The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection

by Swardstrom, Will

  Again, Olisa nodded, keeping her eyes closed and trying to form the picture of the area around the compound where legitimate visitors to the preserve stayed. She wanted them to go there, but not to stand next to the buildings where they would surely cause fright and trouble, so it was a delicate balance she needed to strike.

  Half of the training she did with the Dibia consisted of going places and looking at them—really looking at them in the way an animal would, as well as the way a human would. Her catalog was still woefully inadequate, but there was only so much traveling an eight-year-old girl and an aged woman could do in a day.

  The lead female seemed to catch on to her meaning the quickest. Images and memories that combined tastes, sounds, and sights all in one big, but unique, signature rolled back toward Olisa with surprising strength. It was like the elephant was standing right next to her and shouting in her ear. When the female began moving, speaking in her elephant speech to her family, Olisa relaxed and let out one final long sigh.

  “They’re going,” she whispered, a sheen of new sweat dampening her upper lip. Conveying details like that was hard work.

  The Dibia already knew that, of course, having listened in on the exchange. She stroked her arm in approval. “You did that very well, Olisa. No confusion and very little disruption in their lives. Very good!”

  Wiping the sweat from her face, Olisa felt herself flush, happy to have done the Dibia proud. She lifted her cup and sipped her warm tea, letting her fingers rub the carvings of animals so delicately incised on the cup by another person in her village.

  The Dibia sipped her own tea, then placed her cup on the ground next to her with such delicate precision that it made no sound and disturbed the hard soil not even the slightest bit. She added another small chunk of wood to the fire and the light in the hut dipped wildly as the fire resettled itself. Then she said, “Now, let’s discuss what you’ll do about the hunters.”

  Three

  Olisa opened her eyes to her Dibia’s smiling face. It was one so seamed and lined that it appeared almost a map of time, and the smiling made it even more so. Yet somehow, it was also the most beautiful face Olisa knew.

  “Up, little one, it’s time to go,” she said in her soft, gravelly voice.

  No light seeped through the gaps in the hut, so if it was morning, it was still very early indeed. At most, Olisa had gotten a few hours of sleep—not nearly enough for a normal night—but she felt good, like she’d slept a full night and awoken to a bright, perfect day. Wrapped in the Dibia’s arm on her pile of soft skins and woven mats, she felt safe and secure. It was an oddity, that being near the Dibia was, in itself, a sort of restorative for Olisa.

  The Dibia handed her a cup of tea, the liquid inside fragrant and so hot that steam rose from it in languorous wisps. She sniffed and blew on the surface before taking a small, cautious sip. “That’s good. Thank you, Dibia.”

  A quick breakfast of pounded yams and spicy chicken disappeared too quickly. The chicken was a particular favorite and this time—like every time Olisa ate it—she promised herself she wouldn’t gobble, that she would eat slowly so that she could enjoy it for longer. And this time, like every other time, she gobbled it down.

  As the Dibia handed her the items for her pack she seemed, for the first time, unsure. The questions she asked to confirm how Olisa would handle unexpected contingencies soon became repetitive and insistent.

  This was the first time that Olisa would handle the thwarting of a hunt by herself, alone against so many and her village—and any help—a hard three-hour run away. Still, the Dibia’s nervousness was making her nervous. Was she too little to do this? Too young? Or worse yet, was she too unskilled?

  The Dibia must have sensed her uncertainty spreading to Olisa, because she made an effort to contain it. She gripped a wrap of yam paste and drew in a long, whistley breath, her eyes closed for a moment. When she opened them, the warm stillness was back and she said, “You’ll do well, little one. My mind knows it, but my heart loves you so much it makes me frightened not to go with you.” She laid a hand over her heart to emphasize her words and gazed with deep affection at Olisa.

  Warmth spread through Olisa’s limbs, pushing back the chill brought on by her anxiety, and she rose up on her knees to kiss the Dibia on her papery-skinned cheek. She smelled of last night’s fire and sleep. The little wrapper of yam paste passed to Olisa’s hands, the imprint of the old woman’s tight grip now pressed into the leather surface. Then she was done. It was time to go.

  Four

  Olisa equated the sounds of the Yankari waking each morning to the first cry of a newborn baby coming from a hut in the village. It was different, but it felt the same. The way all the pent-up breaths were released from worried friends and family at the sound of the cry; the way wide smiles of relief and joy replaced furrowed brows; the way the sound of hands slapping the skin of the new father’s back in congratulations replaced concerned stillness—all blended together to remind her of a morning in Yankari.

  The distant hoot of baboons waking to begin a new day of bickering—the earth-shaking pounding of a herd of Hartebeest startled by some change in their nighttime surroundings—the faint and far-away trumpeting of an elephant calling to a distant group—each was familiar yet delightful, every day bringing some new variation to enjoy. It was like music.

  The day had only just settled from its post-dawn exuberance to its morning quiet when Olisa slowed to begin her approach to the camp. The low, brush-covered rise stood between her and the group of hunters, but there was never any guarantee that everyone would stay in camp. She knew where the latrine was set up—and had selected her look-out position well away from it—but anyone might be walking around to appreciate the morning, or just want some time alone. The last bit of distance was the most hazardous.

