by Wilbur Smith
Leon struggled to sit up and they watched him with interest. The younger women giggled and nudged each other to see such a strange creature among them. It was probable that none had ever seen a white man before. To command their attention he raised his voice to a shout: ‘Manyoro!’ He pointed at his companion. ‘Mama? Manyoro mama?’ he demanded. They stared at him in astonishment.
Then one of the youngest and prettiest girls understood what he was trying to tell them. ‘Lusima!’ she cried, and pointed to the east, to the distant blue outline of the far wall of the escarpment. The others joined in shouting joyously, ‘Lusima Mama!’
It was clearly Manyoro’s mother’s name. Everybody was delighted with their grasp of the situation. Leon mimed lifting and carrying Manyoro, then pointed to the east. ‘Take Manyoro to Lusima.’ This brought a pause in the self-congratulation and they stared at each other in bewilderment.
Again the pretty girl divined his meaning. She stamped her foot and harangued the men. When they hesitated she attacked the ferocious and dreaded warriors with her bare hands, slapping and pummelling them, even pulling one’s elaborate plaited coiffure, until they went to do her bidding with shamefaced guffaws. Two ran back to the village and returned with a long, stout pole. To this they attached a hammock made from their leather cloaks knotted at the corners. This was a mushila, a litter. Within a short time they were settling Manyoro’s unconscious body on it. Four picked it up, and the entire party set off towards the east at a trot, leaving Leon lying on the dusty plain. The singing of the men and the ululations of the women faded.
Leon closed his eyes, trying to summon sufficient reserves of strength to get to his feet and follow them. When he opened them again he found he was not alone. The three naked herd-boys who had discovered him were standing in a row, regarding him solemnly. The eldest said something and made an imperious gesture. Obediently Leon rolled on to his knees, then lurched to his feet. The child came to his side, took his hand and tugged at it possessively. ‘Lusima,’ he said.
His friend came and took Leon’s other hand. He pulled at it and said, ‘Lusima.’
‘Very well. There seems to be no other option,’ Leon conceded. ‘Lusima it shall be.’ He tapped the eldest child on the chest with a finger. ‘Name? What is your name?’ he asked, in Maa. It was one of the phrases Manyoro had taught him.
‘Loikot!’ the boy answered proudly.
‘Loikot, we shall go to Lusima Mama. Show me the way.’
With Leon limping between them, they dragged him towards the far blue hills, following Manyoro’s litter-bearers.
As they made their way across the valley Leon became aware of a single isolated mountain that rose abruptly from the wide floor of the plain. At first it seemed to be merely a buttress of the eastern escarpment and inconsequential in the immensity of the great valley, but as they came closer he saw that it stood alone and was not attached to the escarpment. It began to take on a grandeur that had been denied it by distance. It was higher and steeper than the Rift Valley wall behind it. The lower slopes were covered with groves of stately umbrella acacias, but at higher altitude these gave way to denser montane forest, which indicated that the summit was above the cloud, ringed by a sheer wall of grey rock, like the glacis of a man-made fortress.
As they approached this massive natural bastion Leon saw that the top of the mountain was covered with a mighty forest. Clearly its growth had been nurtured by the moisture from the swirling clouds. Even at this distance he could see that the outstretched upper branches of the trees were bedecked with old man’s beard, and flowering tree orchids. The dense foliage of the tallest trees was starred with blooms as vivid as bridal bouquets. Eagles and other raptors had built their nests in the cliff below the summit and sailed on wide wings across the blue void of the sky.
It was the middle of the afternoon before Leon and his three companions reached the foot of the mountain. They had fallen far behind Manyoro and his party of litter-bearers, who were already halfway up the footpath that climbed the steep slope in a series of zigzags. Leon only managed the first two hundred feet of the climb before he subsided in the shade of an acacia beside the track. His feet could not carry him another step along the rocky path. He twisted one into his lap and fumbled with the boot laces. As he levered off his boot he groaned with pain. His woollen sock was stiff with dried black blood. Gingerly he peeled it off and stared in dismay at his foot. Thick slabs of skin had come away with the sock and his heel was flayed raw. Burst blisters hung in tatters from the sole and his toes might have been chewed by jackals. The three Masai boys squatted in a semi-circle, studying his wounds and discussing them with ghoulish relish.
