Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  She turned to leave the hillside ... and the basket dropped onto the ground as she clutched her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream. For where the red stone had landed, there now loomed a gigantic boulder, shining scarlet in the dying sunlight.

  Marimira tried to fight down the wave of terror that surged through her. She knew there was a zimwe – an ogre – nearby. Nothing else could have caused the small stone to grow so huge so quickly. Marimira feared zimwe-kind even more than she did lions.

  There were, however, ways to reason with demons.

  Summoning up her courage, Marimira sang: “Stone, let me pass. I am sorry I threw you away. Stone, let me pass. “I am sorry I threw you away.”

  Then she took to her heels in an attempt to run around the side of the boulder. But of its own volition, the gigantic rock slid across the ground to block Marimira’s path. She skidded to a halt only seconds before she would have crashed into the crimson surface.

  Now she made no attempt to disguise her fear. It was obvious that the zimwe was not impressed by her apology. It wanted more ... but what? Bargains between humans and ogres, Marimira knew, did not often conclude to the advantage of the human. Still, her fate was in the unseen hands of the zimwe.

  Again, Marimira sang: “Let me pass, O Stone, and I will do as you want. Let me pass, O Stone, and I will do as you want.”

  At that invitation, the red boulder roared and rattled and shook the ground so violently that Marimira was thrown off her feet. It was, perhaps, fortunate that she fell face-down, so that she did not have to witness the awful transformation the stone was undergoing ...

  When Marimira looked up again, her eyes widened in horror. What she beheld was far more frightening than the manifestation of the boulder. Towering above her was a gigantic, manlike form, colored blood-red and massive as the rock from which it had taken shape. This was the true shape of the zimwe: a hairless, naked creature standing half-again as tall as a man and bulking three times as thick, with coarse, brutal features and skin that was pitted and cracked like the side of a mountain.

  Even as Marimira stared speechlessly, the ogre threw back its head and laughed. The laughter was far from reassuring.

  “What could you do, human-child, that would be greater than what you already have done?” the zimwe roared. “It was your maiden’s touch that freed me from the spell with which the witch Chitsimbakazi imprisoned me long ago. What more could you do for Mbodze?”

  Mbodze!

  At the mention of that name, Marimira’s misgivings increased tenfold. Mbodze was the name of the ogre that had terrorized Nyange and its neighboring villages in the past, carrying off people young and old to satisfy its voracious appetite. The villagers might have been forced to vacate their rich lands for less-hospitable country, had it not been for the intervention of Chitsimbakazi, a sorceress who had no love for zimwes, nor they for her.

  But those events had occurred many rains ago, when the great-grandparents of Nyange’s elders were children. Yet here Mbodze stood, glaring down at Marimira and flicking a snake-like tongue over crimson lips. A bright glow kindled in the ogre’s eyes as he regarded the young woman cowering before him.

  As any of the young hunters and warriors could have attested, Marimira was very attractive. At sixteen rains, she had reached the proper age for marriage. Beneath a close-cropped bush of wooly black hair, her face was prepossessing despite the terror now stamped on her features. The bark-cloth skirt and shell-decorated upper garment that clothed her left much of her polished-jet skin bare to Mbodze’s fiery gaze.

  The many coils of copper wire that adorned Marimira’s arms and legs were indications of her father’s high status in the councils of Nyange. But for that, Mbodze cared nothing.

  Again, the crimson giant laughed. A huge hand reached down and closed around Marimira’s arm. The grasp was not painful, but Marimira knew that the slightest increase in pressure would break her bones like dry twigs.

  “I know what I will do with you, human-child,” the ogre rumbled. “I will make you my bride.”

  Marimira screamed.

  Well did she remember the tales storytellers had recounted about the many “brides” Mbodze had taken from Nyange ... and how each of those “brides” had ended up in the belly of the zimwe ...

  MANY DAYS LATER, MARIMIRA sat high in the branches of a mtini tree near the house Mbodze had built for her. The luscious fruit of the mtini hung invitingly from the boughs around her. But Marimira refused to touch them. She knew the zimwe wanted her to eat as much as she could, since he preferred his “brides” to be fattened. Fortunately for her, Marimira did not gain weight easily, despite the mounds of meat Mbodze set before her every day. This food, he could force her to eat, for her fear of the ogre grew daily.

