Dominion

by Nicole Givens Kurtz

  “This bird thing won’t do,” Pickle, his son, said. “Now what? Mmhh? What?”

  “We go to the village.”

  “Like this? As birds?”

  “And that troubles you, I see. Pretty much everything displeases you, ingrate lad.”

  “Having travelled back in time to build a picture of history, we’ll be dinner in a human’s pot before we catch up with that past. Imagine the possibilities: skinned or feathered, how will they eat us? Apprentice, guinea pig or bird, Papa, I do not goad fate.”

  “Relax. We won’t be birds long. But we need to observe before we can morph and fit in.”

  “Fit? We could have fitted in better had we done the vortex. Churn, swirl, a blast of colour and schwash! Right into this world in our normal forms. Why come as birds?”

  “No mess, no structural changes,” said Zhorr. “The black hole causes atomic fusions and chemical transfigurations. Flying in was safe. Safer! I understand your frustration. You must appreciate that 3059 to 1905 AD is a hell lot of years.”

  “No kidding. So why birds again?”

  “You make an awful sparrow.” Zhorr regarded Pickle for a moment. He swirled. Monster wings flapped and a swell of rapid air slapped Pickle to the ground. “That better?”

  Pickle lifted on two legs. He sniffed around, scratched his ear and landed back on fours— a reddish brown mouse. He scurried into clumps of grass, dragging his tail.

  “No point sulking,” the magician said, now transformed to a grey squirrel himself. He gnawed his forefeet and shaped his nails. He rubbed his whiskers and sat on a bushy tail.

  Above them, the dazzling eyes of a shadowy owl picked bustle in the shrubbery. “Either way, Papa,” came Pickle’s voice from the brushwood. “In all these shenanigans, you leave me silly and game. If humans don’t gobble me, that darn owl up there will.”

  “I’ll do something. Maybe. At dawn.”

  They veered north, eating miles away in bristle undergrowth on a forest walk. Shadows peeped in and out between leaves and soft moon glow. Zhorr and Pickle steered by thick smoke curling in the horizon. They found an open field dazzled by white stars. The meadow closed to unfenced farmland bulging with blonde ears of maize. Yellowing grass trembled and snapped at their chins. Pickle legged it out. But digging, scratching and sniffing at whim, he simply couldn’t keep pace with Zhorr, who looked fine and strong.

  Pickle struggled, out of breath, way out of legs and famished. This is some adventure, he thought. A sudden nostalgia for Diaspora overwhelmed him—its gold and rainbows and snow-capped crags. In this godforsaken past, the wind looped and whined with speed and ferocity. The trees murmured and loomed tall like mountains to Pickle’s modest size. A whisper ran across the grass and nearly scared him out of his fur. A dried leaf raced near his cheek. Behind the leaf ’s rustle came a gasp from a rousted and irate cricket. It zinged past Pickle’s muzzle.

  Zhorr and Pickle travelled over a dirt road stippled with clumps of dung in various stages of drying. Hungry, they paused and nibbled sprouting maize shoots by the roadside. Further north, a golden carpet of millet and sorghum fields spread. Fallen stems by the roadside crumbled at their feet.

  “I’m still hungry,” said Pickle.

  Zhorr shook ears of grain into his paws and they had another meal.

  Finally, they came upon sporadic huts. Zhorr and Pickle moved along a cattle fence and into a forest of mango trees laden with fruits. A narrow footpath led to a mud hut with thatched roofing. Beside it, they ate their way into a food shed where they huddled in sound sleep on a golden bed of drying grain, malleable as a waterbed.

  Zhorr awoke to the crow of a cockerel and transformed himself into an old man. Drums echoed in the distance. The staccato beats left Pickle’s sleep of light snores unruffled. The grand magician appreciated his son’s exhaustion from a flight across years. The great land of Diaspora stood eons away from a small African village invisible on the global map but only visible in a magic bowl with special effects.

