Shahrazad’s favorite hunting ground—at least for breakfast—becomes the pastures. Feed from the horses’ mangers and water from the tanks attracts all manner of mice and small birds. Since the horses are regularly rotated, there is always a pasture not in use. Farther out, there are rabbit runs. Her jackalope escort never seems to care if she hunts their apparent kin, so she usually begins there, knowing that if she fails, mice are easier prey. As a last resort there are always kibbles.
After breakfast, sometimes she returns to the house, sometimes she ranges out to explore more of her domain. The Wanderer has departed, wandering presumably, and the Changer is often busy assisting Frank with some chore that goes more smoothly with two sets of hands.
Still, almost every day her father finds time to play with her, sometimes running with her, other times demonstrating a fine point of hunting. The three athanor dogs who reside with Frank occasionally deign to play with her, but she prefers being alone (or almost alone, for Hip and Hop follow her everywhere). The ranchlands are nothing new to the dogs, but to her they are a great adventure.
Even with all of this to fill her time, there is one ritual that Shahrazad never fails to perform. The time of day at which she performs it varies, but never the routine itself.
When both Frank and her father are busy elsewhere, Shahrazad sneaks into the ranch house. The jackalopes consider their duty done once she is back in the barnyard, so she is perfectly alone. Walking as softly as she can, the young coyote makes her way down a corridor that leads to a back section of the house. Here there is a thick door made from wide boards painted white. Behind it is a room that—she has found from investigating without—has no windows and no other door.
Shahrazad has never been in this room. The few times she had tried to slip in after Frank he has shooed her back. Still, she knows that something very important, something intimately associated with her, is behind that door.
So each day she sneaks to the door, stands on her hind legs, and tries to push it open. It never opens, but every day Shahrazad returns and tries once more.
If the young coyote could talk, she might try to explain the attraction of this door to her father or to Frank, but she cannot talk human; nor does the coyote language have the concepts she would need. Therefore, she cannot tell either the Changer or Frank how each night she dreams about this door and how in her dreams she pushes it open and lets out what lives inside.
6
Evil is a hill, everyone gets his own and speaks about someone else’s.
—African proverb
In the end, the family sleeps on the street that first night, and the night after that. When Aduke’s sister Yetunde calms down, she remembers that there is a place where the market women who come from outside of Monamona camp. These, of course, are those women who do not have family to take them in or friends to shelter them.
“Just like us,” Aduke says briskly. “That would be perfect. Iya Taiwo, can you finish preparing dinner—perhaps with one of my sister’s help? There is no need for us to go hungry. The landlord must give us time to pack. Perhaps we should insist on waiting until morning to leave.”
Taiwo’s mother accepts the paring knife that Aduke proffers.
“Send me Koko and she and I will finish dinner. Aduke, I do not think we should wait to leave until morning. I saw the eyes of our neighbors. Some were afraid, some were just greedy. If we stay, the one will stir up the others, and we may be chased away with nothing.”
Yetunde begins to lament again at this. Aduke thrusts a basket of laundry into her arms.
“Yetunde, start making bundles of clothing and smaller goods. Get some of the older children to help—work will steady them.”
Nodding, Yetunde starts giving orders, her hysteria vanishing. Aduke permits herself a smile; she knows her sister well. She is only weak when unfocused; focused she might well be the best of them all. It had been a pity she had chosen to marry so young and not to finish school.
Next, Aduke snags one of the older nieces by the arm.
“Fasina, your job will be taking care of those children too small to help with the packing. Don’t worry about the infants. They can stay with their mothers.”
The girl, eleven or twelve and, by the old way of seeing things, almost a woman, nods seriously. She gathers up a half dozen or so children and herds them into the hallway outside of the apartment. Within a few minutes, she has them singing alphabet and counting songs, their fear, at least, forgotten.
