The other two nod.
“I can’t say I thought it was going to do much good, but today, coming out of a service at one of the Christian spin-offs... Aladura, I think, or was it...”
“Get on with it, man!” Dakar rumbles
“I am,” Eddie says, unintimidated. “I’ve been to so many services that I can’t keep them straight. Anyhow, as this Christian service was letting out, this old babalawo was coming down the street. He refused to give way for the minister, and a bit of a fracas broke out.
“Normally, people here are pretty tolerant, but nerves are strung tight now. Those who weren’t brawling were arguing, and one argument caught my attention. A woman in Western clothes was arguing fiercely with a market woman in a traditional wrapper. The gist of it was the same old song.”
Anson sighs, maybe because his moi-moi plate is empty.
“One god or many, eh?”
“That’s it. I wasn’t paying much attention, but the wrapper wearer started insisting that the orisha did still have power, great power. Her clincher was that Oya herself is living in Monamona, and that this wind is her cloak protecting the city.”
“Oya?” Dakar looks undecided whether to be furious or merely frustrated. “I told you. There is no Oya!”
Eddie merely shrugs. “This woman seemed pretty certain. I kept remembering the stories about Oya’s altars being swept clean, too. So I followed the wrapper wearer to the market. As I had hoped, she told her story to her associates with a great deal of enthusiasm. I managed to insert myself into the audience and, when the woman was done—her name is Yetunde, by the way—I got her attention and, the long and short of it is...”
“The long,” Dakar mutters.
“Is that I have an address for this Oya. I considered going on my own, then I thought that the two of you might want to join me.”
Anson swings his long legs to the floor, setting the moi-moi plate reverently aside.
“I’m coming. You, Dakar?”
“There is no Oya,” Dakar insists stubbornly. “This is just some woman with the same àbíso name. Still, going after her is better than sweating in this room.”
When the three athanor arrive at the address on Eddie’s sheet of paper, they are surprised to find it is a three-story factory in a comparatively deserted portion of the city. Eddie shrugs.
“This is the place,” he says, checking his paper. “Yetunde said to knock at the side door.”
Then, since this is his mission, his discovery, Eddie raps on the solid door, wondering if the sound will even carry within.
“Traditional family, at least,” Anson says, indicating a chunk of laterite to one side of the door. “That is an altar to Eshu, the messenger between the orisha and their worshipers. He’s the trickster god, too. I don’t think the factory owners set the altar up.”
Eddie grins, but whatever he had been about to say is stopped when the door swings open. A pretty young woman, probably in her early twenties, peeks out.
“Yes?” she says in Yoruba.
“We have come looking for Oya,” Eddie says, stepping forward and extending a package of akara. “We were told she dwells here.”
The young woman’s eyes widen, but her expression does not seem as much astonished or unbelieving as thoughtful.
“Come inside,” she says. “I will run up and learn if Oya will see you.”
Eddie extends the akara, which has been wrapped, at Anson’s insistence, in a red-and-purple scarf.
“Please take these to her,” he says as he has been coached. “Her praise songs say that these are among her favorite foods.”
The young woman’s gaze becomes more neutral, but there is something else there as well—approval? hope?
She does not invite them upstairs, so the three athanor wait in a dimly lit lower area that almost certainly started life as a combination garage and warehouse. Now, apparently, it is being used as a play area for an indeterminate number of children.
Dakar, prowling around restlessly, grunts in satisfaction as he picks up a toy lorry that has been made from a large can with cut sections of plastic pipe for wheels. Solidly glued to the dashboard is a tiny black figure.
“Traditional indeed,” he says, pleased. “Ogun is not forgotten here either.”
The young woman comes hurrying down the steps at this moment. She stops halfway down.
“May I have your names?”
Eddie speaks for them all. “I am Eddie Ibatan. This is Anson A. Kridd, and this large man is Dakar Agadez.”