  Olisa paused behind a thick screen of low trees and brush at the bottom of the rise, wiped her face and took a long drink of water. Tempted as she was to send out a pulse and reassure herself that all was well, the last thing she needed to do was bring attention to her presence if the stirring man was attuned to her power.

  Already, she was covered in dust from her run, but she patted more into her hair and tossed a bit onto her shoulders so that she would blend in better with her surroundings. The itch was immediate, but so was the relief as the sun’s bright morning rays met the barrier of dust instead of her skin.

  Scrambling up the incline of the rise quietly was a challenge, but once at the top, Olisa examined the area carefully. All her old footprints and the dip her butt had made over the hours she spent sitting the day before appeared undisturbed.

  The story those prints told was so clear that Olisa was disappointed with herself. She should have brushed them away before she left. If anyone found them, they could even now be lying in wait somewhere and watching to see if she returned.

  At the thought of that, Olisa flattened herself to the ground, her heart hammering in sudden anxiety. The screen of uneven brush, the low trees whispering in the morning breeze and the rise and fall of the land would hide anyone watching for her as well as it hid her from the camp. She waited, her breath coming in tight, thin, and inadequate streams and her body tensed to run.

  Once again, she wished that her pulse could divine the presence of humans. Then she could reassure herself that she was alone or be sure she should leave the area. But it didn’t work like that, no matter how much she wished that it did.

  The only way to know of a human was through the animals that sensed their presence by scent, sight, or hearing. Second-hand information. Did she dare send out a pulse? Could she control the ripples in her fearful state and keep them small enough to miss?

  She clenched her fingers around fallen leaves and twigs on the ground, fighting against the impulse to send ripples. Knowing when not to send the pulse was just as important as knowing when to send it. Controlling her reaction to fear was as important as learning not to let her dreams take over and send out the pu
lse in an undisciplined wave while she slept.

  The Dibia’s teaching came back to her like a tiny voice inside her head and she closed her eyes, whispering the mantra in her head. Breathe in calm, breathe out fear.

  Fear clouds the perceptions, creates sounds where none exist or assigns natural sounds a malevolent aspect. Fear interferes with thoughtful responses. All of this Olisa knew, but knowing it and being able to control it were two different things. But, at least, knowing was a start.

  A few minutes passed and the fear retreated, the anxiety lessened. The various chirps and songs of nearby birds finally broke through and helped her understand that no other human could be close if their songs remained unhurried and absent alarm calls. The whispers of wind over the dry soil were not footsteps. The rustling of leaves was not caused by the passing of a man.

  Olisa rose on her elbows to look around. Nothing. All was as it should be. The breeze shifted and the faint sound of metal clanking—pots and pans if she had to guess—reached her ears. All was well and she remained undetected. Caution was called for, but fear wasn’t.

  Poachers—because she couldn’t really give these men the title of hunters—were unpredictable if discovered. Some might run or simply move on as if they had nothing illegal in mind. Others might only see a small girl in a vast space—empty of humans to see, report or intervene—and make another decision. No matter what their course of action might be if they found her, it would be best not to be found at all.

  Behind the screen of brush once more, Olisa saw the normal activity of a morning camp instead of a trap. Almost as if her arrival were some sort of signal, breakfast was being made and the scent of coffee—a strong smell she associated with the visitor’s compound of the preserve—stung her nostrils even from this distance. She wrinkled her nose and wondered who would willingly drink something that smelled like burned dung?

  The three men who would be doing the hunting were nowhere in evidence. The flaps of the tent Olisa thought most likely the one they used for their own were still tied tightly closed. The little ties were tucked toward the interior, indicating the one who tied them was still inside. The trailing ends of the flaps made little shushing sounds in the wind when the noise momentarily abated.

  One of the porters stepped away from the outdoor kitchen, a tray of cups balanced carefully in his hands. At the closed tent, he murmured something Olisa couldn’t understand in a harsh language unfamiliar to her. A sort of grunting assent followed from inside and a moment later, the flaps of the tent jerked as the knots were released.

  A skinny man wearing nothing but striped underwear appeared at the open flap. He flinched a bit from the light and scratched at his little round belly. His reddish hair stood up in tufts around his head and his skin was so painfully white Olisa wanted to look away from it. For some reason, it looked like his skin should feel cold, perhaps a bit like raw dough. It was very ugly, that was for sure.

  The man took one of the cups and tipped it back to drink, then let out a long groan of pleasure that almost made Olisa giggle it was so overdone. Another man, this one wearing pants but no shirt, took the other two cups and disappeared back into the tent. After an exchange of words, the porter went back to the kitchen area and the flap dropped closed again. A brief burst of laughter greeted the porter after some words she couldn’t hear.

  Olisa leaned back and let the warming day lull her. The animal tracker was still in the camp and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. The hunters—though they were awfully slow to go hunting—seemed equally slow this morning.

  She knew what to do. When the tracker left, she would communicate his picture to the animals and then listen for ones that saw him. From there, it was all a matter of keeping animals away from the tracker and the hunters. If it came down to it, she would do what she did for the little animal on the road and throw up a shelf of dirt so stiff it would stop a bullet.

