‘No.’
‘You dare stand between a mother and her son?’ She stood tall and proud, too much iron in her backbone for some. They met eye-to-eye as he drew near to her slender body, her long limbs somehow seeming out of proportion with the rest of her. Despite her exaggerated illusion of fragility, she possessed a tensile strength, a fierce tenacity of spirit, matching both her raw beauty of exquisite cruelty and her air of cold serenity.
‘He nears the age of ascent. And there have been … whispers.’ Manuto shifted as if in sudden discomfort. ‘The tribal code demands that you name the father.’
‘I cannot. He belongs to another.’
‘He’s married?’ Adultery meant fatal punishment doled out by the Tribal Avengers. She hated this dance of conversations. It was mostly for the benefit of the two warriors who stood guard outside his dwelling. Or the countless other ears straining to eavesdrop.
‘Only to his duty and obligation.’
He rubbed the keloid along his neck. ‘Then Kaala has no mother. He has no father. He is of the tribe.’
‘Like mother, like son.’ The Mo-Ito were a mixed race people, accepting any who wandered into their community as long as they lived by The Path. Proud and fierce though a near forgotten people now. Lalyani’s mother was never named, her father was … gone. Like her, her son would never truly know the embrace of this village. He had to earn his right to be a part of the San tribe. ‘What will come of my son?’
‘Rest easy in this: when it is time for him to walk the journey into manhood, I will stand beside him.’
Lalyani nodded. She understood this was how things had to be. All choices had consequences and she made hers readily enough. The time would not be easy for either of them. She had little stomach for the politics of the tribal ways, but she knew what her fate was to be before Manuto gave voice to it.
‘You, however, cannot stay here.’
‘I know. I will abandon The Path as it has abandoned me.’ Hers was a conviction that struggled to find meaning. While many in her tribe found comfort in The Path, she knew only her terror and brokenness. Some questions were best left unasked because no answer would satisfy. And Lalyani questioned. Buried doubts and insecurity, an embraced self-deception, meant she would never know the pain again. But the pain cut through the lies. Pain was the Master-Teacher.
‘You may abandon it, but you may find that it is not so easily left behind. The teachings remain in your heart.’ Manuto moved to comfort her, his thick arms opening in embrace. She pressed her palm into his chest to halt him.
‘Many things remain in my heart that I can no longer feel.’
‘Mine as well. The demands of duty.’
She knew this day would come and had steeled herself for it. A few tasks remained before night descended on …
*
… the wings of sunset. Lalyani dropped into the gardens. Caution lightened her steps as she glided along the cave wall. The honeycombed mountain encircled a small kraal with a series of catacombs. From the upper ridge, she made out the shapes of huts as well as a byre full of cattle. Off to the side of the kraal proper stood a lone leather-thatched hut, shaded by an old, leafy marula tree. Like a breeze through leaves, Lalyani moved along the gentle slope of the cavern, treading close to the kraal without disturbing a thing. Only when approaching the hut did she realize how large it was.
Slits between sheets of cow hide allowed her to study her enemy’s master. The cruel tyrant Harlaramu was renowned for his tremendous rages. A gold band pulled the lank strands of his long black hair into a cord revealing a bald pate. Taut muscles rippled under duress, his skin glistened in the heat, his body sticky with greasy charm medicines designed to repel demons. Scars scored his back. Beside him, an overturned pot—with the last trickle of strong beer draining from it—had drowned his heart and dulled his sullen anger. Mad laughter erupted from him as he talked to the shadows, a shifting silhouette against the tricks of moonlight. With a flourish, he whirled to grab whips tipped with shards of broken pottery and began to scourge himself. Ancient, unnatural words tripped from his tongue. The guttural language wailed in higher and higher tones. His limbs flailed in spasmodic gyrations as the spirit talk threatened to consume him, until he fell prostrate as if struck from behind.
