“That’s right,” Oya agrees. “Too many groups have too much to gain from declaring that a specific tribe or religion is dominant. Names are a problem, too. Many people maintain different names for different situations. My little Aduke, for example. Do you remember how I introduced her?”
“Aduke Idowu,” Eddie replies promptly.
“And you took that to mean that her first name is ‘Aduke’ and her surname is ‘Idowu.’”
“Isn’t it?” Eddie asks, searching his artificially created memory of Yoruban to find a contradiction.
“It is and it isn’t,” Oya replies maddeningly. “’Aduke’ is a pet name meaning roughly ‘she whom one competes to cherish.’”
“Nice.”
“I think so. ‘Idowu’ is a name given to a child who is born after twins. The Yoruba believe that such children have great personal power, meant to help society deal with the twins, who also have personal power.”
“But what’s her real name?” Eddie asks.
“You mean the one given on her official records?” Oya teases.
“That will do.”
“Joan Idowu Fadaka, or in some cases Mrs. Taiwo Fadaka. Her grammar school records, of course, will give her father’s family surname—if he used one.”
“I get the picture,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “This would be an ideal country for an athanor to set up in, especially if he or she didn’t mind settling, at least for a time, in one of the cities where people wouldn’t expect to know their relatives.”
“Exactly!” Oya says. “And Nigeria alone has 250 different ethnic groups, though the Ibo, Yoruba, and Hausa dominate. It has a thriving literary tradition, tremendous natural resources, and, since English remains the official language, there is no barrier to international trade.”
“You begin to sound like Anson,” Eddie comments dryly.
“So I like the place. Even before that mess in September, I had decided to set up at least a dual identity here, to give it a trial run, so to speak. Alice Chun could continue producing a book every couple of years, so I didn’t need to burn my bridges all at once.
“I started looking for a place to live. Dakar had not relocated to Nigeria yet. Apparently, he and Katsuhiro were up to one of their silly games.”
Eddie corrects gently, “Actually, they were looking for Sven Trout at Arthur’s request.”
“A silly game if I’ve ever heard of one,” Oya persists. “What is more foolish than seeking Loki? He shows up when you want him the least.
“In any case, Dakar wasn’t here, but when he was, he’d probably settle in Ire, which traditionally is Ogun’s city. Anson was doing the international-businessman routine, so I didn’t need to worry about him. I’d gotten to like Monamona in the course of my tours. It’s big, but not too big, old, but not so old that the social structure has calcified. Moreover, it already had an athanor presence, and that can be useful.”
“Shango,” Eddie says.
“Yes. I decided to call on him, let him know what I was planning, and learn if he had any difficulties with my coming here. If he did, I probably would have settled in Oyo. I learned where Shango’s office is located. It wasn’t hard, since he’s the minister in charge of the electrical utilities. Then, wearing my new persona, I went to call on him.
“I thought I’d picked a quiet time, since most billing inquiries come around the middle of the month, and this was near the end. Certainly, there were few supplicants in the waiting room. I gave a false name and a bit of dash to the receptionist and settled down to wait.
“It was a long wait, long enough that I excused myself, found a private corner, and changed into a dove. In that form, I flew to where Shango’s window should be. The day was warm—as they all are here, one of my few complaints—and the window was open. Shango was in conference with a couple of men.”
Oya frowns, pours more tea, sips, and then continues:
“I couldn’t stay listening for long, but what I overheard didn’t seem related to keeping the flow of electricity going. I also was impressed by how these men acted toward Shango. Although at least one of them—the mayor of Monamona—should not have deferred to him, in many subtle ways, he did so.
“I did not survive in the courts of China without developing prudence in matters political. Telling Shango of my intentions no longer seemed a good idea. If he was playing politics, as it seemed he was, he might not like my being there. Instead, I decided to keep my own counsel and watch Shango for a while.
