Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  Where were the shouts, the chants, the leaps of ecstasy that marked the victorious end of a warrior’s olmaiyo? Why weren’t the others cutting out Ngatun’s heart and slicing it into portions to be eaten raw by all the warriors, marking the final freeing of the soul the lion’s body had contained?

  There was no celebration. Masadu, Kanoko and the others tightened their circle around Imaro. They moved forward stiffly, as if they were no longer in control of their own bodies. Only one was not affected by the mysterious torpor: Muburi. The oibonok smiled, malice plain in his narrowed eyes.

  With a sudden, sick sensation, Imaro realized he had been betrayed.

  In his mind, his life had been a contest: his will against that of the Ilyassai. They had set the conditions for the contest; he had fulfilled them. Now – they had reneged on their own rules.

  With a strangled sound that was half sob, half scream of hatred, Imaro hurled the head of Ngatun toward the advancing warriors. Trailing blood, the grisly missile crashed full into the nearest man’s shield, sending him sprawling backward. Then Imaro lunged for his simi, which was still lying in the grass by the carcass of his kill. He no longer thought; his only desire was to repay the Ilyassais’ deceit with blood, even though they were his mother’s people.

  He never reached his simi. Before his fingers could touch the hilt of the weapon, half-a-dozen spear butts smashed against his head. Bolts of pain exploded in his skull, and he sank to the blood-spattered grass. Unconsciousness awaited, but before the world blinked out, a single thought whirled in the chaotic confusion that overwhelmed him: why had the Ilyassai waited until now to destroy him, if they had meant to do so all along?

  CHAPTER NINE

  He awakened hanging from a pole supported on the shoulders of two warriors. His wrists and ankles were lashed securely to its ends. Despite the jolts of pain each step of the warriors’ quick pace sent through his skull, Imaro instantly realized the significance of the manner in which he was trussed.

  Warriors who were victorious in olmaiyo marched proudly back to the manyattas, carrying the mane of the lion they had slain in their hands. The tuft of its tail would decorate their spears. Those who suffered serious wounds in their victory – like Masadu – were carried with honor on the remnants of their shields. Those who died beneath Ngatun’s fangs were left on the plain for the scavengers to devour, as were all other Ilyassai dead.

  Only an ilmonek – an un-man, one who fled in terror before Ngatun’s charge – was returned to the manyattas bound to a pole like the quarry in a hunt for game. And when an ilmonek came within sight of a clan’s manyattas…

  When that thought entered his mind, the true depth of the betrayal become clear to Imaro. He struggled against his bonds, nearly toppling the pole from the warriors’ shoulders.

  “Why are you disgracing yourselves with this lie?” Imaro shouted. “Do you hate me more than you love your honor?”

  “Who are you, ilmonek, to speak to men about honor?” Masadu replied scathingly.

  The scarred warrior spat on Imaro’s shadow. The others glared at him, contemptuous curses and epithets spewing from their mouths. The glazed, unseeing expressions their faces had worn when they struck Imaro down were gone now. And Imaro realized then that the warriors truly believed he had fled from Ngatun.

  But why?

  His gaze turned to Muburi. The oibonok’s features were a mask of scorn. Yet in Muburi’s eyes, Imaro recognized the same cold amusement he had seen just before the warriors’ spear butts collided with his head.

  In a sudden insight, Imaro knew the answer to his question. Somehow, the n’tu-mchawi had used his sorcery to induce the warriors into believing they had seen Imaro throw down his weapons and run from Ngatun, rather than what had actually happened. They had slain the lion themselves, they believed, in order to spare Imaro for the Shaming.

  The warriors marched in forbidding silence. Imaro knew there was no use in further conversation. Despair and a sense of futility threatened to overcome the young warrior as no weapons ever could. Muburi had used mchawi – sorcery of the foulest kind; the same sorcery that N’tu-mwaa of the Turkhana had practiced; the same kind that had brought about the downfall of Chitendu, who was the clan’s oibonok before Muburi.

  But Chitendu had long since vanished, and Muburi had no reason to wish Imaro any harm – at least, no more than any other Ilyassai. And why the elaborate deception? If Muburi had desired Imaro’s death, an arem in the back would have been much simpler. But what if it was not his death Muburi wanted? What if it was his disgrace?