For a few heartbeats, he lay on the floor of his hut. He grabbed a fistful of earth and let the dirt trickle from his grasp. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then he struggled to his feet and entered the next chamber. Fearful of being watched herself, Lalyani scuttled along the side to peer into the room. Harlaramu bent over a coterie of small figures. His body obscured the people, but she heard their thin voices. Once he stepped to the side, she realized this was a nursery of sorts. Strapped to curved pieces of wood, small men—she prayed they were of the Pygmy tribe rather than children, though this was no better a fate for those warriors—whose legs were snapped into positions to encourage deformed growth. Their bones canted at odd angles, their limbs pulled and bowed, suspended in agonizing positions. She counted five bodies in restraints. Harlaramu tended to each one, feeding them, stroking them, whispering to them. The sixth body lay on a table. Its ears mangled, still leaking blood. Harlaramu closed his eyes and uttered a prayer. He jabbed a sharpened stone into the creature’s mouth, and buried its edge to remove its tongue.
‘Now you are truly born,’ he said with foul pride. A tokoloshe. ‘Hush now and rest. Soon you will be ready to do your master’s bidding.’
In that moment, Lalyani’s warrior’s instinct alerted her that she was …
*
… being observed. A team of scouts patrolled the kraal at the behest of the great crone. Lalyani trailed them though, unasked and unwanted. She, too, knew the sting of duty and one of hers was to the great crone. Perhaps a faint sound broke her reflections, but she brought her spear to bear before her mind realized what disturbed her. Someone stole along the forest line. Branches snapped in the wake of a sinister shadow. Lalyani fought down a surge of panic; its familiar fearsome lope caused most men’s hearts to pump water. It stooped in a semi-crouch, its head turning from side to side, mouth ajar as if tasting the air.
Then it turned to her.
Lalyani’s eyes widened in surprise as the beast was like no creature she had seen before. A distorted face—the flesh of its previous victim draped its own, giving the face the appearance of a melted candle—worn as a trophy. Baboon pelts stitched together formed its vest. The decomposed head of a woman dangled from around its neck. All sinew and hair, it hunched over, a malformed man short of stature, its ears raised to a point, almost as a wolf. Its jaw yawned and revealed a gullet of protruding teeth. The snapping of branches and crackling of bushes ushered its charge. Mad laughter careened through the forest in its dash. Despite its diminutive size, it hit with enough force to send her reeling the length of several men.
It should have killed her in its initial rush, but like most men in her experience, it had to demonstrate how strong it was first. Now she had its measure. As it sprang forward, she dodged to the side, but its long arms slashed wildly. Its raking panther talons caught her along her back. It battered the wind out of her. She cursed herself, angry at her carelessness. Its eyes glinted with intelligence. Thrown off balance, she stumbled to the ground, but leapt to her feet to face her attacker. It lashed out in frustration. Holding her spear in a two-handed grip, she didn’t measure her strength against that of men. She was as strong as she needed to be. It reared in a blur of motion. She tried to side-step it, but its momentum carried them into the forest when it tackled her. The tokoloshe snapped at her throat until it slowly realized it had impaled itself on the point of her spear. Buried in its fur, the spear pierced thick muscle. Her dark grimace gave a rueful stare as it escaped into the …
*
… shadows of the catacombs. The rocky path left little doubt the direction it traveled; however, it knew the crags and crevices much better than she. She closed her eyes and listened. The cavern echoed with life of its own
, the thrum of rock and pressing presence. She stilled even her breath so she could try to sense it. A void in the darkness hiding patiently, waiting for her to near if only a step further. It was stunned into momentary inaction as she sprang upon it. Her spear whipped through the air, beautiful and frightening, catching the beast across the bridge of its nose. The spear point lanced both eyes like overripe boils.
The tokoloshe screeched in tongue-less cries. Blood spurted as it slashed about, seizing her by chance rather than skill. Death was upon her with a snapping jaw and terrible grip. Instinct took over her, her lips drawn back in a crazed snarl, a primal rage burned in her eyes. Reckless, she threw herself into the beast, letting the force of her weight do its work. Its wounds showered her in a spray of blood. She drove the length of her spear deep into its belly, the creature’s face tightened in surprise. Its blows grew weaker with each careless swipe until it fell limp along her shaft. She scanned the cavern, her ears alert for any tell-tale footfalls of guards approaching the fray.