They expect her to run back up the stairs to relay the information, but instead she smiles and motions for them to come after her.
“You are welcome here.”
Exchanging puzzled glances, the three athanor mount the stair. The young woman doesn’t pause on the second floor, though there is ample evidence of habitation there, including the high-pitched drone of children reciting their lessons and the scent of brewing coffee. With another polite smile, she continues up to the top floor.
“This way,” she says, leading them down a central corridor toward the room at the far end.
Committed now, they follow, firmly expecting to find someone they know waiting for them, though none of the men is certain who this will be. Still, who else would recognize their names?
Emerging into a well-lit conference room, they find an ample-figured Yoruban woman of perhaps forty seated at a table. She wears a traditional wrapper made from a cotton print fabric in shades of brown highlighted with red and purple. Her hair is covered in a head cloth of the same fabric. Ropes of beads are hung around her neck, and bracelets weigh down her wrists. The slight shine of oil on her broad lips shows that she has been sampling the akara.
She rises politely when they enter. The young woman draws back to stand by the doorway.
“Eshu, Ogun,” the woman who must be Oya says, “I have been wondering when you would come.”
Anson and Dakar are stunned to silence. Eddie cocks a brow. Though he is certain he has never seen this woman before, he thinks there is something familiar about her. Or is he fooling himself, because he had expected the familiar?
Oya smiles and continues speaking. “Thank you for the akara. That was thoughtful of you. Aduke, bring forth the refreshments we have prepared.”
The young woman departs, coming back a few minutes later bearing a tray laden with small servings of various traditional foods and a large pot of some sort of meat stewed with tomatoes and chiles.
The meat, Eddie thinks, is probably dog, the traditional sacrifice to Ogun. The other foods doubtlessly represent the small portions of every sacrifice that is given to Eshu to convince him to carry messages to the appropriate orisha.
What impresses Eddie is that much of the food is hot, as if this Oya had expected them. He wonders if she had—that would indicate that she possessed precognition, a rare enough gift, even among the athanor. Of course, a microwave oven would turn the trick just as easily. Eddie hides a smile, feeling the same thrill that Bedivere had felt when a rival knight had tossed down his glove in challenge in the lists.
“Please be seated, enjoy this meal, small as it is,” Oya says. “Aduke will bring drinks as soon as you are comfortable.”
The three men sit, respecting the customs that insist that hospitality be observed before business is approached.
“Let me introduce my assistant,” Oya says when the young woman comes back with a assortment of drinks ranging from iced water to palm wine. “This is Aduke Idowu, formerly a student at Ibadan University, now residing with her husband’s family here in Monamona.”
The young woman nods shyly in acknowledgment of their various greetings. Is it his imagination or is there a trace of puzzlement in the gaze she turns on Oya? Eddie doesn’t think it is just his imagination. Interesting.
He expects Oya to send the human away, so they can they discuss athanor business openly, but she stays through the meal.
“Now,” Oya says, putting aside polite small ta
lk as she licks the last of the akara from her fingers, “we should turn to business.”
Dakar, who had been remarkably restrained with the palm wine, blurts out, “Are you responsible for this wind that has sealed off the city?”
“The wind is Oya’s,” the woman says with a slight nod, “and it does her bidding.”
“So you called it,” Dakar pushes.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“To foil the King of the World, of course. Why else?” she looks exasperated. “We cannot permit him to roam free, can we?”
“No,” Anson says. “We cannot.”
“Well, then,” Oya says, her manner like that of a fussy housewife. “Now he cannot leave.”
“Of course,” Eddie says dryly, “neither can anyone else.”
More and more he is certain that he knows this woman, but he cannot quite fasten on who she might be.
“Should anyone want to leave?” Oya retorts. “Certainly not when a plague threatens. The wind will fall only when the King is defeated.”
“That’s blunt enough,” Anson chuckles. “You know your mind, eh?”
“I know mine,” says she, “but not yours.”
