Ignoring Ariathu’s crumpled body, two of the camouflaged intruders approached the Afua. Slowly and carefully, they worked the statue free from its pedestal, a task complicated by the sharpness of the protruding golden spikes. Finally, they removed the Afua and laid it on a litter some of the others had constructed, commandeering their materials from the shrine.
Having seized the object of their search, the intruders began to make their way out of the kijiji. An eerie silence marked their departure, for even the dogs and the guinea-fowl had fled when the outlanders came. As the intruders departed, one of them spoke to the person who was in charge of the others.
“I still say we should take that big one, too.”
“But Rumanzila told us to bring back only this,” the leader said, his arm emerging from his camouflage to gesture toward the Afua.
“Rumanzila did not know we would find anyone like that man here,” the other said. “Have you ever seen anyone like him before? He would fetch more gold in the market than all these scarred-up people put together!”
The leader did not say anything.
“What do you think Rumanzila would do if he was here?” the other persisted.
That argument proved to be the decisive one.
“All right,” the leader said. “We’ll take him. But if Rumanzila doesn’t like it – it was your idea.”
“Fair enough,” the first speaker conceded.
Thus, as the intruders departed from the territory of the Mtumwe, they paused at the place where Imaro still lay unconscious. There, they constructed another, larger litter, loaded Imaro onto it, and tied him to it securely with bonds made from woven liana vines.
Then they were gone, carrying both Imaro and the Afua with them.
CHAPTER NINE
A day and a night passed before the Mtumwe who had fled from the invaders’ attack recovered sufficient courage to return to the kijiji. There, they found that the ones who had fallen to the unseen forces the intruders commanded were only beginning to awaken from what was, to them, a deep slumber plagued by dreams they hoped one day to forget.
Soon enough, the Mtumwe discovered that the Afua was gone. They found Ariathu sitting with her back against the pedestal that had supported the effigy. She stared vacantly at the broken halves of her staff. Only when the hands of many of her people reached down and helped her to her feet did she begin to regain her awareness, and her authority.
Some of the younger men remembered that a group of their comrades – including the newcomer, Imaro – had ventured into the forest on the day the forest itself attacked the kijiji. Spears in hand, a small group of men began to search for the missing hunters. The trail to the place where they had concealed themselves was not difficult to follow, and the searchers soon reached the fallen hunters, who were slowly recovering their senses.
Busa was the first of the still-dazed hunters to speak to the men who had come from the kijiji.
“Have you seen Imaro?” he asked.
“No,” one of the others replied. “Was he not with you?”
“Yes. But he is not with us now.”
Still moving gingerly, the hunters led the others to the place where Imaro had hidden in wait for the bongo that never came. Flattened foliage was the only indication the outlander had been there.
Then the men scoured the brush for any clue that would show where the warrior had gone. The ones who had come from the kijiji told the hunters about the mysterious and devastating attack they had endured the day before. At first, the hunters were incredulous, for they had not seen their own assailants. Bushes that moved as though they were walking? Invisible weapons that struck people down where they stood? And the Afua – gone?
Yet the hunters could not dismiss their own experiences. One moment, they had been lying quietly in wait for the bongo… then they felt a slight sting, like the bite of an insect … and after that, they awakened a day later, feeling as though they had drunk too much ndizi-pombe. They knew the story the others told was not a tale inspired by drunkenness, or some story to frighten children. It was the truth – a truth that was more than sufficient to terrify adults.
Of Imaro, they found no sign. After they finally accepted that the search would be fruitless however long it lasted, the hunters and the others returned to the kijiji. There, they found that a kijiji council had already begun.
Ariathu had now recovered enough of her senses to fully assert her authority. And she was the only one among the Mtumwe to retain so much as a shred of respect, for, other than the ones who had fallen at the initial assault, she, alone, had not fled the kijiji. Even the mku, Najimu, whose status was higher than that of the nganga, deferred to her now.
“We must recover the Afua,” she was saying, as the Mtumwe who had returned from the forest joined the others who were now gathered around the statue’s empty pedestal.
Ariathu’s words incited a chorus of consternation. Najimu was the one who voiced the questions that were on the minds of all.
“How are we to do that?” he demanded. “How are we to overcome ujuju that causes bushes to walk, and people to fall as though their bones have turned into water?”
“Find the Man-from-afar, and you will find the Afua,” the nganga said.
“Do you think Imaro has something to do with this?” Busa asked incredulously. “Do you think Imaro stole the Afua?”
Others echoed Busa’s skepticism, none louder than Msuli. Ariathu remained calm amid the storm of protest. She did not speak again until it eased.
“The Man-from-afar is gone,” she said. “So is the Afua. Is that chance?”
“But the same ujuju that took away the Afua might also have taken Imaro,” said Busa.
“Why?” Ariathu asked. “Why take both?”
Busa had no reply to that question. But he refused to acknowledge any possibility that the stranger who had saved his life could in any way be involved in the theft of the Afua. However, if Imaro had been captured by the wielders of such overwhelming power, then he was in danger comparable to what Busa and Msuli had faced when the crocodile attacked them.
