Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  As Wambui bent down to gather up yet another handful of mollusks, her eyes noticed something gleaming on the shallow lake bottom. Swiftly, her hand darted into the water, and brought up a strange-looking object. It was an empty shell with nothing to eat inside it – hence, of no value, unless one looked at it closely.

  “How long has this beautiful shell lain in the Nyanza, waiting for me to find it?” the fascinated Wambui wondered aloud. “What manner of creature once dwelt in it, long ago?”

  In the meantime, the other girls of Kigeru had surrounded Wambui and were themselves gazing raptly at the shell.

  “See what I have found!” exclaimed Wambui. “I am going to take it back to the village and keep it forever.”

  The other Kigeru maidens were naturally envious of Wambui’s beauty and her songs. And for her to have discovered this wondrous thing – that was simply too much for them to bear.

  “You’d better throw it back, Wambui,” they advised. “You know the old women will beat us if we bring back empty, useless shells in our baskets.”

  Wambui knew they were right. She did not wish to feel the sharp sting of the old women’s sticks across her back.

  So, sadly, she said: “Very well. I will return it to its home in the Nyanza.”

  However, Wambui was a clever girl. When her companions’ backs were turned, she secretly slipped the beautiful shell into her basket, and it was an ordinary mollusk that she threw as far as she could into the Nyanza. The brief splash it made brought satisfied smirks to the faces of the others.

  Later, when all the baskets had been filled and the girls were about to return to Kigeru, Wambui told the others to go ahead of her; she would catch up with them. They went, smugly assured Wambui wanted to be alone so she could cry in private over the loss of her precious find.

  As soon as the girls were out of sight, Wambui fished the shell out of her basket, and admired the rosy tint reflected by the rays of the setting sun. Then she held it to her chest, and the shell seemed to radiate a special warmth of its own. Reluctantly, Wambui placed it upon a nearby rock. As though she were addressing a friend, she said, softly:

  “You will not be lonely for long. I will come back to you tonight, when the moon rises.”

  And that is exactly what she did. Late that night, while the rest of the village was asleep, Wambui stole stealthily from her father’s kibanda. The dogs that guarded Kigeru at night did not bark at Wambui, for they knew her and loved her songs.

  Quickly, she walked to the beach. Due to the protection of N’gonjo’s magics, she had nothing to fear from predators or night spirits. Still, the creeping moon-shadows sent tiny chills tickling up her spine. To bolster her spirits, Wambui began singing a bright, happy song, and the night seemed to soften in response.

  But when she reached the rock upon which she had earlier set the shell, shocked surprise stilled her song. For instead of a mere empty shell, there sat upon the rock – a man! He was clad in a flowing robe of the same rose-like color as the shell, and his dark face was the handsomest that Wambui had ever before seen.

  Slowly, majestically, the stranger rose form the rock and approached Wambui, arms outstretched and a smile on his face. Entranced, Wambui rushed into the stranger’s embrace and lifted her lips to his.

  Then she noticed something unusual about his eyes. And his arms were clasping her much more tightly than they should. And beneath his rose-colored robe, his body did not feel human.

  Wambui struggled to free herself from that merciless grip, and opened her mouth to cry for help. But it was much too late for that ...

  FOR WEEKS, THE PEOPLE of Kigeru scoured the bush and savanna and shore in search of any trace of their beloved singer of songs. But nothing could be found. It was as though Wambui had vanished from the face of Nyumbani.

  The girls who had been with her on the last day she had been seen did not mention her finding of the mysterious lake-shell. One look at the bleak eyes of Wambui’s uncle, N’gonjo, had silenced their tongues, for fear of the punishment they might receive for not having immediately told what they knew.

  In the meantime, after most of the village had become resigned to the loss of Wambui, word began to filter up from the villages to the south. It seemed a stranger had come – a stranger who had a drum that sang. People all across the lands bordering the Nyanza flocked to witness this amazing phenomenon, and the stranger was the recipient of many gifts of food, ivory and gold.