  He contemplated washing his face. He perused the compound and took note of a well that had seen better days. He prayed it held a trickle or three, else he’d have to cast a spell. A tin pail lay beside the well… all seemed hopeful. But before he could stir or rise, within minutes of the cock’s crow, hinges of the hut’s wooden door groaned. A boy with tight hair and bark loin came out. His lazy hands rubbed sleep from his eyes. He lifted the empty pail and took to his heels, swinging the handle, presumably on his way to the river for a day’s ration of bath, drink and cooking water. That trampled the well’s possibilities as a washing place for the magician.

  Zhorr waited until the boy was out of sight and clapped his squirrel paws. Pickle woke up—a human boy. He was chocolate skinned and naked. He gazed in wonderment at his father’s new form: a salt and pepper wise-man with ancient eyes.

  “No need to look so pleased, younglin,” he said. “I never thought you’d eagerly embrace childhood. Being human, of course, afflicts you with all their scourges.”

  “Such as?”

  “Disease and incontinence.” Zhorr pointed to a rickety shack gated with maize stalks. “Pit latrine right over there.”

  Zhorr applied a sprinkle of sorcery and fashioned garments for them: Pickle in bark loin and Zhorr in dried cattle skin and a single-shoulder robe. A clap from the magician, and they soared to a new home, their very own, wetness still clinging to its fresh mud walls.

  Pickle eyed two beds of elephant weed and covered his face.

  “Breakfast. If you’ll excuse me—” Zhorr vanished and appeared seconds later with new-found knowledge and ingredients, having completed an observation tour of Ngoni Village. “Twigs. Fetch me twigs, younglin.”

  Twigs, three stones, a conjured pot and a wooden spoon—the magician stirred sweet potato powder into lukewarm water in the pot. He mixed it well and removed lumps. The concoction came to a boil. He pulled out twigs and lowered the heat, stirring the porridge all the while.

  “Ah, bowls.” He scratched his head.

  Clap, and half-moon gourds appeared.

  He served the porridge. Pickle made a face but, in the end, licked the inside belly of the gourd with relish.

  Replete, Pickle had one question: “The villagers don’t know us. How will we fit in?”

  Zhorr clapped again. “They know us now.”

  Sure enough, they were warming chilled hands over a twig fire, burning morning breeze from stiff knuckles, when a rap came across the wooden door. Chief Ngosi— whose wives, huts and extended family Zhorr had perused earlier that morning in his three-second flight—stepped into the hut. He led a dozen reed-thin elders, their walk too slow, too careful for the limited amounts of greys on their heads.

  “Greetings Zhorr,” Chief Ngosi said in a dialect that Zhorr and Pickle seemed to fully understand.

  “Greetings, good Chief.”

  “I trust you and the boy are well?” Chief Ngosi asked.

  “As well as can be.”

  Zhorr nodded at Pickle, who rose and left his coveted spot beside the fire and leaned by the mud wall, as the elders huddled around the merry flames. They were wiry-haired men with blank faces that carried eyes as still as a swamp. One elder bore wrinkles as numerous as the tales of the dead. There was no doubt that, behind their retinas, those elders carried wealth of culture that seasoned them with much knowledge. But theirs was a wisdom merged with gloom.

  Chief Ngosi drummed his lips with a finger to call for silence. He glanced at the elders, then at Zhorr, completely ignoring Pickle, and delved into the focus of their visit.

  “Zhorr,” he began. “We all know that you and medicine man Shona are the most powerful sorcerers of our land.” He sat on the ground, his knees thrust upward. “You know what happened to the village of Tumbi.”

  “Toom-bee,” Zhorr repeated, rolling the consonants. The elders watched him closely. He cleared his throat and nodded, having no inkling of Tambi or Tompei, or
what had happened to it, although Ngosi’s tone indicated something awful. He hoped someone would tell him the headlines or the whole village thing would become pig’s ass for Pickle and him.

  The chief pulled a small twig from the embers. “When Whiteman came from the sea, we welcomed him with a feast. We gave him our wives and daughters to warm his loins. What did he do? He brought more white men. Soon, we didn’t have enough wives or daughters to go around. To add insult to injury, Whiteman spoke of a thing called cotton and how much better it would be in our farms. Cotton. Better than millet, maize or cassava, Whiteman said. When we refused Whiteman’s request, his soldiers came with magic sticks that threw fire. So we grew cotton, only a little at a time, in small portions at the corners of our farms, to make peace.”

