The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New SF

by Gardner Dozois

  “That is a thoughtful and innovative suggestion, Memsahib Eaton,” I said truthfully. “I am sorry that I must reject it.”

  “But why?” she demanded.

  “Because the first time we betray our traditions this world will cease to be Kirinyaga, and will become merely another Kenya, a nation of men awkwardly pretending to be something they are not.”

  “I could speak to Koinnage and the other chiefs about it,” she suggested meaningfully.

  “They will not disobey my instructions,” I replied confidently.

  “You hold that much power?”

  “I hold that much respect,” I answered. “A chief may enforce the law, but it is the mundumugu who interprets it.”

  “Then let us consider other alternatives.”

  “No.”

  “I am trying to avoid a conflict between Maintenance and your people,” she said, her voice heavy with frustration. “It seems to me that you could at least make the effort to meet me halfway.”

  “I do not question your motives, Memsahib Eaton,” I replied, “but you are an intruder representing an organization that has no legal right to interfere with our culture. We do not impose our religion or our morality upon Maintenance, and Maintenance may not impose its religion or morality upon us.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is precisely that simple,” I said.

  “That is your last word on the subject?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She stood up. “Then I think it is time for me to leave and make my report.”

  I stood up as well, and a shift in the wind brought the odors of the village: the scent of bananas, the smell of a fresh caldron of pombe, even the pungent odor of a bull that had been slaughtered that morning.

  “As you wish, Memsahib Eaton,” I said. “I will arrange for your escort.” I signalled to a small boy who was tending three goats and instructed him to go to the village and send back two young men.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I know it’s an inconvenience, but I just don’t feel safe with hyenas roaming loose out there.”

  “You are welcome,” I said. “Perhaps, while we are waiting for the men who will accompany you, you would like to hear a story about the hyena.”

  She shuddered involuntarily. “They are such ugly beasts!” she said distastefully. “Their hind legs seem almost deformed.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’d be interested in hearing a story about a hyena.”

  “You will be interested in this story,” I told her.

  She stared at me curiously, then shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “It is true that hyenas are deformed, ugly animals,” I began, “but once, a long time ago, they were as lovely and graceful as the impala. Then one day a Kikuyu chief gave a hyena a young goat to take as a gift to Ngai, who lived atop the holy mountain Kirinyaga. The hyena took the goat between his powerful jaws and headed toward the distant mountain – but on the way he passed a settlement filled with Europeans and Arabs. It abounded in guns and machines and other wonders he had never seen before, and he stopped to look, fascinated. Finally an Arab noticed him staring intently and asked if he, too, would like to become a civilized man – and as he opened his mouth to say that he would, the goat fell to the ground and ran away. As the goat raced out of sight, the Arab laughed and explained that he was only joking, that of course no hyena could become a man.” I paused for a moment, and then continued. “So the hyena proceeded to Kirinyaga, and when he reached the summit, Ngai asked him what had become of the goat. When the hyena told him, Ngai hurled him off the mountaintop for having the audacity to believe he could become a man. He did not die from the fall, but his rear legs were crippled, and Ngai declared that from that day forward, all hyenas would appear thus – and to remind them of the foolishness of trying to become something that they were not, he also gave them a fool’s laugh.” I paused again, and stared at her. “Memsahib Eaton, you do not hear the Kikuyu laugh like fools, and I will not let them become crippled like the hyena. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  She considered my statement for a moment, then looked into my eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Koriba,” she said.

  The two young men I had sent for arrived just then, and I instructed them to accompany her to Haven. A moment later they set off across the dry savannah, and I returned to my duties.

  I began by walking through the fields, blessing the scarecrows. Since a number of the smaller children followed me, I rested beneath the trees more often than was necessary, and always, whenever we paused, they begged me to tell them more stories. I told them the tale of the Elephant and the Buffalo, and how the Masai elmoran cut the rainbow with his spear so that it never again came to rest upon the earth, and why the nine Kikuyu tribes are named after Gikuyu’s nine daughters, and when the sun became too hot I led them back to the village.