  Imaro’s thoughts deepened and darkened as the warriors continued to carry him across the Tamburure.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jua was touching the western horizon when the cheerless procession finally reached the manyattas of the Kitoko clan. Men, women, and children gathered in the open space at the center of the concentric circles of dwellings. From afar, they had seen the manner of Imaro’s return – ilmonek.

  The warriors carrying Imaro shrugged the pole from their shoulders. Imaro landed on the ground with a jarring thud. Before he could catch the breath driven from his body, the jeering began.

  It was through other tribes’ fear of Ilyassai courage and prowess that the warrior-herdsmen dominated the Tamburure. Only the truly valiant could use fear as a weapon – this, the Ilyassai well knew. Mafundishu-ya-muran and olmaiyo were the ways the Ilyassai expunged fear from the hearts of their warriors.

  For the ilmonek – those who failed to conquer their fears in the face of Ngatun’s wrath – the Shaming awaited. The abuse the Ilyassai shouted into Imaro’s ears was but the beginning of the Shaming. A lie, he cried, without opening his mouth.

  A harsh shout rose over the din of taunts and curses. Mubaku, the ol-arem, had arrived. The tumult quickly subsided, and the throng of people parted to allow Mubaku to pass.

  Nearly sixty rains had washed through Mubaku’s life now. The lines their passage had left were clearly visible even beneath the ocher daubed on his face. His limbs were leaner than they had been the day Katisa left the clan’s manyattas. Still, the ol-arem stood straight as the shaft of the spear from which his title was derived. In battle, his skill and ferocity were equal to that of warriors a score or more rains younger.

  Mubaku looked down at the bound Imaro. Imaro thought he saw a shadow of disappointment pass through the ol-arem’s eyes – but only briefly.

  “Cut him free,” Mubaku said.

  The two warriors who had borne Imaro from the plain bent down and used their simis to sever the thongs that bound Imaro to the pole. Imaro rose to his feet. He refused to allow the effects of the clubbing or the uncomfortable trek back from the olmaiyo to show. Erect, unwavering, he faced the ol-arem. The warriors who had cut him free stood close by, their simis still drawn.

  “This is a lie,” Imaro said quietly.

  “Silence, son-of-no-father,” Mubaku growled.

  Inwardly, Imaro winced. Rains had passed since Mubaku had last referred to him in that way.

  “Let Muburi and Masadu speak first,” the ol-arem said. “Then the son-of-no-father. Then we will decide who speaks the truth. Such is the Way of Ajunge.”

  “Such is the Way,” the others intoned.

  The oibonok and the master of mafundishu-ya-muran recounted the tale of Imaro’s supposed cowardice. To Imaro, those words were like venom dripping from the fangs of a serpent. Lies, all lies, he thought. Why can’t they realize they are lying?

  But the other warriors who had witnessed the olmaiyo nodded their agreement. Kanoko had cut in with words of his own, stating that his was the spear that had slain Ngatun, just as the lion was about to bring the fleeing Imaro down from behind. The warriors’ eyes mirrored their scorn for Imaro.

  And the judgment of the other warriors who had not participated in the olmaiyo was obvious. For many rains, they had resented Imaro’s strength, speed and skill; hated the reality that the son-of-no-father, who was only half-Ilyassai, could surpass the great
est physical feats the full-blooded Ilyassai could accomplish. Now, with the evidence of the warriors who had been part of the olmaiyo that Imaro had fled from Ngatun and had failed the final test of a warrior, their grudging respect for Imaro’s prowess disappeared.

  The swift erosion of the acceptance he had striven so long to gain was clear to Imaro; he could see it falling from the Ilyassais’ faces like the cast-off skin of a shedding lizard. He knew that none of them would believe the truth about his olmaiyo.

  Yet when Mubaku bade him to speak in his own defense, Imaro told his tale with quiet dignity, ignoring the open disbelief that greeted its telling. He did not mention his suspicions about Muburi, for he had no way of proving the oibonok had used mchawi against him. Before the people spoke in response when Mubaku asked them which story they believed, he knew what they would say.

