by Mel Odom
Ngola stayed off of the pathway, choosing instead to move quickly beside it. Walking on the stones would have left fresh, damp tracks and he didn’t want to risk that someone among Salazar’s crew might be sharp enough to catch those marks and know them for what they were.
Glancing back the way he’d come, Ngola spotted the Portuguese sailors crossing the bridge in single file. As Kangela and Emeka walked the bridge as it swung, he tried not to think of the long fall that lay below them if the supports gave way. His wife kept one hand on their boy’s shoulder, gently guiding him, and he walked with his head high.
The ogbanje cavorted around Lukamba, unmindful of the long plunge to the river. They spun and twirled along the ropes, like they were gamboling on a walk.
Ngola said a silent prayer for his wife and son, then focused on seeking out the eventual destination. He started forward again, then paused long enough to make sure the Portuguese and the bokor traveled in the direction he’d chosen.
They made the turn and came after him. Their torchlights seared the shadows from the tree canopy as they traveled.
Ngola pressed on.
*
The white stone pathway came to an end at stone steps that led up into the mountains. A long time ago, walls had stood on either side of the steps. Their crumbled remains lay amid the jungle, almost swallowed up by trees and brush. Occasional moonlight glinted off surfaces, making the straight lines stand out against the riotous form of the jungle.
At the foot of the steps, Ngola gazed up and discerned that the ruins of a small town lay before him. He sifted through the myths and legends he’d heard of lost cities in this part of West Africa, trying to identify which this might have been. There were so many stories, though, so many lost places. Every tribe had its folklore about forgotten civilizations that had fallen through the cracks of time or were lost to floods or other natural disasters, and all of them might possibly contain a kernel of truth.
So much of Africa’s past had been wiped out by tribal wars and by the later development of the slave trade. Lives had winked out like sparks rising from a cook fire, and histories had gotten lost and scattered. Ngola believed that Africa would remain forever splintered, never again to be made whole, never to be made strong against invaders that preyed upon her shores and took whatever they wished.
He shook those bleak thoughts from his mind and focused on saving his wife and son, and to keeping his crew as safe as possible. He and his men would shed more blood tonight, he knew that was unavoidable, but he did not want to lose any more of his people if it could be helped.
With the Baker rifle at the ready and the bokor and his inhuman companions at his heels, Ngola entered the forgotten city. Trees and brush grew along the roads that lay half-buried in dirt and grass. Night birds and bats flickered between the branches and through the arches that remained of doorways. Hyenas cackled in the distance. Almost all of the original houses had fallen over the passage of time, but here and there small buildings yet remained.
The town had been built around a natural cistern that formed a deep bowl in the harsh, rocky landscape at the foot of the mountains. Rains had come down the mountain face and pooled in the bowl. A manmade trench three feet wide led back to the chasm where the bridge was. Ngola guessed that the trench had been constructed to keep the cistern from overflowing during the rainy season.
Skeletons of people, donkeys, and other animals lay around the water’s edge, enough so that Ngola wondered if the water had been at one time poisoned.
Closer inspection revealed that nearly all of the human skeletons were those of full grown men. Many of them had weapons—spears and stone axes and crude swords forged of hammered bronze—close enough to hand that Ngola believed they had died fighting.
Several of the skulls lay cracked and shattered. Smashed ribcages revealed more signs of violence. Some of the newer skeletons, though those were old as well, wore Portuguese breastplates and had more modern weapons, though those too were dated.
Ngola’s grip on the Baker tightened as he surveyed the battlefield. Whatever had killed the original inhabitants had risen up and killed again. Fear thrummed through him, a buzzing, insistent force. Every instinct in him clamored for him to quit the place as quickly as he could. He had a sense for the dark things made of magic and evil, and that sense screamed now within him.
But he would not leave Kangela or Emeka. When he left, he would take them with him. And their capture would be avenged.
