The Gods of War

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Then what am I to do?" demanded Peter.

  Matenjwa shrugged. "I have no idea."

  Peter turned on the old man. "You're a witch doctor! Why can't you destroy the British?"

  "There are limits even to what a mundumugu can do," answered Matenjwa. "To summon the proper spirits, I would have to sacrifice more cattle and goats than there are on the entire mountain."

  "Well, can't you do something?" persisted Peter. "Bring down a terrible disease on them, or something like that?"

  "Certainly I could," answered Matenjwa. "But I would have to appeal to Sagbata, the god of smallpox."

  "Then why haven't you done it?"

  "The British are all vaccinated. The only people who would contract the disease would be ourselves."

  "Think!" said Peter desperately. "If you can't kill them, what can you do?"

  "I'm very good at circumcision rituals," said Matenjwa at last. ' But of course there's no magic involved, and you would have to bring them to me one by one. Once they saw my instruments, a few of them might come over to your side."

  "You're not being much help," muttered Peter.

  "I told you I wouldn't be."

  "Look!" snapped Peter. "I'm not going back up the mountain until we've exhausted every possibility."

  "They are all exhausted."

  "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to tell that to General Kimathi."

  "Some of us are warriors and some of us are mundumugus," said Matenjwa with a shrug.

  "You don't get off that easily, old man," said Peter, pulling out his panga and holding it to Matenjwa's throat. "The rules of the game have just changed. Both of our lives depend on your getting rid of the British, do you understand?"

  "I cannot summon the warrior gods without sacrificing at least two thousand cattle," said Matenjwa, pulling back his head slightly as the edge of the blade pressed into his neck.

  "Well, summon somebody who can make them go away, or we're both dead men," said Peter.

  Matenjwa uttered a deep sigh. "I will do what I can."

  "Good."

  "Fetch me that pouch," he said, indicating a leather pouch that was lying on the floor at the far end of the cave. Peter retrieved it and brought it to the old witch doctor.

  Matenjwa pulled two dead gecko lizards out of it and placed them on the floor in front of him. Then he reached into the pouch again, removed a small handful of bones, and, muttering a series of chants, cast them three times on the floor. Then he sat motionless for a moment, his eyes tightly shut.

  "That's it?" demanded Peter.

  "No," said Matenjwa, reaching out and grabbing one of the cave's resident snakes. "Now I must treat each lizardskin with one drop of the blood from a living reptile. Your panga, please?"

  Peter handed over his panga.

  "You understand," said Matenjwa, "that the snake's blood is a substitute for the blood of two healthy oxen."

  "How much difference does it make?" asked Peter.

  Matenjwa shrugged. "I don't know. I've never tried it before." He paused and looked up at Peter. "You're sure you want to continue?"

  Peter nodded, and the old man gently pierced the skin of the writhing reptile, then squeezed out a single drop of blood over each dead lizard.

  "It didn't work," said Peter after a moment.

  "I am sorry," said Matenjwa. "I guess it really does require the blood of two healthy—"

  He was interrupted by a puff of smoke and a sudden rush of air, and suddenly there was a tall, portly, bearded white man standing before them. He wore a blue pinstriped suit with a white carnation in its lapel. Atop his head was a bowler hat, hanging on one wrist was an umbrella, and tucked beneath his arm was a thin, well-worn leather briefcase.

  "Good day, gentlemen," he said in exquisite English. "I'm so glad you've invited me here. Have you ever wanted to leave your dark, damp domicile"—he gestured around him at the cave with an expression of distaste—"and see the world? If you act promptly, a first-class passage to Bermuda aboard one of Britain's finest luxury liners can be yours for an unbelievable discount in price. Think of it, gentlemen! Five-star French cooking, three—count them: three—nightclubs, a casino, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a telephone in every stateroom!"

  He paused and stared at them expectantly.

  "Who is this man?" asked Peter, frowning.

  Matenjwa shrugged. "I have no idea."