  “The son-of-no father lies!”

  “No one has the strength to throw Ngatun from his shield!”

  “Not only is the son-of-no-father ilmonek; he is a liar as well!”

  “Shame him! Shame him!”

  “The Ilyassai have judged,” Mubaku said after the tumult died down. “You, son-of-no-father, are ilmonek – un-man. You must suffer the Shaming. You will be stripped of weapons and clothing, and cast out of the lands of the Ilyassai clans. Every tribe in the Tamburure will know you for what you are, for your head will be shaved smooth as a woman’s.”

  Mubaku’s words beat against Imaro’s ears like the measured cadence of a funeral drum. His life-long goal – to attain full warrior status among his mother’s people – was dead. It lay at his feet like the scattered, yellow bones of an old kill.

  “It is a lie,” Imaro murmured. The word referred to more than just the fabricated story the warriors who had accompanied him on olmaiyo had told.

  Kanoko stepped in front of Imaro then.

  “An ilmonek dares to call true warriors liars!” he shouted before smashing the butt of his arem full into Imaro’s mouth.

  Blood spurting from his lips, Imaro’s head snapped back and a fresh jolt of pain lanced through his skull. And sheer madness swept through him like a burning, crimson wave.

  Before the sneering Kanoko could move, Imaro was upon him. A tremendous blow of his balled fist lifted Kanoko from his feet and sent him crashing into the leather wall of a nearby manyatta. Blood pouring from his lacerated lips, Imaro sprang toward the supine body of his life-long tormentor.

  His path was quickly blocked by a horde of lean, strong warriors. Imaro charged into them like a buffalo attacking a pride of lions. With mace-like blows of his fists, he sent his tribesmen sprawling. Closer he surged to the dazed Kanoko, murder blazing in his eyes.

  But even Imaro could not prevail for long against so many Ilyassai. Despite the punishment the maddened warrior dealt, the others swarmed over him, striking heavy blows of their own. They used only their hands, for they knew Imaro must be kept alive for the Shaming.

  Yet Imaro refused to fall … until Mubaku tripped him with the shaft of his arem. Imaro fell then, and for the second time that day, his head was the target of a shower of spear butts.

  Before blackness enveloped him, Imaro saw the warriors gaze at each other in wonderment. Through clouding eyes, he saw the doubt that was in their minds revealed on their faces: how could such prodigious strength and ferocity be housed in the body of one who was ilmonek?

  Then he heard Muburi’s voice.

  “That’s enough, damn you!” the oibonok shouted. “Would you have him die before the Shaming ends?”

  Even as he sank again into unconsciousness, Imaro saw the doubt recede from the warriors’ eyes. It was as though he could hear their thoughts: He is not truly Ilyassai … his courage now is that of the cornered rat … nineteen Ilyassai warriors would never lie … we saw what we saw…

  Then oblivion claimed him, mercifully.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A foul smell hung almost palpably in the dark manyatta. From the round entrance of the leather dwelling, a circle of dim light vied vainly against the deep shadows inside. The wan flickering of the Ilyassai night-fires meant little to the figure lying bound on the bare dirt floor. Imaro savored the darkness, for night signalled surcease from the ordeal of his days.

  Though he seemed only a motionless shadow in the black confines of the manyatta, the warrior was far from quiescent. He strained with dogged persistence against the grass ropes binding his limbs. At times, it seemed he was back in the Land of No One, held captive by the Turkhana. He had been bound in the open plain then, but it was all the same, he thought bitterly.

  He continued to extend his arms and legs outward, pushing against the fibrous bonds. The ropes had been tied in a way that caused them to grip him more tightly the more he fought them. Yet he continued to fight them.

  During the two days and three nights that had passed since his olmaiyo, Imaro had pitted his strength against ropes normally used to restrain ngombe bulls that had become unruly during mating time. There was nothing against which these fibers could be abraded, as had been the case in the Tamburure during that long-ago night when he thought the worst had already happened to him. Yet resistant though the fibers were, he knew they would eventually yield to his unrelenting pressure. They must…

  The toll exacted by his lack of food since the Shaming started was a harsh one. But the molten core of hatred deep within him sustained him as no amount of food ever could. The final humiliation of the three days of Shaming would greet him with the morning rise of Jua unless he overcame his bonds this night. And if the pain of the ropes cutting deep into his skin threatened to hinder him, he needed only to allow his memory to dwell on the events of the past days to goad him into greater effort ….