  It worked to keep the truck from squashing the animal, so it would work for bullets as well. That, she’d never done on her own before, but she knew she could do it. It was only a matter of concentration.

  Her ears half-tuned for changes in the camp, she lay down in the shadow of a bush and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to fall asleep, but the short rest of the night before and the two long runs on either side of that sleep were all conspiring against her. Even as she assured herself that she would only close her eyes for a moment, she drifted off into sleep.

  Five

  In her dream it was raining, the kind of hard rain that came only at the height of the rainy season. It created a roar that drowned out the sound of speech unless you put your mouth directly to the ear of the person you were speaking to. She could feel the pounding rain reverberating through the ground where she lay, and smell the scents of sweat and wet leather trapped in the huts by the steamy heat.

  And then she was lifted from both her dream and the ground by rough arms and harsh voices. Olisa opened her eyes to unintelligible yelling from the hunters and the guides who translated for them. Arms as strong as iron held her, her own arms trapped at her sides and her feet high off the ground. All around her, the rattle of stones and dirt died away as her feet left the ground.

  She understood what had happened. She had let loose the pulse in her sleep again, and by all appearances, it must have been a strong one. Camp chairs had toppled and dishes lay scattered in disarray in the kitchen area. And the men in the camp had simply followed the ripples to their center—to her.

  The other guides and porters—the ones who spoke her language or a dialect she understood—seemed undecided as to whether to scream she was a witch or call for her release as a Dibia. So, they were screaming both things by turns, an unfamiliar mix of reverence and fear on their faces.

  Olisa kicked backward as hard as she could, but what could a girl as small as she do against the one holding her? All she managed to do with her kick was make the arms around her tighten even more, trapping the breath inside her chest and increasing her panic. Her toes reached for the ground, but she might as well be flying. A foot or a mile, it made no difference if she couldn’t touch the ground.

  One of the porters—the stirring man—noticed her stretching legs and shouted, “Keep her off the ground!”

  Olisa glared at him as the one holding her jerked her up farther with a deep grunt of effort. He had the look of her people stamped on his features. He must know the Dibia, or at least know enough to understand that they talked through the ground. Was he some hunter who had left their village when he was young seeking the modern life, seeking modern things? Under her glare, he at least had enough shame inside him to look away.

  The three hunters kept up their indecipherable speech, punctuated by finger jabs as the guide translated, or at least made an attempt at it. They seemed to find the idea of the porters fearing her amusing, because after the guide finished speaking, pointing in her direction, all three of the hunters looked at each other and then at her, then laughed.

  Olisa thought she understood them. They saw a half-naked little girl, ignorant of their ways and watching them from the bushes. To them she was nothing to be frightened of, but what she might tell others could be a cause for alarm. She could see that dangerous undercurrent in the way their eyes roamed the empty land around them before settling on her again, a weighing of options. A weighing of loss and gain.

  She did the only thing that she thought might sway the balance; she started to cry. Not the simple crying of a grown-up, but the wailing of a little child who doesn’t yet know better. It wasn’t hard to do. She was frightened and wanted to cry. It took very little to let it get the better of her.

  All of the yelling around her stopped, every face turning her direction, the expressions on them ranging from shock to chagrin. Birds in the nearby trees took flight as she wailed and she found she was no longer trying when the tears began rolling down her face. Olisa was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

  One of the hunters said something in h
is harsh language to the guide, and then the guide spoke to the man holding her. “Put her in the truck.” He paused, then looked almost embarrassed when he added, “Don’t let her touch the ground.”

  She felt the man behind her nod and then she was turned and bounced along toward the big truck that had brought the group here. If they weren’t letting her go right now, that meant they were thinking about what to do with her. That might mean they would let her go, but it also might mean they wouldn’t. Olisa couldn’t stop herself when the urge to struggle came over her again.

  This was what panic felt like. She had heard the hunters of her village speak of it, of how to avoid it and how to overcome it when it couldn’t be warded off, but she had never felt it herself until this moment. It was terrible and it was consuming her. She kicked and fought, tried to reach her fingers back far enough to dig into the skin of the man holding her. She jabbed her heels into his shins over and over again. The man only grunted, jerked her upright and squeezed his arms together until her she couldn’t take a breath.

  Stars began to dance in her eyes and she felt her kicks losing power and slowing, as if she were trying to kick at him through muddy water. No matter how hard she pulled, her chest wouldn’t expand and she could get no air inside her. She didn’t want to pass out, to lose awareness now when she needed it most, so she fought the urge to kick and went limp.

  The man shuffled a few steps, stopped and then jiggled her up and down as if to wake her. His arms loosened just enough for her to suck in a breath and the stars retreated, the world stopped spinning. His voice was deep and carried the accent of her people when he said, “Hush now.”

  Olisa didn’t know what to think. He said it gently but firmly, like her father might if she were chattering too much while he was trying to concentrate on something else. But his grip was still tight and she felt the danger he represented well enough. She tried to crane her neck and look at him, but it was no use.