Wiping her spear point on its vest, Lalyani stood over its corpse and knew that the great crone …
*
… rested a little easier in her grand chair. Daubed head-to-toe in white and red clay, the old woman rocked back and forth. Little more than a skeletal figure, a shawl of antelope pelt cloaked her. Her fierce eyes commanded respect once they opened and focused on the young warrior. The great crone summoned her with a gesture of her message stick. A man’s head was carved onto the handle of her stick. It was whispered that it was through him that the gods spoke to her.
‘Lalyani.’ The great crone demanded an austere reverence, one for pomp and pageantry with an ill temper for poor manners and hasty words.
‘Mistress.’ Lalyani resented the bowing and scraping of her assumed tone.
‘I want you to kill a man for me.’
Lalyani demonstrated nothing approaching surprise at the request. Men and women alike from all tribes and status sought her when their needs so required. ‘Mistress?’
‘Harlaramu. Blood demands vengeance.’
‘If I may ask, whose blood cried out?’
‘As it was whispered to me, Harlaramu suffered from pains in his head so strong, thoughts were harassed from his mind. Only his personal guard, the Krys, seemed safe around him. One day, driven mad from his pain, he shut his favorite wife into a cave alone except for a cow dung fire so that he might watch her tortured expressions while she suffocated to death. Later that night, he raped his daughters and fed them to crocodiles. Yet the maddening headaches still torment him.’ The great crone reached for her cup of wine and drank deep but with all due deliberation. Lalyani hated the way she had to wait on the great crone’s performances. ‘I trust you knew of the creature that stalked our kraal? The beast comes for me. The weapon of Harlaramu.’
‘Ah, so it’s a game of kill him before he kills you,’ Lalyani said with a smirk.
‘You are too stiff-necked. Your insolent tongue will be your undoing.’
‘Until then, it amuses me,’ she said over a mildly derisive laugh.
‘I hope your son will be equally amused.’
Lalyani’s eyes focused into a dagger’s gaze. ‘What say you of my son?’
‘No more jokes?’ The crone brushed her hair to the side. ‘Despite the huffing of the chief, your son will be raised as one of our own. He will follow The Path and perhaps he won’t stumble as his mother and father did. He will be the pride of the tribe and will one day lead it to great heights. I will see to his education personally. Once you accomplish your task.’
Lalyani parsed the choice before her. She asked for nothing, depended on nothing, and she expected nothing. All she had was honor and duty. She hated to depend on others—a man, an employer, the world—where she’d be tied to life. When things become precious to her, she was always on guard against someone snatching it from her; or worse, she herself destroying it. Life became about fear of losing. And the compromises she made in order to keep what she had. Better to stay unattached. Free. A tribe of one.
Lalyani nodded.
‘You remember how to use the charms.’ The woman handed Lalyani what appeared to be a bone wrapped with twine.
‘Yes, mistress.’ Lalyani held the talisman to her ear. It hummed with the pulse of magic.
‘Good, for unprotected I’d be sending you to certain death.’
‘The night is my ally and stealth my trade, mistress.’
‘I trust in your ability to remain silent.’
‘How will you know if I succeed?’
‘These bones will know. And you’ll be free. You will be of the Baluba tribe, one of the forgotten, and one day, you may even lead those nomads.’
Dismissed, Lalyani …
*
… crept up the earthen stairs. Weeds sprang up through cracks in the crushed rock that formed the pathway. The cloying moisture of the stones formed a stark dankness with malefic odor. Torches lit the way through the cavern. The walls closed in on her, the passageway narrowing such that only one body could pass at a time. If she knew fear, she pushed it down into the deepest part of her. It was easier for her to act rather than worry, especially in defense of her own. Even if her own would never know of her actions.
Stones steeped in shadows formed the portico of the temple. A series of caged, chattering monkeys screeched in alarm at her approach. Lalyani cursed and then plunged into the deeper shadows of the temple proper. The main chamber was a huge cavity the color of teeth, the walls smooth as if hewn from a single block of marble. From her hiding perch, Lalyani had full view of the passing processional.
