Dominion

by Nicole Givens Kurtz

  They rose quickly, as spirits sometimes will, and consumed the sacrifice. Soon, each spirit was strong enough to command his or her new body to stand. With new eyes they watched the Thresher of Men kneel, and press her brow against the bloody earth.

  “Precious ones,” she whispered. “I was lost to myself, and to you. I beg your forgiveness.”

  The oldest souls wondered then, to see one of the Old Gods abase herself before slaves.

  “Enough,” they cried. “She has released us from her brother Death!” “Yes,” Kisazi said. “And ordained a new journey for you. Listen.”

  With new ears they listened, and heard a great wailing; a roar of grief so deep it filled the night with mourning. Even the ancient dead cried out to hear such suffering.

  “The soil of this world was sown with their grief,” the goddess said. “This nation was built upon the broken backs and shattered hearts of your children, and even their children’s children.”

  “Yes,” the spirits cried. “Where’s their share of the harvest?”

  “I have weighed the cost of their passage,” the goddess said. “I will redeem their suffering.”

  “We’ve been deceived by false gods before,” the younger spirits warned. “How may we trust another?”

  So Kisazi sang of a new world, a land of warm blood and soft flesh, and of life unending for a thousand generations. And as she sang, she retrieved a scalpel from the red soil, raised her chin, and pressed the blade against her throat.

  “My blood will strengthen you,” she said. “My blessing will increase your numbers, and together, you will reclaim your destinies.”

  With divine strength, she sliced the blade across her jugular vein.

  When they understood the benedictions the goddess offered, even the youngest spirits drank from her, and they honored her and offered their forgiveness.

  Dying again, the goddess laughed at the sounds of her children as they faded into the night, and she remembered dancing in the rain with her siblings, their silver eyes glinting, every shining face upturned as sharp teeth parted to drink the storm.

  Dance, little one! Your trial has not yet come. Dance!

  So stern! Harsher even than Brother Death!

  How they’d danced, those immortal spirits, golden hearts and shadow-limbs pulsing with every drumbeat from Uncle Thunder.

  “Tell them all,” she whispered. “They’re free.”

  This time, she remembered joy.

  ✦✦✦

  Officer Danny Driscoll had just locked his front door when his wife tapped him on the shoulder. Driscoll spun around with his Glock 19 gripped in his right fist.

  “Dammit, Tiffany!” he hissed. “Never sneak up on an armed man in the dark!” Tiffany Driscoll waved away his admonitions. Her eyes were wide in the blue

  glow from her smartphone.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Quiet,” Driscoll snarled. “You turn out all the lights like I said?” “Danny… what’s going on out there?”

  Driscoll shuddered. “It’s all over the radio. Kids… damn crazy…” “What do you mean kids?”

  “They’re going crazy! Killing people… all over town!”

  Tiffany’s face turned even paler in the blue-white glow. “Killing people…?”

  “I responded to a domestic disturbance at Brad Krieger’s place,” Driscoll said. “When I got there… oh Jesus!”

  “Danny, you’re freaking me out!”

  Driscoll forced himself to speak slowly. He had to keep it together for Tiffany, and for Jessica, their twelve-year-old daughter.

  “The Chief ’s kids… They were covered in blood and…and there were these…things!”

  “What “things?””

  “The kids were on top of them… naked… And the… black things… Jesus, Tiff… they were crawling everywhere… hissing like snakes! And… the kids were feeding pieces of Brad and Dottie to those things!”

  Upstairs, something roared with a million throats. “What was that?” Tiffany said. “Danny… what was that?”

  “No,” Driscoll moaned. “Jessie?”

  “Daddy.”

  Black blessings slithered up the stairs leading up to the second floor. Blood-red veins pulsed beneath the plaster of the ceiling and the walls at the top of the stairs. A pale figure stood on the landing, shrouded in writhing shadows.

  “He was scared, daddy,” it whispered. “He remembered you and you denied him. So he ran.”

