Rococoa

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)

  “So that’s what a star looks like up close?” Neema asks, unafraid. “I thought they’d be brighter.”

  Creeping up to the strange shape, the fires flicker out, and the air becomes much colder, leaving us shivering. I don’t like it; this isn’t natural at all. It’s the work of evil magic.

  “Neema, let’s go back to the village!” I beg.

  Ignoring me, Neema approaches the stone, poking it with her spear. The surface is smoother than anything I’ve seen before.

  Something rustles behind us. I turn in time to see something lunge from the brush toward Neema. With a cry I rush to her defense, raising my spear to fight. It grabs my left wrist and cold shoots through my arm, forcing me to drop the spear. I stare, transfixed, at the thing rising before me, something burnt and black in the shape of a human swathed in dark rags, its face hardly more than a skull with bits of flesh still clinging to it. Its eyes stared nakedly without eyelids. Worst of all was its mouth, with a pair of long fangs curving from exposed upper jaw like those of the hyena. The quivering eyes gaze at me.

  Neema’s dagger buries itself in the thing’s chest. It releases me and Neema’s strong arms pull me away. I clutch my left arm, all feeling gone from it.

  The monster sags over without a sound, trembling. Neema approaches cautiously but it stands up again, pulling the dagger out. No blood stains the blade.

  The monster raises its head, and flesh now crawls along the skull, the dead tissue healing before our eyes. Skin as white as ivory forms in loose strips over the charred muscles. I can only stare in sick horror. What kind of evil spirit is this?

  Neema brings her spear up. The monster’s eyes flick in her direction, the pupils shrinking, and it flings the dagger out.

  Neema stops abruptly. Blood runs from her lips.

  My eyes lower and find her dagger now embedded in her stomach.

  She falls backwards, her spear leaving her hands. I stare at Neema without comprehension. No, this can’t be right. Neema can’t die. She’s the strongest of our village. This is some cruel trick the monster played! No one can defeat Neema!

  The monster retrieves the dagger from Neema and turns to me. This time, blood drips off the blade, and that’s when I fall to despair. Neema is dead and I’m very likely next.

  Raising the bloody dagger up, the creature sucks at it with great relish. More skin grows over it, covering the face now. Straight, pale yellow hair falls from the head and long pointed ears spring out. It now resembles a woman, albeit a very unearthly one.

  Taking the dagger from its mouth, it looks to me and smiles, saying something in a language unfamiliar to me. Before I can move, it springs forward, seizing my left arm again, that terrible cold filling me once more. With a single, swift chop, my left hand is freed from my arm, and I don’t feel a thing. The creature leaves me to drop over as I clutch my maimed arm, my mind reeling at the horror. I can hear the monster mumble in its language.

  I spot my spear lying beside me, and scramble to get it. Thankful it was my left hand gone and not my right, I pull it close. The monster says something behind me. Gripping the spear tightly, I roll toward the monster and thrust repeatedly. It throws its arms over its face, still holding my severed hand. It screams, some holes opening in its arms, the white flesh turning green and diseased. Shrieking, it turns away and runs faster than any big cat, vanishing into the savanna.

  I crawl painfully to Neema’s body, feeling retuning to my arm. I cradle her head and close her wide, startled eyes as I sob.

  I have to tell the village. We will hunt this evil spirit and slaughter it. The village will not accept this insult, even from a monster like this.

  I struggled to make it back, tearing some cloth off to tie around my stump and soak up the blood. Without the numbing cold, the pain is unbelievable and the blood loss leaves me dizzy, but I make it.

  I soon wish I hadn’t. Corpses litter the village, chunks of flesh carved out of them. The Stranger from the Sky stands at the center, cutting her arm open and forcing the bwana to drink from the wound. She smiles at me, and says in Kiswahili, “Thank you.”

  ####

  I adjust my left hand, flex the timber fingers, and test the complicated clockwork, all of it wooden. Everything is in order like the last thousand times I checked this night but I have to be absolutely sure; I can’t allow anything to go wrong.