  The man stared at them a moment longer, then snapped his fingers. Instantly his clothing vanished, to be replaced by a ragged loincloth. He still retained his bowler, umbrella, and briefcase.

  "I beg your pardon," he said in Swahili. "I seem to have been misinformed. I thought I was to be dealing with a party of British gentlemen."

  "Who are you?" demanded Peter.

  "Don't you know?" asked the portly man, looking more than a little ridiculous in his new outfit. "I mean, after all, you are the ones who summoned me."

  "He summoned you," said Peter, indicating Matenjwa. "I'm just an onlooker."

  "Oh. Well, I'm Hermes, son of Zeus."

  "And I sent for you?" asked Matenjwa.

  "I was told that you have a party of Britons who wish to visit distant lands. Is that correct?"

  "In a way," said Peter.

  "Well," said Hermes expansively, "if anyone can expedite their journey, it's me. I'm the god of travel."

  "You are?"

  Hermes nodded. "I'm also the god of eloquence, as you have doubtless noted, and of trade."

  "Of trade?" asked Peter.

  "Absolutely. I'll swap you my umbrella for your panga."

  "I think not," said Peter.

  Hermes shrugged. "Well, then, how about two Mickey Mantles for a Willie Mays?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "A Batman #9 for a Captain Marvel #6? A Lincoln Memorial commemorative for a set of Equidorian Roosevelts? Or a complete set of Jane Austen, bound in leather, for—get this now!—an illustrated Fanny Hill!"

  "Perhaps we had better stick with travel," suggested Matenjwa.

  "Certainly," said Hermes, opening up his briefcase, which was filled with travel brochures. "Where did you wish to go—Ocho Rios, Fiji, Samarkand ? They say that Duluth, Minnesota, is exceptionally nice this time of the year."

  "We do not wish to go anywhere," said Matenjwa.

  Hermes frowned. "There must be some misunderstanding. I was distinctly told that I was to help arrange passage for a large number of Britons."

  "You are."

  "Ah!" said Hermes with a huge smile. "Now I understand! You are simply their Nubian manservants." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly his loincloth was replaced by his original pinstriped suit, although this time the carnation was red.

  "Now, gentlemen," he continued, "if you would just point the way to your employers?"

  "Well, they're not exactly our employers," said Peter.

  "Oh?"

  "They're our enemies."

  "Then what in the world did you want a travel agent for?" asked Hermes. "You need a god of warfare."

  "But you said you could make them all go away."

  "I said I could expedite their journeys," said Hermes. "There's a difference." He held up his briefcase. "I have here all the latest timetables, group rates, brochures, even passport forms. But I can't make them leave. I can just help them book passage." He paused. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to visit Buenos Aires ? Not only can I secure rooms with an ocean view, but you will miss the war entirely."

  "No," said Peter. "We must drive the British from our mountain."

  "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" replied Hermes enthusiastically. "I have access to Oldsmobiles, Cadillacs, Chryslers, Volkswagens . . . I even had a few Studebakers left. Though from the terrain, I'd say that you'll need four-wheel-drives. I can give you a rate on, shall we say, thirty Land Rovers?"

  "You don't understand . . ." began Matenjwa.

  "He understands perfectly," interrupted Peter. He turned to Hermes. "Of course, you'll h
ave to negotiate a price directly with the prospective passengers."

  'Certainly," said Hermes. "Just point me in the right direction. Negotiating is one of my strong points." He paused. "Besides, there's nothing in my cash conversion tables on cows and goats. I really would much prefer British pounds."

  Peter escorted Hermes to the edge of the cave. "Just follow that winding path down the mountain," he said, "and I guarantee you'll come to the British."

  "Damned white of you," said Hermes. "And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I'll be bidding you a fond adieu and be going about my business."

  He tucked the briefcase under his arm, and, humming happily to himself, the god of travel started wandering down the mountain.

  Colonel William Smythe-Roberts sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the plain wooden surface.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Well, sir," said Sergeant Michael Wilcox uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to another, "it . . . ah . . . it appears that . . . well, it seems . . ."