  The shape stepped into the wobbly blue illumination.

  When Tiffany Driscoll saw what the blessings had made of her daughter, laughter burst like horror from her lips. Roaring obscenities, she fell to her knees and clawed her own eyes from their sockets.

  “Never laughed,” Danny Driscoll cried. “I… nevernevernevernever laughed!” Then he bit down on the barrel of his gun and blew his brains out. “Mommy.”

  This time, the goddess remembered judgement; the taste of bitter tears sour as spoiled mother’s milk. She opened her arms to embrace the shrieking blind woman, bright blades glistening in her infinite hands.

  “We’re so hungry.”

  She remembered everything.

  And she would never forgive.

  IFE-IYOKU, THE TALE OF IMADEYUNUAGBON

  EKPEKI OGHENECHOVWE DONALD

  The hunting party waited quietly at Igbo Igboya, the forest of fears.

  Morako oversaw the hunt; he was a lero or feeler. The rest waited to move on his signal. But for now, he lay waiting, careful not to alert the beast lest the intended prey became the hunter. Here, the roles of the prey and the hunter could switch in a flash, leaving the hunter to scurry for survival. But he knew that the father Obatala himself had chosen them and imbued them with sacred gifts which, though not making them immune, offered them a measure of protection.

  The Nlaagama slithered forward. At almost twelve feet tall, the enormous, lizard-like beast towered over banana trees. Its forked tongue, about eight inches, swung pendulously and tasted the air. It bent on the bait left by the Umzingeli hunters, a horse-like antelope with thick, strong legs and a horn like the mythical creatures of the old world. The Nlaagama ripped into the antelope with the savagery that made Morako swallow.

  With the beast distracted, Morako gave the signal. The Umzingeli, four coal black forms, detached themselves from the trees around. The beast stirred only momentarily before resuming its feeding. The Umzingeli merged with the environment, activating the power of anjayiyan-okan, the chameleon mind, and becoming part of the environment to remain hidden and undetectable until they detached themselves.

  The beast would sense them soon. Morako signalled them again and they ran towards the beast with their spears extended. It stood still, trying to detect them, sensing that something was wrong.

  Morako shot a spike of placidity at the beast. It struggled to cast off the artificial lethargy. The warriors were closing on it. They needed to be close enough to access the gaps between its scales. Without their skill of merging, the beast would detect them before they got close enough to use their weapons. This was the tricky part: attacking while maintaining the chameleon mind, the delicate merger that allowed them to move silently and remain invisible.

  This was not a static merging which shielded them completely from detection. It was a minute merger of their feet with the ground and the leaves and twigs and droplets of water as they ran. It was activated as they stepped, but deactivated when their feet left the ground, so that they had to consciously reactivate with each step. It was more difficult and required a delicate touch and a continuous synchronization with the environment. It was a skill that only the best of the Umzingeli could use. Properly timed, it enabled them to mask their movement as when they used static merger in complete stillness.

  They were within striking distance of the beast when it reared suddenly and howled, shaking its neck violently and throwing something off from its back. The last hunter materialis
ed some yards away and Morako noticed the broken half of the spear protruding from the back of the beast. It was wounded but far from defeated. He stared at it. The hunter pulled out another spear and twirled it, preparing to attack. The beast pawed the earth and roared, belching liquid flames at the hunter. From his vantage, Morako saw the hunter roll out of the path of the lava like substance the monster spat and vanish, re-merging and blending into the environment. The beast howled again as a spear found its way into one of the gaps between its scales. The beast bathed the clearing with lava, turning to search if the burnt body of a hunter would appear. None did.

  But it seems to Morako that the beast could perceive the hunter, though it could not see him. It screeched and two large wings unfurled from its body. With its enormous wings, the beast fanned the air. In a swift movement, it lifted itself off the ground.