“With this in mind, I cultivated the acquaintance of the family who now lives in this factory. Taiwo, Aduke’s husband, acts as liaison between someone in Lagos and Shango. Shango himself proved more difficult to follow than I had imagined possible. Since he does not know I am here—or didn’t until you told him...”
Eddie shrugs. “You didn’t tell us any of this.”
“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t certain you weren’t working with him yourselves. You’ve been very closemouthed.”
“So have you until this afternoon.”
They glare at each other for a moment, then, almost as one, shrug. That breaks the tension. Laughing and shaking her head, Oya says:
“Well, he doesn’t know who I am, nor is he certain that I am athanor and not just a braggart or local eccentric.”
“And I certainly won’t tell him. Besides,” Eddie continues, “we don’t know that he’s up to anything other than playing local political games.”
“No, we don’t.” Oya tugs at her earlobe. “But like you, I have been snooping around this Regis’s compound, and yesterday I saw something that troubled me greatly. Taiwo, the same young man who is Aduke’s husband and has been working with Shango, came out of the compound.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive. I thought he was Kehinde, his twin brother, and called out to him to come help me carry some groceries. He looked at me as if I was insane. Then very formal and stiff, he told me that I must have mistaken him for another.”
“You are certain it was him?”
“Kehinde is not triplets, and this man looked exactly like Kehinde, though he wore European clothing and Kehinde very self-consciously dresses in the traditional style.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes. Very. Regis styles himself after Shopona, the God of Smallpox. Shango claims that he cannot move against him because Regis has threatened him with infecting the city. I suppose that Taiwo could be Regis’s representative to Shango, but what if he is not, what if Shango and Regis are working together?”
“An uncomfortable thought,” Eddie muses, “but one that explains a lot of little things that have been bothering me.”
“Moreover,” Oya continues, “and this may be stretching the point—but Shango was ever one to appreciate a flamboyant touch—do you know who some myths say is Shopona’s father?”
“Not Shango?”
“Yes, Shango. Regis may not be Shango’s biological son, but the mythological connection is certainly a bit of poetry.”
“If Regis is athanor”—Eddie recalls their earliest discussions of the problem—“and, like you, under the Accord’s protection though working under another name, we dare not act too precipitously.”
Oya stares at him. “You sound like a politician yourself, Eddie. This man uses disease to fight for him. I don’t care who he is or whose son he is: Nothing is going to protect him. The only reason Regis has lived this long is that I need to know where he has cached his supplies and what time bombs might be set to go off if he dies. Once they are defused...”
She makes a swift slice, finger across her throat.
“Do you understand?”
Eddie bows his head. “I do. And I agree.”
By swimming steadily and hitching a ride on one of his brother’s subjects when he grows tired, the Changer arrives at the west coast of Africa less than forty-eight hours after granting Arthur’s request.
Rising to the surface of the water in the Bight of Benin, he can see the ugly
sprawl of Lagos before him. The air is hot and muggy, even though the sun is beginning to set. Well fed and rested, since he had ridden most of the last section of his journey, the Changer sees no reason to delay.
Normally, the Changer is no different from any other traveler in that he needs to know where he is going. Although his conversations with Anson have given him a general idea of where Monamona is in relation to the other major cities in Yorubaland, the Changer has never been there. However, he trusts that the windstorm of which Arthur had told him will provide landmark enough. Shifting into a fish eagle, he leaves the water for the sky and flies inland.
He bypasses Lagos entirely and once away from the city’s heat and pollution, he gets his first sense of the windstorm. It is faint, nothing more than a slight hum in counterpoint to the steady thrum of the harmattan wind. When darkness falls and he must navigate by the stars alone, the Changer becomes more aware of the windstorm’s song as it plays against the magnetic compass within his avian breast.
With each major population center the Changer passes, the hum of the windstorm becomes more and more apparent. By the time he arrives on the outskirts of Monamona, wing-weary and hungry, he has a suspicion as to what might be causing the wind.
