Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  Yelling in anger and frustration, Ahmadu chased his charges for a few hundred paces before he realized that he could not overtake them. He stopped running, and stared disconsolately at their rapidly dwindling rumps. He had failed at his task. He did not relish having to tell Sankruu that the last of the breeding-stock was gone. At the least, he could look forward to a severe beating.

  When the son of Sankruu turned dejectedly to where the herd had been, an astonishing sight met his eyes. A great herd now swarmed the parched plain. Magnificent beasts they were, with sable-black coats and spiraled horns that curved like scythes above their heads. They were not true cattle; they were actually a breed of antelope. But in Nyumbani, many beasts served the same purpose as cattle.

  Unlike most hoofed animals, the sable beasts neither bleated nor bellowed. Instead, they maintained an unsettling silence.

  Despite the strangeness of the herd, however, Ahmadu’s attention was focused on the man who accompanied the beasts.

  At first glace, the intruder seemed to have the lean, sinister aspect of the Turaag, a rapacious nation of masked nomads who raided the length and breadth of the Sahanic lands. But closer inspection showed that despite his mask, this man was no Turaag, for they always wore bright blue garments. The stranger’s clothing, which resembled burial cerements, was a pale, spectral shade of gray. In the narrow strip of dark flesh that lay between his turban and mask, the mysterious herdsman’s eyes burned like cold flames in hollow pits.

  “I have a herd to sell to the people of Djenne-the-Land,” he said in a distant, imperious tone. “Go to your village and inform the chieftain that I wish to bargain.”

  The implication of following the stranger’s command flashed like a bolt of lightning across Ahmadu’s mind. To desert his herd ... he could be punished by death. Then he remembered that he no longer had a herd to guard.

  “I ... I must have something to show the chieftain, who is my father,” Ahmadu managed to stammer. “If I don’t, he will not even listen to me.”

  Wordlessly, the stranger turned and walked among his black herd. A moment later, he returned, leading a scrawny-looking calf by a rawhide thong looped around its neck.

  “Here is your evidence,” he said. “Now, go.”

  Something in the gray-robed stranger’s tone told Ahmadu that the command must be obeyed. Gingerly, he grasped the end of the tether and led the unresisting calf toward Ougon.

  IN THE CENTRAL SQUARE of Ougon, Sankruu and Dibango prepared for their ritual duel. From the scatter of dome-shaped mud-brick dwellings, a crowd of white-turbaned men and women had gathered along with the assembled chieftains. Wide-eyed children completed the ring of spectators surrounding the two combatants.

  With a minimum of ceremony, the duelists removed their voluminous outer garments. Bare to the waist, their powerfully thewed black bodies contrasted sharply against their white breeches. Though Dibango was clearly the larger of the two, there was little else to choose between them. Both men combined the bulk of a bull with the quickness of a cat. This would not be an easy battle for either.

  No sudden clash of blades heralded the beginning of the fight, for the Djenne dueling sword had a long, tapered blade that would shatter if struck directly. For that reason, a Djenne duel was more dance than battle ... a dance that would end in death.

  Like lightning, the blade of Dibango stabbed toward Sankruu’s chest. As Sankruu leaped away, he appeared to glide through the air before landing lightly on his feet. Then the chieftain of Ougon jabbed his point at Dibango’s throat. With an almost imperceptible shift of his head, Dibango avoided the thrust.

  Feline in their grace and economy of motion, the two Ku-Djenne thrust, leaped and dodged in lethal rhythm. The only sounds were the shuffle of the combatants’ feet and the occasional ting that marked the few times their blades chanced to meet.

  Before long, the pace of the battle slowed, for even the warriors of Djenne-the-Land could not maintain such a furious tempo forever. Sooner or later, one of the duelists would falter. The one who did was Dibango. Losing his balance, the Faroun chieftain slipped to one knee. Like a striking cobra, Sankruu leaped in for the kill. But Dibango had tricked him. In a silvery blur, his sword flashed toward Sankruu’s midsection.