  It was rumored that the man with the Singing Drum would soon be coming to Kigeru. Speculation abounded in that village as to what the secret behind the Singing Drum might be. Some said the only answer was that the stranger must be a sorcerer as mighty as N’gonjo himself. More skeptical opinion held that the man was but a charlatan who had achieved mastery in the art of throwing his voice.

  Whatever one’s theory, nearly the entire village of Kigeru eagerly anticipated the coming of the man with the Singing Drum. The exception was N’gonjo, who had retired to his kibanda on Lion Hill not long after Wambui’s disappearance, and would speak to no one.

  At last, the day came when the stranger strode king-like through the palisade that guarded Kigeru. The gathered populace marveled at his unusual, rose-colored garment, and was awed by the drum that he carried. It was a tall drum – about the height of a woman – and it was slender and cylindrical in shape. Carved from lustrous ebony-wood, its sides were decorated with carvings of fish, eels and strange water-creatures known only through tales whispered softly around dim night-fires.

  Without ceremony, the stranger commenced to beat out a harsh, insistent rhythm upon the top of his drum. And the drum began to sing.

  Its song was plaintive and captivating, and perhaps that was why the Kigerans did not recognize the drum’s high, feminine voice. Previously, they had only heard that voice sing songs that were happy and joyous, lifting one’s spirits up beyond the sky. Now, the voice only saddened them even more than they already were because of the loss of Wambui.

  One Kigeran, however, did recognize the voice. He was N’komo, a youthful warrior. Silently, N’komo slipped away from the crowd and ran as fast as he could to Lion Hill. Though the youth feared N’gonjo – who was a misanthrope as were most mgangas of his quality – N’komo’s secret love for Wambui was stronger than that fear.

  Suppressing a shudder, N’komo stepped gingerly past the pair of lions that were the mganga’s pets and guards, as well as the source of the name for N’gonjo’s dwelling- place. The lions were dangerous only to anyone who sought to harm their master, and they could sense N’komo had no such intention. Then the youth peered into the dark opening of N’gonjo’s lonely kibanda. It was broad daylight outside, but the inside of the kibanda was as black as a starless sky. N’komo could see nothing.

  Summoning up his courage, the youth called out: “Are you there, O N’gonjo?”

  “Yes,” a hollow, sepulchral voice replied.

  “Know you that the man with the Singing Drum is in Kigeru?”

  “I do.”

  “Know you that the voice inside the Singing Drum belongs to Wambui?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then N’gonjo emerged from the darkness of his kibanda. He was an old, white-haired man, but his carriage was still erect and his sharp black eyes still reflected keen intelligence, and a sense of nobility.

  “I have been a fool,” he said to the young warrior in a rare admission of fallibility. “So involved was I in my own grief that I have not thought of the obvious. Wait here.”

  With that admonition, he returned to the darkness. When he came back, his hand held a small clay jar filled with greenish liquid.

  “They will probably fill the stranger with palm-wine after he finishes his performance,” the mganga said. “Put this liquid into his wine-cup. It has enough akili-root in it to put an elephant to sleep.”

  “Why don’t I just spear him?” N’komo growled.

  “Now don’t you be a fool!” snapped N’gonjo. “Trust me. Do you real
ly think I wouldn’t do what is best for my own niece?”

  Uncowed, the youth looked squarely into the mganga’s piercing eyes.

  “No,” N’komo said. “You wouldn’t. I will do as you say, O N’gonjo.”

  And he turned and toped down the path to the village.

  N’gonjo stood motionless for a long time afterward. His eyes were cold and hard.

  LATER, WITHIN THE kibanda of the headman of Kigeru, the man with the Singing Drum was enjoying himself immensely. He had eaten a tremendous repast, and the ivory figurines he had accepted as gifts were of great value. His only complaint was the peculiar taste of the palm wine he had been guzzling. Also, he didn’t like the way one of the young Kigeran warriors was staring at him.

  Suddenly, everything went black before the stranger’s eyes. And he pitched face-forward onto the dusty floor of the kibanda. As the villagers looked on in gape-mouthed astonishment, N’gonjo suddenly appeared at the entrance.

