Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  Setting the gourd aside, he reached up and pulled a laughing Tanisha down to him. She pressed her body against his as they embraced, and only a small outcry betrayed the pain she suddenly felt as the studs projecting from Imaro’s war-harness poked into her flesh.

  Responding to that almost inaudible cry, Imaro ripped the harness from his chest and tossed it aside, disdaining buckles and thongs. The haramia had stripped the armor from many dead Azanians; he could always find another harness to don.

  But there was only one Tanisha. No longer did the Shikaza woman share Imaro with the ghost of Keteke; her place in his heart belonged to her alone, and no other. Her arms encircled Imaro’s neck while she covered his mouth with her own. Imaro and Tanisha were oblivious to the gradual diminution of the drumming and chanting, and they did not hear the commotion the haramia caused as they emulated their leader. Nor did they hear the laughter of the bandits as they swept dancing women into their arms and carried them off to shelters, bushes and other trysting places. Only the women who had been captured in the raid on Tangwe showed signs of fear as the haramia descended upon them.

  Imaro’s lieutenants rose from their places, leaving their chieftain to his own amatory pursuits. Ngodire walked away silently, towering like a stork among quail. Kongolo and Bomunu lingered.

  All evening, Kongolo had been keeping his eye on a lissome Tangwe captive who had darted him shy glances that were a combination of invitation and apprehension. She stood waiting for him in the firelight along with several other captives; no other bandit had approached her once Kongolo had passed the word that he wanted her.

  As he started toward her, Kongolo noticed that Bomunu was now walking rapidly away from the dwindling group of captive women.

  “Aren’t you going to try your luck?” Kongolo asked jovially.

  Muttering an inaudible reply over his silk-clad shoulder, Bomunu kept walking.

  “Suit yourself, then,” Kongolo said to Bomunu’s back.

  Then he took the arm of the captive, who was not many rains past girlhood, and led her toward the privacy of his makeshift shelter.

  Bomunu cast a single backward glance at Imaro and Tanisha. The words he had not dared to utter aloud rattled like loose stones in his mind.

  He, Bomunu, should have been the one enjoying the caresses of the Shikaza woman, and he, Bomunu, should have been the one who was leading the haramia to their greatest victories. Imaro had thwarted the Zanjian’s ambitions. But they had not been extinguished.

  Someday, Bomunu vowed silently. Someday…

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The thing in the pool completed its probings. Tendrils of thought had touched the minds of all the inhabitants of the haramias’ encampment. Most were dismissed with a flick of psychic disdain, for they were less consequential than insects. In the minds of others, the intangible tendrils scanned with momentary curiosity before withdrawing. And in one, they lingered, gripped by a sudden agitation of emotions that had until now been as stagnant as the liquid immersing the body of the prober.

  Abruptly, the undetected perusal ended. It was time to act.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The sound struck without warning, like a leopard pouncing from a tree. It was a sound like the shrieking of a thousand tortured souls united as one. It was a doom-laden orison cried out by the worshippers of a dying god; it was the wail of a woman who had given birth to a stillborn child.

  In the haramias’ encampment, lovers tore free from entwining embraces and thrashed spasmodically on the ground, their hands clutched at the sides of their heads. Others stood frozen in place, their hands clawing at their ears in a vain attempt to shut out the excruciating pain the awful sound produced. Even Imaro lay prostrate, rendered helpless by an assault that inexorably threatened to destroy his hearing.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the sound ceased. Numbly, as if recovering from shock, the haramia pawed gingerly at their ears to ease the ache the mysterious noise had left behind. Nothing in their experience could explain what they had just undergone. Yet somehow, perhaps through a long-dormant trace of atavistic memory, many of the bandits were aware that what they had heard was a song – a song sung by something that was neither human, nor bird, nor beast.

  Although his Tamburure-honed senses had suffered more than most from the effects of the sound, Imaro was the first to recover.

  “What in Motoni was that?” he muttered, borrowing an East Coast curse he had learned.

  He looked down at Tanisha to see how she had fared. She shook her head slowly, wiping tears of pain from her eyes. Although Imaro had not been expecting a reply to his question, Tanisha provided one.