Now that something like order is restored, Aduke stands, finger flattening her nose (how, when she was younger, had she longed for that nose to be thin and narrow like that of an Englishwoman or even a Hausa!) as she plans. She feels the warmth of a human close by and finds Kehinde beside her.
“What are your orders for me, sister?” he asks, his tone playful but respect in his eyes.
Here, then, is a modern man! Aduke thinks in surprise. Even her father would not have asked a woman for direction in a crisis. With a pang, she wishes that Taiwo were here. He would not ask for direction. He would take over, and she could go join the women making bundles and fussing quietly in the other rooms. She shakes the thought away as if it is a fly. Taiwo is not here, and she should be grateful that Kehinde is modern enough to work with a woman. Trying to speak with proper respect and yet keep certainty in her bearing, Aduke addresses him, her voice low, for she doesn’t want the other women to hear what she must say.
“We cannot take the furniture with us, brother. Yet if we leave it, the worst of our neighbors will steal it. We also must contact our sisters’ husbands so they will know where we are.”
Kehinde nods. He works as a private tutor and as a letter writer, so is often at home. Yetunde’s husband drives a lorry. He won’t be easy to find. Then there is Koko, Taiwo and Kehinde’s sister, and her husband. Taiwo, of course, must be notified by letter or perhaps by telephone.
“The furniture must come first,” Kehinde states, “as that can be stolen. Let us go together and speak with the landlord. Between us, we can play on his guilt and his greed and get something like a fair price.”
Aduke nods. Crossing to where the old mother is efficiently transforming the groceries into a meal, she tells her where they are going. Malomo reaches and pats her on the cheek.
“It was a lucky day for me when my son Taiwo brought you into the family, Aduke. You and Yetunde are good daughters to this household.”
Feeling her face warm, Aduke gives the older woman a quick embrace and hurries outside, stepping over the gathering of little children and down the stairs to the landlord’s apartment. Behind her, she hears Kehinde’s tread, firm and measured, counterpoint to the piping voices of the children as they sing a traditional song that Kehinde had taught them.
This, she realizes, is what Oya meant when she talked of being a mother, even without a child of her body. Only with that thought does Aduke realize that sometime in the chaos following Yetunde’s announcement Oya had vanished.
Over and over again during the day and two nights that they spend in the open Aduke has reason to be grateful that this is the dry season. Although the weather is hot and the harmattan winds stinging, they do not have to sleep wet and slog through mud.
The lack of rain does make it more difficult for them to get fresh water. Aduke spends much of her spare time fetching water from a public pump and then boiling it over the portable gas stove they had used for cooking in the apartment. Her insistence on boiled water brings mockery from market women camping nearby, but Aduke closes her ears and takes comfort when not one of the children falls ill.
On the morning after the second night spent out of doors, Oya reappears just after the rest of the family has departed, most for the market. Kehinde has gone, he says, to tutor someone in English. Aduke keeps her doubts to herself. She suspects that he will find a quiet corner in a bar where for a few kobo spent on drinks he can have peace and quiet.
Oya sails up, her traditional wrapper billowing in the win
d, just as Aduke is decanting her first batch of boiled water into containers emptied by breakfast preparations.
“E karo, e karo. Good morning, good morning, Aduke Idowu,” Oya says as breezily as if she had not vanished without explanation just when the family had met with a terrible crisis. “I see you are doing well.”
“Well enough,” Aduke answers without offering the traditional greetings and inquiries in return. She knows that she is being rude, but she can’t help it. Oya’s defection had hurt her more deeply than her mere reappearance can mend.
“And your mother and sisters and children?”
“Well enough.”
“And their husbands?”
“Fine. When we see them.”
“Ah, then if everything is so fine, you will not be interested in some news that I have for you.”
Reluctantly, Aduke looks up from her decanting. In any case, she needs to set another pot of water to boil.
“News?” she asks, motioning Oya to a seat on one of the pillows she and her niece had beaten clean earlier that morning. “Will you have some tea?”