“We came here to do business,” Anson says. “Oil business.”
Dakar rumbles like the prelude to an exploding volcano, but doesn’t articulate further.
Anson flashes a grin. “We were delayed in our business when one of our number did not arrive on time. A foreign gentleman. We were seeking him when you called the wind. We are yet to be reunited with him.”
“Yet to be reunited.” Oya plays with this phrase for a moment, repeating it with the stress on different words, different syllables. First, Eddie is reminded of a ritual chant, then of a theatrical exercise. Finally, Oya repeats the phrase a final time. “Yet to be reunited. That sounds like you know where he is then. You only seek the reunion. What is keeping you, Eshu, Ogun, Eddie?”
“What would you say,” Anson offers, “if I told you that he is a prisoner of the King of Hot Water?”
“I would say either I hope that he recovers quickly,” Oya parries, “or that you recover him quickly.”
Dakar brings a mallet-fist down on the table so hard that the glasses jump and water sloshes from the pitcher.
“There is no Oya!” he shouts. “I know! I am Ogun! Who are you, woman? Are you a witch?”
“I am Oya,” she answers firmly. “Nor am I a babalawo to ask Ifa for answers.”
Eddie leans forward, mopping up the spill with one hand, restraining Dakar with the other. Thus far he has been content to keep his peace, but Anson is having far too much fun fencing with this strange woman.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says quickly. “All of us have good reasons to oppose this King of Hot Water.”
He glances at Aduke Idowu and the young woman nods, sharp and decisive, tears in her beautiful brown eyes. He sees her hand press to her abdomen and realizes that her arms should be filled with an infant.
“Since we have a common enemy,” Eddie continues, “then we should work together. First of all, Oya, I think we three have been remiss.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” He smiles at her, wishing for a moment that he was Arthur with his easy charisma, then glad that he is not, for Arthur never has worked well with women. “We haven’t thanked you for raising the wind.”
“Ah!” She smiles, delighted. “You haven’t, have you? Are you thanking me, Eddie?”
“I am,” he says, “most sincerely. We have been absorbed in the problem of our missing friend, but not so absorbed that we have not noticed the illness stalking Monamona’s people. For all of us, I thank you for caging the King’s hot breath.”
“You are welcome,” she replies, a twinkle in her eyes. For a moment, he almost knows her, then again she is Oya, masked behind this new persona. “Now that you men have thanked me, I will thank you. Until you three came to me, I had no idea that the King of Hot Water himself was dwelling in Monamona. I thought that perhaps some of his worshipers had come to spread his wrath.”
“There is a man here,” Anson says, “who calls himself Regis. He resides within the former military compound to the west of here. In searching for our missing friend, I have seen the touch of his breath. Whether this Regis is the King himself or only his highest priest, I cannot say, but his men believe him to be the orisha himself.”
Aduke cries out, “Eshu, can’t you punish him?”
Anson looks at the girl without mockery. “Eshu only punishes those who have not made the proper sacrifices to the gods. This Regis has made his sacrifices. I can act to help another, but I cannot act against him personally. Do you understand?”
Aduke nods stiffly. “It doesn’t seem right, though.”
“Still”—Anson shrugs—“what is good for one man is almost always evil for someone else. Two men cannot have the same wife; two women cannot have the same child. If I punished Regis for his good fortune simply because it is bad fortune for those he rules over, I would be forced to extend that rationale to everyone. Would that be fair?”
“No, sir,” Aduke says softly. “Does that mean that he is beyond the power of the orisha?”
“Not at all, little daughter,” Anson assures her. “When men get power, men become drunk on power and believe themselves greater than the gods. Even the orisha must make sacrifice, if only to their own heads. When this Regis forgets this, he will be in my power.”
Listening to Anson speak, Eddie cannot decide whether his friend he really believes what he is telling the girl. Certainly, Anson looks as if he believes what he is saying. His eyes are almost preternaturally wise, and his voice is without even a hint of laughter.