  Morako nudged the Climbers. It was time for their role. As the beast soared upwards, the Climbers dropped a net from the trees and entangled its wings, dropping it to the ground. Flames cackled around, and the climbers, armed with clubs and spears, attacked it. The beast snapped at most of their attacks as it ripped the net with its claws and fangs. Morako knew the reinforcements would be in trouble if the beast managed to free itself. He signalled the remaining hunter who materialised as from thin air and buried his spear in the neck of the beast. As the hunter yanked his spear out, hot sizzling blood spurted from the wound, scalding the climbers as they scurried away. The hunter backed off to join the other hunters where they had been knocked off. The beast belched liquid fire amidst its dying throes, panting but refusing to die.

  A figure walked in, dragging a tree trunk. It was Oni, the elephant man. The climbers and hunters made way for him. He hefted the trunk and walloped the dying beast in the head. He didn’t need to do it twice.

  WEAVER

  Morako arrived just in time to catch the concluding part of the story which his mother, Ologbon,was weaving for the children. She was old but firm, a consecrated Weaver of Stories, who spun tales that fascinated both the children and the adults. But today’s story, Morako knew, was no ordinary tales to fascinate but history to instruct. He felt a sense of loss and longing whenever he heard the story told, and he often turned away to hide the tears budding in his eyes.

  It was night in Ife-Iyoku and everywhere was alive with merriment. Elders gulped down their Amala and Ewedu with palm wine and ogogoro which flowed freely. Some children danced and laughed at the pursuit of masquerades; others ran around playing games of Ite and Suwe. Another group of children gathered in front Ologbon, the Weaver, as she enraptured them with tales.

  Tonight, the Weaver spun the history of Ife-Iyoku to her attentive audience. “This is how the people of Ife-Iyoku came to be,” she said, pausing until she was sure all of them listened rapturously for her story. “Long before you were born, the world was not like this. It was much bigger and encompassed different countries and cultures. Then there was a war, and all was lost. The contenders attempted the destruction of one another and ended up almost destroying us too. It was a fight between two elephants in which the ground suffers.

  “Once we were a vast group of people in Afrika, peoples of special and diverse cultures and breeding. They lived in peace and unity before the war of the nations around them. These nations had developed nuclear weapons but entered into a pact not to use them against one another.

  “But the pact was broken, and everyone launched their warheads. The disaster did not come immediately, until America joined in the war. America was the greatest nation in the war at the time and had prepared very well for it. She had missile defence systems in place. She also had systems to seize the missiles in the air and redirect them back to the sender. She had the power to quash the missiles. But she did not do those things. Instead, she wanted to show her power. She wanted to punish the enemies; Middle-Easterners from a faraway continent called Asia who they felt had been causing trouble for everyone. That was how the seed of destruction that is fully grown today was sown. America directed hundreds of nuclear warheads to the enemies, but unknown to America and her partners, the enemies had obtained some of the missile redirecting technology from their allies, China and Russia.

  “The enemies had the technology but did not know how to use it properly. Their control of the technology was not strong enough to allow them to send the weapons all the way back to those who sent it to them. Their range was small, and they had friends and allies around them. So, they redirected the weapons to Afrika, the closest place where their friends would not suffer them.

  “Nearly all of Afrika was destroyed by the missiles of the combatants. Nothing would have been left of Afrika if not that we are a special people. Our land, Ife, is a sacred ground where all life originated. We were saved because of our connection with the gods, and with the heaven and the earth. We called on Obatala and he interceded on our behalf as he had done when his sister Olokun threatened the world with water in a period known as the age of global warming. He pleaded with Olorun, the sky father, to save us. Olorun urinated in a gourd and told Obatala to sprinkle the water on the affected area and all the destruction and left-over radiation would dissipate.