Forcing himself to stand his ground, taking a firmer grip on the Baker and tracing the hilt of one of his cutlasses, Ngola surveyed the cistern’s dark water at a level six feet down. The bowl was at least seventy yards across. In times past, the water level had been higher. Water stains on the alabaster rock revealed the old capacity.
Moonlight shimmered across the surface stirred by the whispering wind. The water looked oily and black, and though Ngola would have liked to slake his thirst, he dared not. Nor did he get too close to the water’s edge. That cold, instinctive warning trickled through him and he took two steps back before he realized he was moving.
Light flared at the corner of his eye, and he turned toward it, raising the Baker rifle.
Torches burned brightly in the hands of the Portuguese sailors as they tramped toward the ruins. Their gear jingled as they walked, and their whispers sounded tight and frightened.
Ngola melted back into the shadows a short distance from the cistern, staying to the right midway between the front of the cistern and where it butted up against the mountain. Standing behind a stone arch that listed to one side, he made the Baker ready and breathed quietly.
Lukamba walked without hesitation to the cistern’s edge. The ogbanje paced stolidly at his side, no longer capering like demented children. They were focused and attentive. Their empty eye sockets remained riveted on the dark water.
The Portuguese slavers halted several feet distant and huddled together under the fragile umbrella of light from their combined torches. Fear etched their faces, and Ngola knew they too felt the evil that lurked in the tumbled-down city.
“Lukamba.” Hand on his cutlass, Captain Salazar strode toward the bokor. “What is this place and why have you brought us here? Where is the treasure?”
Setting his staff on the ground, Lukamba answered the Portuguese captain but kept his attention riveted on the cistern. He stretched forth his empty hand over the dark water. A purple glow emanated from his palm and fingers, and the glow reflected on the surface.
“Patience, Captain. Your treasure is at hand.” Lukamba closed his eyes as if in prayer. “This place is Abiku, the city of death. Long and long, it has lain here, a corpse of broken rock and shattered power, but within its bones it has held many things of great force.”
Salazar kicked at a pile of bones in disgust. “It’s a city of corpses, I will grant you that, but I do not see The Scorpion or the treasure.”
“Abiku holds old secrets here, Captain. Powerful secrets. The Scorpion came here, but the ship did not leave.”
“Then where is it?”
“Hidden. As many things here are hidden.” Lukamba closed his hand and made a fist. The purple glow grew stronger, throwing a cast of light over his withered mouth and the half-skull that he wore. He smiled, and the expression held nothing good in it. “We are here tonight to uncover these things.”
New ripples shifted across the cistern.
At the front of the line of hostages, Emeka grew more frightened. He clung to Kangela’s hand and stepped back to take shelter behind his mother. Behind the arch, Ngola leveled the Baker rifle and held the sights steady on Lukamba. One of the ogbanje slowly turned around and scented the air, then directed its gaze at Ngola’s hiding spot.
Ngola cursed quietly, knowing then that the foul little thing was somehow sniffing out his intent. Reluctantly, Ngola shifted his aim and stopped breathing, willing his heart to beat more quietly.
The ogbanje shifted a little uncertainly, then uttered a p
laintive cry.
Lukamba ignored the dead thing and concentrated on his task. Silently, the other three ogbanje turned in Ngola’s direction as well, staring at him across the expanse of dark water.
“Abiku is an important place, Captain. A place of power for the man who knows how to wield such power.” Lukamba’s voice softened yet sounded more powerful as it carried across the cistern.
Ngola knew the change in pitch was affected by the hollow shape of the cistern and the fact that water carried sound better than the land. He watched the ogbanje, praying they did not seek him out in that moment.
Shadows flickered behind the Portuguese crew and Ngola’s keen eyes made out the gleam of moonlight on metal. Relief took the edge off the fear that gripped him when he realized Drury and the rest of his away party had joined him there in the ruins. They were still outnumbered, but they had surprise on their side.
For the moment. That edge would be quickly expended.
Salazar took another step forward. “If you were lying to me about that treasure, old man, I will see you drawn and quartered ere the dawn lights the eastern horizon.”