  He had remained motionless and silent when Masadu tore away his clothing and cut the clay-caked braids from his head. He had not resisted when Muburi bound him. In what seemed to be resigned indifference, he endured the days of Shaming.

  When Jua rose, two warriors would drag him from the manyatta set aside for him and prop him against its leather wall. Then the people would gather, from the oldest to the youngest – everyone who was not obligated to graze the ngombes or guard the borders of the clan’s territory.

  They reviled him with bitter words, and pelted him with dirt and offal. Most vicious of all were the youths who were almost of age for olmaiyo. There were few among them who did not secretly fear that they, themselves, might one day share Imaro’s plight. There were fewer still who did not silently resolve to die beneath the talons of Ngatun rather than face the Shaming.

  Only once did Imaro allow the emotions roiling beneath the expressionless mask of his face to betray him. It happened on the first day, when one face stood out indelibly from the others: the face of Keteke, the Zamburu captive meant to be his mate after he returned from olmaiyo. Surely Keteke, who had told Imaro she loved him, would believe in him…

  But when Keteke looked at him, her face was twisted in an expression of deep loathing. Behind her stood Kanoko, who had scathingly proclaimed to all the clan that both Keteke and Imaro’s small herd of cattle now belonged to him. In response, Imaro had lowered his head until the sorrow receded. After that, there was nothing left inside him other than hatred.

  The ropes were cutting so deeply into his muscles that he was beginning to lose feeling. But his hatred felt no pain. Still, he knew that if he lost much more of his strength, he would not be able to burst free before dawn. He had to force the grass serpent-coils away from him – now!

  And his bonds finally surrendered, torn apart by the Imaro’s ultimate surge of power and will. Shaking the limp bonds from him, he sat up, ignoring the tingling pain of the circulation that returned to his limbs. The pain was nothing, for he was now free – free to escape from his prison, for the Ilyassai had not deigned to post guards at the manyatta in which he was held.

  There would be other sentries elsewhere, Imaro knew, for the ngombes had to be protected from two-and four-legged marauders. But I
maro was confident he could evade them.

  For the first time since he had slain Ngatun, joy suffused Imaro’s soul. First, freedom, he vowed. Then – vengeance!

  It was then that he heard a slight, furtive noise at the entrance to the manyatta. He saw a dim bulk pass through the circular opening… and moonlight glittered on a metal blade…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Imaro moved swiftly, soundlessly. One brawny arm hooked across the throat of the intruder to stifle any outcry. His free hand clamped onto the wrist of the hand that bore the blade that had flashed in Mwesu’s light. A simi dropped from fingers suddenly rendered useless. With a soft thump, the weapon hit the floor of the manyatta. Imaro felt the tightening of throat muscles against his forearm, and he heard a strangled cry of agony.

  Fiercely the intruder struggled, but Imaro inexorably forced his captive closer to the light at the manyatta’s entrance. The faint light illuminated features contorted in pain and fury. Astonished at what he saw, Imaro slackened his grasp, allowing the intruder to twist loose.

  “You… you’re free,” Kanoko gasped in a choked whisper.

  Cobra-swift, the warrior’s hand darted toward his fallen weapon. Imaro’s foot was faster. His heel crunched down on Kanoko’s wrist just as the warrior’s fingers touched the hilt of his simi. Although Kanoko’s face writhed in a grimace of pain, he refused to cry out.

  “Did you come here to kill me, Kanoko?” Imaro asked, his voice deceptively soft.

  “I came to make you beg for death,” Kanoko replied.

  For a long, tense moment, the young warriors glared at each other, as they had on the day that Kanoko had given a flame-ant filled kutendea to Imaro’s ngombe. Then another shadow obscured the light at the entrance to the manyatta.

  As one, Imaro and Kanoko turned their heads toward the entrance. A slim figure stood there, bent as though about to enter. It was Keteke, eyes wide and mouth agape in astonishment.