Finding something to eat is not difficult. Vehicles surround the perimeter of the city, safely outside of the outermost limits of the storm. There are tanks and all-terrain vehicles, jeeps and vans, cars and trucks, some civilian as well as military. The Changer lands on top of a van rigged out as a chuck wagon. Goaded by hunger, he finds the strength to shift into a monkey and slip inside. There he eats his fill of gari foto and black-eyed peas, finishing his meal with a large yam or two, eaten raw.
This urge satisfied, he considers whether or not to sleep. The hour is late but not yet midnight, so he decides he can risk at least a short nap before trying to penetrate the windstorm, which should be done under the cover of darkness owing to the number of potential observers.
Shortly after one in the morning, the Changer awakens, eats again, and, so refreshed, emerges into the night.
The air is curiously still here. Even the harmattan winds, which had made his flight inland less than pleasant, have ceased. Directly above, the stars shine hard and bright, a sight that makes those locals who are awake distinctly nervous. At this time of year, the sky should be decently veiled with dust. Even in the clear seasons, there is a faint haze of humidity. Directly above the windstorm, however, the sky is as clear as at the top of the Alps.
This small phenomena adds a piece of information to the Changer’s list. Before heading through the storm, he shifts into an owl and makes a slow circuit of the vehicles, noting a few insignia with surprise. He wonders if those imprisoned within the storm realize how much attention it has attracted.
With another small shrug, he changes into another bird, choosing this time an eagle accustomed to dealing with high mountain winds. Then, like a surfer riding a wave, the Changer enters the whirlwind.
The airplanes that he had seen wrecked outside had made the mistake of trying to go through the wind. However, even the lightest and most flexible of them lacked the dexterity to ride with the wind’s shifting force, so the matter is moot.
The Changer does have the dexterity. Indeed, he has a dexterity beyond that of any bird, for he can reshape his wings, lengthening and shortening individual feathers as needed in order to keep in balance with the air current around him.
It becomes a game between him and the swirling air, a dip here, a rush there, banking, then catching a thermal current so that he can rise to where he can coast, catch his breath, reorient himself, and swirl inward once more.
When the Changer spills inside of the whirlwind, above a quiet section of road at the verge of the Monamona, he is exhilarated rather than exhausted. Still, he does not abandon common sense and go for another ride. Bowing his eagle’s head slightly as in salute, he shifts again into an owl and soars up silently, startling a solitary sentry who wonders if he has disturbed a witch going about its business.
Achieving altitude, the Changer wonders where to begin searching for the missing athanor. A burst of gunfire and the sound of shouting nearby seem an answer. Beating his wings faster, he flies in that direction.
Shahrazad’s nightmares return that night as she sleeps outside the door to Wayne’s room. She had not joined her usual companions on Frank’s bed, but had stoutly held to her post, even though Frank had told her all was well.
“Wayne’s absence may cause some problems, but no one will come looking here. And on the off chance anyone does, I’m prepared.”
Shahrazad had just raised her head and stared from steady yellow eyes, so he had bent and patted her on the head.
“You remind me of your father when you look like that. Sleep well.”
She doesn’t, though. Her dreams are full of ice storms and fields filled with orange flowers with black centers that smell of sleep. Ice covers her, imprisoning her in glassy walls so thick that neither sound nor scent can penetrate them, and the little light that does refracts crazily among the crystals.
In her dream, she tries to dig her way out, but the ice is tight around her limbs, encasing not just legs and paws, but each hair in an unbreakable insinuating hold.
If Wayne had not stumbled across her when he opened the door, Shahrazad doubts that she would have heard him leave.
When she feels the thud of his foot against her flank, her eyes fly open. Vision momentarily confuses her, for she had thought her eyes already open. By the time she has resolved this, Wayne has recovered his balance, stepped over her, and turned down the corridor toward the central wing of the house.
