Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  The brief struggle had carried them closer to the bank. Appearing to concede defeat, Nyimbi stumbled out of the water. Zuriye followed.

  “Had enough?” Zuriye asked.

  Nyimbi reached into her crumpled shuka. When her hand came back into view, it sprouted a gleaming dagger. Hatred twisting her features, Nyimbi advanced upon the outlander.

  “You don’t have a chance now, mganga,” Nyimbi spat. “After I shove your body into the water, the crocodiles will do the rest. No one will be able to deny my claim that you drowned while bathing ...”

  In reply, Zuriye motioned Nyimbi forward. A cold smile curved her lips. Dagger held high, Nyimbi rushed forward like a juggernaut. Zuriye stepped lightly aside, like a dancer confronting a cow. Then she reached out and clamped her fingers on Nyimbi’s wrist. With surprising strength, she wrenched the Bagara’s arm upward, nearly dislocating it from its socket.

  Shrieking in pain, Nyimbi fell to her knees and dropped the dagger. Zuriye picked up the weapon. Then she shoved Nyimbi onto her back and straddled her. She laid the point of the dagger against Nyimbi’s neck. Even though it was a light touch, Nyimbi dared not even to attempt to swallow the lump of terror that had formed in her throat.

  “It could be you, Nyimbi, whose flesh provides a feast for the crocodiles,” Zuriye said. “You’d make quite a meal for them, don’t you think? They wouldn’t need to eat again for days.”

  When Nyimbi did not respond, Zuriye increased the pressure of the point against the Bagara’s skin. Nyimbi nodded, sweat beading her dark brow. She was so frightened, she could not speak. Abruptly, Zuriye pulled the dagger away from Nyimbi’s throat.

  “You deserve to die,” Zuriye said. “But for the sake of those of your people who are my friends, I will allow you to live. Go. Do not come near me again. And do not speak of this to anyone ... not that you’d want to, I’d imagine.”

  Still holding the dagger, Zuriye rose and watched Nyimbi haul herself to her feet. Not daring to meet Zuriye’s gaze, the Bagara woman dressed and turned to depart. She stopped short when Zuriye called: “Wait!”

  Reluctantly, Nyimbi turned to face Zuriye again.

  “You forgot this,” Zuriye said, holding the dagger hilt-first to Nyimbi.

  The Bagara reached for the weapon. Just as her fingers were about to close around the hilt, Zuriye hurled the weapon over her bare shoulder and into the Zaikumbe. Then she laughed at the open-mouthed expression on Nyimbi’s face. Nyimbi scurried away as though a leopard were pursuing her. Still smiling, Zuriye began to dress. She was winding her turban around her hair when she heard a voice in the foliage behind her.

  “Don’t move,” the voice warned.

  ZURIYE’S BREATH HISSED inward as she froze in mid-motion, reflex causing her to obey the command of the hidden voice. A swift whoosh in the air marked the passage of a spear past her head. Then a bestial shriek sounded behind her, and she heard a frenzied thrashing in the shallow water. Zuriye whirled toward the sound – and her hands shot to her mouth to stifle a sudden scream of fright.

  A huge, cat-like creature was struggling toward her despite the spear half-buried in its breast. Just as the beast reached the bank, a dark shape leaped in front of Zuriye – Mgaru.

  Rushing behind the wounded creature, Mgaru drove his broad-bladed dagger into a spot just beneath the base of its flat skull. Then he danced away from the spasmodic whirl of claws that would have torn him to tatters had they chanced to strike him. With a final shudder, the beast collapsed and lay still.

  Zuriye also shuddered as she looked more closely at her attacker. Larger than a lion, its thick brown fur was spattered with gore. Mostly catlike in character, it also had the long, thick tail and short legs of an otter. The thought of what would have happened if the creature had caught her caused Zuriye to look away from it.

  “It’s a dilali, Mgaru said, answering Zuriye’s unspoken question. “A water-lion. Usually, they don’t come this close to Bagara, for they fear our kibokos – hippopotamus. This one must have been attracted by the disturbance you and Nyimbi made.”

  “Then you heard and saw what happened,” Zuriye murmured, looking up at Mgaru.