  “You should ask Ochinga,” she said, referring to one of the newer members of the haramia.

  “Why him?” Imaro asked.

  “Bomunu told me Ochinga’s tribe herded goats in these hills long ago.”

  A frown creased Imaro’s brow. Bomunu was spending too much time with Tanisha, he reflected darkly. He would speak to the Zanjian about that … but the confrontation would have to wait. For now, he needed information so that he could take action.

  “Bring Ochinga to me,” Imaro said.

  The mood of the bandits had altered in the space of only a few moments. Their riotous gaiety was gone now. A pall of fear had settled over them like morning mist on swampland. Low voices mumbled supplications to obscure gods and half-forgotten ancestors. Trembling fingers fondled amulets previously valued only as trinkets or ornamentation. The tree-clad slopes that girded the valley in which the encampment was located seemed suddenly menacing, like the jaws of some gigantic beast about to snap shut.

  Finally, Ochinga came forward. He was a lean, short, bandy-legged member of the Ndurubu tribe, which roamed the wooded areas. He bore a strong resemblance to Chimba, but he had nothing of the latter’s sour disposition. Ochinga was given to taciturnity in speech and reckless courage in battle.

  Now, he sweated, but the perspiration bespoke anxiety rather than heat. The Ndurubu refused to meet Imaro’s eyes as he stood before him.

  “I have heard that your people once lived in these hills, Ochinga,” Imaro said. “Can you tell us anything about that… sound?”

  “The Ndurubu call this place Weusi Milima – the Black Hills,” Ochinga replied, still not meeting Imaro’s gaze.

  “We herded goats near here many rains ago,” the Ndurubu continued. “But the elders say our ancestors fled this place because of a… thing… that dwells in the woods.”

  “Dog!” cried Bomunu, who had slipped quietly to Imaro’s side.

  Before Ochinga could turn to face him, Bomunu dealt him a treacherous blow to the side of his head, sending the Ndurubu sprawling to the ground.

  “If you knew these hills were cursed, why in Motoni did you not tell us before now?” Bomunu raged, aiming a kick at Ochinga’s midsection.

  Curling into a defensive ball, the Ndurubu awaited a second kick from Bomunu’s booted foot. It never came.

  A heavy hand clamped onto Bomunu’s shoulder. Then the Zanjian was hurled to the ground even more violently than Ochinga had been. Bomunu landed on his face, and he stifled a groan as he hit the ground.

  “Have you forgotten who leads the haramia, Bomunu?” Imaro said quietly.

  Bomunu did not reply. Rolling onto his back, the Zanjian used his elbows to lever himself into a sitting position. Blood seeped from his nostrils into his thin black mustache. He glared sullenly at Imaro, who had helped Ochinga to his feet. And he did not fail to notice that Kongolo and Ngodire had appeared at the Ilyassai’s side, as well as Tanisha.

  “This ‘thing’ you mention,” Imaro asked. “What is it?”

  Ochinga was shaking like a sick man. It was not Imaro he feared; like all the other haramia, Ochinga knew the Ilyassai’s disposition was harsh, but fair. It was the tales from his childhood that frightened him now – tales the Ndurubu elders told; stories that were rampant with menace.

  His throat was constricted, making it difficult for
him to speak. Yet he did speak, each word costing him considerable effort.

  “The dweller in the forest is called Isikukumadevu,” he said. “The elders said it is a thing of evil, imprisoned in these hills long rains ago. Isikukumadevu never dies. And Isikukumadevu sings the doom of those who come too close – so the elders say.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us before about this… creature?” demanded Bomunu, who had regained his feet, along with a measure of composure.

  Ochinga looked at Imaro rather than the Zanjian, even though Bomunu had been the one who asked the question. Bomunu seethed with resentment at the slight, but he didn’t show it.

  “Tell us now,” Imaro said.

  After a visible struggle to bring his trembling under control, the Ndurubu continued his story.