  My only illumination a single candle, I poke my hand with delicate tools, adjusting the springs and gears within. The mechanisms make a soft ticking sound and every time I move my fingers there’s a slight creaking. In the back of my hand is a small vial of explosive oil with a tiny pin attached to it for sticking onto clothes, a last resort weapon. I left the palm and fingers rough to better grip my implements. Everything was working perfectly; at this point I was stalling myself. I have a very good chance of dying tonight, but I can’t die, not before avenging my village. Before avenging Neema.

  Satisfied, I shut my hand and douse my candle. Donning a simple gray hooded cloak lined with pouches of herbs and chemicals, I creep away from the inn. London, even in summer, is so much colder and darker than my village. I can’t wait to return to Kenya. The stench is unbelievable; human waste and dead animals rot in the wet streets and with so many people crammed together in small, hastily built homes, there isn’t time for cleanliness. I wonder if my enemy enjoys these conditions, thriving in the filth and disease.

  Navigating the dark, foggy streets, I am assaulted by a different odor, that of the grave and decay, and know my destination is close. I’ve seen her at night, crouched in the graveyard by the open communal graves, feasting on the dead when she doesn’t feel like hunting. This place doesn’t care what happens to the poor in life or death so no one officially investigates. Only eccentric monster hunters have shown any concern about the graveyard, a few of which disappeared when they set out at night.

  Scaling the graveyard wall is no problem for me, my trained fingers finding uncanny purchase for me to climb them. I fall silently to the damp earth by the gate where I buried my sack a few nights earlier. Digging it up, I tear the rough burlap away to uncover my spear. I carved it myself, smooth, elegant, and made entirely of wood. A metal point would be more durable but wood was essential for my enemy.

  Spear in hand, I creep toward the imposing church edifice, keeping alert in case my enemy is out in the graveyard. I wish I could take care of her during the day when she was more vulnerable but I have no idea where she sleeps, and killing her from a distance is too risky; I need to make sure she dies.

  Even compared to the rest of London, the graveyard stinks and the open pit to my right is the reason. The poor who can’t afford crypts are stacked together in flimsy coffins placed in open graves until no more can fit; only then is the hole filled in. It’s amazing what people can get used to. It’s useful to my enemy too; she has no shortage of food if hunting doesn’t go well.

  A low creaking reaches my ears. I draw my spear and crouch down, eyes on the grave pit. It’s hard to see in the foggy night but I can hear wood prying and splintering and something scrabbling against earthen walls. With a grimace I realize my enemy has another use for the open graves. A shape rises from the hole, slow and clumsy, and the stench grows stronger. Two more shapes join the first, pulling out of the hole, loosened dirt raining upon suddenly vacant coffins.

  Footsteps approach me. The things shamble in my direction, arms outstretched. During my time hunting the spawn of my enemy I learned that they could sense the life around them even when blinded, making it very difficult to hide from them. Did even these rotting puppets have that ability? If they did then it was likely they had the same weaknesses to wood and fire. My fingers tighten around my spear. This will be simple.

  Springing up, I drive my spear through the eye of the closest creature with appalling ease, the tip piercing with a soft squishing sound. It twitches weakly on the end before I kick its chest as hard as I can. The thing slides wetly off and drops over.

  Unsure if
it’s truly dead, I retreat a few steps back, away from the cold fingers. Up this close, I can see the puppets more clearly. The one on the left was once an African man. Its clothes are filthy with grime, eyes cloudy and mouth hanging open, its tongue pale and bloated like a huge grub. The other was an Englishwoman, in a dirt-stained dress, hair limp and her eyes as cloudy as the other. They stumble forward, moving over their fallen fellow. It hadn’t moved so my blow must have finished it. Looks like they won’t be a challenge.

  I slam the butt of my spear into the woman’s pallid face, knocking her off her feet. Without pausing, I puncture the chest of the man. It hardly reacted, reaching for me even as the spear tip sank further into its spongy breast. Recalling the techniques Neema taught me I spin around, avoiding gravestones, whirling the walking corpse until the spear dislodged. The corpse stumbled away, tripping over a gravestone behind it, which pitched it backwards. So wood isn’t enough, even to the heart.