  If she squinted her eyes narrowly enough, Marimira could see wisps of smoke from the cooking-fires of her home-village. At one time, she had harbored hopes that her father would lead the warriors of Nyange to rescue her from the ogre. But then she had seen the awful strength of Mbodze. She watched him bring in carcasses of buffalo and rhinoceros, which he had killed with his bare hands. She knew the spears of the warriors would only splinter against Mbodze’s rock-like hide, while he squashed their bodies as a man might dispose of termites underfoot.

  Even the strength of the fabled gorilla of the forests far to the west would be as nothing against that of the blood-red zimwe.

  The first time Marimira had attempted to flee while Mbodze hunted, she became painfully aware that the zimwe had sorcerous skills to augment his strength. When she began to run, the grass suddenly came to life, clutching like green fingers at her feet. The trees reached down to menace her with branches like gnarled, groping arms. And, most terrifying of all, the rocks half-buried in the ground suddenly acquired mouths that cried: “Go back, Marimira. Go back!”

  Quivering like a leaf in a typhoon, Marimira had followed the rocks’ advice and retreated. She mentioned nothing of the incident when Mbodze returned. But the leer on his bestial face told her that he knew ...

  A sigh of despair fled Marimira’s lips. Not for the first time, she asked herself why she had ever touched that accursed stone. And why, if Mbodze lived again, couldn’t there be a way to resurrect Chitsimbakazi? She knew there were rituals that could be used to call up ghosts – but as a shaper of clay rather than spells, she hadn’t the slightest notion as to how such rituals were performed.

  Suddenly, Marimira’s morose reflections were interrupted by the soft flutter of wings above her head. Looking upward, Marimira spotted a sparrow hovering hear her. Instantly, her heart leaped in joy, for the sparrow was the symbol of Chitsimbakazi. Indeed, it had been said that the sorceress had possessed the ability to transform herself into a sparrow at will, so that she could fly away from danger ...

  Daintily, the small bird settled on the end of a tree-branch. As Marimira gazed at the sparrow in a mixture of hope and curiosity, the bird spoke in chirruping tones:

  “Fear not, Marimira. Tonight, I will come to you and show you the way to free yourself from Mbodze.”

  Just as Marimira was about to ask the sparrow why she must wait until dark to be rescued, a thunderous roar shook the air. Staring downward, Marimira choked back a shriek.

  Mbodze had returned – and he seemed to be insane with rage. The freshly killed carcass of a buffalo lay discarded behind him. Growls fiercer than those of a lion rumbled in the zimwe’s throat as he seized the bole of the tree in his hand and began to wrench it violently from side to side.

  Startled by the sudden lurch of Mbodze’s effort, Marimira lost her grip and tumbled headlong from her perch. Landing heavily on her back, she lay half-stunned as the zimwe continued to vent his rage.

  Dimly, Marimira heard Marimira heard a sharp crack that signaled the success of the demon’s efforts. Moaning in pain, she sat up in time to see Mbodze holding the broken tree above his head like a gigantic spear. The fleeing sparrow was only a tiny speck in the azure sky. But when the zimwe hurle
d the tree-trunk, it shot straight toward its distant target. It appeared to merge with the shrinking dot. Then the tree hurtled back to the ground, leaving an ominously empty sky behind.

  Then Mbodze turned to Marimira, looming over her like a crimson colossus. The expression on the demon’s face was unreadable, but the malevolent fire in his eyes as he seized Marimira was not.

  Effortlessly lifting her limp body from the ground, Mbodze snarled: “That bird was bad luck. It reminded me of ... her. I think that I will not fatten you further. Tomorrow, your flesh will be part of mine!”

  Marimira heard those awful words through a thickening haze that mercifully enveloped her in unconsciousness.

  WHEN MARIMIRA’S EYES finally blinked open, she was lying on the floor of the house Mbodze had constructed from shattered trees. By the sputtering glare of a single torch, she saw that the entrance was barricaded by rocks too heavy for her to budge. Then she remembered what had happened earlier in the day: how Chitsimbakazi had appeared to her, only to be knocked out of the sky by the raging zimwe ...