  “Many rains have passed since Isikukumadevu last sang,” he said. “That is why I said nothing when we came into the Black Hills. People like Bomunu would have laughed at me, and called me ignorant and superstitious. Even I had come to believe that Isikukumadevu was only a tale told by drunken old men. But we all heard that terrible sound…”

  “Was it a call of some kind?” Imaro asked.

  “No. That was Isikukumadevu’s song of… greeting. She calls the one she wants by name.”

  “She?” Tanisha asked incredulously.

  “Yes, she,” Ochinga said sharply, reacting to the disbelief that was clear in Tanisha’s tone. “The elders always said Isikukumadevu was – is – a female creature.”

  “Whatever it is, we’re going to break camp and get out of here now,” Imaro said. “There are other places we can go that are beyond the reach of the soldiers.”

  “Is our leader frightened of this she-demon?” Bomunu asked, a sneer plain in his tone, if not his expression.

  Imaro gazed at him levelly and dispassionately.

  “After what happened with the Afua, you, of all people, should know better than that,” the Ilyassai said.

  Bomunu could only look away from Imaro pitiless gaze, and from the truth in the warrior’s words. Then Imaro turned to the rest of the haramia, who were, indeed, frightened of the she-demon.

  “We’ll need torches if we expect to walk out of these hills at night,” he began to say.

  At that moment, a new sound sussurated through the encampment. It was a hiss, yet there was nothing of the ophidian in its aspect. Unlike the previous spear of sound that had brought the haramia to their knees, there was no direct attack on the senses this time. Instead, it was a message … spoken softly, caressingly, rustling again and again like a sinister wind sighing in the ears of the outlaws:

  imaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaroimaro

  Abruptly, the whispering call was gone. As before, the echo it left behind died quickly.

  Ochinga fell to the ground and tore at his hair.

  “We are lost! Lost!” he wailed. “The elders spoke truly. Isikukumadevu has not died, and now she claims Imaro for her own! Imaro is lost, and so are we!”

  “Be quiet!” snarled Kongolo, who had torn himself away from his Tangwe captive when Isikukumadevu first struck.

  “Do you believe Imaro is one to be overcome by a whisper?” Kongolo demanded.

  “Can you not see that Isikukumadevu is more than a ‘whisper’?” the Ndurubu, who had calmed somewhat, retorted.

  A low, agitated murmur rose from the ranks of the haramia. Fear quavered in their voices as it never had before under the leadership of Imaro. They would have followed him headlong into battle against all the armies of the East Coast kingdoms, for they knew the Ilyassai would hurl himself so ferociously into the forefront of their enemies that it sometimes seemed that he won their battles by himself.

  But an unseen foe that crippled with sound and called its victims to their doom… this, the haramia feared greatly, even with Imaro leading them.

  Imaro knew that one more manifestation from Isikukumadevu would send the bandits fleeing senselessly through the wooded hills. And once they emerged from the shelter of the trees, they would be easy prey for the soldiers who hunted them.

  He knew something else as well … Isikukumadevu bore the taint of the mchawi that had been wielded by Muburi and Chitendu, and had been unleashed when Rumanzila removed the spike from the Afua. Isikukumadevu was, therefore, a foe that had to be destroyed.

  The time to act was now. Imaro exchanged a glance with Ngodire, whose counsel he valued. The Ndashikuya gave him a barely perceptible nod, as though he knew what the warrior was about to say.

  “Ochinga!” Imaro said sharply, cutting through the Ndurubu’s fear. “Where will I find this Isikukumadevu?”

  Tanisha dug her fingers into the warrior’s arm. But she did not protest; she knew it would be futile to do so. She did not want Imaro to die, but she also knew that a direct confrontation between him and this creature, whatever it might be, was the only chance she and the others had to survive – even if, in the end, Imaro didn’t.

  Imaro looked down at Tanisha. Then he looked again at the Ndurubu.

  “The elders say Isikukumadevu guides her chosen in her own way,” Ochinga said.

  Before Imaro could ask Ochinga what he meant, a streak of pale light appeared on the ground at the feet of the Ilyassai. The light twisted in a luminescent trail across the ravine, leading into a thick tangle of dark hill-forest.