  "Spit it out, man!" snapped Smythe-Roberts. "Twenty-seven of our men have deserted in the past two days. I want to know why!"

  "This is most awkward, sir," responded Wilcox. "You know that old witch doctor who lives up in the hills? Matenjwa, his name is?"

  "Yes," answered Smythe-Roberts. "Are you trying to tell me that he is responsible for this?"

  "Well, indirectly, sir."

  "You're trying to tell me indirectly?"

  "No. I mean that he's indirectly responsible, sir."

  "Explain."

  "Well, sir, it appears that . . . well, that he's conjured up a god to help the Mau Mau."

  Colonel Smythe-Roberts looked at his sergeant with compassion. "Poor chap," he said at last. "You've been out in the vertical rays of the sun too long. What did I tell you about always wearing your pith helmet?"

  "I've been wearing it," insisted Wilcox. "I tell you, sir, the old man has managed to summon a god."

  "Of course he has," said Smythe-Roberts in a soothing tone.

  "I swear to it, sir!"

  "What does this god look like?"

  "From what I hear, just like you and me, sir."

  "Does he breathe smoke and belch fire? Rend the earth asunder? Call forth the heavenly host to aid his cause?"

  "No, sir."

  "What does he do?" asked Smythe-Roberts.

  "He . . . ah . . . he sells holidays, sir."

  "You mean like Christmas and Bank Day?"

  "No. He sells trips, sir. Excursions." Wilcox paused. "Some of them are really quite luxurious. There was one to New Zealand that—"

  "That's all he does?" interrupted Smythe-Roberts.

  "Well, no. He also trades French postcards for guns."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "French postcards, sir. You know. The kind that—"

  "I am well aware of what a French postcard looks like, Sergeant."

  "Well, then . . . uh . . . I guess that's it, sir."

  "And based on this, you have concluded that he is a god?"

  "Well, not entirely based on this, sir."

  "What other evidence have you?"

  "He told everyone he was, sir."

  Patience, Smythe-Roberts told himself. The poor blighter has cracked from the heat. Somebody had to be the first. Pity it had to be Wilcox, but there you have it. I suppose the best thing to do is to humor him until we can get him sedated and shipped back to Nairobi.

  But how did one humor a man in this condition? Well, he believed that a god was walking amongst his fellows. That was obviously the starting point.

  "Thank you for your report, Sergeant," said Smythe-Roberts.

  "Are we going to do something about . . . well, you know?" asked Wilcox.

  "Absolutely," said Smythe-Roberts. "They've got a god. We should have a god."

  "Sir?"

  "That's your assignment, Sergeant," said Smythe-Roberts. Let's see. The medical corp officer ought to be back by sunset. "I'm putting you in charge of it. Secure a god for us by 1600 hours."

  "But, sir . . ."

  "No, don't thank me, son. You're just the man for the job."

  "But—"

  "Dismissed."

  "Corporal!" said Wilcox. "I need a witch doctor."

  "A witch doctor, sir?" "On the double."

  "Private!"

  "Yes, Corporal?"

  "Sergeant Wilcox has requested a witch doctor."

  "Bully for him, sir." The private shook his head. "Vertical rays of the sun."

  "Get him one."

  "Where the hell does the corporal suggest I look, sir?"

  "I don't know. We've got all these Maasai and Samburu fighting on our side. Ask one of them."

  "You're kidding, right, sir?"

  "Am I smiling, private? Now move! On the double!"

  The tall, lean Maasai stood in the doorway to Wilcox's tent.

  "You sent for me, sir?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Wilcox, getting to his feet. "Thank goodness you speak English! Please come in."

  The Maasai entered the tent.

  "You seem a little young to be a witch doctor," commented Wilcox.

  "I'm not."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "We don't have any laibons—that's witch doctors to you—in our unit, so they thought they'd send someone who could at least speak your language and find out why you wanted one."

  "I need to conjure up a god," said Wilcox, feeling distinctly foolish.

  "Well, I suppose it can be done," replied the Maasai.

