The Summoner

by Layton Green

  “You failed to answer my question. There are hundreds of Nigerians in Harare familiar with the Yoruba traditions. Why come to me?”

  She hesitated. “You’re the Cultural Attaché. I thought you’d be the most reliable source of information.”

  “Juju is not a recognized religion in Nigeria, nor is knowledge of Juju part of my duties as attaché.”

  “Doctor Fangwa, please. Do you know or not?”

  He smiled a cadaverous smile, and Grey wondered why he was toying with them. “And I need you to tell me why it is you sought me.”

  Grey noticed Nya’s grip on the side of her chair tightening. “You have a… certain reputation, Doctor.”

  “Oh?” Click-clack. “What might that be?”

  “That you’re babalawo.”

  Grey took a quick breath. If Nya didn’t look so nervous, he would have thought this was a joke.

  Doctor Fangwa fixated on Nya, amusement flickering at his lips. “And do you believe that?”

  “I have no idea. I thought you might be able to help us, but I can see you’re unwilling. As you said, there are other Nigerians in Harare. I’m sure they’ll be more forthcoming.” She set her tea down, and stood.

  Doctor Fangwa’s fingers rubbed against each other on either side of the teacup. “Sit down, Nya Mashumba. I’m merely curious as to my reputation. I’ll tell you what you wish to know.”

  Nya returned to her chair, and his fingers came to rest once again, interlocking in his lap. “A brief foray into Yoruba theology is necessary if I’m to explain. A babalawo,” he said, emphasizing the word in a manner that suggested his distance from it, “would believe in Olorun, an omnipotent being equivalent to the Western notion of God. The existence of Olorun is acknowledged, but he is not actively worshipped: he is transcendent, and doesn’t concern himself with human affairs. Juju is chiefly concerned with spiritual entities called Orisa, who take an acute interest in human affairs. There are many Orisa, some more powerful than others, and each with a different… disposition.”

  “So the ceremony Addison attended was some type of worship service,” Grey said.

  “Perhaps. I was not there.”

  “But you have a good idea.”

  Doctor Fangwa turned his full attention to Grey for the first time since they’d entered the room. He regarded him in silence, fingers twitching, eyes mocking, before he replied. “Even were Ms. Mashumba’s suspicions concerning me correct, Juju is a complex religion. There are many, many varieties of Juju rituals and ceremonies. Without seeing it, I could not begin to speculate on the purpose of this particular ceremony.”

  “Understood, Doctor,” Nya said, frowning at Grey. “Forgive me, but I still don’t see the connection with the Shona word.”

  “There is no connection. There is no summoning involved in any Juju ritual I’m aware of. The closest concept might be a spirit possession—a practice integral to Juju. But n’anga—this word has no place in Juju. Perhaps your witness did not hear what she thought she heard. Or perhaps this ceremony involved something else entirely.”

  Or perhaps you’re lying, Grey thought.

  “I see,” Nya said. “What else can you tell us that might help?”

  A sinister curling of his lips caused a finger of oily unease to crawl down Grey’s spine. “What I can tell you is that a Juju ceremony is not a place for tourists.”

  Grey bit back his response, and Doctor Fangwa turned to Nya again. “Do you know what a babalawo is?”

  “A Juju priest.”

  “Do you really know what a babalawo is? What a babalawo is capable of?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “It is clear that you do not. And one shouldn’t delve into realms one is wholly unfamiliar with. It can be dangerous.”

  Grey searched his face, but the Doctor’s expression remained calm, detached from the insinuation of his words.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have that option,” Nya said. “If something did happen to Mr. Addison at this ceremony, wouldn’t the babalawo that was there—the N’anga—know of it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Do you have any idea who he might be?”

  “If he is called N’anga, isn’t it more reasonable to assume he is Shona? I hear Juju has become somewhat of a novelty in Zimbabwe. Perhaps you should ask one of his Shona followers.”