  Before it can recover I plunge my spear up into the corpse’s exposed throat, angling toward the skull. There’s a sickening crack as I force the tip deep into what is left of the thing’s brain, and it falls still at once. So that was it.

  The grass rustles behind me as the remaining corpse creeps up from behind. I whirl around, striking through its eye like the first one. My stomach churns a little at how soft the thing is, how easy it is to pierce. It stops struggling soon enough, corrupted fluids pooling around the socket and my spear. I yank it out and try to wipe the tip on the grass.

  No sooner had the last corpse fallen still then a soft clapping broke the silence. Gasping, I look up to the church. A figure now stands on the gray steps, applauding.

  “Well done,” the figure says in English but with an accent underneath unknown to me. I remember it all too well though. “The last ones who tried to sneak in here were torn to pieces by my guards. You’re different though.”

  I grip my spear tighter, memories flooding back. My beloved Neema driving a knife into the Stranger’s chest without effect. The Stranger taking my hand. Finding the village dead with the bwana and a few others turned into evil spirits like her…

  The figure glides through the mist, inhaling deeply, her broad cloak fluttering. She hasn’t changed in the three years since we last met, her skin as smooth and white as ivory, hair long and straight and a faint gold in color. She looks far more like the Europeans than she does my people, but some features mark her different from them too; no European has pointed ears, long fangs, or glassy claws.

  She stops a few feet from me, a mild look of recognition crossing her smooth features before she smiles wider. “Ah! I thought you felt familiar!” she says, switching to Kiswahili. “The Kenyan village in 1772, yes? Remind me again who you are, exactly?”

  Furious, I raise my left hand, knowing she sees in the dark better than any human. “I’m now Mkono ya Mboa, and with this wooden hand I’ll scoop the heart from your chest for killing the ones I loved!” I hiss through clenched teeth in Kiswahili too. A fire lights in my belly. All this preparation, all this travel, all this hate, all down to this one moment. My target is standing before me and all I need to do is end her.

  The Stranger chuckles. “Oh yes, you. I must have made quite an impression if you renamed yourself after the deformity I gave you,” she answers. “Your hand made a good little meal. I think I still have the bones. You must be here to avenge yourself and your tribe after you took care of me. Don’t think me ungrateful for your hospitality.”

  She breaks into a wide grin, the teeth of a predator gleaming in her mouth. “Every time I eat one of these poor, diseased Englishmen, I think of how delicious your people were and thank them.”

  I pull my spear back as she begins laughing. My fury can’t be contained any longer. Charging, I thrust my spear at her chest with enough force to pierce the hide of a lion, but it passes through nothing. The Stranger moves faster than any human ever has and is at my right in the blink of an eye. Her hand strikes my side, throwing me through the air like a leaf, the bitter cold of her touch shocking. I crash on my back, my spear jarred from my hand. I scramble to my feet; my side stings from the chilling blow but I’m grateful I missed the gravestones. I search for the spear. There is only a faint whispering sound as the Stranger darts between the gravestones, her movements a blur. She’ll be on me in a moment.

  I rip a pouch from my cloak, heavy as though filled with sand. Perfect.

  The blur speeds toward me. Instead of running like she expects me to, I pour the contents of the pouch into my hand and with a deep breath blow it out in a wide cloud. The Stranger is too late to avoid it, grunting as it touches her, and she falls past me as the effects set in. She stops by a gravestone, coughing and sputtering. She raises a trembling hand that’s turning green. I blow another pouch of herbs at her to keep her busy then ran off, looking for my spear. I practically trip over it in the darkness, but I keep my balance and retrieve it.

  I whirl around, spear raised, but the Stranger is no longer by the gravestone. I let out a curse just before icy hands grasp my shoulders and slam me against a crypt wall hard enough to make me drop my spear. The Stranger’s face peers into my own, the white skin now puffy and splotched with green, making her look as rotten as the walking corpses. She grins in spite of his pain, lips curling over long fangs.

  “I underestimated you,” she says, hands moving to my arms and squeezing. “You researched my kind thoroughly.”

  “The villagers you changed,” I spit. “I observed them carefully before hunting them down, learning how you fear plants, fire, and wind!”