  “The urine was not enough to sprinkle in all the affected parts of the world. Obatala could only use the urine in the healing of the land of his own people. Despite Obatala’s intercession, Olorun did not care about the rest of the world. The smoke from the bombs covered the sun and temperatures dropped. Life everywhere was threatened, not just the lives in Afrika. Obatala in his infinite love and mercy decided to share the cure with rest of the world, even though they were responsible for the disaster. With the sacred urine, he was able to wash away the radiation and nuclear waste. However, what was left was insufficient to totally reverse the effect of the bombs in Afrika.

  “Obatala cut himself and let some drops of his blood mix with the urine in the gourd to increase its potency. With the mixture he saved Ife. Nothing was left to save the rest of Afrika. Only this small circle around Ife is clean. We are trapped and all around us is the lingering destruction from the folly of man. The first rain that fell after the destruction affected the land and people around Ife. The sacred land rejects and repels the radiation and waste. Our blood and bodies are stronger. We adapted abilities to make up for what we lost and to enable us to survive in this new world. We became Ndi Lana Riri, the ones who survived. And what is more, Obatala left us a lasting gift. Each time one of us dies, our blood thickens, and the remaining ones evolve further to make up for the numbers lost with strength. His blood keeps us and strengthens us further to ensure that his people endure. It is said that in the hour of our greatest need, he will return to restore us and the whole of Afrika fully.

  “Some may wonder why he saved the world. It is because despite all that happened, survival is collective. If man would survive, we must do so together, as one. We must think of all and not of individuals.”

  “If we don’t die out before that day comes,” Chief Olori said. He had been standing for a while with Morako, listening to the story.

  The Weaver looked up and saw her husband, the Ooni Olori and Morako. The Ooni tied a wrapper tied around his chest in the manner of Igbo chiefs. Standing beside Morako was a young girl called Imade. She followed Morako with her eyes as he contemplated the children and smiled at them and they smiled back at him.

  The Weaver rose to greet the old Chief. “Welcome, husband.”

  “Thank you,” he said affectionately.

  The children rose and squatted in greeting.

  The Chief turned to his wife. “The fell beast has been slain. Imade has healed the hunters and drained their bodies of the corruption they contacted in Igbo Igboya. The beast lies ready for the final phase of the ceremony and I have come personally to inform you. As Chief Priestess, you must be there to consecrate the sacrifice to Obatala.”

  The Weaver nodded. He turned to the children to dismiss the campfire session, but she raised a finger
to forestall him.

  “The night’s session is not done,” the Weaver said. “The Chiefs’ Council may be your domain, but this is mine. Obatala entrusted this sacred task on me and my successor. My time is nigh, and I must do as much of my duty as I can before it comes.”

  Morako watched in silence as husband and wife exchanged words. Imade caught his eye with a sly smirk on her face. He returned her smile.

  “We shall give the Nlaagama in sacrifice to Obatala in this festival,” the Weaver was saying to the children. “Every day before this festival, our best warriors must go to hunt these creatures which have been twisted by the corruption in Igbo Igboya. They are for sacrifices to Obatala. It is the only way we can show that we are strong enough to play our part in guarding and preserving the sacred life he gave us with his blood.”

  The Chief squatted to address the gathering. “I speak in my authority as Ooni, head Chief. Obatala may return, or he may not. Whether Obatala comes or not, we will be strong and lead ourselves to our own destinies. Ife thins every day. The corruption keeps creeping in and the creatures in Igbo Igboya grow more twisted. We have been given the sacred gifts already. We carry the power of our salvation in our blood. In our moment of near destruction, we were mutated and thus acquired resistance to things that would have killed us. Perhaps it was Obatala who had done this for us; perhaps it was not him. Whatever the cause or reason, we have become stronger than we were before. We have acquired the ability to heal and manipulate the elements. Every time one of us dies, our powers wax stronger. Let us use these gifts to counteract our possible extinction. Our powers were less when we were more. With the reduction in our population, our gifts have been strengthened. The gifts call on us to use them. We must take our destiny in our own hand, whether Obatala returns or not.”