  “I’m sure you know this movement is unpopular with my government, and that those who participate don’t announce their membership.”

  “Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

  Nya set down her tea. “Thank you for your time. If you hear anything useful, please contact me.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Click-clack.

  She stood, and Grey rose with her. She was cutting this interview short, and he was not unhappy about it. The next time he spoke with Doctor Fangwa he’d be better prepared, and they would have a different sort of conversation.

  “Please return if you discover anything else of interest.” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps we can explore together the… intricacies… of the traditional religion of my culture. You would be wise to arm yourself with knowledge.”

  Grey saw her shiver as she moved to leave.

  • • •

  Grey turned to Nya as soon as they were in the car. “Why didn’t you tell me who he was before?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a babalawo,” Grey said. “And you knew it.”

  “He’s a politician. And I—there are only rumors,” she said. “I didn’t know for sure. We still don’t.”

  “I’m sorry? You saw him. He’s neck deep in it. That whole place made my skin crawl. And that butler of his—there’s something wrong with that kid,” he muttered. “Someone needs to look into that.”

  “He’s a cultural attaché, and the boy’s part of his staff.”

  They left Belgravia and returned to the city center. The familiar urbanity of downtown Harare drained away some of Grey’s residual unease.

  “He’s already a suspect, isn’t he?” Grey said. “That’s why you went to see him. You can’t arrest or formally question him, so you used the N’anga question as an excuse to get inside.”

  “It wasn’t an excuse.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t need to know. Despite what you might think, he’s not a suspect.”

  “How can he not be?”

  “He has an alibi. A very good one.”

  “You’ve already checked into it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Last Saturday evening he was with David Naughton, a high-ranking British diplomat. He’s well-known and above suspicion.”

  “You’ve talked to Naughton?”

  “Yes.”

  The Land Rover stopped in front of a familiar sight: the Meikles. Grey opened the door. “Alibi or not, he knows more than he’s telling us.”

  Nya gave a silent acquiescence.

  10

  The concierge informed Grey and Nya that Professor Radek requested they let themselves in. They found Viktor sitting in a finely upholstered chair in front of half-open, wrought-iron balcony doors.

  Books littered an antique dining table, porcelain antiques rested primly inside a glass cabinet, beautiful paintings of the African countryside enhanced the walls. Lamps provided illumination, and the room had the smell of a well-kept chateau.

  The loosened collar of Viktor’s dress shirt hung lazily about his neck. One hand, French cuff undone, rested on the open page of a hardbound book in his lap. His other clutched a glass containing a shimmering green liquid. The Professor’s body slumped in his chair, eyes red-rimmed and heavy, although as he looked up at Grey and Nya he possessed the same penetrating gaze as the night before.

  Grey glanced at the balcony. Nighttime had wrapped its velvet arms around Harare, accompanied by the dim glow of streetlight and the occasional whisper of a breeze.

  Viktor motioned Grey and Ny
a towards a couch to his left, in front of the suite’s dividing wall. Two wine glasses, a bottle of pinotage, and a tidy plate of cheese awaited on a low table in front of the couch. Viktor set his book down and gestured at the refreshments. “Please.”

  Nya selected a piece of cheese, and Grey poured the wine. Viktor started as if awakening from a daydream, then shifted his capacious form into a more upright sitting position. “Forgive my indolence,” he said. “It’s been a tiring day.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow is a better-” Nya began.

  “Ach!” The Professor’s commanding presence returned to the room like wind filling a sail. “We’ll have nothing of the sort.”

  Grey filled Viktor in on the meetings with Ms. Chakawa and Dr. Fangwa. The Professor lingered above his empty glass before shoving it aside. “I’ve acquired more information concerning this babalawo.”

  “Where?” Grey said.

  “I’ve worked in Africa on many an occasion, and have numerous sources. When a man such as this appears… let’s just say there are certain people who take notice.”