  “N’komo!” the mganga cried. “Open the drum!”

  N’komo dashed over to the Singing Drum, which was lying in a corner. With his panga – a long, heavy knife – the youth pried off the top of the drum and peered inside. Then his face took on a stricken look. Reaching into the drum, he tenderly pulled out the limp body of Wambui.

  Though she looked terribly emaciated, the barely conscious Wambui was alive. With her parents, N’gonjo, N’komo and the rest of the village surrounding her, Wambui tearfully gasped out the terrible tale of finding the mysterious lake-shell, the appearance of the stranger, and subsequent events.

  The stranger had ensorcelled Wambui, placed her inside the drum he had fashioned, and forced her to sing whenever he demanded. The people in the villages he had visited had given him much food and drink, but the stranger shared only a little of it with Wambui – just enough to keep her alive. She said no more, falling into a swoon of starvation and exhaustion.

  Several girls Wambui’s age cast their gazes groundward. After what Wambui had said, they knew their backs would be sore from the lashing of many sticks because of their failure to mention Wambui’s finding of the shell.

  As Wambui’s parents carried her out of the headman’s kibanda, attention turned to the robed figure slumped on the floor.

  “Now do we spear him?” N’komo asked fiercely. The headman and the others in the kibanda agreed with the youth’s suggestion.

  “No, you fools!” N’gonjo expostulated. “Haven’t you yet realized what this creature is?”

  The mganga reached down and lifted the robe of the stranger. At once, the Kigerans gasped in astonishment and revulsion. For the body of the stranger was covered not with dark skin, but with repellant, fish-like scales.

  “A Zin!” the headman choked. And all the others – except N’gonjo – echoed the dreaded word.

  “Yes, a Zin,” the mganga confirmed. “A water-spirit; a creature of the Mashataan that preys upon the innocent and the unwary. Your spears cannot harm such a being. Things of this nature are my concern.”

  The others agreed wholeheartedly, their bravado having abruptly vanished.

  “I will take the drum out into the bush,” N’gonjo said. “When I return, our friend the Zin will receive quite a surprise.”

  N’gonjo departed with the drum. When he reached the bush, he filled the instrument with enough rocks to approximate the weight of Wambui’s body. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated mightily. An incantation of calling formed in his mind. And soon the calling was answered. He placed those that answered inside the drum. Smiling with satisfaction, he replaced the drum’s top and carried the instrument back to Kigeru.

  AFTER A TIME, THE ZIN awakened. He apologized insincerely to the Kigerans for his unseemly drunkenness. With visibly strained smiles, the villagers accepted the apology. The Zin noticed that even the previously hostile young warrior was grinning at him. Unconcerned, he took up his drum and bundle of ivory figurines, and left Kigeru.

  Not far along the way to the next village, the Zin was accosted by a bent, wrinkled old man.

  “Please, O Man with the Singing Drum,” the ancient importuned in a quavering voice. “I could not get to Kigeru in time to hear your wondrous instrument. Would you be kind enough to play it for me?”

  “Out of my way, old man,” the Zin snarled. “I only perform for those who can pay for it.”

  “Oh, I can pay well,” the elder said.

  From his loose-fitting garment, he pulled a pouch filled with gold mizquals, the coinage of the faraway kingdom of Azania. At the sight of the gold, the Zin changed his mind. The creature took the proffered payment, then began to beat upon the drum.

  Nothing happened. Frowning, the Zin beat the drum harder. There was still no other sound.

  “Perhaps there is something wrong with your drum,” the elder said with a smile.

  “Impossible,” snapped the Zin.

  He beat the Singing Drum harder than ever. But no voice emerged from the tall ebony cylinder.

  “Maybe you’d better return my mizquals,” the elder suggested.

  With a wordless snarl, the Zin tossed the pouch into the vegetation by the roadside. With a cackle, the old man dove into the bush to retrieve his treasure. In the meantime, the Zin furiously ripped the top away from his drum. How he would punish the mortal girl for this insubordination ...

