Gumbo

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by E. Lynn Harris


  Bearing lanterns and spears, the footmen beat the long grass, pushing ahead in a horseshoe configuration. They were supported by horsemen, all holding to the rigid pattern.

  Shaka rode along the outside, striving for position. When their prey tried to break away, it was herded back with shouts and spears. The buffalo seemed confused, but far from fatigued.

  Shaka raced for a shooting position ahead of his prey, but without warning the animal changed course, racing back straight for the footmen. With insane courage they thrust their spears, shone their lights in its eyes and shouted. Again it wheeled, running for the open, where Shaka waited, bow drawn.

  Then the beast doubled back again, suddenly ignoring the shouts and spear thrusts. Several of the men cast their umkhontos. Two struck the beast, the hafts flagging out from its back and side like dreadful bamboo stalks, blood running black in the darkness.

  The center man was little more than a boy, perhaps seventeen summers. He lost his nerve, cast poorly as the buffalo came straight at him, and missed his mark completely. The men scattered as it charged their line. The beast caught the boy who had missed his cast, gouging his back and sending him flying.

  The boy landed hard in the grass, screaming and thrashing, reaching back spastically for the bleeding wound.

  “Fool!” Shaka yelled as he rode by. There was a sheen of madness on his face now. His eyes were too wide, lips pulled tight against his white teeth. The footmen had been left behind now—it was up to the horsemen.

  Shaka was racing beside the wounded prey now. He gripped his bow and aimed, horse and buffalo seeming to match each other stride for stride.

  He released his bolt, and it entered just behind the left shoulder. The buffalo stumbled, rose again, and thundered on. Shaka released a second arrow. As it struck, the buffalo's knees crumpled, and it dove nose-first into the ground with an earth-shaking impact that would have shattered a lesser creature's spine.

  Kai held his breath, unable to fully grasp what he had just witnessed, beyond any doubt the most intense experience of his young life. Allah preserve him! He did not even know that men such as these existed!

  Shaka raised his hands to the stars. “Haii!”

  “Who is the greatest hunter in all creation?” Darbul roared.

  And his footmen, gasping now as they caught up with him, cheered in expected response. Shaka trotted his horse over to his trophy—

  And it lurched up, catching Shaka's horse in the belly with its left horn. Mortally wounded and neighing in agony, his mount tumbled over backward, and Shaka spilled. Despite his awesome athleticism he crashed awkwardly to earth.

  Shaka seemed momentarily dazed, disoriented, and for a moment the entire party was frozen, as if they shared his confusion. As Shaka's mount whined pitiably, the buffalo lurched to its feet. In that instant it could have slain Shaka, but instead it seemed to stare at him, blood drooling from its nose.

  The Zulu's face was gaunt and strained. Kai knew that in that moment Shaka Zulu, great hunter, great warrior, was gazing into the face of his own death, and that his soul had recoiled from the awful sight.

  Then, twin shots rang out. The buffalo staggered to its knees, then collapsed onto its side.

  Kai turned, startled. His father and brother both had their rifles to their shoulders. Smoke drifted from both barrels.

  Composing himself as best he could, Shaka rose. His limbs trembled a bit. Perhaps it was the chill of night, but Kai thought otherwise. Shake gave a perfunctory nod of thanks to Abu Ali and his son, and walked off unsteady legs to the buffalo.

  Kai found himself looking deep into the beast's eyes. The mighty but falo's breath huffed in painful bursts. Its black eyes were filmed with dust, Kai's next reaction startled him. This poor thing had been stolen in child childhood from its native land, raised only to die for the entertainment of its captors. It had struggled for freedom and life, that Kai could understand Pointless and absurd as it seemed, he wanted to tell the felled creature we done.

  Shaka snatched a spear from one of his men and drove it into the wounded beast's side. It heaved in pain. Shaka bore down with all his weight, working the spear back and forth until the heart was pierced and the buffalo lay still.

  Shaka raised his arms in victory, yelling in musical, staccato Zulu. The men replied in kind.

  “Ngikhuluma isiZulu kancane,” Kai said haltingly to Nandi. I speak only a bit of Zulu. “What did he say?”