“Ariathu,” Najimu said, speaking for the first time since the council began. The nganga turned to acknowledge him.
“Even if our warriors find the ones who have taken the Afua – and Imaro – what could they do? What can anyone do against people – or spirits – who can do that?”
He pointed to the nganga’s shattered staff.
Ariathu remained imperturbable in the face of such stark evidence of her own inability to forestall the attackers’ ujuju.
“I was not ready when they came,” she said. “None of us were. Now, I will have the time to prepare a protection against any ujuju our warriors may encounter.”
Then she turned to the crowd of people gathered at the shrine.
“We must regain the Afua,” she said, her voice both low and intense. “If we do not get it back soon, we will have to leave this place, for without the presence of the Afua, our crops will wither and our nets will be empty. Now, who will go to bring it back to our kijiji?”
“I will,” Busa said without hesitation. He exchanged only the slightest of glances with his father, the chieftain.
“So will I,” said Msuli.
Other voices joined those of the two who had first encountered Imaro. In all, a dozen of the kijiji’s bravest young men agreed to undertake the task of recovering the Afua.
It took the nganga another day to prepare the protections, which she fashioned in the form of amulets to be worn around the neck. In the meantime, she fitted the halves of her staff together again. The pieces slowly rejoined, like broken bones reknitting.
Then the day came when the Mtumwe sang farewell to the twelve warriors as they entered the Kajua, spears and pangas in hand, amulets bumping against their chests. Even as they sang, the people of the kijiji wondered if they would ever see these young men – or the Afua – again.
CHAPTER TEN
Far beyond the reach of any pursuit
from the Mtumwe, the invaders emerged from the Kajua at a point that was on the opposite side from the place where Imaro had entered the forest. An unimaginably vast distance now lay between the warrior and the Tamburure. But Imaro did not yet know that. He remained securely trussed to the litter on which his captors carried him. He also remained unconscious; whenever he stirred, one of the intruders would jab a dart into his neck, and his movements would subside.
The landscape through which the invaders now travelled contrasted sharply with both the Kajua and the Tamburure. It was a harsh-looking country; a land of thinly forested crags of rock, interspersed with stretches of flatland covered by grass that was green, rather than the yellow of the Tamburure. A variety of beasts roamed the area, from giraffe to gnu. The animals gave a wide berth to the camouflaged men who had come from the forest.
When they had put a large amount of distance between themselves and the Kajua, the invaders halted and laid down the litters that held the Afua and Imaro. Then they discarded their disguises. Within moments, all that remained of the camouflage was piles of shrubbery on the ground.
The men beneath the disguises came from many nations and tribes in the lands east of the Kajua. Their skin tones ranged from amber to ebony, and their clothing was as varied as their complexions. They were outlaws: criminals, exiles and escaped slaves who had banded together to prey on the wealthy kingdoms of the East Coast of Nyumbani. Although they – and others like them – were known by many names, the most common one was haramia – bandits. The leader of their band was Rumanzila, who was known far and wide as “The Ravager.”
Never before had any haramia band ventured so far from the territory through which they normally ranged, moving from hideout to hideout, constantly pursued by the authorities of the lands they pillaged. But never before had the promise of riches been so immense. The golden-spiked idol Rumanzila’s men now carried would be worth more to them than any other treasure they, or any other haramia, had ever stolen – of that, they were certain.
“I’m so glad to be out of this get-up and out of that damned jungle, too,” one of the haramia said as he stretched his arms over his head.
The speaker was a brown-skinned man of medium height and stocky build, with a shaven head and a thick, black beard that hid the bottom half of his face. His name was Mwenze, and he was the one who had suggested that the haramia bring Imaro out of the Kajua, along with the Afua.
“Me too,” said another, a slightly built man named Chimba, whose skin had a yellowish cast. “I hope I never have to smell monkey turds again.”
The others laughed raucously – with the exception of the one Rumanzila had chosen to lead the group that had gone into the Kajua. His name was Kongolo, and he was a squat boulder of a man whose skin was the same color as that of the river-dwellers. But the scars his skin bore were not decorations; they were the marks of battle.
“I’m still not so sure about this one,” he said, gesturing toward Imaro. “Something tells me we should have left him back there with the scar-faces.”
“I’ve got a feeling Rumanzila will be glad we brought him,” Mwenze insisted.
“You and your ‘feelings,’” Kongolo muttered.
“We should get moving now,” another voice said. “The longer it takes us to return, the more impatient Rumanzila will be. And I don’t think any of us wants him to become impatient.”
The attention of all the other bandits turned to the new speaker. His name was Angulu, and he was a wa-nyanume – a sorcerer of the highest rank – who had fled from the kingdom of Azania after his delving into forbidden arts was uncovered by rival magic-users. Embittered by what he considered betrayal, Angulu sought refuge among the haramia. Now, he was helping Rumanzila’s band to gain ascendance over all the others.
Angulu had created the poison on the tips of the blow-darts the haramia had used to render Imaro and the people of the kijiji senseless. He had also cast a spell to enhance the effectiveness of the bandits’ camouflage. And for him, it had been a simple matter to overcome the feeble sorcery that was all Ariathu could muster.