Then Loikot took command again and barked a series of peremptory commands that sent the other two scampering into the bush, where a small herd of the long-horned Masai cattle were browsing on the grey-green scrub that grew under the acacias. Within minutes they returned with cupped handfuls of wet dung. When Leon discovered that it was intended as a poultice for his open blisters he made it clear that he would not submit to any more of Loikot’s bullying. But the boys were persistent and kept importuning him while he tore the sleeves of his shirt into strips and wrapped his bleeding feet in them. Then he knotted the laces of his boots together and slung them around his neck. Loikot offered Leon his herding stick and Leon accepted it, then hobbled up the pathway. It grew steeper with every pace, and he began to falter again. Loikot turned on his comrades and issued another series of stern instructions, which sent them flying up the path on skinny legs.
Loikot and Leon followed them upwards at a dwindling pace, blood from Leon’s bandaged feet daubing the stones of the path. Eventually he sagged once more on to a rock and stared up at the heights, which were clearly beyond his reach. Loikot sat beside him and began to tell him a long, complicated story. Leon understood a few words, but Loikot proved himself a skilled thespian: he leaped to his feet and mimed a warlike scene, which Leon guessed was an account of how he had defended his father’s herds from marauding lions. It included much bloodcurdling roaring, leaping and stabbing of the air with his staff. After the trials of the last few days, the performance was a welcome distraction. Leon almost forgot his crippled feet, and laughed at the engaging lad’s antics. It was almost dark when they heard voices on the path above them. Loikot shouted a challenge, which was answered by a party of half a dozen cloaked morani, coming down to them at a trot. They had brought with them the mushila on which they had carried Manyoro. At their bidding Leon climbed into it and as soon as he was settled four men lifted the pole between them and placed it on their shoulders. Then they took off at a run, back up the steep mountain path.
As they came over the edge of the cliff face on to the table top of the mountain, Leon saw the glow of fires under the gigantic trees not far ahead. The mushila-bearers carried him swiftly towards them and into a zareba of poles and thorn branches to a large open cattle pen. In a circle on open ground more than twenty large thatched huts were assembled around a tall, wide-spreading wild fig tree. The workmanship that had gone into their construction was superior to that of any others Leon had seen on his patrols through Masailand. The cattle in the pen were large and in fine condition: their hides shone in the flames and their horns were huge.
From the fires a number of men and women crowded forward to look at the stranger. The men’s shukas were of fine quality, and the women’s abundant jewellery and ornaments were beautifully made of the most expensive trade beads and ivory. There could be no doubt that this was an affluent community. Laughing and shouting questions at Leon, they gathered around his mushila and many younger women reached out to touch his face boldly and tug at his ragged uniform. Masai women seldom made any effort to disguise their predilection for the opposite sex.
Suddenly a hush fell over the noisy throng. A regal feminine figure was moving towards them from the huts. The villagers drew aside to leave an aisle and she came down it towards the mushila. Two servant girls followed her with burn
ing torches, which cast a golden light upon the woman’s tall and matronly figure as she glided towards Leon. The villagers bowed like a field of grass in the wind and made soft, purring sounds of respect and reverence as she passed between their ranks.
‘Lusima!’ they whispered, and clapped softly, averting their eyes from her dazzling beauty. Leon struggled up from the mushila and stood to meet her. She stopped in front of him and stared into his face with a dark, hypnotic gaze.
‘I see you, Lusima,’ he greeted her, but for a long moment she gave no sign of having heard him. She stood almost as tall as he did. Her skin was the colour of smoked honey, glossy and unlined in the torchlight. If she was indeed the mother of Manyoro she must have been much more than fifty, but she seemed at least twenty years younger. Her bare breasts were firm and rounded. Her tattooed belly bore no marks of age or childbearing. Her finely sculpted Nilotic features were striking and her dark eyes so penetrating that they seemed to reach effortlessly into the secret places of his mind.