  “Have you found someone can ID him?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Do you think he’s Zimbabwean?” Nya said.

  “I find that highly unlikely,” Professor Radek said. “The man we’re looking for is a babalawo of extreme power and influence—not a newcomer to Juju. I’d guess he learned his craft in Yorubaland.”

  “Then why Zimbabwe?” Grey said. “Why would a prominent Juju priest leave Nigeria in the first place, and why come here?”

  “Two reasons, I suspect. The first involves ignorance of the religion. Zimbabweans don’t understand true Juju, and wouldn’t suspect that what this man is doing is not an accepted part of Juju—which it isn’t. I’ll speak of this in a moment. Imagine a missionary from the Catholic Church traveling to a primitive people in New Guinea, spreading his own version of Christianity, with a few sinister twists. He’d have free reign to… indulge himself.”

  “And the second?” Nya said.

  “Vulnerability of the populace. Misery, political oppression, hunger, loss of hope, a failing belief-system—these are classic conditions for fomentation of a cult. People are turning to Juju in Zimbabwe because they seek to regain some measure of control over their lives, and Juju offers this.”

  Nya looked away, and Viktor laid a hand on her arm. “It happens in the Americas and Europe as often as in Africa.”

  Grey said, “What about Addison? He doesn’t fit the model.”

  “Perhaps he attended as a tourist, for the novelty of it, but I suspect it was more than simple curiosity. Perhaps there was an earlier connection between Addison and this babalawo.”

  “I’m looking into that. Back to the first reason, about whatever it is the N’anga’s doing that’s not an accepted part of Juju.”

  Viktor turned his head towards the balcony. Grey couldn’t tell if he was looking for something or gathering his thoughts. “We spoke,” he said, turning back to the room, “of Jujumen who pervert Juju and perform terrible rituals for their own power or monetary gain. Such practices are disfavored, even reviled, but what’s arisen in Zimbabwe, this cult of the N’anga—I’m told it’s something else entirely. An abomination.”

  “Tell us,” Nya said, almost in a whisper.

  “The belief that there are means by which man can alter the course of nature is very real among the Yoruba. Such magical beliefs and practices are central to the adherent’s worldview.”

  Grey saw Viktor notice the frown that passed across his face.

  “One man’s superstition, Dominic—”

  “I prefer Grey.”

  Viktor inclined his head, “Is another man’s religion. Juju charms and spells, the miracles of Christ and Mohammed, prayer, belief in angels and saints and Orisas—these are simply supernatural or magical concepts infused with the austere name of religion. Is not all spiritual belief—belief in God or the equivalent—outside the purview of science, and thus supernatural or magical?”

  Grey shrugged. “Sure.”

  Viktor wagged a finger. “Don’t forget—what belief system you or I subscribe to is of no concern. This investigation concerns what this man and his followers believe, and how that might have affected Addison.”

  Grey took a calming internal breath. As far as he was concerned, religion, superstition, magic, spirituality, whatever other cute semantic nicknames people gave their metaphysical speculations—it all amounted to a lot of false hope and wasted time at best, injustice and misery at worst. But Viktor was right. This was about William Addison, not him. If his disappearance concerned Juju and people like Doctor Fangwa, he needed to know what he was dealing with.

  Viktor continued, “Many primitive religions, and some modern ones, subscribed to a practice termed “practical magic,” the belief that man can take specific actions that allow access to the spiritual realm, thus circumventing science and affecting the natural world in a direct, or practical, manner. Yoruba babalawos are both priests and magicians. While all babalawos use certain core practices—simple charms, spells, and rituals—many also specialize in more arcane practices, such as divination, necromancy, spiritual possession, homeopathic and contagious magic.”

  “I get what you said about magic being outside of science,” Grey said, “which is a clever way of allowing for the possibility of magic without really subscribing to it.” Viktor smiled faintly. “But isn’t it easy enough to prove these Juju spells aren’t working? How can a whole culture, a religion, evolve around something that isn’t real?”