Kongolo was the nominal leader of the foray. But he, like all the others, deferred to the wa-nyanume.
Suddenly, the captive uttered a low groan and began to strain against his bonds. His eyes rolled beneath their lids, and the litter to which he was bound shifted as he rocked from side to side. Quickly, Angulu reached into his garment and pulled out a small, feathered dart. Its point pricked the skin at Imaro’s throat, drawing a tiny bead of blood. Immediately, the warrior’s struggles ceased.
“He’s a strong one; I’ll give him that,” Kongolo muttered.
He could feel Angulu’s gaze on him, even though he was not looking at the sorcerer.
“Let’s move,” he said curtly, still avoiding Angulu’s eyes.
The haramia assigned to carry the litters hoisted their burdens, and the bandits resumed their trek through the rugged lands beyond the Kajua, heading toward the north and east.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sometimes, Imaro knew he was dreaming. And when those times came, he tried to will the dreams to stop. But they never did. Then his awareness would fade, and he would slide back into an unquestioning acceptance of unreality…
He was at olmaiyo, facing Ngatun the lion… but this lion was many times larger than the one he had slain… and Imaro himself was only a small child, as he had been when his mother, Katisa, left him with the Ilyassai, left him to find for himself… he was only a boy, and his hands were too small to fit around the shaft of the arem, and the shield was too heavy for him to lift… Roaring like thunder, Ngatun sprang…
He was battling N’tu-mwaa hand-to-hand, his forearm jammed against the sorcerer’s throat to prevent the transformed, lion-like jaws from closing on his face… but N’tu-mwaa was changing… the pale spots on his skin were disappearing… fur was sprouting on his body, and claws were growing in place of his fingernails…
He was chasing his cow, Kulu, across a Tamburure empty of anything other than grass… but this grass was different, unnatural…its edges were as sharp as the blade of a simi… they cut cruelly into his legs as he ran, but he could not stop… Kulu could not stop running, either… the ngombe drew farther and farther away from him, bawling in pain in a voice that seemed almost human…
He was fighting Kanoko… death blazed in his rival’s eyes, and sparks flew from the warriors’ simis as the blades clashed again and again… Imaro beat down Kanoko’s guard, and drove the point of his weapon deep into his tormentor’s chest… but Kanoko did not cry out, and his expression did not change, and when Imaro pulled his blade free, no blood flowed from the gaping wound…
He was in the Place of Stones, held fast by the mchawi of Chitendu… the creatures that dwelt in the ruined edifice surrounded him… then the nameless creatures began to change…and they became the Ilyassai… hatred contorted their features as they shouted abuse and epithets, as they had during the Shaming… suddenly, Chitendu himself appeared before him… with a mocking laugh, the oibonok opened his cloak… the tendrils that writhed along his torso glowed brighter… and still, Imaro could not move…
Sometimes, there were no images at all… only blackness deeper than that of a starless, moonless night… those were the times when Imaro came closest to regaining consciousness… it was then that he became dimly aware that he was bound, as he had been by the Turkhana, and has he had been by his own people when they believed he had displayed cowardice during his olmaiyo… it was then that he struggled against bonds he could feel, but could not see, only to be plunged once again into visions that were beyond nightmares…
Then came a day when the blackness faded… when his limbs felt as though flame ants were crawling through them… when his senses registered the sensation of ropes tied tightly across his skin… when he could, at last, open his eyes…
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Imaro’s vision swam into focus, his first thought was that his dreaming had not yet come to an end.
The last thing he remembered from waking life was crouching in the foliage near the kijiji of the Mtumwe, and then a sudden flaring of his kufahuma, followed by dream-haunted oblivion.
Now…
He was no longer in the Kajua. He was in a place even more unlike the Tamburure than was the land of trees. This was a land of rocks: crags of red, yellow and black stone that bit at the sky like the teeth of a giant. Scraps of foliage clung to the sides of the peaks; otherwise, this land was the most barren he had yet seen.
Despite the harshness of its landscape, however, this new place was inhabited. There were people on either side of Imaro, holding him upright. His bonds chafed against his skin, but that was the least of his discomforts. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and his mouth was dry from thirst. The weakness of inactivity had depleted the strength in his limbs, and his head throbbed from the aftereffects of the poison that had kept him unconscious and immobile for so many days.
None of those ailments mattered to him now. His entire attention was claimed by the people who were gathered before him… people the like of whom he had never seen even in the most bizarre of the dreams that beset him while he was in the grasp of the poison …
The people stared at him and made comments to each other, speaking words Imaro did not understand. It was easy enough, however, for him to discern that his welcome among them would not be as friendly as the one he had received from the Mtumwe.
In appearance, these new people were diverse, with none resembling the inhabitants of either the Tamburure or the Kajua. Some were tall; others, as short as half-grown Ilyassai children. The complexion of most was a deep, umber brown, not unlike the color of Imaro’s own skin. But some were as dark as midnight, and others had skin the color of cinnamon and amber. Some bore ritual scarification, though not as extensive as that of the Mtumwe.
Imaro: Book I Page 13