“Moreover,” Anson continues, “Shopona has acted rashly in taking our friend captive, for Ogun is ogun. What I mean is, Ogun, the same man who sits there across the table from you drinking palm wine, was given his name by Olorun from the word for ‘war’ and the taking of prisoners opens one to the retaliation of war. Isn’t that so, my friend?”
Both Aduke and Dakar nod, their motions perfectly matched, as if Anson has charmed them.
“Now,” Anson says, “I think the time has come for us to plan our war. Lady Oya, they call you the wife who is more terrible than the husband.”
“That was said when Oya was compared to Shango,” Oya chuckles. “I don’t think I want to offend Ogun.”
“I was never married to you, woman!” Dakar shouts.
“Maybe so, maybe not,” she says lightly. “That is not the point. What I am saying is that war is not my strong point. True, I have the winds, and I have stolen some small amount of Shango’s lightning, but war is a man’s profession.”
Eddie asks, “Are you in contact with Shango, then?”
“No,” she answers. “I have not seen Shango since my arrival in Monamona. Nor have I sought him out. I did not approve of his letting illness run through a city that claims him as its patron.”
“Shango is here, too?” Aduke says, her voice tight, as if her grasp on reality is slipping. “I don’t understand! Are you all truly orisha?”
“We summoned the wind together, Aduke,” Oya soothes her friend. “Trust me a bit longer.”
“I don’t understand!” Aduke repeats, but although her tones are still urgent, she no longer seems in danger of slipping into hysteria.
“Understanding,” Anson says, “is highly overrated. Does it matter what names we use if we are agreed to stop the smallpox plague that is threatening your people?”
Aduke bites her lip, then says softly, “I suppose not.”
“Then trust us,” Anson urges.
“And will it be all right, then?”
“We sincerely hope so.”
“Then I suppose I must trust you.”
In Aduke’s smile, Eddie thinks, so brave yet intelligent, is everything worth fighting for, everything good about the human race. Blind faith would be easier to take, and not nearly as worthy.
14
Tout s’en va, tout passe, l’eau coule, et le coeur oublie.
(Everything vanishes, everything passes, water runs away, and the heart forgets.)
—Gustave Flaubert
The Blind Lion tour had been set to kick off in Las Vegas, and so to the City of Slots and Neon is where they go. Georgios is beside himself with excitement.
By the time the auditions had ended, Tommy had selected twelve theriomorphs for his backup singers and dancers: six satyrs, one of whom is Georgios, and six fauns, one of whom is Demetrios.
Georgios—who has decided that “Loverboy” would look a lot better in the program book—has established himself as herd stallion. Dominating the smaller, shyer fauns had been pretty easy. (He chooses to overlook Demetrios for now). The satyrs had proven a bit more difficult, but a few solid brawls and he had come out on top. Stud has even stopped complaining about his bitten right ear.
And on top Georgios is... or he wants to be... especially when he looks at their choreographer, strutting up and down the line in her leotard and tights. Mary Malone has the body of a nymph but the soul of a drill sergeant.
“All right, you guys!” she shouts. “Let’s go through the steps for ‘Heart Teaser’ one more time.”
Georgios sighs. He’d never realized how much work went into those dance sequences in the music videos he’d enjoyed watching on MTV. Obediently, he moves to the side of the stage, stopping on the red X that is his mark.
“Where the hell is Lil?” Mary demands.
She starts to say something else—being as intolerant of absenteeism as she is of a sloppy dance step—then swallows it. After all, Lil Prima is the one who signs the paychecks. If Tommy wants her to grace the stage show with her presence, that’s their business. Mary’s job is to make it work, even when Lil doesn’t show for rehearsal.
“I’ll walk through Lil’s part,” she decides aloud. “You ‘satyrs’—Hunk, Stud—pay attention, damn it! Fauns, are you ready?”
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