“Since you are boiling water and it won’t be an inconvenience,” Oya says, “I will be honored to take tea with you.”
Aduke feels her face growing hot. She is glad that she is so dark that her blush does not show. That had been something for which to pity the female European tourists. When they had visited the college campus and the men had hooted comments about their clothing and their figures, they might have held their heads high and pretended not to hear, but their own skins played traitor.
“There is some gari foto left from breakfast,” Aduke says, by way of an apology. “It is still fresh, and my husband’s mother outdid herself in the preparation.”
“Then she is well,” Oya says.
Aduke surrenders to protocol. While the water boils and the tea is brewed she supplies information about the health and well-being of her extended family.
Oya nods and blows on her tea to cool it. From a fold of her wrapper she produces a package of wrapped sweets.
“I brought these for the children, but a few will not be missed, and they will go well with our tea.”
Knowing herself forgiven, Aduke accepts a sweet. It is after the northern style, honey and sesame seeds formed into a solid little square that needs the tea to warm it for chewing.
“You said you had news,” she asks, her question now polite interest, not intrusiveness.
“Although you are doing very well here,” Oya says, gesturing to the tidy camp, “I thought that you would be interested in having more permanent quarters once more.”
“We are,” Aduke says, trying not to seem too eager.
“The place is not a proper apartment building, nor yet a house,” Oya says, “but it does have running water and is wired for electricity.”
“The rent?” Aduke says hesitantly. “We cannot pay much.”
“The rent would be reasonable.” Now Oya hesitates, as if it is her time to feel awkward. “You see, the place has a reputation for...”
She stops, drinks tea, chews her sweet, so manifestly uncomfortable that Aduke finds it easy to be patient. At last Oya recommences, her voice so soft that Aduke must lean forward to hear her.
“...for being haunted.”
Later, Katsuhiro longingly remembered that ride in the limousine as the last time for several days that he was cool. Without wasting words on explanations, his captors drive him into Lagos, transfer him to a van, and then drive the van a long distance over very bad roads. As the van has no windows, Katsuhiro has no idea even what direction they are headed.
Escape proves impossible. In the limousine two guns are always kept pointed at him—three when the man in charge frisks him, taking his money, jewelry, watch, and pocketknife.
The back of the van proves to be completely empty. There is not even a bench or chair that he could cannibalize into a weapon—not that he needs one, but even a club could be useful. Only the fact that the floor is thickly carpeted saves him from a formidable bruising when the roads become rough. Even so, he is far from comfortable.
No guard is placed in the back with him, nor is one necessary. The doors of the van are key-locked and then padlocked on the outside. Katsuhiro hears the lock click shut.
There is no communicating window or panel to the driver’s compartment. The walls, floor, and ceiling are triply reinforced, probably to stop bullets, but the layering of metal over metal ends his slim hope that he might burst out a weak seam.
And his own distinctive appearance is the final bond that holds him. Even if he escaped, for how long could he avoid recapture? A tall Japanese man on Nigerian streets would stand out like a chrysanthemum blossom against a wash of early snow. Moreover, he is reluctant to depart without his sword.
Katsuhiro had arrived in the Lagos air terminal around midday. When he is unloaded from the van inside a cavernous garage the glimpse he catches of the sky outside tells him that it is night. Guns reappear here and, fully respecting the harm they could do him, Katsuhiro permits his captors to escort him into a building adjoining the garage.
Although he maintains a calm, unconcerned attitude ("inscrutable” was doubtless how it would be described when his captors gave their report), Katsuhiro is fast losing hope. The slim hope he had that he was indeed being taken to visit some businessman—albeit one with an overdose of paranoia—begins to beat its wings for a fast escape when he is ushered down a flight of steps and taken into an area that smells of dungeon.
The odor is a mixture of common enough elements: damp, mold, urine, human sweat, dust. There is a tang of blood, too, and of vomit, feces, and tears. Katsuhiro had scented its like hundreds of times before, but only rarely has he been a prisoner. Now, as he is herded into a cell that seems pitch-dark after the light in the corridors, hope flees.
