Perhaps it was the slight scrape of the jaculi’s scales along the bark of the branch that alerted Zuriye of the danger that had been clear to the chevrotain. She whirled, preventing the jaculi from striking her on the back. Still, it fastened its fangs into the flesh of her arm, just above the silver bracelets.
Gasping in sudden pain, Zuriye stared wide-eyed at the snake fastened to her arm. Then she reached inside the sash at her waist, pulled out a razor-sharp jambiya dagger, and slashed at the jaculi. Half the serpent’s body dropped writhing onto the riverbank. But the head remained attached to Zuriye’s arm, pumping deadly poison into her bloodstream.
In frantic haste, Zuriye dropped her jambiya and tore the head of the serpent from her flesh. Colorless, lethal liquid dripped from broken fangs as the severed halves looped spasmodically in the mire. Then the venom began to reap its toll on Zuriye. She staggered dizzily as the poison burned strength from her slender limbs.
While Zuriye tottered, Siki flailed wildly in a panic-stricken attempt to break free from its chain, which had become entangled in a nearby root. The chevrotain squealed louder than seemed possible, given its size.
Zuriye fell heavily onto the riverbank. Already, the twin punctures left by the jaculi’s fangs were swelling grayishly against her dark skin. Still, Zuriye summoned sufficient strength to drag herself toward her pet. Hands trembling, she unfastened the chain from the jewelled collar that encircled the neck of the chevrotain.
“Bambullah ... bring Bambullah, Siki,” she whispered.
As the terrified creature streaked into the forest, Zuriye faded into unconsciousness. The jaculi’s poison continued its course through her bloodstream as inexorably as the mud of the riverbank seeped through her translucent trousers.
Even the slight tremor caused by Zuriye’s impact with the riverbank reached the haunts of the crocodiles that dwelled in the Zaikumbe. Sensing food, the great reptiles swarmed from their subsurface caves and swam toward the bank.
Before they reached the surface, the shadow of a monster even the crocodiles feared rose from the depths beneath them. It was a nsanga, a reptile twice the size of the largest crocodile. As the nsanga swam into view, the crocodiles scattered to safer waters.
Majestically, the nsanga’s blunt, iguana-like head broke the surface. Sighting the human form lying on the riverbank, the gigantic saurian swam leisurely toward it. Then the creature sensed another disturbance in the water – a disturbance drawing rapidly nearer. Ignoring the new presence – it knew no fear, having no natural enemies – the nsanga crawled onto the riverbank, four stumpy legs dragging its enormous length through the mud.
The prey was tiny, almost insignificant ... but an easy meal, nonetheless. The beast’s mouth gaped open, teeth longer than a lion’s spiking its jaws.
SWIFTLY, THE GREAT mtumbwi sliced through the waters of the Zaikumbe. Fifty strong black arms powered the paddles that propelled the trading-craft, with little help from the river’s slow current. Trade goods of many varieties were piled high in the interior of the mtumbwi. The presence of that pile eloquently bespoke the lack of success of its owners in their commercial expedition to the upriver town of the Jabali people.
Mgaru, leader of the traders, ruefully recalled the mood of the Jabali. They had been in no disposition to haggle over the merit of the handiwork of Mgaru’s people, the Bagara. Only one night before, the Jabali villages had been raided by the Jini-Wangwa – the Silent Ghosts. Senselessly, the Jabali had slumbered while the Silent Ghosts carried away the strongest men and comeliest women. Understandably terror-stricken, the Jabali had greeted the shrewd-bargaining Bagara with sullen words and threatening spear-points.
The Bagara had thus been forced to return downstream without the dibatag-hides and woven raffia mats they had hoped to obtain from the Jabali for their own surplus pottery and spoons. The disappointment of the Bagara was tempered by the unsettling reality of the Silent Ghosts striking so near to their own environs. So distracted were the men in paddling the mtumbwi that they almost missed the grim scene on the riverbank.
But Mgaru’s eyes were alert. He spotted the nsanga lumbering toward the still form of the woman even as the mtumbwi swept past.
“Turn toward the bank!” he cried abruptly.
The paddlers veered sharply, almost upsetting their cargo. Mgaru snatched up a war spear lying near him. His practiced feet rode the rocking of the dugout craft as he took swift, careful aim at the gigantic reptile.