  “Yes,” said Mgaru. “Did you really think you could lose me so easily? I would have stayed hidden, but when I saw Nyimbi come here, I became suspicious. I would have disarmed her if you hadn’t.”

  “Again, I owe you my life, Mgaru,” Zuriye said with a smile.

  Mgaru did not return the smile.

  “You are more than you appear to be, Zuriye,” he said seriously. “Beneath your softness lies iron. Iron ... and cruelty.”

  “Cruelty?” she repeated, her eyes not leaving his.

  ‘Yes, cruelty!” he blurted, stepping forward and grasping Zuriye’s arms. “More than a moon has passed since I brought you to Bagara. During that time, I have done everything I know how to let you know I love you. Yet you continue to spurn me. Why? In the name of Ngai and all the ancestors, why?”

  Zuriye laid her hands on Mgaru’s broad chest.

  “I know your feelings, Mgaru,” she said. “And I would like to return them. But I cannot stay among your people. Were all Bagara like you, I would feel differently. But there are too many like Nyimbi and her mother and even your uncle Msumu – and, of course, Ajoola.”

  She touched his face, then continued.

  “Mgaru, if you do love me, then you will take me back to my people. Why continue to expose me to the threat of death?”

  Mgaru released her and looked down.

  “There is truth in what you say,” he admitted. “But if I return you to your people, I will lose you forever. I cannot bear that.”

  “That doesn’t have to happen, Mgaru. You would be welcome among the Komeh. We do not believe in witches – or in Silent Ghosts. My father would honor you for having saved my life.”

  Mgaru looked at her. An inner debate raged plainly on his face. To leave Bagara ... he had never before even considered the possibility. But the events of the recent past had turned the Bagara into people armed against themselves. And his father ... every day, Mweyzo appeared to derive more pleasure in finding fault with Mgaru. It was the latter thought that confirmed his decision.

  “I will take you back to your people, Zuriye,” he said. “For you, I will become a Komeh, and leave Bagara behind.”

  “One day, you will be diop of Bagara,” Zuriye reminded him.

  “That is what my father wants,” Mgaru said. “What I want is ... you.”

  Zuriye did not answer Mgaru’s plea with words. Instead, she stepped close to him and wound her arms around his neck. Mgaru pulled her closer, his hands nearly spanning her narrow waist. Their mouths met ... at first tentatively, then fiercely. Their garments dropped away. They sank into a patch of grass near the riverbank, totally unaware of the pair of eyes that glared hatefully at them from a thicket of tangled foliage ...

  FEAR ATE AT NYIMBI’S resolve as she pushed her way through the forest toward a location known to few, yet shunned by all. How her mother had learned the way to the dwelling of Ajoola, Nyimbi had never dared to ask. Ktibi had passed that knowledge on to her daughter, as she did all the sordid secrets of Bagara. Even Ktibi, though, would never have dared to undertake the vengeance Nyimbi sought.

  Even so, only the impetus of her hatred prevented the young Bagara woman from turning back as the path she followed twisted deeper into the forest.

  Suddenly, two oversized hyenas blocked her path. Nyimbi stopped short, her heart hammering in her chest. In normal circumstances, hyenas were not to be feared. Still, Nyimbi well knew the bone-crunching power of a hyena’s jaws. And she began to remember whispered stories of the Witch Smeller’s ability to control the actions of animals ...

  One of the hyenas circled behind Nyimbi. Then she felt its snout press against her legs, prodding her forward. The other turned and trotted down the path ahead of her. Escorted by the hyenas, Nyimbi arrived at the abode of Ajoola.

  Ajoola squatted impassively in front
of his dwelling: a sprawling, ramshackle affair of sticks, grass, and leaves, altogether too large for a single inhabitant. The Witch Smeller looked at Nyimbi as though he had been expecting her arrival.

  “Why do you come here, daughter of Ktibi?” he demanded.

  Nyimbi was too frightened to speak. Then one of the hyenas growled; a ratcheting sound totally unlike the yipping bark usually associated with its kind. The signal was too obvious to be misinterpreted.

  “It’s Mgaru!” she cried, panic loosening her tongue. “That – mganga – has bewitched him into leaving Bagara. He will never come back! There are others who will leave with him! The mganga is tearing Bagara apart! You were right about her, but the others are too blind to see it. You are the Witch Smeller. You must do something about the mganga! You must kill her!”