  “He said that this was no ordinary creature, it was a demon, and in slaying it he has become more than a man.” Her eyes shone with admiration. She had apparently seen nothing that was not glorious, nothing in the least disturbing in her uncle's behavior. Was that pragmatism? An understanding that even the bravest men know fear? Or delusion, an inability to acknowledge what she had seen? He wasn't sure which, and that uncertainty troubled him.

  To Kai's gaze, Shaka had not yet fully recovered, and his trembling was not from the cold. His men apparently noticed nothing of their leader's momentary weakness. They cheered, beating their spears against the ground. Kai and his family smiled politely, but shared searing sidelong glances.

  Shaka wrenched his spear from the dead animal's side. Its tip glistened black with blood. He rubbed his finger slowly along the edge. Ignoring his dying horse, Shaka then ran to the spot where his second man had been injured. Kai broke his mount into a trot to keep up.

  The wounded youth was curled onto his side like an injured lizard his right arm still groping back for the bleeding wound.

  “You are hurt,” Shaka said coldly.

  The wounded man looked up at Shaka, his teeth chattering.

  “Your stupidity could have killed me,” Shaka continued, in a conversational tone.

  The wounded man said something in Zulu. Kai had the very clear impression that he was begging for his life.

  Shaka spoke to him in the same language, his face calm and comforting. Then with shocking suddenness he raised the spear and thrust it deeply into the hunter's stomach. Kai's stomach fisted as the boy's body serched, as if trying to take the spear more deeply into his belly. Then with deadful finality, he went limp.

  Kai felt dizzy and sick with rage.

  “Allah preserve us!” Abu Ali said in disbelief. “What have you done?”

  Shaka withdrew the spear and wiped it on the dead boy's chest. “What my right.” He shrugged as if it was of little consequence. “He would have died in some days. To die on your king's spear is an honor.”

  The Wakil's face was as stone. “There are no kings in Bilalistan.”

  Shaka grinned and pointed to his men, who had moved to encircle the party. “Tell them,” he said.

  Kai scaned them. Fourteen now, standing proud and silent, chests high, gripping their spears, ready to kill or die for the man they followed. Kai felt a deep and pervasive cold seeping into his bones.

  “There were kings in the days of my fathers,” Shaka said. “Mark well—there may be again.”

  His mood had shifted completely, as if killing the hunter had purged him of all stress. He turned to his men. “Bring me the head! Put my steed from its misery. Bear your brother on a stretcher, he burns tomorrow.”

  Shaka ordered one of his men off his horse and mounted without a trace of hesitation. If he had been injured in the fall, the injury was already forgotten. His men scrambled to fulfill his orders.

  Abu Ali and his sons rode together quietly, watching. Nandi pulled her horse up next to Shaka, clearly worshipful. “Uncle,” she said. “You were wonderful. But weren't you afraid?”

  Shaka Zulu rode proudly. “Nandi, fear is neither ally nor enemy. I never see fear, my child.”

  Ali whispered in Kai's ear: “You cannot see what lives behind your own eyes.”

  “Father,” Kai said. “What do we do?”

  Abu Ali shook his head. “The Zulus are allies of the Empress—and Shaka is as much royalty as Lamiya. On their land, it is their world. We can do nothing.”

  They watched the de
ad man rolled onto a stretcher. His eyes were open and turned up. Blood leaked from his side.

  “It is not right,” Kai said quietly.

  “No, it is not,” agreed Abu Ali. “But it is done.”

  The Knowing

  BY TANANARIVE DUE

  Our teacher said one day that knowledge is power, and I had to raise my hand even though I don't like to; I like to sit and be quiet and watch people and wait for lunchtime. But I had to ask him if he was sure about that, or if maybe knowledge wasn't just a curse. He asked me what I meant by that, and I said, “Hey, that's what my mama always says.” “Knowing is her curse,” she whispers, touching my forehead at night, softly, her long fingers like spiders' legs. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and she's there whispering and rocking me. But I didn't tell my teacher that part. I could tell from the way my teacher looked at me sideways and went on with his lesson that he thought I was trying to be a smart-ass. People always think you're something you don't want to be. Mama says that, too.