  With a moan of hopelessness, Marimira sank back to the floor. Whether she lay there for minutes or hours, she neither knew nor cared. But the earth beneath her face was damp with her tears when a light touch on her shoulder told her she was no longer alone in her prison.

  Quickly raising her head, Marimira let out a small cry of amazement. For the same sparrow she had thought slain by Mbodze was standing in front of her, gazing at her with uncommonly intelligent eyes. Just as Marimira realized that the bird must have flown in through the smoke-hole in the roof, a strange transmutation commenced.

  The image of the sparrow wavered. Its very outlines appeared to be changing ... expanding, even as the crimson rock had grown into the monstrous Mbodze.

  That memory brushed icy fingers of fear along Marimira’s spine. But when the transformation was complete, it was not a zimwe that stood in the place of the sparrow. It was a woman: tall, beautiful, attired in the plumed garments of a sorceress. Only the white bush of hair crowning her head suggested the woman’s true age, for her ebony face was unlined, and her body was as supple as Marimira’s. She looked down at Marimira’s tear-streaked face ... and smiled.

  “Are you Chitsimbakazi?” Marimira asked, her voice breaking in wonderment.

  “Who else?” the sorceress replied.

  “How did you know I needed you?” Marimira asked.

  “I didn’t, until I flew here from the Mosima-ya-Fisinzwa – the Country of Ghosts. You see, Marimira, there is a bond between Mbodze and I, though he is too stupid to realize that. When your touch brought Mbodze back to life, I, too, lived again, so that I can once again rid Nyumbani of his loathsome presence.”

  Those words brightened Marimira’s spirits.

  “And now, you will destroy the demon?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No,” said Chitsimbakazi. “You will.”

  Marimira’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

  “H-h-how?” she finally choked.

  “With this,” said Chitsimbakazi.

  She reached into her feathered cloak, and extracted a long bamboo tube. Each end was securely plugged with dried clay, but it was the strange hum emanating from its interior that aroused Marimira’s interest.

  “What’s making that noise?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” Chitsimbakazi admonished. “Just be sure that you give it to Mbodze when he comes for you in the morning.”

  “Wait!” Marimira cried as the shape of the sorceress suddenly became indistinct. “How can tube of bamboo harm a demon that can rip up trees?”

  “Trust me,” Chitsimbakazi’s fading voice urged. “And remember ... do not open the tube before you give it to Mbodze!”

  Within moments, the sorceress was gone, and a sparrow was winging its way through the smoke-hole before Marimira could say another word.

  Bewildered, Marimira held the mysterious tube gingerly. The hum continued unabated, and the bamboo vibrated at her touch.

  She resisted a strong temptation to break the clay plugs. And she remembered stories of the battle of magic long ago, when Chitsimbakazi had finally tricked Mbodze into turning himself into a rock so that Chitsimbakazi could hurl him into a land that – she said – was filled with delicious young girls and never-ending herds of game. But the moment the trusting zimwe had simply locked him into the spell, then flown off in her sparrow-form.

  Yes, Marimira decided ... she would trust Chitsimbakazi. Carefully she laid the bamboo down. Then she settled herself on the earth that was the only bed Mbodze provided. Despite a few lingering misgivings – and total mystification as to how a bamboo tube that hummed could have any effect at all on the red giant, Marimira fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  THE HARSH GRATE OF stone against stone greeted Marimira’s return to wakefulness. For a moment, she blinked in sleepy unawareness. Then she realized that Mbodze was pulling the rocks away from the entrance to the crude dwelling. Terror clutched at her heart, for she well knew what the zimwe would do after the last obstructing boulder fell away ...

  Then she remembered the bamboo. Quickly, she scooped it into her hands. The steady, vibrating hum from the tube seemed to reassure her as she watched daylight flood into the opening. Then the light abruptly disappeared as the massive body of Mbodze blocked the entrance.

  “Are you going to come willingly, or must I drag you out here?” the zimwe growled.