  “You might be surprised how your concept of reality can change as it encounters new paradigms. The Yoruba babalawos have been developing and perfecting their rituals for thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of years. What we call magic is their science.”

  “So you do believe in magic.”

  “Magic is a misleading word, and a limiting one. Cultural anthropologists have reported that babalawos have an amazing degree of “success” with their spells—so much so that these scientists could provide no other rational explanation than that the spells had worked. There are credible accounts of numerous ailments cured by babalawos, paraplegics made to walk, even cancer disappearing. And the adverse: the instantaneous appearance of sores, inducement of blindness and paralysis. Some of these occurrences,” Viktor added, with a pause and a faraway look in his eyes that Grey couldn’t decipher, “I myself have witnessed.”

  Nya was looking uneasily at Viktor. Grey took a sip of wine to conceal his annoyance. He wondered what Viktor considered a credible account.

  “I don’t believe in the spells of the babalawos in the sense that you mean,” Viktor said. “But understand the human mind is a very powerful tool. I do believe there are occurrences in this world, realms of the mind, that are as yet unexplained.”

  Grey held a hand out, palm up. “I’ll humor the discussion.”

  Viktor leaned back and assumed his classroom voice. “All babalawos claim communion with spiritual entities—Orisas, ancestors, and the like. But what the N’anga is reputed to be doing goes a step beyond simple communication with supernatural beings. It appears the N’anga specializes in a rare form of magic, one which involves bringing these beings, albeit briefly and constrained, to our world.”

  Grey ran a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be open-minded, but I think you’ve pushed the limits of my imagination a bit too far tonight, Professor. And not to sound like Harris, but how does any of this help us find Addison?”

  “I’m not yet sure. Those who claim to bring forth entities are typically practitioners of the black arts or mediums—two groups plagued by charlatans. The only commonalities to the practice of which I’m aware is that the summoned entity is restrained within a limited space, such as a pentagram or a circle, and the entity remains under the control of the priest or magician for a short amount of time. It does sound like what Ms. Chakawa has described is a type of summoning ritual.”

  “Wha
t’s he supposed to be… summoning?” Grey said.

  “It could be a number of things. An Orisa, an ancestor—ancestor worship is integral to Juju.”

  “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?” Nya said.

  “For the same reasons any religious ritual or ceremony is performed. Health, knowledge, wealth, power, safety.”

  “You said most Yoruba would view this as an abomination,” Grey said. “Why?”

  “Babalawos bridge the gap between humans and the Orisas—they alone have the power to communicate with spiritual entities. It’s akin to the Catholic notion of the priest serving as intermediary. However, babalawos petition the Orisas. They do not command, and they certainly don’t summon. Actually bringing an ancestor or an Orisa to this world would be as abhorrent to a Yoruba as it would to a Catholic. Imagine the Virgin Mary dragged here against her will, forced into a rotten corpse or an enchanted circle to serve the purposes of a rogue priest.”

  Grey visualized it. “I see what you mean,” he said, and Nya murmured her assent.

  “If this is truly what the N’anga purports to do at his ceremonies,” Viktor said, “I can see why he chose someplace far away from Yorubaland. Such a desecration would never be tolerated there.”

  “What the hell was Addison doing in the middle of all this?” Grey said rhetorically.

  “Why did Doctor Fangwa lie to us?” Nya asked. “He claims he doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “As I said, no Juju ritual I know of involves the actual summoning of entities. He might be unaware of what’s occurring.”

  “I think he’s aware,” Grey said softly.

  “We don’t have time to waste on speculation,” Viktor said. “We need to know what this babalawo is doing at these ceremonies, and we need to know how it relates, if at all, to the disappearance of Mr. Addison.”

  “What do you propose we do?” Nya asked.

  “We find out when and where he’ll conduct his next ceremony, and we see for ourselves.”

  11