  Then, in the afternoon, I gathered the older boys about me and explained once more how they must paint their faces and bodies for their forthcoming circumcision ceremony. Ndemi, the boy who had insisted upon a story about Kirinyaga the night before, sought me out privately to complain that he had been unable to slay a small gazelle with his spear, and asked for a charm to make its flight more accurate. I explained to him that there would come a day when he faced a buffalo or a hyena with no charm, and that he must practice more before he came to me again. He was one to watch, this little Ndemi, for he was impetuous and totally without fear; in the old days, he would have made a great warrior, but on Kirinyaga we had no warriors. If we remained fruitful and fecund, however, we would someday need more chiefs and even another mundumugu, and I made up my mind to observe him closely.

  In the evening, after I ate my solitary meal, I returned to the village, for Njogu, one of our young men, was to marry Kamiri, a girl from the next village. The bride-price had been decided upon, and the two families were waiting for me to preside at the ceremony.

  Njogu, his faced streaked with paint, wore an ostrich-feather headdress, and looked very uneasy as he and his betrothed stood before me. I slit the throat of a fat ram that Kamiri’s father had brought for the occasion, and then I turned to Njogu.

  “What have you to say?” I asked.

  He took a step forward. “I want Kamiri to come and till the fields of my shamba,” he said, his voice cracking with nervousness as he spoke the prescribed words, “for I am a man, and I need a woman to tend to my shamba and dig deep around the roots of my plantings, that they may grow well and bring prosperity to my house.”

  He spit on both his hands to show his sincerity, and then, exhaling deeply with relief, he stepped back.

  I turned to Kamiri.

  “Do you consent to till the shamba of Njogu, son of Muchiri?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said softly, bowing her head. “I consent.”

  I held out my right hand, and the bride’s mother placed a gourd of pombe in it.

  “If this man does not please you,” I said to Kamiri, “I will spill the pombe upon the ground.”

  “Do not spill it,” she replied.

  “Then drink,” I said, handing the gourd to her.

  She lifted it to her lips and took a swallow, then handed it to Njogu, who did the same.

  When the gourd was empty, the parents of Njogu and Kamiri stuffed it with grass, signifying the friendship between the two clans.

  Then a cheer rose from the onlookers, the ram was carried off to be roasted, more pombe appeared as if by magic, and while the groom took the bride off to his boma, the remainder of the people celebrated far into the night. They stopped only when the bleating of the goats told them that some hyenas were nearby, and then the women and children went off to their bomas while the men took their spears and went into the fields to frighten the hyenas away.

  Koinnage came up to me as I was about to leave.

  “Did you speak to the woman from Maintenance?” he asked.

  “I did,” I
replied.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that they do not approve of killing babies who are born feet-first.”

  “And what did you say?” he asked nervously.

  “I told her that we did not need the approval of Maintenance to practice our religion,” I replied.

  “Will Maintenance listen?”

  “They have no choice,” I said. “And we have no choice, either,” I added. “Let them dictate one thing that we must or must not do, and soon they will dictate all things. Give them their way, and Njogu and Kamiri would have recited wedding vows from the Bible or the Koran. It happened to us in Kenya; we cannot permit it to happen on Kirinyaga.”

  “But they will not punish us?” he persisted.

  “They will not punish us,” I replied.

  Satisfied, he walked off to his boma while I took the narrow, winding path to my own. I stopped by the enclosure where my animals were kept and saw that there were two new goats there, gifts from the bride’s and groom’s families in gratitude for my services. A few minutes later I was asleep within the walls of my own boma.

  The computer woke me a few minutes before sunrise. I stood up, splashed my face with water from the gourd I keep by my sleeping blanket, and walked over to the terminal.

  There was a message for me from Barbara Eaton, brief and to the point:

  It is the preliminary finding of Maintenance that infanticide, for any reason, is a direct violation of Kirinyaga’s charter. No action will be taken for past offenses.