  With an upraised hand, Ajoola halted the torrent of words.

  “I have heard you,” he said. “You speak the truth. Soon, I will act. Now, return to Bagara, and say nothing about this meeting.”

  The hyenas prodded Nyimbi back to the forest trail. She was too terrified to protest; Ajoola could see tremors racing across her fleshy torso. The Witch Smeller smiled. At last, the time had come for his ambitions to be fulfilled.

  The Bagara were dangerously divided. If Ajoola could find a way to discredit Mweyzo and destroy the credibility of those who did not fear the Witch Smeller, then he, Ajoola, could become the new diop. No longer would he be compelled to live apart from all others, with only despised animals as his companions.

  Though he could control the wills of animals, direct dominance over the minds of men and women eluded him. But using his mastery over beasts, and exploiting the unrest rampant in Bagara, Ajoola could soon become the only credible authority left in the river town.

  Ajoola closed his eyes and tensed his muscles into small, rigid knots. A call issued from his mind ... a call that sped through the trackless depths of the forest until it touched an assembly of dim, primitive brains that had grown accustomed to the ethereal presence of the Witch Smeller. When the call was answered, Ajoola smiled again.

  MWEYZO AND MGARU STOOD on the dock of Bagara, watching provisions being loaded onto a large mtumbwi. Zuriye stayed close to Mgaru, her fingers twined in his. The kiboko-boys urged their huge charges into position to tow the mtumbwi out past the current that sluiced around the bend in the Zaikumbe. Most of the people of Bagara were assembled around the dock.

  The diop’s brow was furrowed with frustration and concern. When Mgaru had announced that he intended to return Zuriye to her people and renounce his own tribe, Mweyzo’s shock had equaled that of the rest of the Bagara. To the followers of Ajoola, Mgaru’s behavior was further evidence of the truth of the Witch Smeller’s prophecy. The flame-haired mganga, they whispered, intended to lead Mgaru and the band of young adventurers who would accompany him straight into the clutches of the Silent Ghosts.

  Mweyzo’s reaction was more visceral. He was about to lose his son. He had attempted everything short of violence to convince Mgaru to remain in Bagara. But he was a diop, not a god. The weight of his authority did not press so heavily that he could compel his son to stay. When he looked at Zuriye, Mweyzo found that for the first time in many rains, he was in agreement with the Witch Smeller ...

  Mgaru’s companions shouted farewells to their parents and sweethearts as they loaded the last of the provisions. The adventurers promised they would return before the next changing of the moon. Only the son of the diop would be forever gone from the Bagara. Zuriye had said the Komeh were a nomadic people who would be withdrawing from the river country once they decided she was hopelessly lost, and likely dead.

  “There is no way I can change your mind about this, is there?” Mweyzo asked, not looking at his son.

  “No, Father,” Mgaru replied. “You know Uncle Msumu has always said I’m just as stubborn as you are.”

  “May Ngai be with you, then,” the diop said.

  Then he turned and walked away from the dock, not wishing to witness Mgaru’s departure.

  “You are certain you do not regret leaving your people, Mgaru?” Zuriye asked, gazing upward into the Bagara’s eyes.

  “You are all the ‘people’ I need,” Mgaru replied. He did not mention his earlier farewell to Mkimba the rootman, or the tears that had glazed the eyes of both men at their parting.

  They were about to board the mtumbwi when a frantically shouting figure burst through the crowd at the dock. Almost inarticulate in his frenzy, the newcomer pointed toward the forest beyond the shambas.

  “Who is that man?” Zuriye asked uneasily. “What is wrong with him?”

  “It’s Mkumbo, the hunter,” Mgaru replied.

  Mgaru was well aware of Mkumbo’s courage. The man had once stalked and slain a leopard turned man-eater. What was it, Mgaru wondered, that could so reduce a man like Mkumbo?

  Seizing the hunter by the arm, Mgaru attempted to shake some sanity into him.

  “Mkumbo!” he shouted. “What are you trying to tell us, man?”

  Mweyzo, who had pushed his way back to the dock when he heard the disturbance, also yelled at Mkumbo.

  “What is it, hunter?” the diop demanded. “Are we under attack?”