  The chief poked the twig on the ground and made small holes. “Now this cotton does not feed the stomach. Our children need grain. Instead of being satisfied, Whiteman wanted half our farms to grow sisal. Then he introduced coffee on the Mount where the gods live. Before we could cough, he called himself Imperial Commissioner and demanded land tax.”

  “Yes,” said Zhorr, not much enlightened. “Yes, indeed.” So what happened to Tongsey again?

  “Whiteman took our young men,” said Chief Ngosi. “He forced them to work in his plantations. We gritted our teeth and bore it, for the gods were unhappy with us and there was nothing we could do. Finally, unable to take it anymore, the people of Tumbi asked Shona for help. They wanted something stronger than spears to fight Whiteman’s stick that vomited fire.”

  “And Shun…” the grand magician cleared his throat. “Shona helped them?”

  “Why do you test my knowledge, Zhorr? Of course Shona helped them. He told them to mix millet seeds, water and castor oil, and he blessed the potion. He said the magic potion would turn the hot pellets in Whiteman’s stick into water.”

  “If you ever heard a load of boloney—” began Pickle, leaning forward from the mud wall, arms folded.

  Zhorr silenced him with a look.

  “Village warriors drank the potion,” said Chief Ngosi. “They wore headbands and waved spears. Maji! Maji! they cried and burst into Whiteman’s compound.”

  Zhorr nodded. “Whiteman’s bullets did not turn into water.”

  Chief Ngosi spat. “They did not. The wails of the women,” he spoke slowly, “the children’s crying… My ears are still ringing.”

  Zhorr touched his arms. “What do you want me to do for you?”

  “Trouble is brewing. White soldiers are moving through the country. They are burning millet and maize. Tumbi is no longer a village. It has been reduced to an orange blaze. The soldiers are moving inwards. In the village of Tana, they raped girls and mutilated men. Soon they will invade Ngoni. If we do not die of the Whiteman’s stick that spits fire, we’ll surely die of famine.”

  Desperation scorched his eyes. “I am a leader and a warrior. The bones and blood inside my body cannot stay silent. If I sat like a stone and did nothing for my people, I’d be alive but dead. No one would sing of my creation, my story, my journey. There’d be no fire, wind or kingfish song. Not even a frog song. No one would tell stories to my children and their children’s children.”

  “And you think I can help you—how?”

  “If Whiteman’s medicine was more powerful than that of Shona, then only you can defeat him. This morning, we beat drums to summon young men. They have formed gangs to rip cotton off Whiteman’s plantations, burn his cattle and capture his women. In order to fully succeed, we need your magic.”

  “But Papa, you cannot interfere!” said Pickle.

  “Silence, boy.”

  Zhorr pondered. Finally, he spoke.

  “If you promise not to harm the children or kill the women—they know nothing of your war—maybe I’ll help you.”

  “We’ll shed no child’s blood or lay a finger on any woman. We’ll banish them to the gaze of the sea where they came from.”

  “And if they can’t swim?”

  “We’ll give them dhows and then banish them.”

  “Return to your huts and wait there until dusk. When the moon casts its light, summon your warriors. Meet me at the door of my hut and I will speak.”

  “Speak? Is that all you’ll give us? Words?”

  “I’ll give you more than words, more than immunity to bullets with plain water. I will give you,” he paused. “Magic.”

  After the last of the elders had shuffled out, Pickle rushed to his father. “You have not well thought through this. Surely you can’t!”

  “Primarily because?”

  “You’ll change history!”

  “So it would seem.” He scratched his head. “We shall see.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll know the outcome in due course.” His mind slipped to a hidden place.

  Nothing Pickle said could reach him.

  ✦✦✦

  “The first stir of twilight brings scores to our door,” said Pickle.

  Zhorr raised his brows.

  “The entire village of Ngoni,” said Pickle. “And gate crashers.”

  The chief ’s wives wore cowry shell bracelets and heavy gold anklets that clink-clanked with every stride. The rest of the women balanced, without finger support, fat clay pots on their heads. The men built a fire.

  Everyone danced.