“Nsanga!” some of the other Bagara cried incredulously. For most of them, this was their first glimpse at a creature so rare that it seemed more legendary than real.
Mgaru cocked his spear-arm, muscles bunching beneath his jet-black skin. Then he hurled the heavy spear with so much force that he nearly fell from the unsteady deck of the mtumbwi.
Flashing through the hot, damp air, the spear harpooned the long neck of the nsanga. Bellowing in pain, the reptile turned to confront its attackers. Seeing the dugout and the men who filled it, the nsanga lurched toward the water.
Before the reptile could reach the mtumbwi, a shower of spears tore into its scaly hide. Following Mgaru’s example, the other Bagara had hurled their weapons at the onrushing monster. Large though their dugout was, they knew the nsanga could easily overturn it and crush them in the water like so many minnows. So the men threw their weapons harder than they ever had before.
Spear-shafts quilling its huge body, the nsanga died on the riverbank. Blood seeped into the water. Never again would the nsanga frighten crocodiles from their prey. Soon, the lesser reptiles would feast on the nsanga’s flesh ...
“Move closer to the shore,” Mgaru ordered. “I saw someone ... whoever it is might still be alive.”
The Bagara maneuvered their craft into the shallow water near the bank. While Mgaru and several others splashed toward the prone figure of Zuriye, the men still in the mtumbwi used their spears to fend off crocodiles attracted by the blood of the nsanga. Frustrated by the sharp spear-points, the crocodiles lurked just beneath the surface of the river, floating like long-snouted sentinels of death.
Mgaru was the first to reach Zuriye. Carefully, he turned her onto her back. For a long moment, he gazed down at the young woman, entranced by her exotic garb and decorations. Then his attention was drawn to the pair of puffy, discolored wounds on her arm. Her breathing was almost imperceptible, and her skin seemed to burn under Mgaru’s hands.
A quick glance at the bisected carcass of the jaculi was more than sufficient to spur Mgaru into action. Even now, he might be too late to save this wondrous stranger. Without hesitation, he covered the bite with his lips and began to suck poisoned blood. The first mouthful he spat out burned his tongue. He knew the burning would become worse before he was through.
The others who had accompanied Mgaru ashore stood in a semicircle around him and Zuriye. They stared in disbelief at the behavior of their young leader.
“What in the name of Ngai do you think you’re doing?” demanded Msumu, who was an older man with gray streaks in his bush of hair. “That’s jaculi venom you’re sucking, man! You could be dead before we make it back to Bagara.”
For reply, Mgaru spat out another mouthful of blood and returned to his task.
“Look at her clothes,” the cautious Msumu continued. “Look at the silver on her mouth and breasts. This could be one of the Silent Ghosts! Are you going to risk your life for one of them?”
“Don’t be a fool, old man,” Mgaru snapped, lips burning from the poisoned blood. “Ghosts don’t die from poison! Besides, she’s solid enough, isn’t she?”
“Before they drove us off, the Jabali showed us strange footprints around the walls of their town.” Msumu argued. “That proves the Silent Ghosts are solid ... solid enough to leave marks.”
Mgaru did not respond. The other Bagara, however, began to mutter nervously and stare suspiciously at the unconscious stranger.
Despite the fire spreading through his mouth, Mgaru continued to work on the
wound until he was certain he had delayed the advance of the venom in the woman’s blood. She moved weakly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Mgaru rose and stared hard at the restive crewmen.
“I think I’ve slowed the poison, but she needs the rootman,” he said. “Msumu, you help me get her into the boat. The rest of you will cut off the head of the nsanga. We’re taking that back to Bagara, too. My father will be pleased that we were able to kill one of those monsters.”
“There’s no room for both those things in the mtumbwi,” Msumu said stubbornly.
“Then we’ll throw the damn pots in the river!” Mgaru said. “If the Jabali won’t take them, they’re useless, anyway.”
Stern gaze softening, Mgaru laid his hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I know this has not been a good trip, Uncle,” he said. “But perhaps the stranger can tell us something about the Silent Ghosts. And the head of a nsanga! Even my father never brought back such a thing.”
“There is, perhaps, too much of my brother in you,” Msumu said gruffly.