‘Ndio.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. I am Lusima. I have been expecting your coming. I was overlooking you and Manyoro on your night march from Niombi.’ Leon was relieved that she spoke in Kiswahili, rather than Maa: communication between them would be easier. But her words made no sense. How could she know that they had come from Niombi? Unless, of course, Manyoro had regained consciousness and told her.
‘Manyoro has not spoken since he came to me. He is still deep in the land of shadows,’ Lusima assured him.
He started. She had responded to his unspoken question as though she had heard the words.
‘I was with you, watching over you,’ she repeated, and despite himself he believed her. ‘I saw you rescue my son from certain death, and bring him back to me. With this deed you have become as another son to me.’ She took his hand. Her grip was cool and hard as bone. ‘Come. I must see to your feet.’
‘Where is Manyoro?’ Leon asked. ‘You say that he is alive, but will he survive?’
‘He is smitten and the devils are in his blood. It will be a hard fight, and the outcome is uncertain.’
‘I must go to him,’ Leon insisted. ‘I will take you. But now he is sleeping. He must gather his strength for the trial ahead. I cannot remove the arrow until I have the light of day in which to work. Then I will need a strong man to help me. But you must rest also, for you have tried even your great strength to its limit. We will have need of it later.’
She led him to one of the huts and he stooped through the low entrance into the dim, smoky interior. Lusima indicated to him a pile of monkey-skin karosses against the far wall. He went to it and eased himself down onto the soft fur of one. She knelt in front of him and peeled the rags from his feet. While she was doing this, her servant girls prepared a brew of herbs in a three-legged black iron pot that stood over the cooking fire in the centre of the hut. Leon knew that they had probably been captured from a subservient tribe and were slaves in all but name: the Masai took whatever they wanted, cattle and women, and no other tribe dared defy them.
When the contents of the pot were ready the girls brought it to where Leon sat. Lusima tested the temperature and added cold but equally evil-smelling liquid from another gourd. Then she took his feet one at a time and immersed them in the mixture.
It took all his self-control to prevent himself crying out, for the liquid felt as though it was just off the boil, and the juices of the herbs were pungent and caustic. The three women watched his reaction carefully and exchanged approving glances when he managed an impassive expression and a stoic silence. Lusima lifted out his feet one at a time, then wrapped them in strips of trade cloth. ‘Now you must eat and sleep,’ she said, and nodded to one of the girls, who brought him a calabash and knelt respectfully to offer it to him with both hands. Leon caught a whiff of the contents. It was a Masai staple, which he dared not refuse: to do so would offend his hostess. He steeled himself and lifted the bowl to his lips.
‘It is freshly made,’ Lusima assured him. ‘I mixed it with my own hands. It will restore your strength and help to heal your wounded feet swiftly.’
He took a mouthful and his stomach heaved. It was warm but the fresh ox blood mixed with milk had taken on a slick jelly-like consistency that coated his throat. He kept swallowing until the gourd was empty. Then he lowered it and belched thunderously. The slave girls exclaimed with delight, and even Lusima smiled.
‘The devils fly from your belly,’ she told him approvingly. ‘Now you must sleep.’ She pushed him down on the kaross and spread another over him. A great weight bore down on his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes again, the morning sun was blazing through the doorway of the hut. Loikot was waiting for him at the door, squatting against the lintel, but he sprang to his feet as soon as Leon stirred. He came to him immediately and asked a question, pointing at his feet.
‘Too early to tell,’ Leon answered. Although every muscle in his body ached his head was clear. He sat up and unwrapped the bandages. He was amazed to see that most of the swelling and inflammation had subsided.
‘Dr Lusima’s snake oil.’ He grinned. His mood was light, until he remembered Manyoro.
Quickly he rebandaged his feet, and hobbled to the large clay water pot that stood outside the door. He stripped off the remnants of his shirt and washed the dust and dried sweat from his face and hair. When he straightened up he found that half of the village women, both young and old, were sitting in a circle around him, watching his every move with avid attention.
