. She curled up next to Masvita and refused to eat. Very early on, Nhamo dragged her off to stay with a family at the other end of the village. She visited frequently to cuddle her little cousin, rocking her back and forth while the tears silently ran down her own face.
Nhamo plodded from one chore to the next like a small donkey pulling a cart too heavy for it. Sometimes she sat down in the road like a donkey, too, and stared into space until she regained the energy to go on.
“Masvita is looking so much better,” she whispered to Ruva. “Your mother isn’t sick at all anymore. Would you like me to tell you a story?” Nhamo really didn’t have time for this, but she needed the escape almost as much as Ruva did. Besides, stories kept the little girl from asking for Aunt Chipo, who proved useless even after she recovered. Th
e woman spent her days demanding to be waited on and weeping over Masvita. She had forgotten all about Ruva.
“Once upon a time,” Nhamo said, “there was a hunter with two dogs. The dogs were called Bite Hard and Grip Fast.”
“What color were they?” asked Ruva. Nhamo had a bowl of porridge in her lap, and as soon as the little girl opened her mouth, she popped a spoonful of it inside.
“Brown, with a white tip on their tails and four white paws,” Nhamo said quickly. “The hunter went out one day and saw a dassie* hunched on a rock. Just as he was about to shoot it with an arrow, a honeyguide bird flew over his head and cried, ‘Leave it, O hunter. Better things are ahead.’ The hunter called his dogs away and walked on.” Nhamo popped another spoonful of porridge into Ruva’s mouth.
“After a while, the man came upon a rabbit. He lifted his bow, but the honeyguide flew over his head and cried, ‘Leave it, O hunter. Better things are ahead.’ He obeyed the bird, and soon he encountered a kudu. ‘What a fine, fat antelope!’ he said. ‘This is certainly a better prize.’
“But the honeyguide still sang, ‘Leave it, O hunter. Better things are ahead.’
“Grumbling to himself, the man went on until he found a buffalo. It had just fallen over a cliff and was already dead. ‘Wonderful!’ cried the hunter. ‘I didn’t even have to waste an arrow.’ He sat down to carve up the buffalo and roast the meat. But the honeyguide flew over his head and sang, ‘Leave it, O hunter. Better things are ahead.’
“By now, the man was getting angry. Pesky bird, he thought. I have never seen a finer prize than this. There can’t be anything better ahead. But he was afraid to disobey the honeyguide because it was a magical creature. I know what, he thought. I’ll hide from it in a cave. When it flies away, I’ll go back and get the buffalo.
“He went into a cave. It got bigger and bigger as he walked farther into the mountain. At the back was an entire village, with fine houses and pens of cattle and goats. The village was ruled by an old, old woman who had only one long, sharp tooth, and the only inhabitants were women. All the men had been eaten by the old woman. They were her favorite food.