  Suddenly, the Zin’s eyes widened in horror, and he attempted to thrust the drum away. It was too late – one, two, a dozen, a score of orange-and-yellow shapes flashed toward him from the open mouth of the drum. Like flagellating whips, the reptilian forms belabored the body of the Zin, striking his scaly skin through the fabric of his robe.

  Then the old man – who was N’gonjo in disguise – stepped from the bush.

  “Die, Zin, die!” the mganga cried in triumph. “You and I both know that only the sting of the scorpion-snake can slay you!”

  Rapidly, the Zin diminished in size, its opalescent robe assuming its original form. Within moments, all its human attributes had vanished, and the Zin had shrunk to its natural size. And a small shell rather than a tall man rested in the dust next to the voiceless Singing Drum.

  With a harsh smile on his face, N’gonjo stared down at the insignificant object. In the meantime, the scorpion-snakes that had answered his call slithered off into the bush, their deadly work done.

  Then the vengeful mganga planted his heel on the shell that was the Zin, and ground it into a thousand fragments in the dust.

  “It is unfortunate that the great god Mulunga gave but few brains to fools,” N’gonjo mused as he set fire to the empty husk that was once the Singing Drum.

  “But it is fortunate for fools that Mulunga gave even fewer brains to the Zin,” he said as the drum was reduced to ashes.

  When he returned to his kibanda on Lion Hill, N’gonjo was happy in the knowledge that Wambui would sing for him as before. He did not yet know that for the rest of her days, Wambui would never sing again.

  KHODUMODUMO

  IN 1977, I WAS LIVING in Ottawa, Ontario. A group of science-fiction and fantasy fans decided that year to form a group called the Ottawa Science Fiction Society (OSFS). The group decided to put out its own magazine, and I became its editor. A graphic artist named Dave Sweet handled the production end. We named the magazine Stardock, after a mountain in one of Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories. The names we rejected before settling on that one ... you don’t want to know. The first issue of Stardock came out in 1977.

  As editor, I had the option of putting my own work in the magazine, and I exercised that option without hesitation, and without shame. “Khodumodumo” was written specifically for the magazine. It’s based on a Southern African folktale about a swallowing monster, a creature seen in the legends of other continents as well.

  Maputu the goatherd was the first victim. He was grazing his animals near the precipice known to the villagers of Mwandishi as Damballah’s Hole when he noticed a sudden, strange restlessness among them. Bl
eating nervously, the goats began to edge away from the brink of the declivity, ignoring the grass baking in the searing blaze of the sun. Maputu gripped his spear tightly in his gnarled black hands and scanned the grassy knolls for signs of marauding leopards, packs of jackals or other predators. But he saw nothing.

  Then he heard it ... a soft, slithering sound that rose from the depths of Damballah’s Hole ...

  Gaping in disbelief, the goatherd watched as something glistening and huge lapped over the side of the defile. Shapeless, featureless, limbless ... the thing heaved yard after yard of pearlescent bulk onto the pasture. With frightening speed, several protuberances shot from the main body of the thing toward the terrified animals. Before the goats could move, they found themselves surrounded by walls of living slime. Bellowing in panic, the animals attempted to flee.

  But slits in the pseudopods suddenly gaped open like great, vertical mouths, and engulfed the goats like gigantic snakes. In a matter of moments, the entire herd disappeared from sight.

  Maputu stood half-senseless with shock. Never in all the sixty rains of his existence had he seen such a thing as the gelatinous mass now rolling toward him like a flood. Maputu was a courageous man. His wiry body bore scars left by the claws of a lion he had driven from his herd when he was a young warrior. But this thing was far more than a lion ...

  Still, the sight of his beloved flock swallowed by this thing from the pit nerved the old man to the brink of madness. Roaring a war-cry half-remembered from his long-gone youth, Maputu charged toward the formless monster and hurled his spear with all the power in his lean sinews.

  The iron-tipped missile struck the creature’s rubbery surface – and bounced harmlessly away.

  It was then that true fear rooted Maputu to where he stood. His eyes bulged in his seamed, ebony face, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, preventing him from screaming even as the glistening folds opened to envelop him.