  Isikukumadevu had answered Imaro’s challenge…

  For many of the haramia, the sudden manifestation of the eerie pathway of light proved the final strain for minds already burdened with apprehension. One voice – strident, unidentifiable – cried out.

  “Run, before the demon claims us, too!”

  That outcry triggered the incipient panic of the bandits, and some of them flung down their ndizi-pombe gourds and began to flee in the direction opposite to the one taken by Isikukumadevu’s silver trail.

  “Stop!” Imaro roared. “Anyone who runs, dies!”

  Startled by Imaro’s harsh words, the would-be deserters halted abruptly, as though they had collided with an unseen wall. Never before had Imaro threatened the haramia. He always led by example. Shamefaced, they hung their heads. But their braver comrades were too preoccupied with their own fear to chide them for their moment of weakness.

  “Now, listen well,” Imaro said. “Isikukumadevu called only me. I will answer the call – alone. If I am not back here by sunrise, you will have a new chieftain: Kongolo. Follow him, and continue to loot and slay, or fall apart and allow your pursuers to slay you. If I fall to Isikukumadevu, it will not matter to me.”

  The haramia gazed uneasily at the towering figure of their leader. Firelight daubed his lion-thewed frame in crimson and orange. Often, they forgot that Imaro had seen the passing of fewer rains than most of the others. He looked more than a match for any demon ever spawned… yet the haramia had seen him writhing on the ground like the rest of them, felled by Isikukumadevu’s deadly song. In the very lair of this demon, how could even Imaro withstand another such attack?

  Imaro turned to Tanisha.

  “You understand that I have to go alone?” he asked, his hands gripping her bare shoulders.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Without further words, Imaro turned and followed Isikukumadevu’s beckoning pathway. Apprehensively, the haramia watched as their leader disappeared into the woodland.

  Tanisha longed to rush after him and envelop him in a farewell embrace. But she knew him – knew him well enough to realize that the bleak, unfeeling part of him she had never been able to reach, despite their love for each other, was at the forefront now. When he was like that, it was as though he had never known a tender moment in his life. Sadly, she stood at the entrance of the shelter she and Imaro would have shared that night. Her vigil had begun.

  Of Bomunu, who had listened with growing incredulity while the man he hated more than any other had suddenly given to someone else the position he desired more than any other, besides the status he had once held in
his homeland of Zanj, there was no sign.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Isikukumadevu’s path led Imaro on a twisted, random course through the Black Hills. In the pale beams of Mwesu the moon, dark trees loomed like sentinels of nightmare. Creepers and lianas clung leechlike to his skin as he forged along the tortuous track of the shimmering streak of light. The normal night sounds of the forest were muted.

  Dark, bitter broodings crowded Imaro’s mind even as his kufahuma – attuned now to the forest after his time in the Kajua – told him no beasts of prey lurked behind the screens of foliage flanking his path. He did detect something else: faint sounds, far behind him. But they were of scant consequence. Whatever true danger there was, he would find it at the end of the winding trail Isikukumadevu had laid. And he would do his best to destroy it.

  Mashataan. The name of the demon-gods Chitendu had served reverberated in Imaro’s mind now. Well did he remember the mchawi that had nearly destroyed him at the Place of Stones. He remembered the helplessness he had felt when Chitendu had held him motionless by sheer force of will. He had experienced a similar inability to act when Isikukumadevu’s song brought him down at the haramia encampment. Feelings such as those came closer than anything else to unraveling the resolute fabric of Imaro’s courage.

  Yet whatever the unease that was awakened by this new intrusion of the Mashataan and the Naamans into Imaro’s life, after he had been able to push them, and his futile search for a way to confront them, to the back of his consciousness for a time, it remained no more than a guttering candle next to the inferno of his rage. For he hated the Mashataan and their minions more than anything else in existence. It was their interference, through the machinations of Chitendu, that had caused his early life to be such an endless misery.

  Memories of that life dominated Imaro’s thoughts now. Hate lit wrathful fires in his dark eyes, and transformed his features into something very similar to the face of a stalking lion. He was unaware of the passage of time as he forged deeper into the woodland.