  I like this school in Chicago all right because my math teacher is real pretty, with long legs and a smile that means what it says. But me and Mama won't be here long. I know that already. I was in six different schools last year. It's always the same; one day I walk into wherever we're staying and she looks up at me through her cigarette smoke and says, “Throw your things in a bag.” That must mean the rent hasn't been paid, or somebody got on her nerves, or maybe she's just plain sick of being wherever we are. I don't say anything, because I know if she stays unhappy too long, she'll start throwing things and screaming at the walls and the police might come and put me in foster care like that time in Atlanta. I was gone six months, staying with these white people who were taking care of six other boys. Mama almost lost me that time. When the judge said she could take me back, I smiled in the courtroom so he wouldn't see how mad I was at Mama. I hate it when she acts like she's the kid instead of me. I didn't speak to her for a whole week, and when I did, I said to her, “Damn, Mama, you gotta' do better than that.” I meant it, too.

  And she promised she would. She really tries. Things will be really cool for a while, better than cool, and then I'll walk through the door and see that look on her face and those Marlboro Lights, or whatever she smokes when she's in a smoking mood, and I know we're moving again. I guess she feels like she'll be all right if she just runs away from it, as if you could run away from your own head.

  I wish Mama wouldn't smoke dope. It freaks her out. She goes up and down the stairs and walks through the halls wailing and sobbing, pounding on people's doors and shouting out dates. March 12, 2003. September 6, 2006. December 13, 2020. I have to find her and bring her back to the apartment to listen to Bob Marley or Bunny Wailer, something that calms her down. I hug her tight, and when she sobs, I can feel her shaking against me. “It's all right, Mama,” I say.

  “Nicky,” she says to me in a little girl's voice, “I ain't only telling. I make it happen. When they ask me, I say, okay, you're October fifteenth, you're February eighth. I'm doin' the deciding, Nicky. It's me. Ain't it? Ain't it?”

  She gets like that on dope, thinking she's God or something. I have to keep telling her, “Mama, it ain't you. Knowing ain't the same as deciding. TV Guide don't decide what's on TV.”

  Then, if I'm lucky, she'll get a smile on her face and go to sleep. If I'm unlucky, she'll keep crying and go back running through the halls and one of the neighbors will call the police. That's what happened in Atlanta. They thought she was crazy, so they locked her up and took me away. Lucky for her, the doctor said nothing was wrong with her.

  But he doesn't know what she knows.

  In Miami Beach, the last place we lived, our apartment was upstairs from a botánica, which is where the Cubans go to find statues of saints and stuff like that, trying to make magic. Mama took one look at that place and almost burst out laughing. She doesn't believe in statues, she says. But she was real nice to the owner, Rosa, who mostly spoke Spanish. Mama told Rosa what she does, what she knows. It took the lady three or four times to understand Mama, and then she didn't want to believe her. “El día que la gente van a morir?” Rosa asked, frowning. You could tell she thought Mama was trying to scam her.

  Mama sucked on her teeth, getting impatient. She looked back toward an old lady in the back of the shop who was checking out some oils in small glass bottles on a shelf. The lady was breathing hard, walking real slow. Mama can smell sick people, no lie. Mama leaned close to Rosa's ear. “You know that lady?” Mama asked her.

  Rosa nodded. “Sí. My aunt,” she said. “Está enferma.”

  “She's gonna' die soon. Real soon.”

  Rosa looked offended, her face glowing red like a dark cherry. She turned away from Mama, straightening up some of the things on her shelves. You should have seen all that stuff; she had clay pots and plates and cauldrons and beads and tall candles inside glasses with holy people painted on them, even a candle that's supposed to burn fourteen hours. And there were teas labeled Té de Corazón and Té de Castilla. I always pay attention when I'm in a new place. I like to see everything.

  “Listen,” Mama said to Rosa, trying to get her attention. “You know your days of the week in English? Remember Friday. That lady back there gonna' die on Friday.” Mama held up two fingers. “Friday in two weeks. Viernes. Nicky, how you say two weeks in Spanish?”

  “Dos”—I had to think a few seconds—“semanas.”