  Mkumbo’s eyes cleared. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse croak, as though his throat had been worn raw by shrieking.

  “They come,” he said. “Like an army of giants, they come, destroying everything in their path ...”

  “What comes?” Mweyzo demanded. “Elephants?”

  “No, not elephants,” Mkumbo cried, his voice rising again. “Piobo! A herd of piobo, coming this way!”

  At the sound of that name, a hush fell upon the Bagara. The piobo was a creature even closer to legend than the nsanga or dilali. The “elephant’s mad cousin” was the way the piobo was commonly identified. Mindless rampage, utter destruction – those were the attributes of the piobo.

  In the sudden quiet, heard what their talk had masked before ... a growing, thunderous rumble; a beat like ten thousand war-drums reverberating through the forest, punctuated by the trumpets of a horde of demons ...

  Terror stabbed the hearts of the Bagara when the first of the nightmare beasts crashed out of the forests and into the shambas. Bulky, barrel-shaped bodies; massive, columnar legs; python-thick trunks – in those attributes, the piobo did, indeed, resemble the elephant. But the piobo stood a man’s height above the tallest of elephants. And instead of curving outward from the upper jaw as in an elephant, the piobo’s tusks jutted downward from their lower jaws.

  Their shaggy coats were the color of mud, and their ears were small and round rather than large and triangular like an elephant’s. Their tiny red eyes glared with madness as they marched forward, oblivious to the puny obstacles presented by the shambas. More than two-score piobo thundered toward the town. The ground rocked beneath them.

  The Bagara stared in open-mouthed astonishment at the immense wall of flesh bearing down on them. Behind the piobo, the shambas were smashed flat. The sudden realization that the piobo were heading directly toward them snapped the paralysis that had gripped the Bagara. Instantly, the town became a chaos of people rendered as mindless by fear as Mkumbo had been. The Bagara had driven marauding elephants fro their shambas before. Lone elephants, however, were as nothing next to the mass of piobo. Even the boldest of the Bagara fled before the oncoming behemoths.

  As the trumpeting piobo began to crash through Bagara houses as if they were mere heaps of straw, a large number of men, women and children headed for the river. Others bolted for the patches of woodland flanking the town. And some, terrified beyond rationality, sought the dubious shelter of their houses of wood and thatch.

  Those who stayed in their houses died when the rampaging monsters smashed the structures with their tusks and bodies. Some of the ones who fled for the woods were crushed like insects beneath the piobos’ churning feet. It was at the river, however, that the carnage was greatest.

  Maddened with
fright, the kibokos threw their riders from their backs and attempted to flee the first piobo that reached the river. They were too slow. The piobo, twice the weight of a hippopotamus, trampled and gored the towing-beasts as easily as they did the humans who milled in panic between the piobo and the river. The tusks of the piobo were splashed with blood as they stabbed downward in mad frenzy.

  During the first rush to reach the river, Zuriye and Mgaru had been separated. Only sheer good fortune had spared Zuriye from being trampled along with the others when the first wave of piobo splashed into the water. She stood rooted by horror, her mind clouded with unreasoning fear.

  Then a loud wail, rising above the trumpeting of the piobo and the cries of the dying, penetrated that cloud. Turning toward the sound, Zuriye quickly discovered its source: a small child left behind in the panic and confusion. With a start of dismay, Zuriye realized the child was standing stock-still in the path of a piobo that had become separated from the rest of the herd.

  Unmindful of the risk she was taking, Zuriye hurried toward the screaming child. Scooping the small body into her arms, she scampered out of the way of the piobo’s ponderous feet.

  But the small, blazing eyes of the piobo had detected the brief flash of Zuriye’s motion. With an agility frightening in a beast of such immense weight, the piobo wheeled toward the fleeing woman. Noticing a pile of wreckage that had once been a house, Zuriye dropped the child behind the rubble, out of the piobo’s sight. Then she raced off in a different direction, praying that the gods of Komeh lend wings to her feet – or grant her a swift, painless death.

  The ground trembled behind her as the piobo pounded forward. She could hear its enraged bellowing drawing nearer, nearer ... and the trees were too far away. She screamed when she felt the tip of the piobo’s trunk brush against her back.