Three female agoze, initiates to the dark ways, accompanied the dark priest, Harlaramu. Clad only in a loincloth, a brief garment of antelope hide covered their brown skin. Glazed amber in the eerie firelight, the first carried a macabre drum: a human skull with its top sawed off and skin stretched across. The second illumined the path of the processional with a torch. The last brought a dog to the kneeling Harlaramu. Lalyani stared in horror and fascination as the woman slit the dog’s throat. Its spurting blood baptized the shaman. Then the dance began. Harlaramu stomped his foot and held the position until the first agoze began her gyrations. The hollow echo of the drumbeat continued as Harlaramu thrashed about to its rhythm. Faster she twirled about, the frenetic beat riling him to ecstatic exultations until the frenzy dropped him in an exhausted heap. Harlaramu came to a halt between two warriors each bearing heavy swords.
Curiosity suckled at her …
*
… as she watched from the forest line. The thin barrier of foliage hid her, not that any in the tribe paid her any attention. They had already turned their backs to her. The murmur of the gathered throng formed a melancholy cadence, their chants a dull intoning to call to the spirits of the kraal. The musicians occupied the clearing around the central fire. Dancers pranced along, their frenzied steps punctuated by yelps. The drummers caught the spirit of their dance, their wide smiles signaled an increase in the music’s tempo. Despite the preternaturally cool night, the tension thickened to that of a storm cloud. Abruptly the chanting and music ceased, the settling silence a curtain raised for the final act of the performance. The entire village surrounded them, the crowd turning to face the great throne. Manuto brought Kaala before the tribal council, a group made up of Manuto, the high priest, the great crone, the elder, and the chief, the father of the tribe. Manuto engulfed the boy’s small hand in his own, his face a sullen mask, except for his eyes, and led him to the great crone. Kaala had too solemn a face. A young boy lost, wanting to cry out, but choosing not to. He would be a fine warrior one day. His chest puffed out, Manuto searched for Lalyani. The great crone nodded. He released the boy into her hands and she, in turn, presented him to the chief. The father of the tribe stood taller than the others, half his face daubed in crimson clay, his arms crossed along his chest. His impassive stare, without scorn, without judgment, turned to the boy. The chief carved a crescent moon onto his l
eft buttock, the tribal scar. He would be accepted for now, but would have to prove himself during his rites of manhood.
Lalyani turned, head held high and uncompromising, and strode into the forest maw …
*
… as if drugged, she swam in darkness, breaking the surface as her eyes fluttered open. Her scattered thoughts took a moment to collect, memories returning in degrees. Her hands tied, a long rope fastened about her, looping under her armpits, terminating around the trunk of the marula tree. She tested the cords that bound her, the realization that she’d fallen not registering with her. Before the idea reduced her to an unfamiliar brand of misery, the sound of feet shuffling on nearby stone drew her attention.
Up close, Harlaramu was taller but slender in a feminine way. With his delicate bearing—hips too rounded, eyelashes too long, and his voice too silvery from his toothy hideous grin—he should have been strangled at birth. Cowrie shells and copper scales decorated his sipuku. He leered at her breasts and legs. Dark eyes burned with intent to throttle her senseless if he couldn’t bed her. Men like him bound women, capturing what they couldn’t tame. They didn’t know what to truly do with a woman other than own her.
‘Lalyani. Once of the Mo-Ito. Outcast of the San tribe. Called to the Baluba, the Forgotten Ones.’ His voice a low mumble, he started and stopped a few times, each time in a different tongue until he found her talk place.
‘Harlaramu. Rabid dog in need of being put down.’
‘You seem none the worse for wear after encountering the tokoloshe.’
‘I dispatched that abomination for befouling my sight with its presence.’
‘The great crone chose well in her guardian.’ He leered at her bosom. ‘You … fascinate me.’
‘Maybe your fascination could have your eyes meeting mine for a change.’
‘A truce to your jokes, Clever One. Is that what the great crone taught you? Is cleverness the ultimate lesson of The Path? She asks a lot of you and what you have gained in return?
The New Hero: Volume 1 Page 5