  Wordlessly, Marimira rose and walked toward the waiting demon. Mbodze, intent on leering at the more toothsome parts of her anatomy, paid scant attention to the object in Marimira’s hands. Moving aside, he allowed Marimira to pass.

  The moment she stepped into the open, she recoiled into Mbodze’s immovable form. For the zimwe had built a huge, crackling cook-fire surmounted by a freshly constructed roasting-spit.

  Mbodze gave Marimira a sharp shove forward. She stumbled, and nearly dropped the bamboo tube. The sheer panic she had experienced at the sight of the fire nearly drove all reason from her mind. Then she remembered what she must do ...

  Gathering what remained of her courage, Marimira turned and thrust the bamboo into the zimwe’s hands.

  “What is this?” Mbodze growled.

  “A ... gift for you,” Marimira blurted.

  Then she backed away as Mbodze glared in puzzlement at the tube, which looked like a straw in his gargantuan hands. The humming noise was more intriguing to him than where the “gift” may have come from. He held it next to his ear, then shook it. The humming grew louder.

  “What’s inside this thing?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Marimira replied truthfully.

  “Well, then ... I’ll find out,” Mbodze declared, easily snapping the bamboo between his fingers.

  Immediately, a buzzing black cloud erupted from the broken tube, and descended upon the face and upper body of Mbodze. The crimson giant roared in pain, and flailed the air with his mighty arms.

  Bees! thought Marimira as she dodged the zimwe’s wild lunges. She quickly realized that these were not ordinary bees. They were nyuki, the fire-bee, before which herds of elephants had been known to flee. Where spears and fangs could not penetrate, the stings of the nyuki could. It was little wonder that Chitsimbakazi had warned Marimira not to open the tube ...

  “AAAAOOOORRR!” Mbodze roared as the bees’ stings reached even the fire-pits of his eyes. Blindly, the zimwe stumbled past Marimira ... and straight into the blazing inferno of the cook-fire.

  The demon’s cries became louder as the flames ate at his flesh. As Marimira stared in disbelief, Mbodze’s huge form was diminishing, shrinking rapidly. And his voice was losing volume.

  Within moments, the fire was dead ... and Mbodze was nowhere in sight. Nowhere, that is, until Marimira ventured toward the remains of the fire, and saw a small, smoking, blood-red stone resting amid the hot ashes.

  By then, Marimira had seen enough. Like a frightened gazelle, she fled from the scene of the zimw
e’s downfall. This time, the foliage and the rocks remained silent and still.

  IN NYANGE, PEOPLE SADLY shook their heads whenever they passed the compound of Matezi ... Marimira’s mother. Since her daughter had disappeared, many search-parties of warriors had failed to find her. Certain that Marimira was dead, Matezi had allowed the yard of her compound to deteriorate.

  But one day, Matezi was seen vigorously sweeping the clutter from her yard.

  “Why are you sweeping what you have neglected for so long?” her friends inquired.

  “A sparrow came to me and sang, ‘Mother, sweep your yard. Marimira is coming,’” Matezi replied. “So I am doing just that.”

  The friends shook their heads and walked away, certain that Matezi’s grief had stolen her mind.

  But when Marimira appeared in Nyange a few hours later, all the sadness and skepticism turned to joy and laughter.

  And in the Country of Ghosts, a sparrow sang once, then fell silent.

  ISHIGBI

  IN 1981, SUSAN M. SHWARTZ, a prominent teacher, writer and editor in the fantasy-fiction field, issued a call for submissions to an anthology of stories about witches. Its title was Hecate’s Cauldron – an homage to the Greek goddess of ghosts, witchcraft and black magic. By that time, the first Imaro novel had been accepted for publication, and several of my stories had appeared in anthologies. Susan was a ware of my work, and was very open to the idea of an African-based witch tale.

  The story I came up with is “Ishigbi” – a name that basically bewitched its way into my mind. Witches have made their homes in Africa for thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – of years, and they have practiced their craft under many guises, from the thakati of South Africa to the mwanamke mchawi of the continent’s East Coast. The painted, masked, prancing “witch doctor” stereotype is little more than an errant scratch on the surface of the reality of African witchcraft.