“I did not lie to you,” Lukamba insisted. “That ship is nearby.”
“Then show it to me now if you want to save your life.”
Instantly, the four ogbanje wheeled on the Portuguese captain, no longer searching for Ngola. Salazar drew one of his pistols in a blur of speed that impressed Ngola. Legends insisted on the captain’s speed and deadliness. The heavy pistol barrel centered on the back of Lukamba’s head.
Salazar spoke in Portuguese. “Call off your pets, sorcerer. Or I will put a ball through your brain.”
“If you should decide to do that, the ogbanje would kill you and feast on your blood.” Lukamba continued speaking softly, as if he had no concerns in the matter. “I ask only that you bide your time a moment more while I attend my needs. Then all will be revealed and I will see that you have your treasure.”
Salazar held his aim a moment longer, then greed won out and he raised his pistol to point at the heavens. “A moment more is all.”
Lukamba gestured to the ogbanje and spoke in a language Ngola did not understand. They were guttural words, hard and ringing.
Instantly, the ogbanje walked to the water’s edge and placed their misshapen hands on the stone. When they lifted their hands back up, they held tall, conical drums. The ogbanje stood the drums before them, then began hammering the tautly stretched skin that covered the instruments.
Taking his spyglass from his pouch, Ngola examined the drums. They’d been constructed of bones woven tightly together. The stretched skins still bore some of the features of men and women that had been sewn together to create the cover. The vibrating skins made it look like the faces were crying out in pain.
The hollow thumping of the drums started off slow but quickly gained speed, filling the dead city with menacing noise.
“What are you doing?” Salazar took a step back in spite of his bravado.
Behind their leader, the Portuguese sailors huddled more tightly together. Kangela shifted Emeka behind her, placing herself between their son and the bokor and the dark cistern.
“I am calling forth That Which Will Not Die so that it will give me the power that I desire.” Lukamba’s voice rose above the thumping of the drums. His closed fist glowed more brightly. “Long and long have I searched for the secret to this place. I did not guess that your search and mine would fall so closely together, but it was meant to be. Perhaps you follow dark gods as well.”
“I do not follow heathen gods,” Salazar growled.
“You do not follow your chosen god either.”
“Do not mock me.”
The drums grew louder and louder. The hollow beats burned and leaped through Ngola’s blood. The music reached back into a forgotten part of him, igniting those memories of Africa and the boy he had been before the slavers had captured him and sold him off to the plantation owners in Haiti. He wanted to weep for all he had lost, but the fear that slid greasily through him erased all gentle thoughts from his mind.
“The original inhabitants did not know of the god that sleeps at the bottom of this cistern.” Lukamba raised his gnarled fist above his head. “They knew only that this was an easy place to live. Sheltered from their enemies, they built their homes and raised their crops and tended their cattle. They did not know they had trespassed. Not at first.”
The whirling tempo of the drums sped up more as the ogbanje beat madly at them. There was not just one beat now. The demonic dead things had woven in two beats that sometimes complemented the original and sometimes fought to be unleashed.
“One day, though, the god awakened and demanded his tribute.” Lukamba shivered as though chilled. “Abiku rose up from the water and killed them, leaving only a few to tend his needs. They served him, giving him their children, feeding his dark hunger when he called out to them.”
“Why did those people not simply leave?” Salazar asked.
“Because Abiku bound them to him. The people found that when they left this place, they sickened and died. No one could escape. They lived only to be his sacrifices, his amusements and his pleasures and his prey. And their children served in their time. Until they rose up against Abiku and he struck them down.”
“Better to die a free man than live in thrall to a demon.”
The irony of Salazar’s declaration was not lost on Ngola. In many places along the coast, the Portuguese slaver himself was cursed as a demonic entity.
“Given the choice, Captain, what would you do?”
“Me?” Salazar forced a laugh, making it loud enough to pierce the drumming. “I would put a ball through your head and end this farce once and for all.”