  We are also evaluating your practice of euthanasia, and may require further testimony from you at some point in the future.

  Barbara Eaton

  A runner from Koinnage arrived a moment later, asking me to attend a meeting of the Council of Elders, and I knew that he had received the same message.

  I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders and began walking to Koinnage’s shamba, which consisted of his boma, as well as those of his three sons and their wives. When I arrived I found not only the local elders waiting for me, but also two chiefs from neighboring villages.

  “Did you receive the message from Maintenance?” demanded Koinnage, as I seated myself opposite him.

  “I did.”

  “I warned you that this would happen!” he said. “What will we do now?”

  “We will do what we have always done,” I answered calmly.

  “We cannot,” said one of the neighboring chiefs. “They have forbidden it.”

  “They have no right to forbid it,” I replied.

  “There is a woman in my village whose time is near,” continued the chief, “and all of the signs and omens point to the birth of twins. We have been taught that the firstborn must be killed, for one mother cannot produce two souls – but now Maintenance has forbidden it. What are we to do?”

  “We must kill the firstborn,” I said, “for it will be a demon.”

  “And then Maintenance will make us leave Kirinyaga!” said Koinnage bitterly.

  “Perhaps we could let the child live,” said the chief. “That might satisfy them, and then they might leave us alone.”

  I shook my head. “They will not leave you alone. Already they speak about the way we leave the old and the feeble out for the hyenas, as if this were some enormous sin against their God. If you give in on the one, the day will come when you must give in on the other.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” persisted the chief. “They have medicines that we do not possess; perhaps they could make the old young again.”

  “You do not understand,” I said, rising to my feet. “Our society is not a collection of separate people and customs and traditions. No, it is a complex system, with all the pieces as dependent upon each other as the animals and vegetation of the savannah. If you burn the grass, you will not only kill the impala who feeds upon it, but the predator who feeds upon the impala, and the ticks and flies who live upon the predator, and the vultures and maribou storks who feed upon his remains when he dies. You cannot destroy the part without destroying the whole.”

  I paused to let them consider what I had said, and then continued speaking: “Kirinyaga is like the savannah. If we do not leave the old and the feeble out for the hyenas, the hyenas will starve. If the hyenas starve, the grass eaters will become so numerous that there is no land left for our cattle and goats to graze. If the old and the feeble do not die when Ngai decrees it, then soon we will not have enough food to go around.”

  I picked up a stick and balanced it precariously on my forefinger.

  “This stick,” I said, “is the Kikuyu people, and my finger is Kirinyaga. They are in perfect balance.” I stared at the neighboring chief. “But what will happen if I alter the balance, and put my finger here?” I asked, gesturing to the end of the stick.

  “The stick will fall to the ground.”

  “And here?” I asked, pointing to a stop an inch away from the center.

  “It will fall.”

  “Thus is it with us,” I explained. “Whether we yield on one point or all points, the result will be the same: the Kikuyu will fall as surely as the stick will fall. Have we learned nothing from our past? We must adhere to our traditions; they are all that we have!”

  “But Maintenance will not allow us to do so!” protested Koinnage.

  “They are not warriors, but civilized men,” I said, allowing a touch of contempt to creep into my voice. “Their chiefs and their mundumugus will not send them to Kirinyaga with guns and spears. They will issue warnings and findings and declarations, and finally, when that fails, they will go to the Utopian Court and plead their case, and the trial will be postponed many times and reheard many more times.” I could see them finally relaxing, and I smiled confidently at them. “Each of you will have died from the burden of your years before Maintenance does anything other than talk. I am your mundumugu; I have lived among civilized men, and I tell you that this is the truth.”

  The neighboring chief stood up and faced me. “I will send for you when the twins are born,” he pledged.

  “I will come,” I promised him.

  We spoke further, and then the meeting ended and the old men began wandering off to their bomas, while I looked to the future, which I could see more clearly than Koinnage or the elders.