‘Ladies!’ he addressed them. ‘I am about to take a piss. You are not invited to observe the procedure.’ Leaning on Loikot’s shoulder he set off for the entrance to the cattle pen.
When he returned Lusima was waiting for him. ‘Come,’ she commanded. ‘It is time to begin.’ She led him to the hut that stood beside his. The interior was dark after the brilliant sunlight and it took his eyes a minute to adjust. The air was rank with woodsmoke from the fire and a more subtle odour, the sweet, nauseating smell of corrupting flesh. Manyoro lay face down on a leather kaross beside the fire. Leon went to him quickly and his spirits quailed. Manyoro lay like a dead man and his skin had lost its lustre. It was as dull as the soot that caked the bottom of the cooking pot on the fire. The lean muscles of his back seemed to have wasted. His head was twisted to one side and his eyes had receded into their sockets. Behind half-open lids they were as opaque as quartz pebbles from the riverbed. His leg above the knee was massively swollen, and the stench of the yellow pus that exuded from around the broken-off arrow filled the hut.
Lusima clapped her hands and four men crowded in. They picked up the corners of the litter on which Manyoro lay and carried him outside, across the open ground of the cattle pen to the single tall mukuyu tree in the centre. They laid him in the shade while Lusima shrugged off her cloak and stood bare-chested over him. She spoke softly to Leon: ‘The arrowhead cannot come out the way it entered. I must draw it through. The wound is ripe. You can smell it. Even so, it will not give up the arrow easily.’ One of the slave girls handed her a small knife with a rhino-horn handle, and the other brought a clay fire pot, swinging it around her head on its rope handle to fan the coals alight. When they glowed she placed the pot in front of her mistress. Lusima held the blade in the flames, turning it slowly until the metal glowed. Then she quenched it in another pot of liquid that smelled like the brew with which she had treated Leon’s feet. It bubbled and steamed as the metal cooled.
With the knife in her hand Lusima squatted beside her son. The four morani who had carried him from the hut knelt with her, two at Manyoro’s head and two at his feet. She looked up at Leon and spoke quietly: ‘You will do thus and thus.’ She explained in detail what she expected of him. ‘Even though you are the strongest among us, it will take all your strength. The grip of the barbs in his flesh is strong.’ She stared into his face. ‘Do you understand, my son?’
‘I understand, Mama.’ She opened the leather bag that hung at her waist and too
k from it a hank of thin white twine. ‘This is the rope you will use.’ She handed it to him. ‘I made it from the intestine of a leopard. It is tenacious. There is no stronger thread.’ She reached into the bag again and found a thick strip of elephant hide. Gently she opened Manyoro’s mouth. She placed the hide between his jaws and bound it in place with a short length of the catgut so that Manyoro could not spit it out.
‘It will prevent him cracking his teeth when the pain reaches its zenith,’ she explained.
Leon nodded, but he knew that the main reason for the gag was to prevent her son crying out and disgracing her.
‘Turn him on to his back,’ Lusima ordered the four morani, ‘but do it gently.’ As they rolled Manyoro over she guided the stump of the arrow shaft so that it did not catch in the kaross. Then she placed a block of wood on each side of it to keep it clear of the ground and to give the leg a firm platform. ‘Hold him,’ she ordered the morani.
She moved into position over the wounded leg and laid both her hands on it. Carefully she palpated the front of Manyoro’s thigh, feeling for the point of the arrowhead under the skin of the hot, swollen flesh. Manyoro moved restlessly as her probing fingers descried the shape of the buried arrowhead. She brought the blade of the horn-handled knife down precisely on the spot and began to chant a spell in Maa. After a while Manyoro seemed to succumb to the monotonous refrain. His shrunken body relaxed and he snored softly around the leather gag.
Suddenly, without interrupting her chant, Lusima pressed the point of the blade down. With barely a check it sank into the dark flesh. Manyoro stiffened and every muscle in his back stood proud. The blade grated on metal, and pus welled from the wound that the knife had opened. Lusima laid aside the knife and pressed down on either side of the cut. The sharp point of the arrowhead was forced out through the enlarged wound and the first row of barbs came into sight.