  "Good. What's your name?"

  "Olepesai."

  All right, Olepesai—how do we go about it?"

  "About what?'

  "Conjuring a god."

  "I never said I could do it," replied Olepesai. "I just said that it could be done."

  "Haven't you ever watched any ceremonies?"

  "Well, yes, but . . ."

  "Good. We'll just have to do it without a laibon."

  "It's been a long time," said Olepesai. "I probably couldn't remember all the words, or the right chants, or . . ."

  "We have no time to worry about that," said Wilcox. "My colonel demands a god by 1600 hours. That's four this afternoon." He checked his wristwatch. "We've only got about ninety minutes. What will you need?"

  "A laibon."

  "Besides that."

  "Well," said Olepesai, rubbing his chin, "the last time I saw such a ceremony, I think there was a fire, and the laibon sang the Chant of the Gods, and then he sacrificed three mice and a lizard."

  "And that's it?"

  "If I remember correctly," said Olepesai.

  "This will be easier than I thought," said Wilcox. He stuck his head out of the tent. "Corporal, get me three mice and a lizard, and bring them back in a small box or a cage."

  "What if it doesn't work?" asked the Maasai when Wilcox turned to face him.

  "Then we've done our best, and I can report to the colonel with a clear conscience." He walked outside. "Let's start gathering some kindling."

  They had the wood in about five minutes, but were forced to wait another thirty before the corporal returned with the animals.

  "Here you are, sir," said the corporal.

  "Thank you," replied Wilcox. "You may leave us now."

  "You're sure you don't want me to stick around, sir?"

  "No. Olepesai and I are quite capable of taking over from this point."

  "As you wish, sir," said the corporal, walking off.

  "Well," said Wilcox when he and the Maasai were alone, "are you ready to begin?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Good. I'll light the fire." He took out a match and I tried to light the kindling, but the wind blew it out. Two more matches received the same fate.

  "Perhaps that is an omen for you to desist," suggested Olepesai.

  "Nonsense," said Wilcox. "It's just a windy day."

  He pulled out a brochure for the fjords of Norway that Hermes had given him, lit it with
a match, slid it under the kindling, and waited. A moment later the fire took hold.

  "You really want to go through with this?" asked Olepesai doubtfully.

  "Orders are orders."

  Olepesai shrugged and began reciting the Chant of the Gods while Wilcox stood a few feet away and wondered if perhaps he had been just a bit too long in the vertical rays. Finally the Maasai finished and quickly dispatched the mice and the lizard.

  Wilcox wasn't quite certain what he expected, but It definitely wasn't a disembodied voice:

  "It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day,

  The score stood two to four, with but one inning left to play."

  Was that you?" asked Wilcox.

  "No," said Olepesai, stepping back from the fire.

  Well, it certainly wasn't me."

  "It was me," said the voice, and now it was joined by a tall blond man wearing furs and a metal helmet.

  "Who are you?" asked Wilcox.

  "Bragi, of course."

  "Bragi?"

  "The Norse god of poetry, come to sooth your savage souls:

  A bunch of boys were whooping it up

  In the Malamute saloon;

  The kid that handles the music box

  Was hitting a jag-time tune . . ."

  Wilcox stared long and hard at the blond god. "But why you?" he asked at last.

  "Well, your friend here definitely asked for a god of poetry. Since there are no Maasai poets—no offense, friend—we needed a little direction as to just which god of poetry you wanted. There are quite a few of us, you know."

  "The brochure," said Wilcox dully.

  "Right the first time," said Bragi. He threw a massive arm around Wilcox's shoulder. "I can tell we're going to be great friends."

  "We are?'

  "You'll have your women clean and baste a few cattle for dinner, and after we've had desert, I'll recite." He paused. "I've been boning up on all the new stuff:

  For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

  The regiment's in 'ollow square—they're hangin' him today;

  They've taken all his buttons off an' cut his stripes away.

  An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

  "That's all very well and good, but we've summoned you here to perform a task for us," said Wilcox.