Shahrazad’s muscles do not seem to know that they are no longer asleep. Though she struggles to rise, she cannot get her legs to obey. Only by concentrating on one limb at a time, raising her hindquarters first, then her front legs, then her head and neck, and finally her tail does she come free of the dream’s hold.
The ranch house is unnaturally silent. Normally there are many small sounds, the snores, wheezes, snorts, and snuffles of dozens of sleeping animals. Gone, too, are the sounds of those animals who do not sleep through the night but instead come and go about their business through windows and door flaps left open for that purpose.
Tonight, the only sound is the faint jingle of keys and a single set of footsteps padding down the carpeted hall.
Shahrazad moves toward those sounds, carefully keeping to the carpet so her toenails won’t click against the wood or tile. If she can sneak up on Wayne, she can knock him down again. She doesn’t care if she leaves teeth marks on his neck.
Somehow, she knows she cannot awaken Frank quickly enough for him to help her. By the time he peels the ice from his limbs, Wayne would be gone.
Shahrazad arrives in the central portion of the house in time to see Wayne emerging from the room whose door is normally kept locked. There is a small white creature in his left hand: pale white with a pink nose that wiggles nervously as the mouse sniffs the air.
Moving as if asleep himself, Wayne goes to the end of the hallway and opens the door to the outside that Frank locks at night. Frustrated, Shahrazad barks sharply, knowing that Wayne has too great a head start for her to catch him by stealth alone.
The air around her swallows the sound, chasing it back upon itself, deadening it, as a blanket or pillow does. The mouse hears, however, and Shahrazad cringes nearly to the floor when a translucent figure manifests around it.
It is a woman, slim and fair, with hair like ice and blue eyes like winter cold. The delicate lines of her features hold no mirth, no merriment. A human would recognize her as beautiful. To Shahrazad, who has known only pain and cruelty from that woman, she is more terrible than any monster.
“You,” Louhi says, and her voice is like a whisper of a memory of a voice, heard inside the mind, not with the ears. “You, little bitch. I’m leaving now. You can do nothing to stop me. If I could keep my hold on this man and get you... but, by the
time you rouse anyone, I will be gone.”
Wayne appears to have seen the woman, for his sleepy expression turns to one of appreciation and awe.
“Come along, dear,” he says. “Let me take you home.”
The woman vanishes, and there is only a mouse, but Wayne doesn’t seem to know this. He carries her outside. A few minutes later, while Shahrazad is still trying to escape the fear that had crippled her at the sight of Louhi, she hears the sound of an automobile engine.
That mundane sound breaks the fear and she runs down the corridor, barking warning and threat, but, as Louhi had promised, she is too late. The red glow of taillights receding down the driveway is Shahrazad’s only reward.
The young coyote is still wondering what to do when a large shape, dark against the dark sky, lands nearly soundlessly beside her. From the curious mixed scent of bird and cat, Shahrazad knows the griffin. The eagle-puma screeches inquiry at her and Shahrazad barks that everyone is asleep, though no one should sleep.
Surprisingly, the griffin understands her, miming sleep by tucking her head beneath her wing and pulling it out again, then shaking her head after the fashion of humans. Relieved to have someone understand her, Shahrazad indicates the open door of the ranch house, Wayne’s scent trail on the cold ground, the missing pickup truck.
The griffin becomes greatly agitated. Apparently she dislikes Louhi as much as Shahrazad does. Then she does something very strange. As she had when she carried the female werewolf to the ranch house, the griffin hunkers low to the ground. Looking at Shahrazad, she makes soft crooning sounds in her throat.
Shahrazad has watched humans ride horses and unicorns, but has never contemplated a similar mode of travel for herself. The idea entices her. They could chase down the truck with Louhi and Wayne, learn where they are going, perhaps stop them. The griffin is quite formidable, and Shahrazad has a fine belief in her own abilities. After all, didn’t Louhi get in the state she is in because of Shahrazad?
Nothing loath, the coyote leaps onto the griffin’s back. Immediately, she slides to the ground.
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