Bending down, he grasped the legs of the young woman as Mgaru held her beneath her shoulders. Some of the Bagara set to work on the nsanga with their broad-bladed daggers, while other jettisoned the surplus pots. Soon, both Zuriye and the head of the nsanga were loaded into the dugout.
At Mgaru’s command, the mtumbwi shot away from the riverbank and sped downstream. Not long after the watercraft was gone, crocodiles swarmed toward the carcass of the deposed monarch of the Zaikumbe ...
BY THE TIME THE mtumbwi reached the bend in the Zaikumbe that marked the site of Bagara, Zuriye had passed from slumber to delirium. Despite her slight frame, she struggled so strenuously that it took three men to prevent her from hurling herself overboard. She cried out in a tongue unfamiliar to Bagara ears. To Mgaru, the language sounded sweetly musical. Even so, the delirium marked an advance in the course of the jaculi’s poisoning.
Arm-weary but giving their utmost effort in response to Mgaru’s urging, the paddlers continued their rapid pace. When the dugout came within sight of the docks of the river-town, the kiboko-boys – forewarned by the drum-talk of watch-posts lining the riverbank – had already guided their gargantuan steeds into the water.
There were two kiboko-boys, each straddling the broad back of a full-grown hippopotamus. Thick leather bands circled the girths of the hippos. Heavy ropes tipped with iron hooks were tied to iron rings attached to the bands at the center of the beasts’ backs. As their mounts swam ponderously toward the mtumbwi, the kiboko-boys whirled the weighted ends of the ropes above their heads.
Then the boys tossed the hooked ends of the ropes toward the prow of the dugout. Men at the front of the mtumbwi caught the ropes and attached the hooks to raised rings on the boat. This done, the boys kicked at the sides of the hippos, and the beasts turned and swam shoreward. The current rushed swiftly at the bend of the river, but the trained beasts swam effortlessly.
Almost before the mtumbwi was towed to the wooden dock, Mgaru leaped from the deck, carrying Zuriye in his arms as though she were weightless. Slinging her across one shoulder, he climbed the ladder of the dock and hurried to the center of the town. Msumu and the other crewmen followed.
As they burst into the main open square of the town, Mgaru and his crew created a commotion that roused more than a few Bagara from their daily pursuits. The men of the tribe dropped their carpentry and ironwork, and the women left their cooking and pottery-making, to see who Mgaru was bearing so precipitously to the house of the rootman.
Word traveled swiftly to the shambas – the cultivated fields of yams, millet, melons and cassava that stretched from the edge of the town to the rampart of uncleared forest that reached for the sun. By the time the women and children who worked the shambas arrived at the square, Mgaru had already entered the house of Mkimba the rootman.
The healer was startled when Mgaru burst through the cloth curtain shielding his doorway. He had been abstractedly receiving the complaints of a matron who bewailed her lost ability to arouse her husband. Before Mkimba could respond to the woman, Mgaru laid Zuriye down on the mat Mkimba used for examining the sick.
“Quickly, Mkimba!” Mgaru cried. “She is dying from the bite of a jaculi. I sucked out all the poison I could, but she still needs your aid – now!”
Gently but firmly, the rootman eased Mgaru away from the stranger, who had slipped back into a comatose state. Then he bent to her side, moving his hands skillfully across her feverish skin.
“What are you doing, Mkimba?” the Bagara matron demanded indignantly. “You have not yet finished with me!”
Turning his graying head toward the woman, the rootman said: “If you would stop belittling your husband’s abilities, Ktibi, you just might find that he’ll perform better. Now, get out. I have serious work to do here.”
While Ktibi’s full-lipped mouth ovaled in outraged shock, Mkimba waved his hand toward the onlookers crowding the entrance to his house.
“Go away, all of you,” he said irascibly. “I can’t work with every fool in Bagara staring at me. And Ngai knows, there are enough of you.”
Indignantly, Ktibi gathered the voluminous folds of the shuka that covered her from waist to feet. She wore no other garment.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, rootman,” she threatened as she flounced through the doorway.
The others followed her example. Mkimba was a healer, but his tongue was as sharp as any weapon’s edge.