  “Very good!” she laughs. “I trust you know that earth, water, and metal are useless against me. I can’t sense any iron on you.”

  I closed my eyes, fingers grasping against the smooth wall, mentally begging my spear to return to my hand. “I saw you stabbed in the chest with a dagger and you pulled it out unharmed.”

  “And I stabbed the attacker with her own blade,” she finishes.

  She’s powerful and smart but arrogant. We’re cattle to her; what farmer expects his cattle to rise up against him? Yet there’s always danger in herding, always a chance of being trampled. My arms slowly bend back, right hand reaching for the left. I can barely feel, they’re so numb with cold.

  “Who are you really?” I demand, fingers brushing the panel on the back of my hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “Explaining that would be wasted on the likes of you,” she sneers. “This poisoning you gave me will heal on its own in time, but if I eat your flesh I’ll be fine by morning!”

  Her mouth stretches, fangs extending. I crane my neck away as far as I can, death seconds away. I can’t reach my hand in time; I need to keep her talking.

  “Wait!” I cry. “I successfully tracked you down! Don’t you think I’m more useful than meat?”

  She stops, her mouth still open but curiosity in her inhuman eyes. “Go on,” she rasps through her fangs. “Make it quick though.”

  I gasp for breath, looking for my words. I finally choke out, “You made some of the villagers into…spirits like yourself. Blood-drinkers and flesh-eaters that burn in the Sun. They weren’t as strong but they still hunted humans just as you do.”

  She nodded. “My kind can’t continue like the creatures here. One option we have is to select lesser beings and convert them to the darkness. They begin as degraded imitations but through rituals, can become full examples.” Her eyes inspect me closely, and I remember when we first met. There’s suspicion shining through but it grapples with…loneliness? She must not have had any companions for a long time. Maybe the Stranger’s closer to us than she likes to admit.

  “I certainly could use one as resourceful as you as an apprentice,” she continues, “and despite your thorough education about my kind, it was only on those fledglings. You’d have to rely on me to survive until I perform the rituals to perfect you.”

  “But what are you?” I ask, shivering. Her touch is stealing all the warmth from
me. “What would I be becoming?”

  Her head leans back and her jaw pops back into place. “Death,” she answers. She leans forward slowly to look me in the eye. “The cold darkness given hunger, forever seeking the warmth of life to devour.”

  I decline answering, instead struggling to comprehend what she means. The Stranger isn’t really alive? Was she ever alive? She is an abomination beyond even her animate corpses, an affront to nature.

  She sighs and peers up sadly at the starless night sky. “I never meant to come to these backward lands. I was in a war far away and happened to crash near your village. All I can do with these primitives is convert influential members and refocus your technology to suit me. One day I might be able to return home.”

  Home. The Stranger destroyed my home, my family, my friends, everything I ever knew. Of her home I know nothing beyond what she’d said, but I assume it’s still out there somewhere, perhaps wondering if she will ever return.

  The panel on my hand opens. I can feel the tiny glass vial inside. It’s a good thing she’s lonely. It could be a trick but she seems sincere. I hope she is.

  She smiles at me. “If you accept, you’d…exist, I suppose the correct word is, forever more, with considerable wealth and power. This planet lacks unity, divided into their little warring tribes, ignorant to the bigger problems. With me, none of that has to matter. We can rise above and rule it!”

  I ease the vial out, fingers curling around it tightly, my hands so numb that I’m unsure I really have it. I have only one shot at this. “Do it,” I breathe. “Make me your apprentice.” Good thing her process involves getting very close to me…

  Instead of cutting her arm, her mouth drops open like a hatch, her fangs extending. So she’s going to feed on me first. Even better. My heart races as she leans in, that repulsive mouth inching toward my throat. Her grip loosens a little and I make my move. My right arm whips out just as the fangs brush my flesh, the pin fastening the vial to the Stranger’s cloak. Slamming my back against the wall, I swing my right leg up, driving my boot into the Stranger’s upper chest as hard as I can. Stumbling back, her eyes grow wide in surprise. My foot finds my spear and flips it upright for me to retrieve. I slam the butt into the vial.