  Desperately, the chieftain of Ougon flung himself backward. The needle-sharp point of Dibango’s sword carved a crimson furrow across the sweat-slick skin of his stomach. Had Sankruu been a shade slower, the thrust would have disemboweled him. Wincing in pain, Sankruu struggled to maintain his balance, for Dibango’s missed death-blow had left an opening.

  Like a streak of wizard-fire, Sankruu’s blade flickered toward Dibango’s exposed throat. With a strangled cry, the chieftain of Faroun went down, blood spouting from the wound Sankruu had inflicted.

  Ignoring the seeping gash across his abdomen, Sankruu looked down at his dead foe. He felt no exultation over his victory – only sorrow. Sankruu had not wished to slay Dibango. The two chieftains had fought side-by-side in the last war against Imal, in which Djenne had preserved its independence from the empire-builders. Dibango had saved Sankruu’s life during that war. But the chieftain of Faroun wanted war against Djenne-the-City at any price, including that of his own life. Now, his body would be borne back to his village, for no reason other than pride.

  Sankruu was only beginning to feel the pain of his dripping wound when he heard pelting footsteps and shouts of amazement behind him. Turning his attention to this new excitement, the chieftain was startled to see Ahmadu pushing his way through the throng.

  Only briefly did Sankruu notice the scrawny black animal his son was leading. Then explosive wrath kindled in the chieftain’s breast. It was unthinkable that Ahmadu would leave the cattle and nyuka he guarded – especially with the last of the breeding-stock in such dangerously depleted condition. Yet here he was ...

  Well aware of the rage building within his father, Ahmadu immediately prostrated himself at Sankruu’s feet. Then, before the grim-faced chieftain could speak, Ahmadu blurted out his message:

  “A stranger has come to Djenne-the-Land, with many cattle like this one, and he offers to sell them to our people!”

  The thundering rebuke Sankruu was about to deliver died on his lips as the people of Ougon murmured in astonishment at Ahmadu’s breathless announcement. Sankruu looked at the silent black calf. The creature was so young that its horns were still skin-covered knobs on its forehead. A pitiful-looking specimen it was, not much better than Ougon’s own drought-stricken beasts.

  “Are this stranger’s other animals as miserable-looking as this one?” Sankruu asked, ignoring the pain of his wound and the increasing clamor of the crowd.

  “No, Father,” Ahmadu replied, still on his knees. “They are all fine, strong animals, as our herds once were.”

  Sankruu considered. A new herd of cattle would be a gift second only to a rainfall. It would provide enough food to keep Ougon and the other villages of Djenne-the-Land alive until Shango’s rains finally arrived – as he firmly believed they would. Also, the course of action for which he had fought and killed would be followed. Djenne-the-Land would wait rather than go to war against their city kin.

  Bidding Ahmadu to rise, Sankruu ordered his people to disperse and resume their ordinary tasks. Sankruu and the other chieftains would go to the pasture to bargain with the nameless stranger. Despite the blood reddening his breeches, Sankruu did not heed his wives’ entreaties to stay and have his wound tended.

  “It’s only a scratch,” he snarled irritably.

  As the procession of chieftains, along with Ahmadu, left Ougon, the last thing they saw was the spearmen of Faroun bearing Dibango’s body to its final resting place ...

  WHEN THE CHIEFTAINS of Djenne-the-Land saw the swarm of black cattle and their sinister guardian, they were no less discomfited than Ahmadu had been. In normal times, they would have been suspicious of both the stranger and his herd. But these were times of distress, and they saw only meat with which they could
fill their shrinking bellies.

  In the face of the stranger’s silence, it was Sankruu who spoke first.

  “My son tells me you wish to sell these ... cattle,” he said.

  The stranger merely nodded in agreement with the obvious.

  “How many are you willing to part with, and at what price?” Sankruu asked after another silence.

  Before the gray-swathed stranger could reply, Bombaye of Kaboun interjected.

  “You see how dry this pasture is,” he said. “It is like this throughout Djenne-the-Land. How are we to expect these beasts of yours to be of much benefit to us if they have nothing to eat? Of what use is a heap of carrion?”

  Though timid, Bombaye had a well-deserved reputation for shrewdness. His fellow chieftains nodded, for Bombaye’s questions were pertinent.