“Would you?” Lukamba smiled, then turned to face the slaver captain. “We will see.”
The old bokor threw his arms skyward, seized his staff in both hands, and barked more guttural words as the ogbanje ceased their mad drumming. Something shimmered in the air above the staff, then dove into the water.
The last notes of the drums drifted away, lost in the ruins of the city.
For a moment, fragile silence stretched over the cistern.
Then Salazar laughed. “Perhaps your dark god is not yet ready to rouse from his nap, old man. Or maybe these people killed him and left him to rot in his little pool.” He leveled the pistol again. “Now I will have my gold or I will throw your corpse to the fishes and eels that might live in those fetid waters.”
The cistern’s calm surface erupted in a wave of spray as the monstrous thing that lay beneath lunged up.
5.
Dark God of the Cistern
Water cascaded down the scaly, serpentine shape that towered twenty feet above the cistern. A monstrous wedge-shaped head split open to reveal fangs as long as a man’s arm. A forked, black tongue flicked out to taste the air. Two sets of huge ebony eyes were set one above the other, the higher ones spreading out farther to the sides of its face. Great fins flared out on either sides of the thing’s head. The moonlight dappled the creature’s scales in shimmering blues, greens, and purples. Its belly was lighter in color than its dorsal side.
Captain Salazar swore and shifted his pistol from Lukamba to the behemoth writhing sinuously behind the bokor. The muzzle flash burned a hole in the darkness and gray powder fogged out from the barrel, then the harsh crack! reached Ngola’s ears.
Abiku loosed an ululating wail, but Ngola knew that the sound was not caused by whatever small wound the Portuguese captain’s pistol might have made. The demon-thing was much too massive for a lone pistol ball to have done much damage.
“Kill that thing!” Salazar dropped his first pistol and drew another. He stubbornly stood his ground.
Trained to obey their leader in battle, the Portuguese slavers drew forth their weapons and opened fire. The pistol shots sounded brittle and gun smoke lay thick over the sailors.
“Reload!” Salazar commanded as he drew another of hi
s pistols.
Obeying at once, the Portuguese set their rifles on the ground and reached for powder and shot. They worked mechanically, by instinct, for their fearful gazes were locked on the monster that swayed above them.
The ogbanje beat their drums again, as quick and threatening as ever.
The thing spoke in a sonorous language. The sounds were too methodical to be incoherent growling. Lukamba turned back to the creature with his staff held high and spoke in the same language. He abased himself in front of it, dropping to his knees, and pointed not at the Portuguese as Ngola had expected, but at the women and children left huddled in front of the slavers.
Abiku roared and the terrible noise rolled up the mountainside. Quicker than the thing had any right to move, it darted forward and seized two women and a child in its gaping maw. Teeth gnashed together, slicing its victims into pieces and red blood poured down its chin.
Kangela seized Emeka’s hand and propelled the boy backward as the Portuguese sailors fired again. The balls struck the creature, but most of them deflected from the scales and the others only made small wounds that barely trickled green blood.
Ngola raised his rifle and targeted Lukamba. When the sights settled over the bokor’s withered mouth, Ngola squeezed the trigger. The rifle jarred his shoulder. At the same moment, Lukamba ducked his head to the fearsome creature gulping its grisly meal before him. The ball struck the skull mask Lukamba wore.
Knocked backward by the ball’s impact, Lukamba rolled awkwardly. For a moment Ngola thought he had killed the bokor, but even as Ngola poured more powder down the throat of his weapon, Lukamba stirred and raised himself on hands and knees. The shattered skull mask fell from his face. He shouted at the monstrous thing and the ogbanje furiously beat the drums.
“Reload!” Salazar yelled as he squeezed his pistol’s trigger.
The crack! pierced the drumming but for a second. Instead of aiming at the creature, Salazar had aimed at Lukamba.
The old bokor lifted his staff and screamed in his foreign tongue. Purple sparks flashed a foot in front of his face and the pistol ball stopped in mid-flight, then dropped to the rocky ground.