  I walked through the village until I found the bold young Ndemi, brandishing his spear and hurling it at a buffalo he had constructed out of dried grasses.

  “Jambo, Koriba!” he greeted me.

  “Jambo, my brave young warrior,” I replied.

  “I have been practicing, as you ordered.”

  “I thought you wanted to hunt the gazelle,” I noted.

  “Gazelles are for children,” he answered. “I will slay mbogo, the buffalo.”

  “Mbogo may feel differently about it,” I said.

  “So much the better,” he said confidently. “I have no wish to kill an animal as it runs away from me.”

  “And when will you go out to slay the fierce mbogo?”

  He shrugged. “When I am more accurate.” He smiled up at me. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  I stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then spoke: “Tomorrow is a long time away. We have business tonight.”

  “What business?” he asked.

  “You must find ten friends, none of them yet of circumcision age, and tell them to come to the pond within the forest to the south. They must come after the sun has set, and you must tell them that Koriba the mundumugu commands that they tell no one, not even their parents, that they are coming.” I paused. “Do you understand, Ndemi?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then go,” I said. “Bring my message to them.”

  He retrieved his spear from the straw buffalo and set off at a trot, young and tall and strong and fearless.

  You are the future, I thought, as I watched him run toward the village. Not Koinnage, not myself, not even the young bridegroom Njogu, for their time will have come and gone before the battle is jo
ined. It is you, Ndemi, upon whom Kirinyaga must depend if it is to survive.

  Once before the Kikuyu have had to fight for their freedom. Under the leadership of Jomo Kenyatta, whose name has been forgotten by most of your parents, we took the terrible oath of Mau Mau, and we maimed and we killed and we committed such atrocities that finally we achieved Uhuru, for against such butchery civilized men have no defense but to depart.

  And tonight, young Ndemi, while your parents are asleep, you and your companions will meet me deep in the woods, and you in your turn and they in theirs will learn one last tradition of the Kikuyu, for I will invoke not only the strength of Ngai but also the indomitable spirit of Jomo Kenyatta. I will administer a hideous oath and force you to do unspeakable things to prove your fealty, and I will teach each of you, in turn, how to administer the oath to those who come after you.

  There is a season for all things: for birth, for growth, for death. There is unquestionably a season for Utopia, but it will have to wait.

  For the season of Uhuru is upon us.

  TALES FROM THE VENIA WOODS

  Robert Silverberg

  Robert Silverberg is one of the most famous SF writers of modern times, with dozens of novels, anthologies, and collections to his credit. As both writer and editor (he was editor of the original anthology series New Dimensions, perhaps the most acclaimed anthology series of its era), Silverberg was one of the most influential figures of the Post New Wave era of the ’70s, and continues to be at the forefront of the field to this very day, having won a total of five Nebula Awards and four Hugo Awards, plus SFWA’s prestigious Grandmaster Award. His novels include the acclaimed Dying Inside, Lord Valentine’s Castle, The Book of Skulls, Downward to the Earth, Tower of Glass, Son of Man, Nightwings, The World Inside, Born with the Dead, Shadrack in the Furnace, Thorns, Up the Line, The Man in the Maze, Tom O’ Bedlam, Star of Gypsies, At Winter’s End, The Face of the Waters, Kingdoms of the Wall, Hot Sky at Morning, The Alien Years, Lord Prestimion, Mountains of Majipoor, and two novel-length expansions of famous Isaac Asimov stories, Nightfall and The Ugly Little Boy. His collections include Unfamiliar Territory, Capricorn Games, Majipoor Chronicles, The Best of Robert Silverberg, At the Conglomeroid Cocktail Party, Beyond the Safe Zone, and a massive retrospective collection, The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume One: Secret Sharers. His reprint anthologies are far too numerous to list here, but include The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One and the distinguished Alpha series, among dozens of others. His most recent books are the novel The Long Way Home and the mosaic novel Roma Eterna. He lives with his wife, writer Karen Haber, in Oakland, California.