  Rosa stared at me, then at Mama's two fingers, then dead into Mama's eyes. From her face, it was like Rosa couldn't tell if she wanted to be mad, scared, or sad. People always look at Mama that way.

  “Then you come upstairs and get me,” Mama said. “I want to work here.”

  I had forgotten all about Rosa and her botánica when someone knocked on our door on a Sunday morning. Mama was out getting groceries and I was watching cartoons on the black-and-white TV Mama had bought from a thrift shop for twenty dollars. It only got two channels, but one of the channels showed the Road Runner on Sundays, and that's my favorite. Rosa was standing there in our doorway, dressed up in black lace. I almost didn't recognize her because she was wearing lipstick and had her face made up to look nice even though her eyes were sad. It took me a second to remember she must be on her way to her aunt's funeral.

  “Mama's not here,” I said.

  “When she come, you tell her for me, no?” Rosa said. “Tell her she say truth. She say truth.”

  I wanted to close the door. I was missing the best part, where Wile E. Coyote straps the rocket to his back so he can fly. He always crashes in the end, but at least he flies for a little while. “So, does she have a job or what?” I asked her.

  Rosa nodded.

  Cool, I thought. Whenever Mama has a job, there's always a little extra money for candy bars and T-shirts and movies and stuff. Mama only works because of me, because she likes to buy me things like other kids. I always felt a little guilty, though. In Miami Beach, I knew I'd better enjoy Mama's new job while it lasted. She could never work long before she had to run away.

  At the botánica, Rosa put a sign in the window saying she had a psychic inside, and she told people they could go back into the storeroom, past the colorful curtain, to talk to Mama. The thing is, Rosa got it all wrong. She was saying Mama could tell people if their husbands were cheating or if they would get a raise at work, the kind of lame stuff they see on TV commercials. Mama just shakes her head and tells people she knows one thing, one thing only—and when she says what it is, some of them really do turn pale, like ghost-pale. Then they stand up as if she smells bad and they're afraid to stand too close to her.

  At Rosa's botánica, Mama didn't get too many customers at first. But it was still kind of nice because she and Rosa started becoming friends, even though they could barely talk to each other. I like Mama to have friends. When Mama wasn't helping at the cash register, most of the day she'd sit back there watching TV or playing cards with me. Sometimes, when there weren't any customers
, Rosa would come back with us and watch Spanish-language soap operas. I liked to watch them, too, because you don't need to know Spanish to understand those. Someone's cheating on somebody. Somebody's pissed about something. Mama and Rosa would laugh together, and Rosa would explain some parts to Mama: “He very bad man,” she would say in her sandpapery voice, or “That woman no married to him.” But Rosa didn't need to do that, because most things don't need words. Most things you can see for yourself.

  So one day there was a thunderstorm, and Rosa was shaking her head as she stood in front of her store window staring out at the dark clouds. Lightning turned on the whole sky with a flash, then it was black again, and the thunder sounded like a giant boulder being rolled across the clouds. Miami Beach has the best storms I've ever seen, but Rosa was only letting herself see the scary parts. “I get killed to drive in that,” Rosa said.

  Mama grinned. “No you won't. Not today.” Mama's grin was so big, Rosa looked at her real close. I could see Rosa's face change, the corners of her lips lying flat.

  “Ain't nothin' to worry about. You got a long ways. You want to know?” Mama said.

  “No,” Rosa said through tight lips. All of a sudden, she didn't sound like Mama's friend anymore; she sounded like her boss-lady. She waved her hand in Mama's face. “No. No.”

  Mama shrugged, trying to pretend she wasn't hurt. She was just trying to be nice. But that's how it is, because nobody wants the only thing Mama knows how to give away.

  It took a week at the botánica before even one customer decided to hear what Mama had to say. I liked that lady. She was brown-skinned and young, and she touched me on my shoulder when she passed me in the doorway instead of looking right past me like most people do. Maybe if I'd been older, I would have wanted to ask her out on a date. Or she could have been my sister, maybe.

  “Are you the psychic?” she asked Mama. She had some kind of island accent, who knows what. Everyone in Miami was like us, from somewhere else.

 

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