  Ngoni Village had brought feast and dance to Zhorr’s door.

  Faces shone with body paint: ochre red streaked with white clay. Bellies distended with banana brew, roast goat, cassava and millet.

  Seed rattles and bead-filled shakers tied to dancer’s arms and legs chimed in tempo to the drum’s poom! palah! poom! Necks swayed. A sky dance, a river dance, a new rites dance, a war dance. Expression, transition, choreography. Someone double looped through a ring of fire. Triple flip. Loop. Loop. It was more religious than anything else.

  Pickle moved away from prancing feet in a ceaseless sequence of pace and loop, and walked towards Zhorr, who was seated in close vicinity to a banana leaf carpet piled high with food. In one hand, Zhorr clutched a gourd of mulled fruit.

  Pickle touched his father’s shoulder and knelt on the ground beside him. “I don’t see how this will help my learning, Papa.”

  Zhorr took a swig of brew. “They rot fruit to pulp, crush it with feet, and ferment it to make this.” He swirled it. “Clear water that boggles the mind.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Look,” Zhorr pointed.

  Chief Ngosi stood fine-looking in ceremonial robe. Tails of peacock headdress fell to his shoulders. He stood tall in paraphernalia, leopard skin and gold anklets. A strong white moon in the shape of a plump woman’s bosom caught the shine of dark skin rubbed with fresh sheep fat.

  The chief raised an arm and waved his people silent. Zhorr unfolded from the ground and climbed to full height. All eyes turned towards the grand magician. The people observed him with curiosity. “Today is a day of reckoning,” said Zhorr. “I will give you—” Animation danced in charcoal eyes. The crowd shuffled. “I will give you ghosts!”

  Children heckled. Men and women looked at each other and howled. Elders shook their heads, scratched their cheeks, muttered under their breaths.

  Even Pickle’s jaw dropped.

  One wave of the chief ’s arm, though he didn’t look reassured, silenced the jostling crowd. The elders still hummed.

  “Before you throw bananas at me,” said Zhorr, “swallow the import of my words.”

  Pickle folded his arms.

  “We’re listening,” said Chief Ngosi.

  Zhorr scanned the chief ’s entourage. “To defeat the enemy, I’ll make you,” he paused, “vanish at will.”

  ✦✦✦

  The first attack on the homesteads of the white men at the sleeve of the Mount came just before dawn. A servant later narrated what happened:

  A burst of war cries trampled army fencing. Startled, white soldier
s jumped from their beds in pyjama-striped bloomers and snatched their guns from the holsters on the walls. They sought with their eyes for the enemy and saw flying spears this way and that, catapulting from invisible energy fields. Four or five volleys of shots, and random bullets caught a few unseen targets who cried out. But, blind to their enemies, white soldiers lost their fight to stay upright. Ghosts slashed white men’s throats open, knocked guns from their hands and fired back at them. At the end of the attack, women and children huddled in dreadful stillness inside cotton plantations.

  Zhorr and Pickle saw all these events from the surface of still water inside a clay pot.

  “Is this the initiation ritual you promised?” cried Pickle. “The one that would turn me into a ‘made’ magician? If this is it, I don’t want it! I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”

  “This is a lesson that supersedes spell recitals from The Book of Magic in the comfort of a floating castle in Diaspora. Now stop talking.”

  Pickle turned towards the grand magician. “You brought me half-way around the galaxies to witness men die? Your magic has created phantoms.”

  “Mouth all, youngling, I am not conflicted by it. If the Ngoni have become smitten phantoms, they are phantoms of choice.”

  ✦✦✦

  A wall of soldiers stood on guard outside the courtyard. One appeared, from his headdress, to be in command. Zhorr approached him.

  “I must see Chief Ngosi,” he said.

  “Who are you?” the guard said.

  “May your gods take pity on you, for I shall grant you none when I am through answering that question.”

  The warrior stepped aside. “Chief Ngosi is with his first wife.” He pointed towards a distant hut with brand new clay.

  After a wait, Chief Ngosi emerged.

  They sat under the shade of a banana tree whose leaves spread like an awning. Zhorr declined a gourd of millet wine. Chief Ngosi indulged. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and suppressed a burp.