  Now the stranger was forced to speak.

  “These cattle are a hardy breed,” he said in a voice like the creak of an opening casket. “They come from the high country of Axum, far beyond the Gwaridi-Milima Mountains. They can eat fodder a goat would disdain, and they flourish in places where a camel would die of thirst.”

  “And how many of these wondrous beasts will you sell us?” Bombaye asked skeptically.

  “All,” the stranger replied succinctly.

  An incredulous, excited murmur spread among the chieftains. As a whole, the herd of sable beasts was large enough to supply the needs of every village in Djenne-the-Land. But the price of such a large number of animals would be too steep for the herdsmen to even contemplate.

  “What must we pay?” Sankruu asked.

  The cadaverous stranger threw back his head and laughed through the cloth masking his mouth. Like the cachinnations of a ghoul, the laughter echoed across the dry plain. Bombaye was not the only Ku-Djenne to shudder at the sound of it.

  “In one rain’s time, I will return to collect my price,” the stranger said portentously. “Then you will know.”

  His garments rustled as he moved his arm in a sweeping gesture. Suddenly, a mighty gust of wind began, hurling clouds of dust and dead grass into the faces of the startled Ku-Djenne. By the time the chieftains and Ahmadu had blinked the dust out of their eyes, the stranger was gone. The Ku-Djenne searched in all directions, but found no sign of the gray-clad herdsman. Only the sable cattle remained, red-eyed and silent as they chewed desiccated grass and weeds.

  A lengthy discussion among the chieftains followed. Ordinarily, the Ku-Djenne would not have countenanced such obvious sorcery. They would have driven both the sable beasts and their herdsman from their country. But the drought allowed for no such misgivings. Had one of the now-discredited priests of Shango attempted to intervene, his blood would have wet the dry ground.

  Thus, the chieftains decided that the new herd would be divided equally among the various villages of Djenne-the-Land. As each chieftain eagerly selected his share of animals and drove them homeward, the portion allotted to Ougon remained in the parched pasture.

  Sankruu was now feeling acute pain across his stomach. Dibango’s blade had cut through his skin and scraped across the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles. Yet before he would submit to the ministrations of his wives and the healers, there were still two tasks to which he must attend.

  In the meantime, as the chiefs had been conferring over the distribution of the vanished stranger’s cattle, Ahmadu had become more aware of the calf whose tether he continued to hold. The sheer magnitude of the stranger’s arrival, the dread he had felt upon abandoning the pasture, and the news of his father’s duel with Dibango had encumbered Ahmadu’s mind. Only now did he look more closely at the calf, which had begun to bleat.

  He saw that in many ways, it was different in appearance from the other antelope-cattle, as though it were of a separate breed. Looking into its rolling eyes, Ahmadu felt a stab of pity for the beast. Absently, he began to stroke the forehead of the calf. The beast soon ceased its incessant bleating.

  Suddenly, Ahmadu felt a looming presence behind him. He turned and saw his father, who was visibly struggling to conceal the pain from his wound.

  “Where are the cattle and nyuka that were here before?” Sankruu demanded.

  “They ran away when the stranger came,” Ahmadu replied, hoping that Sankruu would understand. “They fled as though demons were pursuing them.”

  That revelation disturbed Sankruu. But at least it answered his question, which was the first matter on his mind. Now, it was time for the second.

  “To consecrate our good fortune in the eyes of the gods, we must make a sacrifice,” he said. “I believe this calf is meant for that purpose.”

  “No!”

  The voice that made that shout was Ahmadu’s. Time stood still as the youth realized the enormity of that single syllable, which he had never intended to speak. Slowly, Sankruu turned to his son. The chieftain’s eyes blazed like black coals.

  “What did you say, boy?” he asked in a deceptively soft tone.

  What happened next was as though someone else was speaking from the youth’s mouth, for it was inconceivable that Ahmadu would of his own volition have uttered the words that spilled from his trembling lips.

  “No,” he repeated. “You cannot sacrifice this calf. I cannot allow it.”