Like most athanor, Katsuhiro has an ingrained fear of being imprisoned. In a prison, under close daily observation, his secret may be revealed. This, added to his perfectly human terror, makes it difficult for him not to fling himself against the closing door or to assault his captors, no matter the end result.
Only many centuries of study in war and tactics reins in Katsuhiro’s panic. Thus far he has not been beaten; he has not been tortured. He has no doubt that if he angers his captors one or both of these things will quickly follow. Injury would reduce his chances for escape—not to mention hurting a lot.
So, no matter how he feels, Katsuhiro puts a good face on his situation and even manages a small bow before the door closes, sealing him in darkness.
Eventually, he learns two things. First, the darkness is not absolute. A small window high in the exterior wall admits both fresh air and a hint of something that cannot be called light but is at least less darkness. Second, he realizes that he is not alone.
A shape, just visible as a blackness against greater blackness, is humped on the floor. Katsuhiro might not have seen it if it had not moved and might have believed he was hallucinating if it had not spoken. It has a male voice, deep yet cracked as if something in it is broken. What it mutters is unintelligible.
“What?” says Katsuhiro, keeping his voice low, for he is certain there is a guard in the hallway. “What did you say?”
The voice speaks again, this time in English so heavily accented that Katsuhiro wonders if he is being mocked. When he sorts the words out from their peculiar pronunciations and grammatical order, they prove to be: “A say, ‘Who are you?’"
“Katsuhiro Oba, a prisoner.”
There is a dry, cracked chuckle. “Na, so we all. A no tink you p’liceman.”
“True.” Katsuhiro swallows hard. “Have you been here long?”
“Dey trow me...” The cracked voice stops and resumes in English that, while still heavily accented is at least more recognizable. “They throw me in this cell for so long dat I tink they forgot me, except that sometimes they remember to feed me.”
“Sometimes?”
“Na, most day
A tink.” Again the pause. “For a while I try to keep count by the daylight, but now I don’t see so good. I see lights when it dark, dark when it light. Tha las’ beatin’ broke sometin’ in my head.”
Katsuhiro makes a sympathetic noise. “Maybe I can help you when it’s daylight.”
“You doctor?” The man sounds impressed.
“I know something of medicine.” And so he should after all the battlefields on which he has served. “But I need light.”
“So do we all.”
Katsuhiro starts to ask the man why they have imprisoned him, then bites back the question. The man trusts him, at least somewhat, so far. If he starts asking personal questions, though, then the man might think he’s a stooge sent in by the authorities. He decides on a safer question.
“Do you know where we are?”
“Monamona, A tink. Dat’s p’lice get me. We no go ooo far then.”
Katsuhiro grunts acknowledgment. Monamona is the city where he and Anson were to do business. That his kidnapping is connected somehow to that business seems a reasonable assumption. He puzzles for a while, chewing the bit of beard below his lower lip. Eventually, he falls asleep.
When he awakes, pale daylight is just visible through the narrow window above. After the night’s blackness, it seems like a floodlight, though he can barely make out the color of his shirt.
His cellmate proves to be a lean, moonfaced African, asleep on his side on the packed-earth floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head pillowed on his arm. The man’s face and shoulders show evidence of a terrible beating: black blood has scabbed tight in some places; in others the wounds swell with infection or run with pus.
Flies crawl over the man so freely that for a moment Katsuhiro thinks he has passed in the night. Then the ribs rise and slowly fall.
Leaving the man to whatever peace he can get from sleep, Katsuhiro inspects his cell. An open bucket that has not been emptied in some days is the only latrine. The furnishings consist of the ragged blanket on which his cellmate lies and a plastic bucket partially filled with warm, flyblown water. A closed slot in the door near the floor shows how food is delivered. A peephole, just wide enough for a pair of eyes, is set higher in the door.
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