Mgaru stayed. So fascinated was he by the young woman he hoped he had rescued that Mkimba’s wrath meant nothing to him. The rootman looked not unkindly at Mgaru. Then he reached for a bowl of cool water.
“You are very much concerned about this stranger,” he remarked as he applied the water to her face and limbs.
“Yes,” Mgaru said. “Let me help you, Mkimba. I have not forgotten everything you taught me before ...”
“Before your father, the diop, the ‘King of All Bagara,’ decided that his son was not born to be a healer,” Mkimba said sourly. “Now, how long ago did you find her?”
Mgaru told him.
“Very well,” said Mkimba. “In a few moments, she will begin to thrash and scream as though mad. The next time she quiets, she will die. I want you to keep her from harming herself until I bring the herbs for jaculi-bite.”
With that, the rootman rose and went into the second room of his house. Just as he disappeared behind the hanging, Zuriye’s limbs began to flail. Her foot knocked over the water bowl. Mgaru fell upon her, pinning to the rush mat, holding her wrists in his strong hands. With deep anxiety, he gazed upon her pain-wracked face. Then he became aware of the sliding of her naked skin beneath his as they struggled. Something stirred in Mgaru ...
Mkimba emerged from the second room. In his hands, he bore a small clay pot full of a thick, honey-colored paste. He snorted cynically at the flash of guilt on Mgaru’s face as he bent to the stranger’s side.
“You’re ‘subduing’ her quite well, Mgaru,” the rootman commented. “Now, hold her jaws open while I get this herb into her.”
Embarrassed, Mgaru pried Zuriye’s jaws apart. Then Mkimba poured the pasty antidote down her throat. Zuriye choked. Then her throat-muscles instinctively forced the medicine down her gullet. Her head fell back and her breathing grew deep and even, the delirium departed.
“She will live,” Mkimba said. “If you hadn’t sucked so much poison out of her, she would have vomited the herb, and died.”
He pushed the pot, which wasn’t yet empty, toward Mgaru.
“Here,” the rootman said. “You need to swallow some of it yourself. Don’t make me force it down your throat.”
For the first time in many hours, Mgaru grinned. Taking the pot from Mkimba’s hands, he swallowed the amber paste until the rootman told him to stop.
“Now, the two of you need rest,” Mkimba said.
Mgaru nodded agreement.
Just then, the hanging on the front entrance was swept
aside, and Mweyzo, the diop of Bagara, entered. The telling and retelling of the story of the coming of the Jini-Wangwa to the Jabali, as well as the rescue of the strangely clad young woman and the slaying of the nsanga, had swept the entire town. So had the speculation of Msumu and others who were involved with the failed trade expedition.
The Bagara were still not fully convinced by Mkimba’s assurance that the stranger was not a Silent Ghost. The mention of that dreaded name sent rumors buzzing like wasps from a disturbed nest. Mweyzo decided that the time had come for him to personally investigate the matter.
Mgaru and Mkimba stood to face Mweyzo. Mweyzo and his son bore a considerable resemblance. They were both sturdy men of medium height, clad in knee-length ngias. Mweyzo had no need for elaborate headgear to proclaim his authority. He carried it in his eyes, his stance.
“Will she live?” he asked Mkimba.
“Yes. She will sleep until tomorrow’s sunrise. She will be weak, but she should be able to talk by then.”
“Good. Let me know the moment she awakens. I have some questions to ask her – about the Silent Ghosts.”
“She is no Jini-Wangwa,” Mgaru said quietly.
Mgaru glared hotly at his father. In his dark eyes burned anger that few men or women would have exposed before the diop.
“We can discuss that later,” Mweyzo said. “Now, come with me. I wish to hear your version of the story of this trip that bore no trade.”
“I want to stay with the stranger a few moments longer before we talk,” said Mgaru.
Father and son locked eyes. It was Mgaru who looked away first.
“All right,” Mweyzo said the moment his son dropped his gaze. “Don’t take too long, though.”
The diop turned and departed. Mgaru knelt by the side of Zuriye. He saw that the swelling on her arm had lessened considerably, and the punctures had become tiny, whitish holes. Her sleeping face was like a midnight flower waiting to bloom. Again, Mgaru felt a stirring of emotion unlike anything he had known before.
Nyumbani Tales Page 22