  Sankruu’s hand swung in a short arc. Though loss of blood was weakening him, the chieftain’s outrage lent strength to his arm, and the blow sent Ahmadu sprawling.

  The youth’s cheek burned as though it were aflame. Yet the implications of the blow were far more painful than its force. For through his words, Ahmadu had profaned one of the most sacred of Ku-Djenne rituals. When a large number of new cattle were added to a herd, the weakest one was always sacrificed so that its frailty did not spread to the rest of the beasts. For a people whose lives depended on the health of their herds, failure to make the sacrifice was unthinkable.

  As Ahmadu lay in the brittle grass, holding his hand to his throbbing face, Sankruu drew his bloody sword and strode purposefully toward the black calf, which rolled its eyes in terror and bleated piteously. Hearing that sad sound, Ahmadu rose as though pulled by an invisible string. He stumbled to the side of the calf, placing himself in the path of his father’s blade.

  “You must not kill this calf,” he repeated, sweat beading on his brow.

  Slowly, Sankruu extended his sword until its point was close to touching Ahmadu’s chest. The boy’s words were unthinkable; unimaginable. Now, he must not only sacrifice the miserable, thrice-cursed animal; his son and heir’s life were forfeit as well.

  Ignoring the weakness creeping slowly into his limbs, Sankruu tensed the corded muscles of his sword-arm. He had to slay his own son. Generations of tradition demanded it ...

  He could not do it.

  Lowering his swordpoint, Sankruu could hear the murmurs of disbelief from the people behind him. And a great bitterness welled up in his heart, overwhelming his love for Ahmadu. With great deliberation, the chieftain of Ougon spat on the ground at his son’s feet.

  “You are no longer of Ougon, or even of Djenne-the-Land,” Sankruu grated, each word costing him more pain than his wound. “Go into the desert with this beast you love more than your own people. May the curse of Shango be upon you. If ever you return to this land, you will surely die.”

  Wordlessly, Ahmadu turned. As he began to walk northward, he did not look at the black calf. Nor did he pick up its tether. Even so, the scrawny beast followed him like a dog as they both slowly disappeared into the distance.

  Only when Ahmadu was lost to sight did Sankruu collapse to the ground, his blood staining the dry grass to a sickly shade of crimson.

  EVEN IN THE BEST OF times, the wasteland that separated Djenne from Imal was not a hospitable place. It was mostly desert wilderness, populated only by savage beasts and a few nomadic tribes. With the coming of the drought, however, the wasteland was even harsher than normal – a dubious haven for a calf or a boy.

  Yet they both survived. Ahmadu lived only because of a
dogged stubbornness that was all he had left. Everything else was gone, destroyed by the words of his father. That the puny calf that had been the cause of his exile also survived was, to Ahmadu, a final jest of the gods.

  Though his only weapons were a long dagger and a stout wooden staff, Ahmadu was able to sustain himself on meat gleaned from meager kills of lizards, rock-rabbits and jumping-mice. He obtained moisture by tapping the stems of certain desert plants that resisted the drought. Grudgingly, Ahmadu admitted to himself that he had learned the latter aspect of survival by observing the behavior of the black calf.

  Time passed slowly for Ahmadu, as is usual for lonely exiles. Bitterness and despondency grew in his heart like mold on a dying tree. He began to focus his resentment on the calf, which he blamed for his banishment from Ougon. He had come to believe it was a demon-creature that had ensorcelled him into saving its life.

  Inexplicably, he could not kill the beast, though the urge to do so often came upon him. Instead, he treated it with harshness and abuse, often attempting to drive it from his presence. The scrawny beast would flee those outbursts of frustrated anger, bleating piteously as it ran. Yet it always returned. To Ahmadu, it was beginning to seem that the beast would be a constant reminder of that terrible day when his father struck him down and spat at his feet ...

  The day finally came when Ahmadu was in a particularly foul mood. Seeking attention, the calf pushed its damp muzzle against the youth’s skin. Almost automatically, Ahmadu whipped out his dagger and slashed viciously at the face of the beast. He hadn’t intended that his blow land ... but it did, laying open the calf’s face farm eye to nostril.